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Poems On / About HAIR  10/9/2015 12:19:01 AM
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To The People Who Live In Your Hair

To the people who live in your hair,
Wrapped in beautiful black wool,
Confined to roots that blow against the wind.
Do they notice the change of climate as they laugh and play in their huts made of wool.
Threads of life parted in each region of your hair, I couldn't see them going anywhere else.
The people that live in your hair.
Long beautiful strings that flow down the bottom of your neck.
Each strand growing to extend the comfort of each home tightly nestled through each bristle, each finger that combs its way through.
A land once foreign before each strand began to grow.
Anxious hearts that beat looking into the horizon that hangs above your head.
A view of the world that sways in bitter unrest while there,
A moisture of happiness toils through the land of people whom live in your hair.
Safe in each others arms, tucked away in each beautiful strand.
Filled with thoughts that loom in birth.
To the people who live in your hair.
May they continue to kiss your hand with every sound the wind whispers
Kewayne Wadley

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Who And What Is To Blame

Who and what is to blame for today I don't see it...
Land turned white, slightly faded the star
And gray hair flew down to me with the winter,
The first white snowflakes and a goblet of wine.

And of all that has happened - no point to be jealous...
Only heart aches with longing sometimes -
And 'What for do you blame' - it so quietly whispers,
Your gray hair? ' - years don't go back

I will not hide gray hair and magical daydreams
I'll be hovering low over the seething waves...
Stokes will curl in wine of bitter tears..
What do I have to do now with my own gray hair?

'Spring at last will return! You will sing and you will melt -
Says gray hair, and smiles to the years-
I'm the wisdom of yours! Don't you know, my dear? -
And I hope that forever with you I will stay.

Liza Sud

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Xvii: The Stars Have Not Dealt Me The Worst They Could Do

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.
Alfred Edward Housman

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Lucy's Locks!

She sits so proud upon her bed, she looks at me and nods her head
'Your late' she says 'where have you been? I'm 93 not 15'

'Don't have all day to wait for you my days are numbered, so much to do'
'My hair's a mess please sort it out unless you want to hear me shout?

She thrusts a brush Into my hands to comb her long Grey hair
which falls with grace upon her back 'Now dear, please take care '

'Now roll my hair into a bun but gently does it please
Oh that horrible nurse Sadie how she likes to tease.'

'My head is sore for hours when she attacks me with my brush
she is always in a hurry and always in a rush '.

No time for Lucy's long grey locks which she wears with pride.
so everday I'd tend her hair untill the day she died.

I do so miss dear Lucy her stories made us laugh
she only wanted to be heared just wanted one last chance
to share her life, her tales of love oh how she liked to boast
But brushing Lucys long grey hair is what I miss the most.
Tracey TEE

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Poems On / About HAIR