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Poems On / About HAIR  4/21/2015 4:02:24 PM
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  157.     

Crabapple Blossoms

SOMEBODY'S little girl-how easy to make a sob story over who she was once and who she is now.
Somebody's little girl-she played once under a crab-apple tree in June and the blossoms fell on the dark hair.

It was somewhere on the Erie line and the town was Salamanca or Painted Post or Horse's Head.
And out of her hair she shook the blossoms and went into the house and her mother washed her face and her mother had an ache in her heart at a rebel voice, 'I don't want to.'

Somebody's little girl-forty little girls of somebodies splashed in red tights forming horseshoes, arches, pyramids-forty little show girls, ponies, squabs.
How easy a sob story over who she once was and who she is now-and how the crabapple blossoms fell on her dark hair in June.

Let the lights of Broadway spangle and splatter-and the taxis hustle the crowds away when the show is over and the street goes dark.
Let the girls wash off the paint and go for their midnight sandwiches-let 'em dream in the morning sun, late in the morning, long after the morning papers and the milk wagons-
Let 'em dream long as they want to ... of June somewhere on the Erie line ... and crabapple blossoms.
 
Carl Sandburg

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  158.     

Eyes Of Blue

My heart gave a sudden sigh for those eyes of blue
more beautiful than the deep blue skies
It was love at first sight for this old fool

And how I loved her shiny blonde hair
just like her eyes her hair shined like the sun
she looked absolutely beautiful I had to stare

But then I stole a peek in her bathroom medicine chest
proof of blue tinted contacts and bottled blonde hair
I now wonder if her large bosoms are padding at best
 
John Gabriel

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  159.     

Summer Love

It was in the summer when I saw him for the first time, sparks flew and in that moment I knew I had fallen beyond return.

His lips tasted like cigarettes and the promise of heartbreak but I didn't care, we were without any worries, young and free.

I let my hair down when he was around, didn't give a damn about what they'd say because I was his and he was mine too.

But as the seasons began to change, summer turned to autumn, autumn bled into winter and winter into spring.

His lips now tasted like cherry chapstick, the kind Katie from down the street wore and the knowledge that I should have known better.

I tie my hair up now because he is no longer around; I give a damn, maybe more about what they say because I am no longer his and he, well he was never really mine.

Summer comes around but there are only memories, the sound of his laugh, the way he looked in my bed with morning light on his face and how he whispered my name in the dark of night.

Once again the seasons changed, summer into autumn, autumn into winter, winter into spring.

No longer do I remember the taste of his lips and I can't say for certain if that is a good thing but my heart no longer hurts when I hear our song and the memory of your touch no longer haunts me every night.

I've begun to wear my hair down again; I no longer give a damn about what they say because though you may have never been mine, I am no longer yours.
 
Jenna Jones

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  160.     

Pull Pull Pull (A Trich Story)

It's what's on my mind
Just another hair
Just one more time
Pull pull pull
Now my hair is gone
Bald spots her & there
Its just that feeling I've longed
Pull pull pull
I want to stop
So I try to get help
But it's just so hard when you feel the hair pop
 
Cati Walthall

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