"auburn" poems
Body clad in golden armor,
Auburn hair in tumbling waves,
Silver boots in perfect position,
Bow and arrow poised and ready.
Brave and strong,
Filled with courage,
Full determination,
Pure perseverance.
She is a warrior princess,
Filled with fire,
Blessed with beauty and
desire.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
you are may
i am december
kisses exchanged
during the bluing hour
child like
staring at you
in wonder and amazement
frosting night
falling snow
flakes in your auburn hair
i walk you home
in the cold frigid air
holding your hand
dreaming of you
you are rare
a beacon
a lighthouse
in a storm
in my daydreams
you are the pixie, the fairy inspiring me
at night
you are the siren, i surrender to
a trifecta of youth, beauty, personality
you are refreshingly young
spring in my wintered life
preternaturally beautiful
perfection come to life
your femininity bewitching
your youth intoxicating
your mannerism seducing
i would do anything for you
oozing sensuality
innocences
of a woman on the cusp
you hunger for sophistication
to be worldly-wise
seeking passage guidance
from an experienced traveller
the trade, the deal, is timeless
refined by evolution
i am humbled
to have been chosen
the ultimate champion
of your ****** selection
in turn, you are my trophy
the spoils
of a never ending war
i know our time is short
the span of a bloom
a season at most
i know the outcome
seen the devastation
the problem is
we think we have time
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
The Redhead.
The little auburn braid
wrapped across a freckled forehead,
revealing the natural orange and blonde streaks.
The china doll face,
with porcelain skin.
Pale lips, pink cheeks.
Eyes like the sea,
turquoise with speckles of green.
A crooked, imperfect, perfect smile.
A constant smile.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
Four years have past
Yet your memory seems to last
I shed my tears across the page
My heart threatens to break it's cage
This year you'll be twenty-one
Drinking alone isn't going to be fun
The track ran smooth, but your hear was frail
You worked yourself over the rail
One lap, two lap, three lap, four
I count the miles wanting more
You loved the track, you loved the sun
I imagine you with me when I run
Your auburn hair, your glowing eyes
Your smiles brightening darkened skies
I smile for you, you smile for me
It fills my heart with shortened glee
Goodbye dear Sara, we'll miss you so
I love you dear, remember you're no longer a child of woe
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
*towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer
my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer
‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains
©2016 janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
The mind of that girl is a pain sanctuary
whose aching decreases due to a world that's imaginary.
From home she goes out to get away,
and all those nights in stranges she relies.
The soft morning breeze
tenderly dries the tears in her cheeks,
and childishly it peeks
through her bloodshot eyes looking for a trace of peace.
Nobody could really tell
if she, bones and flesh, is still alive
or if she's just a wanderer ghost.
Probably the only one of her kind.
The dark circles under her eyes
are a proof of the restless crying nights.
The tangled auburn messed up hair
tells she didn't sleep at home, but no one cares.
Picking up flowers on the way back home,
humming songs that once made her feel whole.
She rests for a few hours and once awake she grabs a pen,
she writes down a poem before she gets drunk again.
Somehow she finds calm
in the simple things of life,
and she tries not to think
about the coldness in her eyes.
Barely getting through, day by day,
trying not to be absorbed by all the grey.
Amassing countless heartbeats
to the final point where life she quits.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 10:17 PM UTC
*hints of auburn drift creating a soft cadence against the autumn wind
almost heard in lieu 'tis felt somehow awakening souls buried long ago
giving birth to falling crimson leaves tinged with maroon and gold
abandoned dusty roads transform under enchanting spells cast by fall
burnt orange pumpkins standing solitary on wooden porches threaten to reveal
hidden secrets held by dusk’s luscious cinnamon seasoned air
once fulgent sunflowers begin to slumber softly beneath the harvest moon
whilst autumn’s trance brushes all it touches with honey colored hues
i stand pensive as an amber leaf gently twirling falls to the ground
bewitched by thine supernatural powers; thine gifted artist’s hand
who with one stroke turns to butter amber all that once was forest green
and imbues my soul with thine exalted essence forever ripening
©2016janetaylor
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 23rd October 2014, 01:01
She was sunlight and cinnamon;
all wide eyes,
auburn hair, fair complexion
freckles and fleeting laughter.
She was an enigma to her friends,
a golden girl to her parents…
Dappled sunlight turned her into
fragments of an autumn impressionist panting;
all her reds, golds and peach tones
wildly blazing,
vividly flaming in a sunset's haze.
She could make people laugh
with a dry turn of phrase.
She could silence a room just by walking in
through the door.
She could silence cruel words
with a withering look.
She was going to be somebody;
the world was going to know her name,
the future was forever -
until
he caught her, used her,
left her under autumn leaves
in a ditch by the roadside;
and he became somebody
and she became the face
of the girl killed by him.
Hollywood made a thriller about him
and his crime;
and her mother made an album of photos of her;
and the local paper published
her brief obituary.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
auburn days roll by
like the end of a lit
cigarette, with a
puff of smoke
and emotionless
lipstick stains.
seasons pass
like the whiskey
bottle is drained
to an end to
drown those
emotionless
lipstick stains.
tears tick by
like the bottle
of pills that
cover the crisp
bathroom floor
escaping the pain
of emotionless
lipstick stains.
life comes to a halt
like the budding
drops of crimson
blood that paint
my favorite
bracelet running
away from the
emotionless
lipstick stains.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
The Sun leaves auburn shadows,
There's purple clouds in sight,
The evening fades down the skyline,
We lose the golden light.
Purple paints down the horizon,
The sun, not putting up a fight,
The evening's gone and this day is done,
And now it's time for night.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
I painted her a gushing thing,
With years about a score;
I little thought to find they were
A least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.
She boxed my ears this morning,
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!
She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyaena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of a giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
"She's all my fancy painted her,"
But oh! how much besides!
7.1k
Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.
I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.
And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she
belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and
she had a broken look in her eyes
when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;
*what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?*
She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.
We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said
*follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window*
and she said
lets go.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Sitting beneath a giant squid eating sushi.
Watching the bubbles in my beer rising to the top of my glass.
Lost in my dreams, from on top the canopy of life,
living the moment with you.
Time holds its breath as you sit beside and in me,
with your disc jockey voice and your blue-grey eyes.
I’m floating away in a glass of foam as you carry me away,
surrounded by a sea of voices beneath a giant squid.
Your hair rolls in a sea of auburn waves, caressing your face.
Emotion welling in my heart, burning my soul.
In the next room fire leaps from tables to light our way,
to a place where love is remembered and memories kept.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.
And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.
The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.
A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.
I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.
I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 10:16 PM UTC
You are a Woman of Iron,
Composed of high expectations,
Forged with strong morals.
Quenched by the coldness of the world.
Your determination stands firm against all challenges.
Victories are graciously and easily surrendered to you.
Energetic and effective action.
All around you, people take notice.
Your are a Woman of Silk,
Your feminine form, undeniably ****
Your sweet odor is of respect and admiration.
Your skin, amazingly smooth & firm.
Your sensal lips draw me closer.
Your smile, beautifuly contagious, brightens all the day.
Your blue-gray eyes, sparkle of happiness and captures my soul
Your sassy auburn hair, thick and shinney,
bounces and flows as you graciously move about.
Your voice is soothing, it sings to my heart.
Your laughter, lifts my spirits,
A perfect combination, you are...
A woman of Iron & Silk!
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
O liquid temptress of my dark dreams,
Your ****** expanse calls me
And I would sail ever on,
Were it not for the elven maid,
Who calls me, calls me
She binds my heart with a lily white tie,
Never to be broken, save by my torment
Ever to be torn between the treesand waves.
And I travel for ever, for ever,
To reach the elven maid's heart which lies,
Beyond the liquid temptress' grasp.
The elven maid in beauty basks,
Her eyes as auburn as hallow woods.
Her hair as lush as the foamy tide,
With ruby lips and honeyed words,
She calls me, calls me.
She breaks all enchantments on me,
And calls me to the elven land.
Her voice awakens the fallow lands,
And fills my heart with unearthly joy
O liquid temptress of my dark dreams,
Your ****** expanse calls me
And I would sail ever on,
Were it not for the elven maid,
Who calls me, calls me
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.
Humbert Humbert 1950
Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
We like to decorate the female body
To disguise it with some metaphor in order to prove its validity
To see a woman as a flower that needs to be picked
To see a mother's arms as shelter for our souls
No, my friend.
Do not think that words will come to tuck you in at night
We are flesh and we are bones.
That is beautiful enough
When you are in love
Write an ode comparing your emotions to the weather
But do not speak of her as the fallen leaf of the auburn tree
Do not speak of her as the wind that cracks your window open at night
Do not speak of her as the blood your veins need
Do not speak of her as anything
Other than who she is,
A woman
If you were to compare her to anything
Tell her that her smile, that the life in her eyes
Does for you what love does to the human mind
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
...
***I've got a few visitors tonight;
they're all associated with the wolf under my eyes***
I.
*I've left loneliness to starve on a stone table,
while jealousy can bleed me a lake;
fear and I are equals,
on the battlefield of fate.*
"Pay no mind to the rebel."
II.
*Forked tongues recite wickedness; of all
the shadows gaining power as the sun was slain.
Black flames banish all that is golden,
as darkness bent my silent skeleton;
but it didn't break.*
"I'm just some sin you committed...right?"
III.
*A basilisk waited for me at my chambers,
it requested a lullaby, and a glass of iron wine.
Who knew poison would be my new best friend?
Who knew my company would be kept by
an oracle of silver'tongue?
Dead languages clutched my
lively secrets.*
"Every wolf gets tired of the moon at some point."
IV.
*And just like that;
We were splintering at your wolfsong
auburn poems at the feet of trees
waist deep in misery you sat,
head crowned in autumn's diseases.
Witnessing you tilt your head to plant a kiss
on the night's wings;*
***"Oh, it's ******* agony."***
*Watching your eyes harvest hurricanes
love sinking in tongues
of ebony sorrow.
they don't belong to me
you don't belong to me.*
***"I suppose I can't change the world
but I will leave it colder."***
V.
*And sometimes, love is just the aftermath
of a tragedy.*
...
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
I'll be the sea, fatuous and chaotic
You be the sky, melting into marigolds above me
Tasting colours, orchards of hues
Close my eyes and lift up my libation
All my arid poems of sybaritic self pity
Sand on my lips, wind sweeping my hair, seashells in my ears
Salty spray on my eyelashes
You're my sweet clemency, verdure and elusive
I want all of you, your ochre and your chartresue and your auburn melting into each other
I want your contradictions and contraindications and complications and dreary storms
Your bleak Tuesdays, your burnt clouds, your blurry edges
Your unknowable horizons
And your azure, pastel and electric, harsh and soft, misty and empty
Do I need to spell it out, darling
I want to kiss you, isn't it obvious
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 11:02 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
When it pours she finds the rainbow
In the sun she lets the wind flow
Through her sun-kissed auburn hair
Til the scent of perfume fills the open air
When it’s cold she lies real close to me
Til we breathe together in harmony
And get lost inside a dream
Waking up into a love supreme
When I’m late she says, “Don’t drive too fast!”
When dessert comes out we like to make it last
And give each other one more special chance
To make love with just some cheap romance
She’s the killer of all my doubts and woes
Wherever she goes the butterflies follow
If I lose a job she says, “You’ll find another”
She wants a grandkid for my darlin’ mother
When she cries it takes the man outta me
Knowing I’m not being what I know I can be
So we cheer up with a slowdown moonlit dance
And make love outta cheap romance
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me what suits,
Soft natural highlights, or strong punk roots?
Auburn red or beach blonde hair,
Brunette with greens, or short blunt rare?
Mermaid midnight old balayage blues,
Grey ombré curled with lilac hues?
Lemon yellow paint or neon spice,
Purple color that matches my hazel eyes!
Tousled, textured, twirled and twined,
We could take it to the front, or let it all behind.
Black hair with beautiful mahogany dye,
Fringes looking pretty every day passing by.
Straight hair with an asymmetrical bob,
Lips painted red, formal and hot.
Tie buns and bows with colorful clips,
Grow pink hair long, till they reach my hips.
Fish tail braid like a Boho chic,
All pastel shades spread, across the width.
Blonde and bright, they are in my sight,
Soon to be a celebrity, wearing them uptight.
Burgundy wine perm, crazy long,
Every hair color has a song.
There are chances that they may look all wrong,
But hey! I'm not scared to just play along!
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
I've always had a fondness for gingers.
Don't ask me why.
Maybe it's the hair,
Whether it's sunset orange,
Dark auburn
Strawberry blonde
Or just plain red,
I love it.
But there is something within the people themselves
That just makes me go awwrr
And makes me want to hug the affected person,
Affected meaning, well,
Gingered.
That's a verb, right?
For example,
My three-year-old brother is a ginger, the only one in the family.
I like to call him any of the following:
Ginger Baby
Little Ginger
Baby Ging'
And really, really cute.
You've got to love gingers.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC