"brunette" poems
there was a slice of chocolate cake in the fridge
and my sister asked me if i wanted it.
i didn't respond, stared off into space
and continued to smoke my cigarette
in the kitchen because mom was
asleep already and it was 1 am
on a saturday in july
and it was hot and we were both braless and hoping
the single fan on the counter would circulate the air enough
to make us comfortable in the cottage that we called home
that didn't have air conditioning in the middle of the woods.
the three of us hadn't moved for three more hours,
instead spent all of that time talking about nothing
and everything the way sisters do
because sisters eventually end up saying all the words that have
to be said
but each time it sounds new even though it never is.
we're all different but the thing about sisters is
that other people always see you as the same.
we all eventually grew into having brown hair
even though i had been born a redhead
and she had been born blond
and she had been born the same shade of brunette
that still graced her scalp but was thinner than the rest of ours
and fit in an elastic pony tail comfortably
unlike mine, which broke those things immediately
and she, who cut hers all off in hopes
to cleanse herself and
keep herself from being weighed down.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine.
Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace.
My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed.
Crucify me, like one of your French girls.
Your endless frame arched over mine
a vaulting testament to the heat
of your front against my back.
This scene should have been a chapel.
Through hazed musk I can taste the saline
as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils
forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh
in the glens and about the islands of my spine.
I wish I could write about you in me
while you dance a contemporary beat
ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are
your feats within and upon my person.
For a split moment, seconds shattered in two,
I am completely and totally permeated by you.
I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging
to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.
Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine.
My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan.
Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest;
There's far too much weight there already, my dear.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
A new start,
something fresh.
Friends look at you
with wide eyes
erasing all the previous
times you had met
with this new time,
all from something simple.
Something fresh.
A haircut.
Although going from
long flowing wavy
strawberry blond hair
to dark pixie short
brunette colored hair
is quite the difference...
but it's something fresh.
Something new.
Something great.
Exhilarating.
Exciting.
Wonderful.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
How funny is it
That to be blonde
May
Mean a myriad of things
One who is blonde is
Demure
Pure
Alluring
Matronly
Dull
But never boring
Blonde is thought to be a mark of perfection
Strong Nordo-centricism
Stronger white supremacy
Are there not a brunette with the same attributes
Are there not matronly persons with red hair
Or black
Or pink
Or no hair at all
Why does such arbitration continually define us
Mere colors shape who we are
Far more
Than a more fair method
Talent
Devotion
Piety
Character
Who decided this
How do we fix it
Do we
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
A waterfall of brown
Strands and locks.
Sometimes curving,
Or just flowing.
Down a bank of pebbles,
Like water from a stream.
I love the way the
Individual hairs like
Water droplets splash
From the rest of the river.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
homeland security
on these nuts
home land security
in your butts
home land security
look but don't touch
it's too much
for 'em to understand
***** jacker
**** in hand
hatin' big wacker
on tha attacker
i like 'em blacker
she's a ***** packer
don't like 'em battered
spell bound brain washed
what's tha matter?
Homeland Security Act
homeland security
tryin' ta scare
why can't tha government care?
socialist ideals
not tryin' to hear
hippie gal tryin' ta spread peace
until the cognizance cease
down with tha ****
come in your hair
tryin' ta do me long
they can't take it down
ya know they messin' around
neo-con trick
tryin' ta make brunette sick
don't they like the way i hold my ****
maybe i wanna take a lick
lyin' bitchin' wichin' cryin'
like a man's supposed to be dyin'
look at 'em fryin'.
sorcery zap to the court-ordered goofs
snitchin'
doin' bad things
mad federal schemes
they all occultic fiends
with yo mama church
as the ball swings
** **** on me
mother **** the holy see
what ya tryin' to be
....holy?
goons, screws, pigs and spooks
sayin cognizance aint to use
poor court ordered goofs so-abused
papists vowed in their delusions of grandeur
all you supposed ta think
...is white cop
expendable masses they say aint allowed ta know
while they call the pope pop
guardian protectors of tha white bred
they wanna make tha people brain dead
feds frivolous threats
tha number on your badge says zero
what you tryin' to be?
A super hero?
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
She would often take long walks,
Long walks on a forest path, she hated walking around city blocks.
She would walk with such grace,
As her brunette hair brushed her dress trimmed with lace.
She would walk into a sunny glade,
The only place that wasn't filled with shade.
There she would lay in the evening sun,
The only place she didn't have to run.
She would dance all the time,
This was her place where she could be free to rhyme.
Then she would sit down and put flowers in her hair,
Here, she didn't need to hide from peoples staring stares.
Then she would begin to walk when it was time to go,
Before she would leave, the wind would begin to blow.
Knocking out the flowers in her hair,
She would then be exposed to their dark stares.
The flowers drifted in the wind,
And landed on the soft grass, may this be a reminder.
That I won't give you a dark stare,
If you my dear, decide to put flowers in your hair.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
"No more romance" she said
A seductive brunette trying to hide her age
And get what she wants
Come as a guest
Leave as a paramour
It's not my fault
No, no, no way. Look at her
She have already ransomed her fault
Notorious and lonely at the same time
I believe in godesses, yeah I do
Oh my God, you are real
I see you every time I get lonely
You are everywhere
Past don't want to let me free
Freedom is my inspiration
I want to be free
I want to recover my inspiration
No more one-night stands just creation
Lying to myself
Maybe I should change my name to Ophelia
It sounds so enchantingly
I believe in godesses, yeah I do
Oh my God, you are real
I see you every time I get lonely
You are everywhere
Past don't want to let me free
I feel afraid and I call your name
I love your voice and your dance insane
I hear your words and I know your pain
With your head in your hands and her kiss on the lips of another
Your eyes to the ground and the world spinning round forever
Asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over
Asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over
Asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over
I believe in godesses, yeah I do
Oh my God, you are real
I see you every time I get lonely
You are everywhere
Past don't want to let me free
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Paul Johnson was a mad psychopath.
He had killed hundreds of women in his life all by himself.
He never used any tools to **** He barehandedly killed those women.
His ex-girlfriend was the reason why he killed.
She had ran away with his brother leaving him hurt so bad like crazy.
His ex-girlfriend was a beautiful blonde.
He chased them for years.
When he found them he brutally killed them.
He mutilated the poor girl into little slices.
He beheaded and castrated his brother.
Then he cast their remains into fire.
Ever since then he had never stopped killing.
His victims were always women aged between 25 and 30.
They're always blonde and blue-eyed.
He strangled them all with his hands before he buried them in his basement.
One day he mistakenly killed a brunette who was wearing a blonde wig and .
He was so startled that he stopped killing and soon after hanged himself
His mother was a beautiful brunette.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
If there is a God,
my God
is a **** brunette.
Doe eyes,
stunning violet,
dark with eyeliner.
Star tattoos
twinkle on her face,
shooting across the skies
of her cheeks. A lower
lip piercing
accentuates
the **** curve
of her pouty lips.
Her lithe body,
also inked,
golden from the sun.
She smokes Camels,
sunlit smoke glowing
as it pours from her lips.
She’d ask me to join her
every time
she went outside
to have one,
grinning when she exhales.
I believe already.
My God.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
I smoke cigarettes
I drink ***** straight
I party with the suffragettes.
I have no job.
I have a car.
I have a brand new, spanking guitar.
I'll sing a song,
so sing along.
I'm a born-again, ***** brunette.
******* where's a cigarette?
I write some lines.
I've got some fines.
I snort a line,
I'm doing fine.
Poet,
know it,
*****
snitch,
girl,
hurl,
finger,
singer,
love,
glove,
me,
be,
book,
hooked,
see?
three!
And now you know,
my tale, insane.
It's not quite told,
I'll try again.
****
Greed,
'strology,
Blasphemy,
Gay/Straight,
don't hate,
quitter,
hitter,
fool,
cool,
won't get me in a swimming pool.
delusional,
confusional,
blankets,
spank it,
pillows,
billows
out the car into the night.
Taurus,
chorus!!
Oh, won't you be my Valentine,
Now you've seen into my mind?
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
She moved towards me like silk moves in a breeze. Her glow was soft, yet strikingly strong. Eyes brown and big like an oak tree in summer with rays of golden sun stung throughout. She moved as if an angel slowly awakening inside her. Her long brunette hair shimmered as it gracefully fell along her shoulders resting upon her ******* I would call her body smooth like softly blown waves in the sea, but no justice would it give to her. Her smile could make any woman stop in her tracks, just to appreciate the glorious happiness it brings. Her laugh brings joy like the peace nature brings in solitude. A total eclipse of winters cold, only allowing warm spring and summer. Hips a sailboat rocked by a beat only she could know. Sweet kisses with lips that taste like the most perfectly ripe fruit. Her hands touch as water does; politely gracing your skin and leaving you with droplets slowly fading. Her glance love-filled as a lover of many years might look at you. She is beauty from the inside out; she is graceful with every step; she is everything I want, and so much more.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.
"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.
"Is she eating?" my mother asks.
"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.
My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.
Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.
"I forgot my trunks."
"That's no excuse."
I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.
In the living room.
While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.
Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:
"All roads lead to me."
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
I’ve never understood the pull of the nightlife.
I was always content to hang in my cave and enjoy the homelife.
Every now and then I do wag my tail and purse the trail of the pack,
Always lingering right at the back of the queue.
I follow their scent when they descend into the night,
While they ascend the social status stairway.
From my perch at the bar I watch the social sheep dancing to the beat of popularity:
The girls show off their twirls and brunette curls,
Inviting you into the funhouse down under that never shuts for festivities.
The boys weigh up their options with the biceps on display and perfect quiffs held up by ten tins of hairspray.
Hunting through the flocks of feet trying to find themselves a piece of meat for an all night feast.
When he finally finds his muse he bites her lip and grabs her hair, pulling her in without a care about those who stop and stare.
They kiss for seconds and he whispers in here ear,
“I think we should get outta’ here.”
She giggles grabs his hand and leaves through the exit at the rear.
His friends give him a clap and cheer, whilst his jealous rivals sulk and sneer.
After a few too many drinks I leave through the front, holding my head low to avoid a fight.
Bearing the brunt of another unsuccessful night with no young light to take home and ignite.
I fall on my floor with a case of helicopter head as the room spins in circles and squares in front of my eyes.
My lasting thoughts are of the day ahead; hanging dry and feeling as if I’d rather die.
It's just another day in my nightlife.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Sung to the tune of The Lumberjack Song by Monty Python. Back-up Mounties optional.
I never wanted to be Sandra Dee!
I... I wanted to be...
A LESBIAN!
(piano vamp)
Leaping from bush to bush! As they float down the mighty rivers of
Finger and Thumbia!
With my best girl by my side!
The Blond!
The Brunette!
The Giant Snookie!
The Natural Red!
The Little Spinning Skinnamarink!
We'd sing! Sing! Sing!
Oh, I'm a lesbian, and I'm okay,
I like to broadcast that I'm gay.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
I see straight girls, they're not like me,
But I think that can change.
If they'd just let me kiss them.
Their lives I'd re-arrange.
Mounties: She sees straight girls, they're not like her,
But she thinks that can change.
If they'd just let her kiss them.
Their lives she'd re-arrange.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
I cut down guys, I wish and hope,
That others would join in.
I wish straight women would think,
that *** with men was sin.
Mounties: She cuts down guys, she wishes and hopes,
That others would join in.
She wishes straight women would think,
that *** with men was sin.
Chorus: She's a lesbian, and she's okay,
She likes to broadcast that she's gay.
Oh I'm a lesbian and I'm OKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK K!
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:07 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
black, white, brown
red, blonde, brunette
blue, amber, emerald
everyone so different
no one the same
short, tall, thin, fat
every size, shape
divergent, unique
Spanish, French, Japanese
Latino, Asian, Vietnamese
north, south, east, west
England, Morocco, Paraguay
child, adolescent, adult
heart, lung, eyes, brain
soul, spirit, mind
fear, love, pain, strength
unalike......identical
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
Long Curly brunette hair falling down her spine
Sad brown eyes staring at nowhere
Tanned skin in the dead of winter
Like yellow on black she always stood out
Bruised lips from biting too hard
Uneven nails that used to caress her lovers back
Concentrating on the new book she's reading
But her mind is wandering,
Longing for closure she know she'll never get
Untied conversed laces tied around a tree
Symbolizing that she'll never be free
untold words she'll never speak
Silence is the only thing she seeks
faith means redemption
And redemption she knows she'll never get she's a brunette beauty seeking solitary
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Then snaked her hand,
Between the mountains,
Pleasures like delicious rains,
Caressing ***** grains of sand.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
#Hair styles
Hair colors
Hairdos
Hairfall
Blonde
Brunette
Redhead
Grey
Or just black
A few strands of which
I found in her comb
In one untravelled recess of wardrobe
An untouched memento
From past two decades
Not graying
Not growing
Undeclined
Undestroyed
black and thick
the only relic
for her son!#
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
When brunettes see me stop and stare
I wonder what hides beneath their glare
Under by and by smiles
I'm pathetic,
And watch
Walk through each like an aisle
Beauty, hair,
It's everywhere!
Long, long summer length
Bold of shine and full of strength
It's been so long, I've watched mine grow
But it still won't reach down to my toes
Hair, Hair, Hair
Blonde here, red there
Straight impossible thick or fair
I like men,
Not the latter
But that doesn't matter
Because the locks of men cannot compare
To a brunette that makes me stop and stare.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
Frozen Pond
Buried deep under a frozen pond,
lies a brunette, red head and a blonde.
The brunette lived a simple life,
her name was Mary and my first wife.
Got married young, at age nineteen,
I was a king, she was my queen.
Caught her sleeping with my brother,
so naturally, I slept with her mother.
In the winter we went ice skating,
drilled out a hole, while I was awaiting.
As she got close, I pushed her in,
if only the ***** had a fin.
Two years later met a red headed beauty,
she was a little nuts and a lot fruity.
Ginger was this psychos name,
once again my brother was to blame.
Caught them in his back seat,
he played tricks, she gave him treats.
On the frozen pond we took a walk,
smashed a hole with a giant rock.
Pushed her in till she was under,
she screamed louder than Florida thunder.
My brother the blonde, his name Jake,
loved to go to that frozen lake.
Playing hockey with his friends,
him and his fancy Mercedes Benz.
One day we were passing the puck,
a hole in the ice and he got stuck.
I said, sorry brother but you deserve,
to fall in while I stand and observe.
Now my life is complete,
girls now know better than to cheat.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
A leer leapt across his face,
it was not a surf smirk
that rolls up from coral cheeks,
but a snide smile that
surprised everyone there.
Coffee shop stopped and halted,
for this man fell to his knees
and asked to wed,
a girlfriend of small brunette proportions,
whom sat next to him
basking in good fortune.
Golden orbit
of metal bound
and knit,
graced her finger, slipped
down the knuckle,
fused to the skin
as every buckle ever worn.
For these two would make it,
sworn to mourn when the other fell.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
For J.M.
If there is an Angel,
my Angel
is a **** brunette.
Doe eyes,
stunning brown,
dark with eyeliner.
Soft pieces of the sky
wet her skin
It is far too tight and thin.
Rose tattoo
twinkle on her face,
shooting across the skies
of her cheeks.
A lower
Lip bruise
Accentuates
The **** curve
Of her pouty lips.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC