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liz  Mar 2013
rats and redheads
liz Mar 2013
you are
annoying and unfaithful
greedy and habitual
poor baby
what must you lust after now
and sob rivers with no reasons
you lack directions
and standards
and thrive on attention
of unattractive actions
you are eleven
going on ten
and have yet to blossom
we give up on you
since i occupy the back burner
behind rats and redheads
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2014
blondes, brunettes and redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,

the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill
in my anguished mind
now hiding,
sing a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a fall winters-wind precursor

"once we green,
once we were renewal,
life everlasting emblems
once,
you were wee,
green uncaring and free,
presuming that you too,
were in possession of
life everlasting

your colors have changed as well,
endless is the process,
only slower than
a tree's scheduled maintenance,
moreover,
returning you to your first
crayon drawing youth
unlike us, an impossibility

we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you
never will

new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed and love our
cast shade cast

yet special are you the man,
poet who was chosen
to see and tell,
witness to our resurrection,
during our overlapping,
parallel continuum in time

when to the shade of hades
you physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves,
our perennial lives,
for-as-long-as-they-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came
and the colors
of your words
will be the colors
of a free life everlasting"
Third Eye Candy Oct 2011
pruning fingers from a cold dead hand to gain twenty index
to power point a disjoint nexus, amongst ill guests
to better frame the nameless tool,
thumb-less apes could truck with -
in bands of frantic lack-wits
hording alabaster thumb-tacks
to pin jokes, they don't get.
a lapse in queens, the hard Chess...
an hour glass
with a grain of sand left -
wearing a jet pack, to delay the turn next
that checks your king.
or telekinesis, ghost-grips the silicon
in free fall... on pause to stave off
a game lost.

pruning fingers from another world of empty reach,  i grasp -
at long last;
the short girl with the long red hair -
has two eyes, on task...scanning my true intent
with deep shy, heavy lids; a bright green
fixed on my nervous
laughter.

smitten; then, a Pabst
Blue Ribbon
kiss.

and sweet
disaster.
At age two,
The strangers flocked to my mother,
Cooing over the stroller.
They ask, "How long does it take to curl her hair?"
My ringlets fall in strawberry spirals,
Making even Shirley Temple jealous.
She tells them they are merely freshly washed.
Who in their right mind curls a two year old's hair anyway?
At age four,
I am no longer encased in my protective stroller,
And humanity has taken tacit permission
To run their fingers through my strands at any given moment.
After all, I am only 2% of the world's population.
Is that not consent enough to touch my child's body?
Their hands are abrasive and painful to my autistic skin,
But I smile and twirl for them like the polite little girl that I am.  
Long before I knew the name,
I was taught that the world fetishizes redheads.
I was taught that being rare is forfeiting your right to your own body.
I'm 5 now, and the teachers tell me I have angel's kisses on my face,
That freckles are the touch of tiny winged souls upon my skin.
Young me shudders at the thought of seemingly hundreds of dead spirits caressing my cheek bones.
I did not ask the teachers about my freckles or comment on their presence.
I already know it is not my place to discuss my body.
That right is reserved for others.
I'm 8 years old the first time I hear the phrase "Carrot Top"
And 10 before I hear "Volcano Head."
At least the latter indicates I'm not to be trifled with.
We're playing the elimination game in class,
And "Stand up if you have red hair" is the equivalent of calling my name.
I'm 12 when "Ginger's have no souls" is suddenly hurled at me.
I wonder when I exchange "kissed by angels" for becoming a vampire.
Perhaps it's part of the transition?
This is the age of growing self awareness,
The age where it's really beginning to stick that I am alien and different.
I am so tired of being asked if I am adopted because my hair is red
But my entire family's is brown.
I tell them I get it from my grandfather.
I do not tell them that he is the one who used to drag my grandmother
Through the house by her hair
Or how his drunken rages would force my mom and her siblings
To crawl under their front porch in search of safety.
I do not tell them that my mom saw him shoot himself when she was 19
Or that she hasn't opened a tin of biscuits since.
Mother reminds me almost daily that I am the spitting image of him,
Leaving me wondering what else I might've inherited.
I touch my face in the mirror, haunted by the sins of a man I've never met but whose reflection I apparently share.
I write letters to his ghost, asking him if he understands this affliction.
Why do they touch me?
Why do they buzz like bees, these strangers on the street
Around my hair?
Why do they think it is acceptable to drink from my reserves when I am dying of thirst for oxygen and personal space?
I am 16, still naive in my social perceptions, often misunderstanding the norms.
Autism has accelerated my intellect but delayed my emotions.
I am licking a minion themed popsicle with childlike enthusiasm when mother snaps a photo.
I post it to my newfound Facebook account,
Proudly sharing my joy.
Over the course of a week, I receive more and more friend requests from unknown internet men.
I am confused until mom tells me my gleeful ice cream moment could be interpreted as simulating a *** act.
"But I am too young," I tell her. She smiles humorlessly.
She knew what I would soon learn.
At 17 I'm informed that "redhead" is a category on PornHub,
That my beautiful affliction is as it has always been,
A searchable object for other's gratification.
18, baby faced and lonely, He finds me.
I still get mistaken for a 12 year old and this 42 year old man finds me ****.
I wish I could say I knew better.
I wish I could say I ran as fast as I could,
But oh how naive was I to believe that he meant what he said when he told me he meant me no harm, he wanted nothing from me.
I now know his behavior is called grooming.
He whispered his nickname for me as he ***** my bleary eyed body.
"Red," he called me.
Red like my hair, like the first sentence out of his mouth at every gathering
"She's a redhead."
Red like my volcano, how he said he never wanted to see me angry.
Red like my personality, how he liked "a woman in charge,"
Which was synonymous with do all the emotional and physical labor.
It took me a year to break free of his tangled, twisted, traps.
I was today years old when the man in the car followed me on my way to school.
Armed with nothing but mace and the attitude to back it up,
I gave him the look of "You can come get me, but I swear you'll regret trying."
My hair like a siren call to all wayward souls.
They dock in my port.
Red hair means they will fetishize me from 2 to 4 to 8, 10, 16, 20,
And 100 years from now the bones and dust of these keratin strands
Will cry out from the ground I am buried beneath
In support of the next child blessed or cursed with this beautiful affliction,
And all others whose rarity is seen as permission.
Hear me now when I tell you
My hair is a warning.
This redhead is fully loaded,
Is angry, enraged, head fully lit, and heart on fire,
Tongue fueled by two decades worth of injustice and the suffering before me.
Redhead means don't ******* touch me.
Sherri Harder Oct 2017
I once again write this poem in time,
as the hands tick with the clock.
To take a stand and declare, that surely
"Redheads Rock!"

Blondes may have some fun, and
brunettes can put up fight.
Now we come more bold and brave,
as our flags wave "Gingers Unite!"

Don't think we will be bullied.
We will defend our honor as our duty.
Too all the coppers, golden, orange,reds...
and to I - the "Auburn Beauty!"
Charles Barnett Oct 2012
or Redheads.
Crimson Irish curls
that cling to curves
like my lips cling to
your name.
Natural.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2017
If:

There were no people of color, they'd pick on redheads.

If there were no redheads they would pick on people with glasses.

If there were no people with glasses they’d pick on fat people.

If there were no fat people, they’d pick on welfare recipients.

If there were no welfare recipients, they’d pick on non-Christians.

If there are no non-Christians around,  they'll pick on Catholics.

If there are no Catholics around they'll pic on Christians from any denomination except theirs.  

If there are none of those around, they'll pick on college graduates.

Obladee, obladah, yeah! Yadda yeah, the list goes on...

(The same thing applies with Non-Christian bigots. Just change a word here and there.)

Bigots are bigots
No matter what the name
The underhanded tactics
Are all just the same.
They are heartless and evil.
That’s the name of their game.
They are social criminals and
Look for someone else to blame.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
White Tissues

a thousand years ago
I had to do the shopping,
(short story, irrelevant)

angry, she,
always angry,
the ex called me careless+...
never quite remembered to buy
the no~color tissues,
white only, on the list ordered,
to avoid decorative mismatch clash
to not offend the bathroom guests's
sensibilities and refined fleshy color palettes,
and not to match thereby,
to unduly reveal
the mismatch of
two lives incompatible

she ****** the color from my life...

still now,
buy only
whitely, precisely,
always,
for the colors
in my life, of my life,
have now been returned to me

but they are best cherished,
visible inside, looking out,
painted filter to enhance,
to reveal!
the joys inherent
in the colors of a
refunded, redounding rebounding,
re-fined happiness internal

tissues white now employed
to store the joy colored in colorful tears,
re-defying re-de-finding-fining
the contrast
from the sorry past,
tears now in living color
shed while writing
this happy colored vignette

~~

Poems of Color

just too much
colorless cold,
to decamp to,
sit upon the Adirondack throne
that is by his name,
by the cold waters,
now winter coated with
white-capped amber bluewaves
arriving jack-frosted on the lifeless beach

over this weathered sanctum,
natures supremacy reigns,
no matter the season or
his faulty human body's
weak reasoning,
it rules,
despite your frail poetic absence

but without your imposition
upon companion grey,
ensconced patiently
in that rarified atmosphere,
where and when
the sea sword
knights and inspires
the benign, benighted poet,

the human in him
frets and worries

where and when
ever again,
will nature deign to rain
poems upon him and his
winter-storaged writing organs?

the poet,
through his own
winnowy window reflection,
sees the sight of
the empty chair
between him and the sea air and
pondering more,
how shall he ever write
in the upcoming months of bleak?

through the frost-edged glass,
that old chair,
now sudden animated,
sensing his poetic human presence,
it turns toward its missing occupant,
voice aged reassuring,
speaking,
rhyming, 
it chants,
somber intoning...

"the poems writ yet still  undiscovered
but inscribed upon
my weathered slats and armrests,
have your name and no other,
therefore, there fired,
perforce,
they await your return,
come spring...come summer

now is the season of your hibernation,
we sense your fearful
winter forebodings and
speculations of consternation

know these unopened poems
are in fluid stored,
when you return
to our joint station,
we jointly will celebrate their
first day of naissance

you are charged,
you sole possess the
eye colored liquid visions
to see them
in the splinters and the breezes
through to their natural
childbirth revelation"


~~~

The Colors of Life Everlasting*

blondes, brunettes, redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,

the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill,
in my anguished mind,
now hiding

those partial unclothed trees,
to me sing,
a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a winter's wind precursors

"we green,
will be again
tho old,
spring green
is signature of our almost
life everlasting

once you wee were,
free green uncaring, youthful,
presumptuous presuming
that you too were,
in possession of
life everlasting

your colors
have changed too,
the process,
your process, different,
unlike our scheduled
rebirthing maintenance

yours a continuum slide,
with no reversal allowed,
no returning
you
to your first days of
crayon drawing youth,
unlike us,
a calculus of impossibility

we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you,
never will

new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed
and love our
green visor shade cast

yet special are you,
the man-poet
who was chosen
by forces controlling,
to see and to tell,
witness-write of our annualization
during our overlapping
frames in time

when to the shade of hades
your physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves, our lives,
as-long-as-they-too-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came,
and the colors
of your words
will be then
the colors
of your life everlasting"
10-26-14
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
prefer celery to carrots
light scrunch over an orange hard crack,
straw red over berries bluest,
coffee over tea,
skies white clouded
over
all clear, unadulterated uni-tone,
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
even pink or blue haired,
well, ain't going there
(wink wink,
too smart for that...)

but that's just me

colors viral virulent  over manhattan grey~black,
a good Pinot over a glass of Jack,
beach and sea undefined
over lake delimited, outlined bounded,
ocean caught fresh over farm raised,
city slick over country sweet,
striped bass over monk,
tuna bests salmon,
but both miso coated please...

Italian Indian Ethiopian
Sushi and occasionally Chinese,
all grand,
but my kosher deli and dogs, pickles,
yellow mustard ball parked,
tops them all
especially when serving
all-you-can-eat
over tasting portions...

but that's just me

right over left,
naked better than ****,
polite over rude,
Rembrandt tops Vermeer,
but his light nonethess,
extra over ordinarie...

Swiss over white American,
Gruyere beats goat cheese,
citrus tops apples,
sweet melon my
secret passion,
paprika and oregano,
never ever cilantro,
milk over OJ,
especially, grade A
milk of human kindness,
all flavors

love my poems centered,
(except for this one)
with no sugar added,
but a lot of cream and sweat,
both a necessity, not a luxury,
prefer mesmerizing,
crafting hard, laboring,
me writing, you imbibing,
leaving you oohing and loving
me
because of the appreciation built in
over
ditties that are semisweet
sugar nadas that populate the
easy come easy go away
poem of the day

but that's just me

like myself hard
cause when I melt,
to a child's grin shyest,
laughter silly me provoking
it is ever so better so...
tears, any kind, don't mind
laughing and sorrowing pouring,
let genuine be my only test
speed limit barrier unlimited

sorta saved a street crossing
phone-occupied-woman yesterday,
put my arm across her body
fast hard, unasked
so she wasn't
bicycle crashed,
both looks well received,
the *** and the gratitude,
but latter over former,
if I had to choose,
but I dont

but that's just me

Joanie M. over Judy C.,
Amy over Adele,
Eva Cassidy over all...
Zombies over Beatles,
Blunt over Taylor,
Rhyming Simon over Billy Joel,
no typos over flaring,
glaring no caring...

your poetry over mine,
cause it amazes,
cause mine,
just old familiar crazies,
just runaround Sues from yester pester days,
transcribed for a someday later
future grimacing laugh of
good god did I write that!

but that's just me

wrote quite the many
literary escapades
this morning,
like the yore,
good old days,
when every glance,
remark passing
made me run
to tablet them
in perpetuity ASAP

placed them before you
scattered thither and dither,
like all that jazz notes
running hands over planes geometric,
most just average,
but all there in hopes
you would love me better

but that's just me

sneaking inside you with
a wink, a tink-ering whimsy,
a stupid smile, a wicked sinning
humongous grinning
with a belly laughing,
havoc raising, me crazing,

*but that's just me
11-1-14
thinking I like celery better than carrots, and the rest you just read...
Brooklynn  Jan 2018
Home
Brooklynn Jan 2018
Home

Some people can recognize
A tree or a front yard
and know
they've made it home

The walk from the car door
To the front porch
Becomes habitual
Instead of intentional
They get lost in the
Contentment of familiarity

But what happens when you
find yourself
So adrift, so off-course
That you've worn a path in the circle you find yourself walking in

What if the place you're looking for,
Your home
Was never really home After all

But rather a false sense of security
Wrapped up
In a pretty pink ribbon
On top of the layers
Of gripping manipulation

How many circles can I walk in
Before I give up looking?
How long before I'm lost for good?

Home for me
Is not the familiar walk
To the front door
Or the yard with overgrown grass
that makes weeds look like bushes

Home is a sea of senses
Blending together in perfect harmony

Home is walking in
And seeing red
Red skillet
Red chair
And my favorite redheads

Home is the smell of
Fancy hand soap
Fresh laundry
Fragrant candles
And farty brussel sprouts

Home is the first sound you hear
A chuckle
A musical
The clearing of a throat
Our favorite tv show

Home
In a nutshell
Is freedom

Freedom to laugh
To cry
Or maybe both at the same time
To yell and to vent
Without the burden of shame
Or regret

So home
You see, is more
Than the tree
Or the porch

Those things could vanish
And leave you stranded

Home is laughter
And friendship
That won't leave you lost

It is safety and belonging
That says
“You are okay”

It is the weight of a burden being Lifted off your shoulders
Home is love
Leaving my mom’s house was scary and relieving at the same time. College was a terrifying adventure that I was diving into. My first year I met incredible women who loved me deeply and became my roommates. They redifined what home is to me.
mannley collins Aug 2014
We will start with every Jew of every sect.
then every Muslim of every sect.
then every Christian of every sect.
then every Buddist of every sect.
Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect.
then every Animist of every sect.
then every New Ager of every sect.
then every person who lives  "religiously".
then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess".
then every person of either *** or any of the  five skin colours.
then the redheads.
then the disabled.
then the  "gays" male or female.
then the "Politicians" of any belief.
then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere.
then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect.
then every Socialist and supporters of every sect.
then every Liberal and supporters of every sect.
then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect.
then every "aristocrat" and their supporters.
then every Militarist and supporters of every sect.
then every Fascist and supporters of every sect.
then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief.
then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause.
then every Criminal of whatever crime.
every Hippy.
every Ecofreak.
every alcoholic user.
every tobacco smoker.
every Cannabis smoker.
every priest of every "religion"
every Khat chewer.
every ***** of any junk.
every celebrity especially public ones.
every historian.
every novelist.
every poet.
every lecturer.
every expert.
every "adviser".
every spokesperson.
every print or electronic journalist especially.
every Television chat show host.
every one else.
Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace
on this war ravaged planet,
but simple existence without any corruption or criminality.
and then who will be left?.
NO ONE!!
Except me  and my twin flame
and oh boy will we have a great time of it.
Alone but all one.
just us and the Isness of the Universe.
wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe.
The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with.
Fruit hanging from trees .
Cold clear waters to drink.
Nuts to crunch.

oh and Amber our huge sheppie--
connosseur of Pork Crackling
and doggy nonsense and wisdom.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

— The End —