|Best Poems About / On HAIR
This Morning At The Barbershop
This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barbers chairs.
When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.
I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.
My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends
while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tuts ass
and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.
Read more poems from Gert Strydom >>>
The little girl with the curly hair
The little girl with a burden to bear
The little girl whose eyes shine with sorrow
The little girl whose mothers' cruelty has left her hollow
She tried to scream, to get away
But the wounds of this world kept her
So she stayed silent
Did not try to wretch herself free from the abuse
She tried to blend, to stay unfocused
To ward off the blows, the scolding and tears
The little girl with curly hair
The little girl with a ratty dress
The little girl who forgot how to cry
The little girl that wishes to die
She tried to hide, to avoid detection
But found she was
So she did what most would do
She prayed and begged for safety, for a love she never had
That night her mother found her took her by the roots of her curly hair
The mother hit and pillaged, tearing away all hope
The little girl with the curly hair cried out and pled for life
But mother saw it fit to cut her hair and beat her bloody
The little girl with curly hair lies dead in her grave
Wondering where her prayer went
Read more poems from Baylor B... >>>
I am coming back
with the girl who lured
the city with her song
I grabbed her
As she oozed down
from the disco party
And just like her painted hairs
I yearned to be free
while rooted in her..
the strands of her hair used to
dance with all the rogue winds..
I have to steal
the menstrual blood of spring
to redden her lips
that were charred
by the kiss of summer
There is only a single room
in the thatched house
when I returned with the girl
who lured the city with her song
Sitting on its steps
that are plastered dry with cow dung
May be I will blacken her hair
with medicated oil.
while I comb
and count her hairs one by one,
I will put to death
the lice I find there
and will claim that her body
was solely my own home
While thus crossing boredom
once, when I find a grey hair
from her head
Maybe I will pluck them all out
without her knowing it
When she comes to know of it
Maybe she will paint
those strands of her hair,
But never will she attempt
to lure the cities again.
Read more poems from Sujeesh nm92 >>>
The Best Way to Comb the Blonde Hair
</>Years is the worst unforgivable hairstylist
He cuts my hair short;
shorter than our short story..
He cuts my hair off;
off the last relationship..
Now it's 4 sharp in the afternoon,
i, wooden, seize the comb, wooden.
Mirror does not tell lies
age can only climb high.
the comb runs through my hair
my hair flows through somewhere
more strands of hair are gone..
more worries are born
I forget how I combed hair
back in those years..
A young blonde is coming..
and i gonna ask her this question.
Garland Jodie Jeen
Read more poems from Garland Jodie Jeen >>>