The Legend Of Big Foot
A hairy man once roamed the earth,
a hairy thing, was he from birth,
the years would come, the years would go,
each year that passed, his hair would grow,
it grew so thick, his mum dispaired,
yet she kept trimming off his hair,
til sissors worn to nubs one day,
he shucked his clothes, and ran away,
his back, his bum, his chest, his head,
was covered with thick hair, it's said,
no need for clothes, so he wore none,
people would laugh, and he would run,
no runner born on Earth could beat,
this hairy critter with big feet,
he slept by day and roamed by night,
for cruel folk, had made him shy,
quite good in heart was he, bigfoot,
he never stole, he never took,
one day while he munched watercress,
he found a maiden in distress,
amazed, he looked upon her form,
her feet were bare, her dress was torn,
he towered over her and stared,
at all this chick's excessive hair,
he helped her up, not one word said,
he touched her hand, and smiled instead,
hand-in-hand, they walked from there,
to go where people could not stare,
the legend of big-foot began,
the night two hairy people ran,
into the lovely forrest green,
To mostly lived their lives, unseen
poem by Elizabeth Lindberg
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Related quotes
Sonnet: Human Skin Has Hair
Most women try to have least body-hair,
By cumbersome methods and waste of time;
The human skin, hair follicles does bear,
That will remain, depending on each clime.
Most men too try to shave off facial hair,
Or grow it excessively long, perhaps!
But doing both involves time, money, care,
Or lead to nasty gashes as mishaps.
If mankind did not come from the hairy Apes,
To stay hair-free seems unnatural truly;
But God gave human beings Hairy drapes,
The real cause is still a mystery.
So, strike a balance somewhere, somehow, man!
But do those things that don’t reduce live-span.
8-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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Of the Family
Hairy, Hairy, quite contrary
sat upon a stool.
Came the kindly wombat fairy
from the Fairy pool.
Said to Hairy, have a sherrie
makes the bowels loose,
Hairy thought it rather scary
maybe, too obtuse.
Hairy took a wife named Mary
fat she was and round
built a cosy, visionary
log home on the ground.
Home was small but Hairy loved it
'twas a sturdy log.
Found a lichen rug and shoved it
in to warm the frog.
Frog had been cast from his quarters
by his next of kin.
Sealed the wombat home with mortar
and they took him in.
Winter came and snow kept falling,
hibernate they did,
under Lichen there was balling
made another kid.
poem by Hairy Wombat
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Of the Family
Hairy, Hairy, quite contrary
sat upon a stool.
Came the kindly wombat fairy
from the Fairy pool.
Said to Hairy, have a sherrie
makes the bowels loose,
Hairy thought it rather scary
maybe, too obtuse.
Hairy took a wife named Mary
fat she was and round
built a cosy, visionary
log home on the ground.
Home was small but Hairy loved it
'twas a sturdy log.
Found a lichen rug and shoved it
in to warm the frog.
Frog had been cast from his quarters
by his next of kin.
Sealed the wombat home with mortar
and they took him in.
Winter came and snow kept falling,
hibernate they did,
under Lichen there was balling
made another kid.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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I Saw Your Hairy Chest
The first person said:
'I saw your hairy chest that is why,
I came to you last night and we made love together';
The second person said;
'Why'? !
Then the first person replied:
'It is because i love men with hairy chest and,
I am ever ready to sleep with any of them'! !
And this was the conversation i heard among two people;
Then i said to myself: 'Love is too blind at times'.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Braiding
1.
We two sit on our bed, you
between my legs, your back to me, your head
slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid
your hair. My father
did this for my mother,
just as I do for you. One hand
holds the hem of you hair, the other
works the brush. Both hands climb
as the strokes grow
longer, until I use not only my wrists,
but my arms, then my shoulders, my whole body
rocking in a rower's rhythm, a lover's
even time, as the tangles are undone,
and brush and bare hand run the thick,
fluent length of your hair, whose wintry scent
comes, a faint, human musk.
2.
Last night the room was so cold
I dreamed we were in Pittsburgh again, where winter
persisted and we fell asleep in the last seat
of the 71 Negley, dark mornings going to work.
How I wish we didn't hate those years
while we lived them.
Those were days of books,
days of silences stacked high
as the ceiling of that great, dim hall
where we studied. I remember
the thick, oak tabletops, how cool
they felt against my face
when I lay my head down and slept.
3.
How long your hair has grown.
Gradually, December.
4.
There will come a day
one of us will have to imagine this: you,
after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,
while I braid your hair.
5.
Here, what's made, these braids, unmakes
itself in time, and must be made
again, within and against
time. So I braid
your hair each day.
My fingers gather, measure hair,
hook, pull and twist hair and hair.
Deft, quick, they plait,
weave, articulate lock and lock, to make
and make these braids, which point
the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.
And though what's made does not abide,
my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making
of which this making-in-time is just a part,
a making which abides
beyond the hands which rise in the combing,
the hands which fall in the braiding,
trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.
6.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year.
poem by Li-Young Lee
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Small Pixies
There was a little fairy,
that was small but hairy.
Her hair hung to her toes,
never to cut it she chose.
When she ran,
she often fell.
Walking upstairs
didn't go so well.
One fine day she had enough,
went to the hairdressers to get it off.
Now the fairy had no hair,
all the other pixies, did stare.
She held her head high,
and never would she cry.
On a toadstool she went and sat,
and had a thought about buying a hat.
poem by David Darbyshire
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A Hairy Fairy
In life, there are things we never expect to see
and a very large hairy fairy
with Pancho Villa moustache is one of them.
This one flew into my garden and squashed all my roses
on his bad landing on that fateful day.
Every time he waved his supposedly magic wand,
everything went bottom up.
The roses he tried to mend
had their flowers in the ground
and their roots pointing skyward in the air.
It got that bad I had to replant everyone.
I shuddered to think what other magic
he might have up his sleeve.
The big hairy fairy dressed in a short Toto
spread out his wings to say goodbye and fly away.
He never got no more than three feet off the ground
before he again came crashing down
squashing all my tulips this time.
Enough is enough you’re ruining garden.
Do you realise all the hard work I have put in.
The hairy fairy looked at me
and then started to cry.
No body loves me, even the fairies kicked me out
because I am different from them.
Being a soft heated fool I am
I invited him in for a cup of tea,
but everything he sat on broke
and now I was stuck with
a ten ton hairy fairy as a house guest.
As time went on my replacement, furniture
was costing me a packet.
Then one day I woke up and the big hairy fairy was gone,
now I kinda miss him.
However, saying that
I can start to rebuild what was my happy home again
and hope with luck that big hairy fairy does not come back again.
Then in my garden,
I heard an almighty thump
and looked out the window.
In my agony I moaned,
Oh no. He is back again.
poem by David Harris
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The Touch Of Your Hand
On the day that you were born
I touched your hand so chubby and warm.
I touched your hand when you were one
and helped you walk my beautiful son.
I held your hand when you were two.
We ran, your favorite thing to do.
I held your hand when you were three
as you climbed on my lap and smiled at me.
I touched your hand when you were four
as the ocean touched our toes at the shore.
I touched your hand when you were five
walking you to school but when we'd arrive
I felt the tug of your hand from mine
and I knew that we had crossed a line.
I looked at you and released your hand
and said'it's okay I understand.'
As I walked back home I cried some tears
thinking of all our hand holding years.
Holding your hand became sporadic now,
when you were feverish or I felt your brow.
I held your hand a few times as a teen
but always alone so it wouldn't be seen.
I held your hand after you said, 'I do.'
We danced together just me and you.
After some years went by my son
you held the hand of your little one.
And so the times of your life turn around
and now that my hand is old I've found
you take my hand and help me walk
and as you do we intimately talk.
And it takes me back to that bright early morn
when I held your hand so chubby and warm.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Barely bearable
I find the winter hard to bear.
A fact that must clearly state.
I wish I had been born a bear
and had the sense to hibernate
I do not like the damp and cold
nor do I like the snow and ice
and it gets worse as I grow old.
I often think it would be nice.
To be a hairy grizzly bear
and sleep from autumn until spring.
Kept snug and warm by my thick hair,
no need to wake for anything.
But sadly I am not a bear
I need my thermal underwear.
1-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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All Different, But Still The Same
Some people have short hair, some have long.
Some people have thick hair; some people’s hair is all gone.
Some people have black hair, some have gray.
Some people have brown hair, some blonde, some red.
Some people’s hair a color unsaid.
Some people are short, some people are tall.
Some people will love you; some won’t like you at all.
Some people like hot weather, some like cold.
Some people are timid, some people are bold.
Some people have dark skin, some people have light.
Some people have black skin, some people have white.
Some people eat meat; some won’t touch it at all.
Some people have a good memory, some can’t recall.
Some people accept Christ, some never will.
Some people are stingy, some people give.
Some people like school, some people don’t.
Some people will excel, some people won’t.
Some people smoke cigarettes, some never will.
Some people are honest, some people steal.
Some people have book knowledge;
But don’t know the Holy Book.
Some people burn food, some people can cook.
Some people are old, some people are young.
Some people do smart things, some people do dumb.
Some people just have a diploma
Some people have degrees.
Some people do things slow, some with a breeze.
Some people are complainers, some easy to please.
Some people hate shopping, some stay in the mall.
Some people hate God, but God loves us all.
We are all different, but still the same.
When I get cut, I bleed red;
You get cut, red blood you’ll shed.
Some people are plump, some people are thin.
But we are all the same, we’re all human being.
Copyright © 2010-Phyllis Strong
poem by Phyllis Strong
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Great Mullen
One leaves his leaves at home
beomg a mullen and sends up a lighthouse
to peer from: I will have my way,
yellow--A mast with a lantern, ten
fifty, a hundred, smaller and smaller
as they grow more--Liar, liar, liar!
You come from her! I can smell djer-kiss
on your clothes. Ha! you come to me,
you, I am a point of dew on a grass-stem.
Why are you sending heat down on me
from your lantern?--You are cowdung, a
dead stick with the bark off. She is
squirting on us both. She has has her
hand on you!--well?--She has defiled
ME.--Your leaves are dull, thick
and hairy.--Every hair on my body will
hold you off from me. You are a
dungcake, birdlime on a fencerail.--
I love you, straight, yellow
finger of God pointing to--her!
Liar, broken weed, dungcake, you have--
I am a cricket waving his antennae
and you are high, grey and straight. Ha!
poem by William Carlos Williams
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My Hands On My Head
my hands on my head
not to feel what hair is all about
remembering the
hairy feeling and the aftermath of desire
it is over
my hands on my head
for surrender
i do not kiss and tell
my hands on my chest
like holding some treasures
of gold and silver
that is what we are now
i have these seeds of silence
i sow them
and slowly and so patiently i am having this sole opportunity
watching them all grow
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Grew My Hair Out
I finally grew my hair out.
I had tried before, but it frightened me.
It grew large, thick, black and wavy,
The hair my ancestors gave me.
They wore it long and free.
I finally grew my hair out,
And a friend said 'You look like a Greek god.'
And I said 'Which one? '
And he said 'I don't know. The chubby one that drank wine.'
And I thought about red wine
And the delighted laughter of women
About the hooves and horns
That I'd hidden inside my head
And had forgotten about, before I ever knew them.
But they were there all along, waiting.
Then I grew my hair out.
poem by Edward Allen
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Daughter Of Drac (Fun Poem 103)
It was a night like any other
as we strolled under the full moon.
The trouble began when she went to give me a kiss,
her fangs protruded and she went for my neck.
I knew then I had more than I had bargained for.
I was dating the wrong girl;
I was dating the daughter of Drac.
I said lets just walk a bit further
we are nearly at my home.
We can kiss there all you want,
but no guarantees we will be alone
as my parents might be in.
She agreed reluctantly as she probably thought
she would get in an extra feed.
We walked slowly along under the full moon light.
I felt my hairs begin to itch
as they began to grow.
We reach my home and we went in.
Matilda had such a shock;
dad could not wait that night
and transformed himself early again.
He stood there all hairy
from his head to his toes.
I asked her to marry me in the doorway
covered with wolf bane.
The daughter of Drac looked at me,
as I was all hairy too
and agreed to marry me on the spot,
but she had to let daddy know.
We were married within the week and what a bash we had.
The wedding took place in her dad’s castle
over looking a sleeping village.
Whenever the drink ran low and we needed a top up
we all went down to the village for a drink or two.
As dawn broke back to our beds, we went.
We would continue the second part of the party
when the full moon again woke.
My bride and I lived happily ever after
with our family.
As they are all little monsters
just like my wife and me.
24 May 2009
poem by David Harris
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Ohh Annie...
Last night I had a dream
I was looking for my dog
Where is my beautiful yorkshire?
Tired and out of breath
Keep on walking and looking
In the nearby pond
I found a lot of dogs
Big dogs small dogs
All dead floating
I finally found Sinta
Down below by my feet
Almost invisible in the dirty pond
I picked her up very carefully
She was all brown like caramel
I was going to give up and cry
But instead I pumped her small chest
Really carefully not to hurt her
Then she coughed up water
After three or four times
Her color changed back
Black and gold
Her hair started to shine
And when I slightly caressed her hair
Mustard starts appearing
Underneath her wet hair
She was all covered with mustard!
I woke up
I was thinking “what a dream”
Then I looked for Sinta
She was lying down by my feet
Sleeping... Snoring...
And then I slightly caressed her hair
At Five o'clock
Still tired from walking all night I got up
Brushed my teeth and made some coffee
I checked my phone messages
This is bad news
My sister passed away
poem by Kay Barcelon
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A hairy man's a geary man, but a hairy wife's a witch.
Complete; Rising Crimson With Love
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
to the sound of the surf as it beat at our feet
and the sun was rising crimson with love
as we walked hand in hand and flew like the doves.
Do you remember the feel of the wind in our hair
as we sat on the sands without any cares
and the tears in our eyes were for joy not for grief
as we sat and felt as one with the beach.
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
to the sound of the surf as it beat at our feet
your heart was in mine and mine was in yours
as we walked hand in hand on those magical shores.
Do you remember the feel of the wind in our hair
as we sat on the sands without any cares
and we joined with the ocean that came to our feet
making us the beach and the ocean complete.
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
with the healing, the feeling, of being at peace
the sand at our feet, the surf in our mind
an ocean of stillness in one heart that's combined.
Do you remember the feel of the wind in our hair
with our eyes full of stars our hearts without cares
and a sun that was rising crimson with love
as our souls were set free into the sky up above.
Do you remember the time we walked on the beach
to the sound of the surf as it beat at our feet
and the sun was rising crimson with love
as we walked hand in hand and flew like the doves.
poem by David Taylor
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one
I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship
I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home
I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work
I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job
I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child
I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub
I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter
I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school
I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing
I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum
My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …
poem by Pascale Ost
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Hand In Glove
Hand in glove
The sun shines out of our behinds
No, it's not like any other love
This one is different - because it's us
Hand in glove
We can go wherever we please
And everything depends upon
How near you stand to me
And if the people stare
Then the people stare
Oh, i really don't know and i really don't care
Kiss my shades ... oh ...
Hand in glove
The good people laugh
Yes, we may be hidden by rags
But we've something they never have
Hand in glove
The sun shines out of our behinds
Yes, we may be hidden by rags
But we've something they never have
And if the people stare
Then the people stare
Oh, i really don't know and i really don't care
Kiss my shades ... oh ...
So, hand in glove i stake my claim
I'll fight to the last breath
If they dare touch a hair on your head
I'll fight to the last breath
For the good life is out there somewhere
So stay on my arm, you little charmer
But i know my luck too well
Yes, i know my luck too well
And i'll probably never see you again
I'll probably never see you again
I'll probably never see you again
Oh ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beginning, The
Some day I shall rise and leave my friends
And seek you again through the world's far ends,
You whom I found so fair
(Touch of your hands and smell of your hair!),
My only god in the days that were.
My eager feet shall find you again,
Though the sullen years and the mark of pain
Have changed you wholly; for I shall know
(How could I forget having loved you so?),
In the sad half-light of evening,
The face that was all my sunrising.
So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand
And hold you fiercely by either hand,
And seeing your age and ashen hair
I'll curse the thing that once you were,
Because it is changed and pale and old
(Lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold!),
And I loved you before you were old and wise,
When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes,
-- And my heart is sick with memories.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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