"hairdresser" poems
Love, the real kind, is never simple.
It is the one thing that makes life worth it in the end,
and something that wonderful and sought-after is never going to be easy to get.
You have to work for it.
Blood, sweat, and tears.
So if it’s easy, yeah maybe you won’t get broken.
But you won’t be truly happy, either.
You’ll be settling.
Don’t get me wrong,
There are lots of things in life that are totally acceptable to settle on.
Sure, Harvard was your dream school.
But you know what?
Going to your state school because its more affordable
Will still get you where you want to be in life.
And I know the hairdresser couldn't match the color you showed her,
But you are beautiful and can rock it anyway, so don’t worry.
But love?
Settling in love is like buying a pair of shoes that are a size too small,
Just because you thought they were pretty.
They may look nice,
But you are dying on the inside. I
f you had just held out a bit longer,
You would have found a pair just as beautiful that fit well, too.
Maybe that nice guy looks good on paper,
But if he doesn’t give you butterflies whenever he looks at you,
Don’t be with him.
You want someone who makes you fall for them every day,
Not just once.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
was leading a lonely life working nights
at the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory
where he was in charge of loading crates
full of fukfoorfiffenfimmers, onto cargo cars destined for the city of Cincinnati.
There was such a huge demand for fukfoorfiffenfimmers in the city of Cincinnati,
poor Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer worked his hunnyhush to the bone.
On one of his few holiday weekends,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer went to a hair salon for a trim.
Here he was attended by a hairdresser named, Henrietta Huckhellopolis.
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer instantly fell for the husky-voiced hairdresser.
Gaining enough gumption and gallasisgoppingguff needed to bypass beating around the bush of courteous courtship,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer asked Henrietta Huckhellopolis if she wanted to leerlumpaloomp later that evening.
"I would love to leerlumpaloomp later this evening," she replied, batting her long lashes lustily.
And how those two leerlumpaloomped!
They leerlumpaloomped long through the night.
They leerlumpaloomped so loudly,
the neighbours ended up sticking stuffystoils
into their sensilivities, in hopes of drowning out the noise.
Nine months later,
the lovers were blessed with a litter of lullaloonillies—wot with the loud leerlumpaloomping and all.
But, of the seven lullaloonillies, four of them had two lumpalots instead of one.
Bolstering himself against drowning in despair at the prospect of having sired freak lullaloonillies,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer helped design fukfoorfiffenfimmers especially meant for lullaloonillies who have two lumpalots instead of one.
As the double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers
were Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer's idea, the owner of the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory gave Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
a forty percent cut of the royalties.
*Fortunately some fairy tales come with a happy ending, because the city of Cincinnati was hit with a record number of lullaloonillies
born with two lumpalots instead of just the one.
The high sales of double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers,
enabled Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer and Henrietta Huckhellopolis
to quit their jobs and buy into the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory.
Yes, after getting married,
Harry Heironymous and Henrietta Huckhellopolis-Huffenhoffer
lived happily hever hafter.
So did the lullaloonillies....
including those with two lumpalots instead of one.*
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
Just a quiet woman polished bright by nerves,
I once felt wild for dipping my hair in purple.
Noticing, my hairdresser asked if I had anyone special.
I dated a man with a good job
who liked museums.
We saw a drunk girl in a leather skirt-
heels hobbling down cobblestone,
her bird-arm linked through a friend’s.
He rolled his eyes:
_would you go out wearing skirts like that?_
On the dating app I’d written:
loves dogs, drinks champagne from paper cups.
It wasn’t a lie, but I am such a liar.
I told him yes,
because I needed his reaction,
his self-corrected mind,
though I’ve never worn one.
I say I’m fine with whatever,
or this is stupid,
but truthfully
I’m afraid I’m only a very nice lady,
soft in the hands of whoever will take me.
I carry anger like a weak religion-
a god I light candles for twice a year,
more symbol than practice.
I’ve heard of burying St. Joseph upside down
to sell a house. But there’s no charm,
no saint, for loosening the knots I keep tied.
I want to keep the bright mess of my dog heart,
mud-spattered, mulch-snuffling,
faithful to its own scent,
while crows, squirrels, and the occasional fox
paw through the dirt
for what they almost forgot.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 8:33 PM UTC
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
There is a young lady called Anna. She is a loner. She lives alone with her two cats. They are her world. I am a cat lover myself and have 2 little cuties in my nest. But these cats are just plain feral. They terrorise the other cats in the neighbourhood and **** in all the neighbours’ garden.
She works Monday to Friday for a recruitment company. She leaves her flat in a purple Mazda convertible which is renowned for being a Hairdresser’s (AKA dumb **** car. Every day she leaves at 7.30am on the dot and every day she arrives home at 7.15pm on the dot.
Once at home she turns on her TV cinema system (sub), just to watch the TV.
*****
At the weekend she also leaves her stinking putrid ******* bags out in the communal hallway.
*****
She ignores her neighbour’s knocking on her door. She ignores the notes that they put through her letterbox.
*****
So as Anna was not willing to speak to her neighbours directly. They had no other way to turn apart from to report her to Environmental Health for playing her TV cinema system (sub) too loudly and also for the disgusting ******* that she regularly leaves out in the communal hallway.
*****
In which she returns the compliment by reporting them (said neighbours) to the Environmental Health for:
1) Shouting at each other,
2) Talking too loudly,
3) Banging kitchen utensils on the floor when she is in her kitchen
How deluded is this *****
At the same time that her neighbours reported Anna to the Environmental Health they also spoke to the Community Support Officer. They advised them to contact the Mediators in their local area. Which of course they did. The Mediators arranged to visit one evening. Unbeknownst to them they parked in Anna’s allocated parking space. Once they had finished with her neighbours, the Mediators returned to their car. Just as they were about to reverse their car, Anna arrived home in her Mazda convertible and blocked them in.
*****
When she got out of the Mazda convertible, with attitude I might add, she asked the Mediators who they were. They then introduced themselves. Once she knew who they were, she invited them into her flat to hear her side on the story.
YES I AM HER ******* NEIGHBOUR AND YES I AM STILL WAITING TO HEAR BACK FROM THE MEDIATORS……
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
"Not too short on the sides,
not too long on the top."
I've prepared my little speech,
dreading the inevitable small talk
as the hairdresser's fingers fly
across the jungle of my dome,
her scissors like mini machetes
cutting down the foliage to see
what is hiding in plain sight.
I love the Bob Marley shirt I'm
wearing, so it's bittersweet it'll
immediately be taken off when I
get up from the chair. "One love,
one heart, give thanks and praise
to The Lord," laughing as I type this,
autocorrect shows Siri's faith in
human invented religion and God.
Hair litters the floor, and I know my
turn is next. The beginning of the end
starts
now.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
My body is like a garbage dump.
It absorbs the trash people don't want anymore:
The hairdresser's abandoning father
The blog follower's self mutilation
The family's dark past
The boy's suicide attempt
My mind is like a sewer.
It's the drain that catches everyone's waste:
The noble girl's ****
The boy's love battle
The drunk man's broken past
The dear friend's "Goodbye Call"
Soiled oceans of sobs from those I love
To those I've never truly met
Mixed together
Putrid with self hate
All coming together for me to collect for them
My soul is like time bomb.
It takes on the weight of people's misfortune
People's biggest regrets
And people's deepest pains
It ticks steadily with the weight of other's
And my own hurt
Feeling more weight from others
Further pushing the timer forward
Steadily ticking
And the scariest part
Isn't the stories being told
Or the hurt that I hold
Or the ticking
It is the unknown moment when there is no more
Ticking.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Sharon was picking at the scab over the mole on the back of her neck
where the hairdresser had shaved too close to the skin:
Water under the bridge, she thought, and licked at her salty fingertips.
By focusing on the sound of her new high heels over the metal steps,
she blocked out twisted traffic audio below;
the wind whistled a tune through the rust over her painted toenails.
She liked the way some of the pedestrians down there looked up at her.
Sharon felt so elegant when the wind lifted her skirt,
just like Marilyn Monroe in that picture, except that Sharon didn’t smile;
her skirt had been lifted up more times than she could (or wanted to) remember.
He always looked down at her. There. Below.
Sharon flicked her new purse into the wind, and ripped off the matching blouse.
The Samurai sword, tight between her ******* felt hot and cold at the same time,
like the red of her peach blossom skirt glistening white against midday sun;
memories of her only child freeze-burned the empty love caverns in her heart.
A river of emotions rippled through her body but she didn’t utter a sound;
that was reserved for the impact with the oncoming bus,
and the tip of the sword that ripped through the driver’s leather-sandaled heart.
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
the hairdresser used the wrong dye
your boyfriend dumped you for a guy
all you have left is shattered dreams
camera flash blinds you with its beams
missionaries bring word of an impending doom
your dog snuck in and broke your fave perfume
trying to grow your hair but you have split ends
the guy you've been eyeing wants to be just friends
your favorite jeans ripped and you don't have spares
you would ask for a friend's but nobody cares
you're late to work and you don't know why
you got scouted to model but you were suddenly too shy
you failed the pop quiz that everybody aced
you got mistaken for a celebrity and brutally chased
you dropped your wallet jogging around
you found it empty a week later in the lost and found
you forgot not to and picked a scab
your favorite uncle's stuck in rehab
your grandmother mistook you for her son
in reality you're female, and nowhere near fifty-one
you're a penny short but the cashier won't budge
your mother is still holding that 10-year grudge
what can you do, what can you say?
when all you have is first world problems, today.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Occupy MDP!
that’s
mom’s and dad’s place -
you imbeciles!
Occupy
Mom’s and Dad’s place -
they’ve made too much money!
They’ve worked since
they were twenty
Looking after kids
and saving money –
being selfish
no charity!
just being plain greedy!
Occupy MDP!
Don’t you see?
Mom and Dad got too much money!
Look at me –
I’m twenty-eight
going on twenty-nine –
ain’t got a penny
ain’t got a honey
and Dad and Mom
got too much in the kitty
They put money in the bank!
**** Don’t you see?
Mom and Dad are capitalists!
Occupy MDP!
So Dad and Mom
thirty years
they worked
and raised kids
and they’ve paid every cent on the house!
**** Mom and Dad are capitalists!
**** – they’re bourgeoisie!
Occupy MDP!
Open their fridge– eat for free!
Watch TV, use their internet
and surf with glee –
Mom and Dad can pay every fee!
Cos they’re capitalists
and money pigs –
that’s what they are,
Mom and Dad
So Occupy MDP!
Lie in the couch
and get your friends
in the garden
and trample on the beds of flowers -
**** Can’t you see?
She goes to the hairdresser’s;
She goes to the pedicurist -
Mom’s a bourgeoisie!
Drive Dad’s car
while he snores
who cares if you burn the tires
just drive at speed
for a good adrenalin police chase -
Old Dad will pay the fines anyway!
**** – the police are capitalists!
Dad’s a capitalist!
Mum’s a bourgeoisie!
Come on - O youth of the World
It does not matter if you are past
twenty or thirty -
All youth unite at this cry:
Occupy MDP!
Occupy Mom’s and Dad’s!
O brave Youth of the World -
Occupy MDP!
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Sirens, ballads of anguish are singing, ears are ringing,
Our nightingale is shrieking, and children are clinging.
Our Kalyna is red, but wrapped in blood now, not love,
From the massacres aeroplanes bring from far above.
My uncle, enters the now upside-down house of his,
“Welcome”, with a phoney grin, and wariness he says.
The house holding memories is now clogged rubble,
In the land that shall never greet occupiers or trouble.
His daughter's dreams shattered, for the reverie of filth,
It matters not; the nation of his deserves blood spilth,
We deserve not peace, but the delusions of a hag pass,
May he rest in peace, along with the delusion he has.
My mother may never hear the raindrops fall again;
Missiles seal ears with noise, and the death of men.
The men, women and children, who will lead us all,
Through scorched fields with whispers old and small.
She is a hairdresser, she might braid hair for the fun,
But other mothers, braid the hairs of daughters gone,
They keep them safe under a pillow where they smell,
The warmth of days before the dictator's missiles fell.
Red and black are the only colours they pervaded here,
They wish for our colours to diminish and spring adhere,
But beauty routs the devil of ugliness and his conceit;
Our colours saturate our resistance, painting your defeat.
They shall not sprout in our fields, like poisonous herbs,
They "rescue" us, but the gunshots my brother disturbs,
We did one day exchange our dreams for a pistol facing -
Facing the bear who is destruction, within embracing.
Blood accumulated in heaps on the sleeves of killers,
Like a marvel detested in a chapter of stained thrillers.
But thriller this is not, it is lives of the innocent lost;
He plays chess in reality, after a coin he has tossed.
Mothers, daughters, sons and fathers are everyday slain,
but spring soars today, prevails tomorrow - in Ukraine.
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
Upgrading
“So you want to be a hairdresser, I bellowed, I gave you
a splendid education and that is how you repay me!”
“You can study to be a doctor or a lawyer or something
posh, but never a hairdresser.”
“I struggled in poverty to get some kind of education at
the Academy of catering and pursership- I never have
heard that word before- you have now, this to drag me
out of the slum of being working class, and you want
to be a hairdresser!”
She is my daughter a product of a reluctant relationship
Her mother was a reserve nurse at a local hospital and
Was content with her status.
“ If you persist in wanting to be a hairdresser leave my
house I will not have you here inviting the poverty
I tried to get away from.”
I know where she works as a trainee hairdresser walk
past the salon, every day just to see how she is getting on,
but I won’t let her see how much I love her, this stubborn
girl taking after her father
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 5:11 AM UTC
It’s all right your man comes tonight from the bar
Your woman from the hairdresser
But the best thing would be to move the hairdresser
In the bar
So you know something for certain
Rolled in a pile of desire and ambition
We jumped to scatter through the world
To buzz insanely all his wonders
We reported heaven as missing
So we flew through the ins and outs of the earth
We swam through the sand floating through the fog
Yes Sir
We walked on the water fainted like crazy
Until everything was made a road at our feet
Arriving close to World's End
Where is no trace of regret or sigh
Where we see only the Water and the Great Wall
We will find out of the blue
The Peace and Friendship of a madhouse
There thirst elevates us to catch our breath
With the blood stained by the sword in our hand
Lord great is Thy mercy:
The Reality is you wake up smiling
And you look like hell
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
Hair can be mischievous,
You never know when it will strike next,
Don't ever let your guard down,
Run when you feel danger,
Or better yet,
Xylophate it,
You must know what that means,
Make no fuss about it if you don't.
Either way, remember:
The
Hair
You
Love
Can...be your downfall!
Use care 24/7,
Let nothing convince you otherwise,
Let nothing lure you into trusting your hair,
Or it will stab you into the back.
Love your dog, but never your hair,
Once you do this, you will be:
SAFE!
Exit paranoia; poem is done.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
Little girl, big brimmed hat,
alone, with suitcases, travelling to boarding school she sat.
Wanting to be embraced by loving arms,
reassuring tones, peaceful pungent breaths, she calms,
but, the war loomed outside,
and onwards she tried.
The constant Chameleon: hairdresser, interiors, reporter and healer,
now, the season of inner healing to transform into a counsellor.
But, it’s the true counsel she heeds,
to transform from the wounds that bleed.
May she hear from You, Emmanuel; the One who truly heals.
May You lovingly embrace and hold all she feels.
May the little girl grow up into the woman You imagined,
And may she bloom into a lush garden with seeds You've planted.
Jan 30, 2024
Jan 30, 2024 at 8:43 PM UTC
I'd like to charge,
the government.
With crimes,
against humanity.
Giving M.B.E's,
to hairdresser's.
Only goes,
to prove,
their vanity.
Elderly man
evicted.
Reeked of,
mental health.
Makes me fkin sick,
cos they have,
so much wealth.
Always pointing fingers.
Blood dripping,
from their hands.
yet giving,
tax relief,
to appease,
their Tory fans.
They have no,
understanding,
of what benefit,
equates.
As we conserve,
energy.
they increase,
fuel rates?
They talk of,
unemployment,
like its a,
personal choice.
Jumping to,
conclusions.
As though we,
have no voice.
They've,
no desire,
for shelters.
No funding,
for rehabs.
No interest,
in soup kitchen's.
Or people,
dressed in rags.
DO NOT
be a pawn
in their,
game of chess.
DO NOT fall,
for the lies,
that they suggest.
Destroying their,
own people.
welfare reforms.
Yet writing every,
penny down,
on expenditure,
allowance forms.
Don't they know,
its wrong?
state paying,
for second homes.
When those,
supporting families,
survive on,
payday loans.
Humbled,
working people,
queuing at,
food banks
I wonder,
what goes on,
amongst the,
Tory ranks?
The truth,
of austerity.
11 % bonus,
increase.
The injustice,
of it all,
destroys,
my inner peace.
It's obvious,
their strategy,
to conquer,
by divide.
lining their,
own pockets,
before they,
run and hide
(c) mandy rigby 09/01/2014
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
1.
My name is Delilah, how may I help you?
You were blinded by my grace.
You always saw hints of my betrayal.
My friends made it clear to you that I was a
hairdresser.
I cut off your hair an inch every night.
You saw it coming.
You did.
But I'd never cut all your hair off.
2.
Rule number one: Do not get attached.
Do not kiss on the mouth; you'll get attached.
Just because he took your innocence, doesn't mean him not wanting to marry you
(, him not wanting to kiss you anymore
or him not loving you,)
is a good enough reason to cry.
3.
He treats you like a child, yet he expects you to not be clingy, be needy or cry.
He demand you not to hug another boy
(not even your friends),
yet complains you're too desperate for affection.
4.
Prince Charming has a thing for little girls.
Stop being so mature for your age.
5.
Prince Eric has a thing for older women.
Stop being so immature, you're not a child anymore.
6.
Perfection has a girlfriend.
Perfection loved you.
Perfection tastes your wine and lingers on tip of your lips.
Perfection caresses your ******* and whispers sonnets into your ear.
Perfection goes back to his girlfriend.
7.
Leave him.
Leave him.
Scream out "Hallelujah!"
Leave him.
Go back to your Lord.
Leave him.
You stand next to him.
He looks at you as if you aren't there.
Leave him.
His hand touched the handles and not you.
Leave him.
You look at him.
Leave him.
You burn your bible.
You stop praying.
Leave him.
You kiss him, and you no longer think of your Saviour.
Leave him.
You have a new god to worship.
Leave your new god.
Leave him.
Leave him.
Leave him.
You stay.
8.
Your messiah burns your heartache into your wrists as the gospels kisses the flames.
Princes, perfection and new found gods are all weak in front of the All Mighty,
but strong in front of your naive, delusional heart.
There is no more room left for God until you leave him.
But you won't leave him.
9.
My name is Delilah.
I am not a prophet.
10.
My name is Delilah, how may I help you?
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
O'Brien said
the whole girl thing
was a falsity
why waste your time
on them?
he'd told Baruch
yes why?
Sutcliffe said
in an echo
as they walked home
from school
along
the New Kent Road
holding a cigarette
to one side
a thin line
of smoke
coming
from his mouth
as she spoke
Baruch said nothing
about Fay
he just listened
thinking of her
as they walked along
his hands
in his pockets
his scuffed shoes
treading the pavement
his eyes looking
at Sutcliffe
at his blonde hair
and bright blue eyes
and O'Brien
with his shock
of brown hair
and his crafty eyes
I've yet to meet a girl
worth losing sleep over
he said
not a wink of sleep
Sutcliffe added
Baruch had seen Fay
the day before
on the way home
by the church
on the corner
of Meadow Row
she in her catholic
school uniform
clutching her satchel
her bright eyes on him
her fair hair
brightened
by the afternoon sun
how they had walked together
up the Row
she talking of the nuns
at the school
about the whole Latin thing
about the long list
of saints she had
to remember
he took in
her anxiety
her paleness of skin
he told her
of the pottery teacher
who ridiculed his pots
and how he did it
in front of the class
holding up the ***
and running it down
not that I care a toss
Benedict said
least not
about the ***
and they crossed
Rockingham Street
and up the slope
and there they waited
gazing at each other
the silence
like thin silk
he wanted to kiss her
but not doing so
she wondered
if she could get
nearer to him
maybe much closer
but feared her father
might hear of it
and he didn't like Baruch
didn't like the Jew boy
keep yourself free
of them
O'Brien said
girls cling to you
like leeches
and ****
the being
out of you
with their petty wants
yes wants and wants
Sutcliffe echoed
Baruch paused
by the hairdresser shop
by the crossing
opposite Meadow Row
best get home
Baruch said
yes me too
said Sutcliffe
hope my cousin's gone home
she's been with us
for weeks now
and always
in the bathroom
and wandering the house
in her almost
see through night dress
sure sure
O'Brien said
bet you hate that
and he laughed
and Sutcliffe walked off
home the cigarette
behind his back
held
in his inky fingers
see you around
O'Brien said
and wandered on
up the road
and Baruch
saw him off
and crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
thinking of Fay
and that moment
he almost kiss her
how they stood
gazing at each other
he gazing
at her fine beauty
her figure
and she fearing
her father
would know
and the nuns
at the school
always writing to him
about her
and what she does
and does not
and she seeing
Baruch there
feeling her heart beat
and sensed feeling hot.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
When she started school she wanted to be a firefighter
Until she felt the sting of the fireplace.
When she was 7 she wanted to be a florist
But found hay fever unbearable.
When she was 10 she wanted to be a nurse
Until she was diagnosed
and had to go to hospital too much.
When she was 12 she wanted to be a hairdresser
But had no hair left to dress.
When she was 13 she wanted to be a pilot and see the world,
By the time she was 15 she had her heart set on it
Until she heard the bad news and decided peace was all she wanted.
By her 16th birthday her long battle had been lost
So she became an
angel
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
And i can't take my mind
From that hairdresser i frequent
Just had her second baby
Right after her father had died
To leave her care for a half brother
That is lost to the angst of teenage pride
Unknown a mother on a drug fuelled ride
Stacey the one to pick pieces as they fall
For she is beautiful, she never cries.
She only ever smiles, she only smiles
To her my coat of colours i do gift
On a hook does it hang
As her life she strips bare
With an ease of fallen discarded hair
Her colours unfurl in humility and grace
Her red is of creation, of a burning fire
Not one of foolish unrepentant desire
Her blue a reality, a living breathing sky
Not the word of a poet, not of you nor of I
Her green is her renewal
Of the fertile lives that she now tends
Jealousy nor envy no means to that end
Yet evening falls, in who will she confide?
No one to turn to, nowhere to hide
For she is beautiful, she never smiles
She only ever cries, she only cries
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
“How do you want it?” the hairdresser asked.
“Bald.” I quipped.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
The Games we play
This is not an English poem, the fear of showing
emotion, look at my stiff upper lip, wrapping
words of love in cotton wool. The truth is, my
Dear, I don't care for you, but my cowardice is
a deep river so profound I can't come and say:
I don't love you anymore.
Flowers sent, the ring I gave was out of pity
and guilt hoped you would sense the chill
behind the gift and frigidity of feeling.
Under a cloud of pusillanimity, we'll wed, live
near a hairdresser salon for you, and a park
bench of Autumnal leaves, for me.
Unbridgeable the distance between us, I will
go on dreaming, and you will scream at, my
passivity till there is no reason left,
the useless wind brings no seed to replant.
This is how it will end because I lack the gut
to say simply. “I don't love you anymore.”
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC