"headband" poems
On the sea-shore, smell of iodine,
and square as in Sicily, and dancing.
An intellectual that came from the common people,
preparing himself to be Rosencrantz.
He decides to serve Claudius and therefore
spy on Prince Hamlet from the fountain.
All over the world — the prison. At the world's
end a certain John plays the piano.
Already darkness, and the end is in sight :
Ophelia crying in an empty hut.
And Hamlet walks to and fro with white headband,
in order to be recognized by the Ghost in the gloom.
6.8k
Sleep, darling
I have a small
daughter called
Cleis, who is
like a golden
flower
I wouldn't
take all Croesus'
kingdom with love
thrown in, for her
---
Don't ask me what to wear
I have no embroidered
headband from Sardis to
give you, Cleis, such as
I wore
and my mother
always said that in her
day a purple ribbon
looped in the hair was thought
to be high style indeed
but we were dark:
a girl
whose hair is yellower than
torchlight should wear no
headdress but fresh flowers
6.9k
Empty island where all is clear
with you there with me,
in your white island dress
that flows with the wind.
floral headband holding your head,
sand soft beneath our feet.
every sunrise and sunset
swallowing the piece of floating land we live.
empty island where all is clear.
your eyes
and brown hair.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
Grandmother Willow said
listen to your heart, you will understand
but when it pounds all I want to do is run
my heart says so many things
one minute it's telling me to climb a tree as high as the branches let me
the next it says hook line and sinker
and when I'm with someone beautiful, it says
nothing, it just
flutters and pitter patters
Mulan was always my favourite because
she had her heart broken and still
She Saved China
all on her own
my heart breaks like twigs and crumbles like dry
stiff leaves
in Autumn
and my heart is also a rubber ball that bounces from
one place to the next
too rapidly,
I forget where I am
and where I just was a moment before I ended up
wherever I ended up
my heart is like ice and sometimes if you are the right temperature,
it will melt for you
my heart is aware of fallacy and sometimes if you try to coax it,
everything I ever felt for you
won't exist anymore
a few months ago I was sitting at the back of
a midnight bus
in my hometown,
with a hippie headband on, accompanied with braids,
a long dress and moccasins of black suede
when a drunk teenager pointed and hollered directly at my face,
"you look like Pocahontas, how many John Smiths love you?"
I don't get angry anymore
I just get tired
my heart goes to sleep for days and wakes up at
the sudden gong of recognition
in eye contact
that lasts longer than just a few seconds;
my heart awakens at sunsets,
when I am sitting in a tree alone
and it awakens each time I successfully skip a stone
I've always thought highly of the two
disney cartoons
and it's not just because they can fire a harpoon
it's something like embodying the female
self-assurance,
strength of the soul,
embracing solitude like wind on a stroll
heart strong from a softening,
heart loved from singing just for singing
heart open like eye contact
that lasts longer than
just a few seconds
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
I am cutting all of my shirts this summer
to change each seam into a headband,
one that matches my stretchmarks –
twenty-two, in fact,
that are in perfect style for anyone to see.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
valley mountains high,
cattle there to serve us,
rugged men are men,
sheep are very nervous,
megan's dentures in a jar,
pug face snoring porker,
drove llambo to his wellies,
the mountain mutton stalker.
valley commandos camouflage dress,
headband, wellies, wooly string vest,
llambo llewellyn up to the test,
heads for the hills searching his quest.
english may laugh,
and label us sinners,
while we **** sheep,
they eat them for dinners.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 11:57 AM UTC
Just like a shirt cannot
hide the hurt
or a headache
beneath a hat
nor a heartache in a suit
or cold feet in a boot
or glove for a trembling hand
neither a thought I think
could be bound
by a headband
You may appear
cool, calm and collected
but make-up and costume
cannot hide the bleeding
of a wound thats infected
Mar 16, 2022
Mar 16, 2022 at 6:11 AM UTC
The boys were allergic
But before Dad came along
Mom had always been a cat whisperer
I saw her do it at a party once
Tongue rolling
Fingers twitching
From across the room
The little panther was entranced
Burn worthy witchcraft
I knew she had a way with birds
But this was something new
Something foreign and beautiful
Surprise surprise
It was a black kitty cat Halloween
Mom cut out ears to attach to my headband
Then drew dark brown eyeliner whiskers
With a triangle on the tip of my 6 year old nose
All in black
Part ninja
Part cat
We were off
Brother and sister
Pillowcases in hand
Noticing my lack of tail Mom called me back
She reached into the costume box and grabbed a long dark braid
With one swift tuck into the back of my pants
An instant flawless feline emerged ready to make her debut
And boy did I play the part
Prancing back from the hunt
There she was silhouetted in the doorway
Tongue rolling
Fingers twitching
******* on sweet tarts
I didn't stand a chance
A family of actors
"Mom, look what I found! Can we keep it?"
They each took turns petting the newest addition
And Dad let out a convincing sneeze
A life I could get used to
Tick Tock the cockatiel
Had better watch her back
E.Poe
Oct 2012
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
In high school, I used to crawl
past my dad’s side of the bed so I could whisper,
at midnight, to my mom that I was leaving
and going to your place, and that I’d be back
by five in the morning, because I was that good girl
in the knee-high socks with the headband
that matched my uniform. So, I told my mom
that I was going over, watched her sleepy eyes
drift back to her pillow corner. I’d start my car,
put on that sappy John Mayer song you hate,
but know I love, and head through the center of town
on the ghost roads, driving like a memory
with four wheels and only three more miles to go.
You’d let me in the back door, careful not to shut the door
to the kitchen too tight, and we’d kiss
under the aquarium light.
I’d watch the shatters
of light split with the blades of your ceiling fan
as you’d remind me over and over again
with your words that I couldn’t stay long
while your hands pulled me in closer to your chest.
You were the first bad thing I let myself have.
I’d have to leave before your dad would get up for work,
so I’d pull on my sweatpants, wipe the makeup
from beneath the crease of my eyes, kiss you goodbye
for who knew how long it would be that time, and I’d cry
in the car the whole way home
because I knew that we were like grains of sand
in an hourglass
just waiting for our turn to fall.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
To the ******* at Mongolian Barbecue last night:
Just because you let your short shorts and flowered headband
Scream assumptions about your homosexuality doesn't mean
You can make those assumptions about others,
Forcing red-faced shame and trembling knees on a stranger,
Your hands clawing the pride from blue eyes like
Storm clouds making the world grey.
Butch and **** are never words that should come from your lips,
To someone you don't know
Just because you portray yourself as flamboyant
And she has her own style
They carry too many decades of hatred and fear to be
Tossed into casual conversation
Like land mines in her closet.
I don't care if you thought you were joking or being funny or cute
Her leather jacket and kickass combat boots don't
Paint some sort of rainbow bullseye
Between her shoulder blades, behind her heart.
People have enough to deal with in this world
Without having to defend themselves against your ignorance,
Without having to stop their tears from
Making small oceans on the streets of Ann Arbor.
Butch and **** should not be thrown from your lips
Carelessly,
Meaning none of the weight they carry.
You probably didn't see her cry
Because that's just the kind of person she is
But I did,
A thunderstorm of conflicting emotions and heart-wrenching, blood-curdling cries,
A deep-seated ache that won't be washed away
With my hugs or chocolate or
Assurances that you are, in fact,
A **** who doesn't deserve to know her.
11:30 pm she walked through the front door with red eyes and damp cheeks,
Her voice thick and choking on
Your arrogant, misplaced words,
And I might not always get along with my sister
But I felt my sternum crack right through the middle
When she spoke of you,
Ribcage shattering,
Rainbows pouring from my lungs
To try and knit her fractured, hopeful heart
Back together.
I am my sister's keeper.
To the ******* at Mongolian Barbecue,
I hope you learn to grow up and see how your
Words splinter souls like weeds splitting concrete
But until then
**** you.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
"i'm Rookie"
maybe i'll say it someday when I'm driving
naked skin burning on a sun kissed motorcycle seat
past old fruit stands,
toward some shadowed, dehydrated strangers arms,
in the texas heat.
i'll show them my homemade tattoos,
and recite some poetry to them.
i'll be wearing nothing but a feather headband,
and thigh high socks,
with a flask of throat burning
fire
trapped to the side of my leg.
i'll have nothing, and i'll need nothing,
but the open road,
and strangers hands caressing my candlelit skin,
when you can softly hear the rain at night,
like warm sweat of the
desert sky.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
My policy
is typically
tied up
in a pony tail
easy
efficient
out of my eyes
But sometimes...
it gets monotonous
and tied
to my more
introverted me
academic me
I've tried braids
brings me back to elementary
school
Several people called me
cute
Certainly,
I embody a twelve year old
I tried a headband
not bad
yet,
the fluffy strands
continue
to get in the water fountain
when I'm drinking
Hair out?
The first one I tried
free
but messy
Everywhere
in my eyes
The me,
that will roll down a grassy hill
just cause
So, which one is it
or something...more?
Is it
just hair?
Is it
linked to my identity?
I dunno
But maybe I'll
find
out
...
What is it to you?
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
the season you lost your innocence it rained exceptionally hard
and all the kindergarteners that would come over to sing and swing and chant in the yard
started to frown in your direction
or half-smile with a cloudy membrane sheltering their eyes to you, or so it seemed
and people would walk their dogs with a tighter leash, afraid that they could smell
your ruin
ing body, plastered in a cold, hardened defeat...uneasy sweat
and you took off that child-like headband you'd been wearing for months on end
a little worn now, that terrible periwinkle satin and lace
too Lo Li Ta for liking
now that you finally knew what it was like to be a ********* in the lion's den
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
The snip-snips
halo my shoulders
in curtains
Ever-changing colorations
striations
maculations
depending on your mood
either flat as a newly paved ramp
or as ***** as Friedman
You took a class on this
you tell me
adjusting your headband and baring your teeth
your version of a smile
I steel myself against the guillotine
It falls to the ground in leaves of auburn
going against the nature of winter
and longevity
(there go four inches
off my life)
You lean in
boing the spring beside my face
inhale and ask me
what is my conclusion?
as your panda colored drapes swish by my cheeks
Sometimes it smells like cinnamon
or the cactus flower oil you bought that one time
and sometimes I get nostalgic and remember what it was
before I let you touch it
(autumn, soap, and vanity)
but now mostly it smells like one thing:
smoke.
And phantom pain.
I thought you were an expert.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:44 PM UTC
Lying here,
Now nothing more than a fragment of terrycloth
Faded from red to pink
You are something much more.
You know the essence of athleticism,
Of strength, stamina, courage.
You relish every drop of perspiration,
Rhythmic breath of runners is sweet music,
And now you have been cast aside,
Reposing gently on the side table,
Alone but for the stopwatch.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Sitting on the bus
my Israeli Paul Revere seminary nightmare steps on
armed in pantyhose, eyes stretched
wide by a thick black headband
Dense Brooklyn accent, perfect Hebrew.
Laughing on the phone, she
tells the details of the most recent terrorist attack,
a family of five murdered in their home,
a baby stabbed in its cradle
She said she’s just come from the memorial in Jerusalem,
where hundreds of Israelis stood in the streets sobbing and
screaming for vengeance
A sea of black hats, writhing and angry
She said they showed everyone
pictures of the bodies,
so they would know the horror of what happened
And as she sat there smiling, broadcasting the news like
a recount of a primetime television episode,
I sat
on the verge of tears
and watched the rest of the bus sit stony-faced,
distracted and desensitized.
We drive through
a market place.
An
old woman gets on clutching
a challah swaddled in plastic, sleeping salty.
(The bus is full off babies,
but none of them are crying.)
Meanwhile, in Gaza
the murders had another crowd
of people filling the streets,
dancing.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:57 AM UTC
There's a girl
Who I've never seen before until last week,
She passed me as I was working the cafe -
The perfect natural shade of red-orange hair;
****
Her hair was enough to make me fall in love and go crazy over her
Her messenger sling bag over her left shoulder
Thick homemade cloth headband keeping her hair pushed back
I wondered if her name was Autumn
It should be,
Her ravishing hair would make it all fall together perfectly
And I never thought I'd see her again,
But I did
After I closed up she was waiting outside of her next classroom
I told myself it was just pure coincidence,
But I saw you yet again Miss
Friday I was working the coffee cart making deliveries
And I stopped
Only to see you come down the stairs,
A few seconds of uncertainty rang through me
I could only tell by your hair
But at that moment,
You wore a long cardigan sweater with a hood over your head
And as I started to look away slightly disappointed it was as if you heard my mind;
Your hands came up grasping the edge of the cloth
As you swiftly flipped it down;
I never knew
Such a simple action could be so magical and graceful until then
I saw you in all your elegance
And my heart raced;
Such a prepossessing creature
Love tell me,
Why are you so **** gorgeous?
I remained staring at you,
Smiling like a ***** as other people saw me and passed,
But you kept walking away
Your back to me and knee-high boots clicking away
Madam,
Is this still just a coincidence?
Or is this now destiny for us to meet?
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
it’s nights like this
when my fingers are sticky and reek of popcorn
and my stomach purrs like an antique car
that i cease to exist
just a quiet little thief
tucked away in a prison of white stucco
stealing oxygen and racking up an electricity bill with a lopsided pink lamp
honey on my face
a “beauty treatment”
an edible headband sunken into my hair
gnats crawling between my eyelashes
black dots just as hungry as i am
the music of the wind plays outside my window
rattling long forgotten memories
and stirring up dust of the past
there’s a constellation in my hand
universes up my arm
purple lines swirling together into incoherent shapes
semi-deep whispers escaping my lips
that are pale and dry and hurt to touch
bad pop music crawls through crackly headphones
same song, different artist
and my sheets
animal print, picked from years past and never changed
due to either nostalgia or laziness, the world may never know
disengage themselves from my bed
twine around my ankles
sly cats looking for milk
and hunger eats at my heart
i count the minutes as they spin on
by the soft timpani as it thumps eighth notes through my chest
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
It was 3 degrees outside
She wore a purple fuzzy headband that seemed to cover her entire head
Her large and puffy grey coat went to her knees
A grey turtleneck underneath
And those clunky duck boots
While everyone else smiled at the weekend at 3 on a Friday
She looked confused
I could only imagine what she was thinking about
It was 58 degrees outside
The headband gone
She has blonde hair that’s up in a ponytail more often than it isn’t
The coat is gone but the turtleneck is still there
It’s striped this time
She still wears the duck boots since the snow is melting away
And there are puddles with every step
She’s smiling and laughing on the phone
Trying to explain directions
I can only imagine who she’s talking to
I can see it
I can see my future in the way her hair is flipping back and forth as she walks
I can see my future in the way her face lights up when she laughs
I can see my future in the way she curls her hands into her sleeves
I can see my future in how she tries to avoid a puddle but then steps into a deeper one
I can see my future in the way that puddle ripples around her
I can see my future in the way the melting snow seems to glimmer when she passes it
I learned she got the headband for free once
When she spent too much money at her favorite store
Her grey coat is a family company she’s obviously loyal to
The grey turtleneck is from the place she got the headband from
Obviously, she tells me with an eye roll and a laugh
The duck boots keep her feet dry, even if they’re not very warm
She looked confused because she was leaving economics, her hardest class
She had just learned a new concept that all of her classmates understood
But for some reason, she couldn’t wrap her head around it
She likes that her hair is blonde
But knows it’ll turn brown one day, like her mom
So she gets highlights put in, knowing it won’t help, but hopes anyway
She’s always wearing turtlenecks because she’s always cold
It’s from the same store as the other one
Obviously
The duck boots are her favorite and her feet like them too much to wear other shoes
She’ll never admit it
But she steps in the deeper puddles on purpose because she likes how they splash
She was on the phone with her friend from high school
Directing her to the lot to park in
She’s staying over this weekend
I was right when I said my future was in her
It’s in the hair
The jacket
The turtlenecks
The headband
The boots
The confused look
The happy one
The eye roll
The laugh
The puddles
The snow
My future is her
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 8:18 PM UTC
How many ladders does it take to get to the top of the atmosphere
Where ******** doesn’t matter, and matter doesn’t appear
I broke the physics
my mental is often there
some say I’m too high
But heights are nothing fear
I’ve found a way to escape my current reality
a path that’s unknown and doesn’t reflect my salary, place nor origin my story is far from vanity
To live a life of “routine” is a life full of tragedy, depression, and disparity
Especially if your dream was driven
I’ve excelled in this keen vision
Avoiding obstacles isn’t impossible
If you keep rhyme
No retronym needed
I slide on and off beat
This….next line is an e x a m p l e
My mind is often offset like a distorted sample
Your half way there take a tug of this **** rope, I attract flickers of light equal to that of a candle
A venomous vandal, soon to verbally attack and dismantle
Clear words, let’s separate the pure from the ramble
I am like Rambo with a headband that’s inverted in hue
Since I am blue I will never be evergreen, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not attracted to the words of that being
I'm more than fascinated, I’m reaching heights only illustrated in my imaginations
I'm seeking collaborations, creators of a different mind to calibrate with
No calculations could change my current status
No aggravation could shake
my
Inner patience
Blasting straight from the basement
Scaling to higher places
Ladders on top of ladders
How many ladders will it take to make it?
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
I remember it being cold that night.
It was the first time I had walked away
and worried I was leaving something.
It wasn't the kind of cold that
cut
and made itself at home in your bones.
It wasn't even the kind of cold
That strained every breath to feel like your last.
But I could feel the wind biting at and hanging from my ears
while it whispered.
But my mind was moving too fast to make memories,
It seems to never have the time anymore.
But it saves pictures
like polaroids.
Fast flashes of things passed
like whiplashes and mass stashes
of three picture days
of everything
and you.
Flash:
Legs around mine, light jeans, fluorescent lighting.
My heartbeat heats at the thought of it.
My back feels numb.
Flash:
Your smile in my headband, **** you're beautiful.
I think you threw your head back and laughed.
My arm tingles where you touched it.
Flash:
The sky was slate. Your eyes were asking me their first question.
I wished I had chalk.
But you already knew the answer.
I try to tell you now what you already were then,
But there aren't enough words in the world to tell you.
To tell you that your eyes looked like lifesavers.
To tell you that if I could,
I would develop my dreams at the nearest hour
drop shop and lay each frame out
like a quilt
and a collage.
(Because my mind is full
of a kind of mess that is never less
than warming.)
I would tell you that I hold your words under my tongue
To make sure they're always delivered warm.
And that if I leave them in there long enough
the fire starts.
My words melt into mercury
like ice in boiling water.
And I tell myself,
That if anyone really knew the heat,
They would stay the hell out of the kitchen.
But I made you something.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
Fig.1. It was 5 days - 4 days? - but I can't forget it.
(By a road, brown buildings in the back, the filter is green - you
said you didn't know why. Half-smiles.)
Fig.2. Do you remember that you sent me this? Twice.
(Same place, I kiss your cheek, you pull a sad face, a man walks by
in the background.)
Fig.3. God, that stupid headband.
(Repeat again. Faces pressed, I smile big, you smile up, my hand is
on your shoulder.)
Fig.4. You said "The dots make it look arty." but that wasn't why I kept it.
(Art gallery, two shots.)
(At the bottom it says - I know that I will miss you.)
(Nowhere it says - I will keep this because you will forgot to.)
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
It was spring.
She knew it, and he knew it too,
That none of them had ever felt
the blooming of a myrtle, billowing
through the toxic waste ridden, loose,
unsettled earth. Never once had they heard
the sound of a newborn baby girl,
arms outstretched, wailing and wiggling
desperately searching for her father’s gasp.
It was spring.
No longer was the need for oversized fur coats,
for she now donned high-waisted shorts and a floral headband.
He didn’t understand,
his boat shoes had served him faithfully through the seasons.
But now,
It was spring.
They had ambrosia, and with each sip,
a new wave of blissful intoxication spread through them.
The new hip outlived the old hop,
The beach bodyguard was more trusted than the cop.
She stared deep into the clouds:
Never before had she seen
a cloud carry a continent, colliding
with the twisted, darkening sky.
She knew the smell of rain.
It was spring.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
My dad drove by, picking me up from school.
His ford Mustang just reached its twentieth year,
And is peeling along the side
It makes a roaring sound as we fire it up and speeds off with the smell of exhaust.
The top goes down, black canvas that folds neatly into the trunk.
That’s how we ride. With the top down and wind
Through our hair, blowing his hat and my headband into the back seat.
Losing things is always a hazard.
We drive until we reach a rusty sign
And hanging brown streetlights on their last gasp.
I can see white porches and picket fences,
And rocker chairs on the sides.
But we don’t stop here.
We keep on driving, tuning the radio to old country songs
And drive on, watching as stores give way to houses,
Houses to cottages, cottages to shacks, shacks to land, land to desert.
And we’re in the middle of nowhere, on a dirt road that stretches off into the distance
Surrounded by cacti and dirt
The wind is dry and hot, and I feel my mouth watering.
We step out and watch as the sun goes down,
Down below the horizon,
Watching as the last rays shine red and light up the sand like a glowing candle
Sunsets are best in the desert.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
You're like a headband
I'm used to wearing one
Can still feel it in my hair
Even if there's none
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC