Editors Blog

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 254

Duluth, Georgia, is shut down for the second day in a row. Yesterday, it was for the threat of ice; today, it’s for the actual ice. It’s pretty, but I’m not going out in it–and I hope my power doesn’t go out as a result of it later today.

If you haven’t seen it yet, Jessie Carty posted an interview with me yesterday on her blog. In it, we discuss Britney Spears, the Almost Famous movie, the Harry Potter series, and more. Okay, when I said “we,” I should’ve really said, “I” discuss that stuff. But despite all the pop culture, we do talk a lot of poetry too. Click here to read.

Okay, then… I guess that’s it…

Oh, wait! I suppose you want a poetry prompt. Well, here it is…

For today’s poetry prompt, write a hair poem. It could be all about hair or hair accessories. The poem could just mention hair in passing. Or you could write an ode or eulogy to a specific hairstyle.

Here’s my attempt at a hair poem:

“Beauty and the bully”

She had the longest hair,
but he always got a buzz cut.

She was thin as a rail,
but kids said he had a big butt.

She had so many friends,
but he would wander home alone.

She always liked to talk,
and he always picked up the phone.


Workshop your poetry!

Get all the advantages of a workshop experience without the hassle or expense of getting out to a college campus by taking the Writer’s Digest University Advanced Poetry Writing course. Learn more about your poems and how people are reading them.

Click to continue.


Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. People often comment on his hair, because he doesn’t stick to one length. One week, he may have hair in his eyes; the next, it may be shaved to the skin. If you see him with a beard in January, he’s likely to be clean-shaven in February. And though he’s not big on mustaches, he did participate in Movember a few years ago (here’s the evolution of that). Follow him (and his hair) on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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141 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 254

  1. cstewart

    The Price of Hair

    As a political issue
    As in short or long
    As in heterosexual or..
    Questionable, or other.

    The long cascading hair fell over her shoulders,
    A vision of what a man wants to see as a symbol
    Of beauty
    And yet, short hair is so much more evidence based –
    As an easier-to-take-care-of choice,
    But – you have to pay the price.
    People see you as suspicious,
    They are wary, they are questioning why the hair
    Is so damn short, what is going on there?
    Rebellion, Age, Rejection of Heterosexual Standards!?
    Not particularly, some people just look good in it and
    Some don’t.
    But all women know
    You do have to pay the price.
    And it is easier to be the advertisement for all that society
    Approves of rather than what it does not.
    Hair cut.

  2. Clae

    Rapunzel’s Hair

    It grew even longer than a tower is tall
    I’m sure it gave her migraines
    All that weight- plus the climbers and all

    It was never cut, not even trimmed.
    Couldn’t have been healthy,
    Probably loaded with split ends.

    Too long to brush, too long to wash-
    It suddenly occurs to me,
    Rapunzel must have had dreadlocks.

  3. Scaife


    I have one thing I must declare.
    This thing I hope will clear the air.
    Some say this thing is quite unfair.
    But as for me, I do not care.
    Such a thing is far from rare.
    In fact it’s found most everywhere.
    Its normalcy is real I swear.
    From homeless up to millionaire.
    The pros and cons we can compare.
    But just a couple here I’ll share.
    You never use a Barber chair.
    For there is nothing to prepare.
    But not to fear, do not despair.
    You will not spend your money there.
    Although it lacks a certain flair.
    There is naught you must repair.
    Nothing there that can ensnare.
    Not a thing that will impair.
    Just one thing can cause a scare.
    The luster from the sun’s bright flare.
    It helps provide a shiny glare.
    This glare can hurt so take good care.
    Just find something that you can wear.
    Or let it breath the nice cool air.
    Take no precaution if you dare.
    You have but one and not a pair.
    Those with more get lots of stares.
    I could go on, for you I’ll spare.
    Justifying my lack of hair.

    -Chris Scaife

  4. lionetravail

    “Bad Hair Day”

    Flawed, it wasn’t the haircut that did him in.

    Hero of an age,
    Judge and Executioner, he needed no jury.
    Blessed with strength,
    he brought honey out of the eater
    and fought a lonely war to redeem his people.

    His status, holy, required abstention,
    and armed with restraint,
    he could not be restrained.

    Foxes carried conflagration before him,
    a jawbone, in his hands,
    was like a hydrogen bomb.

    Temptation did for him,
    as it has for many,
    too many,


    He failed as an example,
    and so, became an example.

    It wasn’t the haircut that did him in.
    It was his humanity.

    Mine too.

  5. priyajane

    A Grandma’s Touch

    Granny used to rub my scalp
    with coconut oil
    massage it with care
    Each and every hair follicle
    felt well fed and loved
    And when these babies were neatly braided
    they gift wrapped my tender smile
    with bows and roses
    She somehow knew
    which color would suit my fancies
    on any given day
    purple, pink, white or spicy orange
    Sometimes she would release my hair loose
    to gallop in the wind, carefree
    and then slowly untangle their confused threads
    Tussling with their mermaid tales
    tending to them, like a doting gardener

    And now, even though
    seasons have taken their toll
    and her spell is a distant memory
    her fingers still dance over my shrunken skin
    as I let go of my ‘left over’ hair
    to feel the kisses
    from a faraway land—-

  6. Walt Wojtanik


    Astride a stallion through the town
    with her tresses flowing down,
    she’s sans dress or dressing gown,
    astride a stallion through the town.

    They call her lady (side-saddle she rides)
    a calculated paces he strides
    and gladly in her hair she hides,
    they call her lady, side-saddle she rides.

    Men marvel at her ability
    to ride in naked nobility,
    on her one horsepower mobility,
    men marvel at her ability.

    This Lady Godiva indeed is hot,
    flaunting all the goods she’s got,
    and prays the steed forgets to trot,
    this Lady Godiva indeed is hot.

    To the townsfolk men it is a sin,
    considering the state she’s in,
    that they can’t drum up a gust of wind!
    to the townsfolk men it is a sin.

  7. cmariee

    My freckles,
    Marks on my face.
    Pin pricks in red ink.
    Marking mistakes.

    Strawberry blond
    Tangled curls hit my face.
    In every which way
    No order, untamed.

    It’s time for a change.
    My features, my face.
    Erase wrinkles.
    Hide laugh lines.
    Mary Kay, my escape.

    Then straighten, add bangs.
    Mix auburn-blond streaks.
    A new patterned scarf and lip gloss
    I’ve planned my release.

    No age lines,
    no grey,
    no freckles,
    no curls
    I’ve come a long way.
    A success. I have changed.

    (One week from today)
    Brushing my hair.
    Through loose strains and static
    A long straightened pony
    My freckles abandoned.

    No surprise and no fun
    I’ve gotten my wish.
    More professional, more responsible…
    What an excellent switch.

    And as I glance in the mirror
    And reflect on my change
    I notice that somehow
    I’ve become plain.

  8. Nancy Posey

    Beauty Must Suffer

    She kept her standing Friday appointment—
    the wash and rinse, curlers, time under the dryer
    reading old People magazines, listening
    to the gossip with one ear, but while others
    loved the touch, the attention, she fought
    not to cringe during the shampoo, the comb-out,
    which always took her back to childhood,
    the Saturday night ritual when her mother
    always washed her waist-long hair, then
    made her stand for hours, it seemed, before
    the mirror as her mother yanked the comb
    through, working out the tangles, unmoved
    by the tears, always repeating, as she braided,
    Beauty must suffer, child. Each night she’d prayed,
    God, make me bald as my daddy, until the day
    her mother, tired of the whining, the tears,
    grabbed her scissors, held the braid out long,
    whacked it off at the nape, and flung it
    into the fire. Even now, the smell of hair
    singed by a curling iron, the sight of shears,
    the sound of a child crying while sitting draped
    in the chair for a first haircut, gives her shivers.
    Her own close-cropped hair signals the deal
    she struck: no more beauty, no more suffering.

    1. elishevasmom

      Oh my! I can see how that would cut a lasting scar. My mom tells stories about her Great-Aunt Annie, whose comment (when someone got burned on the old-fashioned curling iron, over the fire kind,) was “Vanity must suffer, my dear.” Not nearly the visceral situation of your poem. So well penned!

  9. seingraham


    Is there anything
    more exciting
    than a really
    close horse-race?
    Especially on a
    muddy track
    in the fog…
    You see the steeds
    snorting and pawing;
    they are eager
    to be freed
    from the
    starting gate cages
    At that point
    they, and the
    jockeys on
    their backs,
    are pristine,
    spotless, as if
    newly drawn from
    vats of bleach
    (that is the jockeys
    …not the horses
    who are merely
    not yet muddy)

    A familiar bugle
    trills and
    the announcer’s
    voice fills
    the stadium:

    “They’re at the post….
    they’rrrrrrrre OFF!”

    With rapid-fire precision,
    the same announcer
    details the action
    on the track
    And a good thing too
    as the riders,
    bunched near the rail,
    for the most part,
    are quickly swallowed
    by the fog…
    The announcer
    could tell
    the crowd
    But apparently
    he is getting
    his information
    from “spotters”
    at different
    points around
    the track

    The crowd hangs
    on his every word
    as he calls out
    the shifts in riders’
    positions but no-one
    gets too excited
    until the last
    quarter mile
    Which, as it happens,
    is when many
    of the riders
    from the fog
    and race toward
    the finish line

    “And it’s gonna
    be a close
    one folks…”

    That much is obvious…
    There are three horses
    almost neck-in-neck,
    straining forward when:

    “And, look at
    ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’
    in fourth, making a
    move on
    the outside!
    She’s makin’ a move!
    Lookit that stride folks!
    can she do it?”

    The hub-bub in the
    clubhouse is so loud
    as the horses
    thunder past
    it’s impossible
    to hear
    the announcer…
    Can she over-take
    the leaders?
    She draws even
    and the four
    of them cross
    the line…

    There is a collective gasp
    from the crowd
    as all look
    to the monitors
    to see the instant replay
    just in time to hear
    the announcer boom out:

    “And ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’
    takes first place, wins the
    race by a HAIR! BY A HAIR!
    ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ —
    a long-shot with odds
    of 48-3…a big pay day at the
    track today folks!”

  10. Luis Enrique

    Miss L say

    Brown hair grows
    maybe it’s the pills
    I don’t known
    miss L say “
    It’s bad for women;” I’m a man
    with hair everywhere.

    It’s to early:
    riddles, common sense,
    that’s uncommon
    with hospital visits;
    she goes in “don’t worry” your-
    self, “men like thick hair.”

    I don’t know about
    pills common
    sense, or any
    thing @ all—
    I still don’t know or . . . .


  11. lionetravail

    To the awkward I have no compunction
    about giving this pithy injunction:
    if your hair’s like Don King,
    then it don’t mean a thing
    when they say you’ve hairectile dysfunction!

  12. Jeep Walters

    Of Sable Brushes and Visions

    Fine strokes, evoking beauty upon life’s canvas.
    The Grand Master painting with steady hand
    “scapes” of forest trees or sand on teeming seas.
    Each dip into the palette He chooses
    will not lose its vibrancy or vitality. Scenes
    of greens and golds and untold wondrous
    hues fills the skies and the beholder’s eyes
    with life’s true majesty. With great Mastery he
    fills his brush of fine Sable; in each careful stroke
    He is able to capture all that His eye envisions.

    © JPW – 2014

  13. RJ Clarken


    The French word ‘haïr’, it means to hate
    and I suppose that some folks do
    loathe their locks, whether curly, straight,
    or even lengthened with haïr glue.

    Humidity? One’s haïr might frizz,
    but after all, guess what haïr is?
    Outside the shaft, one’s haïr is dead,
    and thus to ‘dye’ it blue or red

    is simply put, quite redundant.
    Still, you’re lucky if abundant.


  14. Misky

    Her National Flag

    Her hair was the colour
    of cinnamon.
    She twisted it like rope,
    twirled it tight
    around slender fingers,
    coiled it into cinnamon roll curls,
    and then let it unfurl —
    her own national flag.

  15. Connie Peters

    In His Care
    (from Matthew 10:28-30 and Luke 12:6-7)

    Are not five sparrows worth two cents?
    Yet, God remembers one and all.
    His care is loving and intense,
    And knows when even sparrows fall.

    You are worth more than little birds.
    He counts your hair; it’s in His Words.
    And whether bald, or have much hair,
    You do remain in Father’s care.

  16. Cin5456

    (Does facial hair count?)

    Book of Nightmares

    Waking in a sweat
    scream swallowed
    I never figured out what the title meant
    My brain would not go there
    Instead young pale
    twin girls taunted me
    a twisted five-o’clock-shadow grin
    came through a broken door
    Thorny animals shadowed my moves
    from room to room through windows
    lit by a pale blue moon
    never certain
    if I held an axe high
    or if those fisted fingers belonged
    to some other-worldly other
    Yet I could not put it down
    even at three a.m. before a workday

  17. lionetravail

    I’d awakened to what I’d not share-
    hangover, stretched from here to there.
    Last night it was “Zounds!
    How many Greyhounds?”
    And this morning’s sans biting-dog’s hair!

  18. bclay





    Etched in my bone,

    you made carvings of

    our delicate whispeings,

    words written as fractures,

    languages of hair-lines and

    the tongues no longer spoken.


    Marrowed through centuries,

    our love has lasted to witness

    our ressurected extinct language,

    and even if another thousand years

    pass with the bones of other tongues,

    we live on, forever carved in “Kiss Me”…

  19. Sara McNulty


    Her red ringlets
    framed a face
    of white china
    enhanced by emerald eyes.

    His straight black strands
    of hair, like grooves
    on old vinyl, contrasted
    with piercing cerulean eyes.

    When hue of hair
    is matched
    with complementary eye
    color, the result can be
    a deadly combination.

  20. lionetravail

    “Pope Rolls Over”

    My desk behind her desk all year,
    I watched her sit, aloof and cold.
    I tried to overcome my fear;
    I thought I’d take a gambit bold.

    I passed a note by careful toss,
    which landed on her prized notebook.
    She crushed it with my heart, my loss,
    and did not give me single look.

    Rebuffed and staring at her braid,
    perverse desire guided thought.
    In one moment the plan was made,
    to crush aplomb with cruel onslaught.

    The next day saw my revenge true,
    with wine I’d brought from parents’ stock.
    I dunked braid in and soaked it through;
    they called it “The Grape of the Lock”.

  21. writinglife16

    Sunday Peacock Spirit

    The church ladies.
    Sedate and plain during the week.
    On Sundays though,
    They dressed to the nines.
    Like brightly, colored peacocks.
    Fancy hats sat on perfectly done hair.

    Some had spent part of
    Saturday in the beauty shop getting their
    hair dyed and curled.
    Or their wigs done.
    The dresses were done in every color except white.
    The church nurses wore white.
    The fabrics were silk, chintz and linen.
    The pumps matched the hats and the purses.

    One Sunday, the spirit took over.
    The whole church was
    Tapping and rocking and clapping.
    One of the peacocks was so caught up,
    she was unaware when
    her hat flew one way and the wig went another.

    The hat and the wig were returned.
    Passed back up to her.
    Row by row by row.

  22. Amy


    Her hair scattered across the cotton sheets
    as a delicate web of obsidian lace;
    she starts fires within the creased pleats,
    her hair scattered across the cotton sheets.

    So intricate, the shadow play of heart beats
    in early morn, a lover’s light upon her face;
    her hair scattered across the cotton sheets
    as a delicate web of obsidian lace.

  23. Walt Wojtanik


    Gentle Fräulein,
    Sprechen sie beat?
    The Hamburg clubs
    would move your feet for
    music that would stand
    the test to beat the band.
    Your eye was keen,
    you caught them raw
    and helped to shape
    them there. But the greatest
    gift that you did give
    came in the guise of hair,
    the look they honed
    was purely you, the cut
    was universal.
    It seemed to be
    the world would see a
    gender role reversal.
    But fifty years have come
    and gone and still their
    look would linger, you seemed
    to have the Beatle’s pulse
    beneath your shutter finger!

  24. Walt Wojtanik


    Your length of locks
    is kept in check.
    Their tangle is a tease.
    The tint and hue,
    i’m telling you, is
    attractive as you please.
    Your diligence as per
    your coif, Is way
    beyond compare.Folks bely
    your center part, but
    that’s just splitting hairs!

  25. Cameron Steele


    I grew it long before I learned to write or smile without
    using my eyes. One year in ten, I let some lady
    wet my scalp and cut it up against my chin in the hopes

    I’ll terrify all the men with my exact skin, precise
    teeth and the large broad nose the patriarchy gave me
    like a gift. At ten, I wrote a poem when the chopping

    was done. Pasted it with Elmer’s glue in the hair salon.
    I counted years on those yellow words. Sometimes
    I forgot the small girl who wrote them. She was number one.

    Am I real or just another process, a body to force to its knees
    hands caught up in the tresses of a goddess? I’d much prefer
    to be a statue or a stone or the girl men hide behind.

    I unwrapped her roughly like a gift after 20 years
    and no wrinkles around the eyes. I beat her with black
    ink the way the boys did. I watched them expose my neck and all.

    Shorn locks look like blood and taste like metal. Freedom, too, before
    the feeling dulls into the same old fear given to me long ago,
    and I wish I never accepted it but I did. One day I’ll write

    about smiling and bobbing myself to mark the years,
    never closing my eyes or needing to cry, sometimes throwing
    silent prayers to the skin pulling tight beneath my soft numb earlobes.

  26. lionetravail

    “Mentioning Hair in Passing”

    What’s this surprise that I found,
    matted and stuck to the ground?
    With six kittens amassing
    the hair that they’re passing,
    we’re sure seeing the hairballs abound!

  27. Jane Shlensky


    Winter dries the air crispy
    with static electricity
    lending rugs, nylon, and cat fur
    tiny lightning bolts
    sparking crackles of surprise
    on an otherwise mundane day.

    I watch the hair rise
    and sway on your neck,
    moved by the magic
    wave of my hand.
    The cats’ coats hiss
    and stand like bird fur,
    their wet noses
    detonating on contact.

    Hair-raising meant something
    else when we were young
    and in command of our energies,
    but for a static snowy day,
    when winter takes charge
    it will have to do.

    1. Jane Shlensky

      Thanks, Bill and Diana. I’m getting a bit stronger every day, but wasn’t breathing well enough to write with any imagination. I’m glad to be back at it with you cool people.

  28. De Jackson

    Brushing Nightfall

    Run your fingers through this sky,
    Love. Rake it loose and long, star

    -light tresses spilled beyond, where
    they belong. Make raven ebony ring

    -lets your plea, as the moon braids
    her golden strands into the sea.


  29. priyajane

    Searching For Answers

    She always twirls her hair
    between questioning fingers
    searching for answers
    that seep thro the follicles
    from somewhere deep within—

  30. Walt Wojtanik


    We come as four,
    brothers of the same mother.
    No other can lay claim to the names,
    but all the same it’s not all we share.
    A love of sport, fraternal cohorts
    and short of Dad’s style and
    Mom’s winning smile, it took a while
    to become clear, three with hairlines
    not receding, but in full surrender.
    I have retained my mop top and the graying
    hasn’t started to stop me in my tracks.
    Full of class by themselves, but with heads
    together make an ass and a half of themselves.
    Bald is beautiful, but my brush remains dutiful.
    You can say I’ve taken a shine to my hair.

    © Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014

  31. lionetravail


    It’s back again, from way back when;
    it first reared its head in the seventies.
    McCartney and Bowie, both fairly showy,
    were sporting it first in their twenties.

    Many ladies, and bands of the eighties,
    found themselves living the glam!
    Bono, John Stamos, and Billy Ray Cyrus,
    plus MacGyver and even Trek’s Khaaaaaannn!

    Nineties’ restraint controlled eighties’ taint,
    but the most famous just kept it going.
    But Vandals lambaste of all with bad taste
    had much fewer tresses so flowing.

    The millenium came, and eighties fame
    had passed, like death, to the dirt.
    But biz felt no lack of the party in back,
    with silver screen tribute “Joe Dirt”.

    And now we’re in teens; what’s there for the ‘tweens?
    Hugh Jackman, Rihanna, George Clooney!
    The thought of a mullet gets stuck in my gullet,
    and it’s back now? No wonder I’m loony!

  32. elishevasmom

    Hair in Passing

    I’ve two cats on whom to report,
    one with long hair and one with short.
    They share in the thinking
    like over shots they are clinking
    that their brushing is a contact sport.

    I need to be sneaky and cunning
    to keep them restrained from running.
    with no temper consuming,
    I finish their grooming.
    When completed the outcome is stunning.

    After giving them both a good brushing
    with much a pampering and gushing,
    they lose so much hair
    you’d think they’d be bare.
    They really ought to be blushing.

    The air ends up so full of hairs,
    I use lint rollers in pairs.
    And the harder I try,
    the more hairs that fly,
    with more on my coat than theirs!

    (c) Copyright 2014 – Ellen Evans
    (a “hair’ poem for PA, 2.12.14)

  33. taylor graham


    She walks into class
    like always, as if in a daze,
    frizz-gray hair reaching in all directions
    as if it never met comb or brush.
    A wild sable creature
    crouched but alert, ready
    to spring
    from her head. Split-
    end antennas to catch star-static,
    ionospheric sprites,
    vibrations from way out there.
    She says
    she’s thought
    about getting a buzz.
    But then all the messages
    would be
    short and gray and flat.

  34. lionetravail

    The crime scene was flooded by glares,
    as forensics described what was there:
    “It’s more than one strand
    that is clutched in the hand-
    it’s down to a splitting of hairs.”

  35. deringer1

    I was quite amused to see that most of you thought of a comic twist to today’s prompt. Here is my donation:


    She looked so lovely
    with her long brown hair,
    so fetching she looked, it was
    hard not to stare.

    Beside her, a man
    at whom I did stare!
    for he wore his hair
    straight up in the air!

    I once had hair,
    lots of hair,
    dark, curly hair,

    I shaved and I plucked
    and groomed with care,
    for there are some places
    you shouldn’t show hair.

    But then one day
    hair began to leave,
    not one thing I could do
    but curse and grieve.

    When I looked at my legs
    I was very glad
    but loss of hair on my head
    made me very sad.

    So all you young ladies
    beware and prepare,
    for when you get old
    you may lose your hair.

  36. Walt Wojtanik


    The perpetual nerd
    clean and cut and shaved
    and saved for more mundane
    pursuits. Boy’s schoolmates
    with pates shorn and worn
    well above the collar.
    When the dollars dried up,
    it was up to me to see
    the light. A bright guy like me
    was a fool not to go to
    public school. There were girls
    there and the guys dared
    to wear their hair to here,
    or there,
    or d
               n to there!
    And to think before school started
    I almost cut my hair!

    1. elishevasmom

      reminded me from a line from the song ‘Hair” from the musical “down with here, down to there, down ’til there, down to where it’s stuck by itself”

  37. PressOn

    Robert, your poem surprised me, given the title and ending line. I read it several times, and got different slants each time. It’s more complex than it looks, in my mind.

  38. lionetravail

    Shave it!
    It tickles.
    It does not.
    It makes you look old.
    I don’t care.
    It catches more food than squirrels.
    I have a comb for that.
    It’s not as good as goretex.
    My face is plenty warm anyway.
    Would you do it because you love me?
    Not by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin!

  39. PressOn


    I don’t understand this bird’s claim
    to a moniker tepid and tame:
    though it’s cute as a fairy,
    it’s surely not hairy;
    in fact, it’s no hairs to its name.

  40. Domino

    Fairy Tale

    Impossibly long
    for a crone
    yet the only tie to
    the outside world
    Rapunzel’s hair
    must have been full of
    (no matter what Disney says)
    and how she must have
    willingly borne the weight
    of both the crone
    and her prince
    because without them
    she’d have been alone.

    Funny what we will do
    to have someone in our lives.
    Funny what we will endure
    when we think we have no choice.
    But eventually, don’t we get to a place
    where we realize
    Freedom is there for the taking,
    we must simply reach out
    and grab.

    What freedom to finally
    say “no.”
    To take her life
    for her own,
    cutting all that hair off
    and tying it down, finally
    using it for herself
    to make her escape.
    And though Grimm
    would have us believe
    the witch did the cutting,
    I prefer to believe
    Rapunzel carpe diemed her way
    into freedom and
    enjoyed her life and her
    normal, unladen tresses
    ever after.

  41. Susan Schoeffield


    At nineteen, I had quite a fright
    when auburn hair turned gray.
    So L’Oréal became the friend
    who washed the gray away.

    Throughout the years, I’ve been a blonde,
    brunette and redhead, too.
    But keeping up became a chore,
    one I grew loathe to do.

    Today, I near the sixty mark,
    and face a brand new plight.
    I long for grays of yesterdays
    since now my hair is white.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  42. Glory

    What Will You Choose?

    Hair long, straight or curly,
    which do you prefer?
    Maybe blonde or perhaps brunette,
    does either make you purr?

    Or, do you like it short,
    shaped gamin style or
    perhaps a shapely bob, well set
    is what you’re looking for?

    Or does you’re heart aflutter
    at the thought of seeing red,
    highly burnished titian, across
    the pillow on your bed?

  43. priyajane

    The banyan tree

    Its stood there, opening up forever
    A green umbrella, a canopy of treasure
    At the back of the grey, chirpy schoolyard
    A Straggling, ‘avant garde’

    Some childhood sways are tangled here
    In hairy hands, and braided gear
    A wise old bearded man that sheds
    Rapunzel ‘s hair, and tell tale gels

    A tiny seed that trusted time
    Grew a kingdom, with a magic chime
    Its rooted strong with hands and feet
    Tresses long, that breathe in deep

    They say that nothing grows under it
    How terribly wrong is this audit?!
    Love that’s lost is found again
    With flutes and bells of leafy zens —–

  44. annell

    Everything Fades
    There was a time
    I couldn’t go to the
    Beauty shop
    That you didn’t hear
    ‘Oh, you have such thick hair’
    That no longer happens
    I don’t know where my hair
    Has gone
    But I have very little
    No quite bald
    But thin
    No hair on my body
    Perhaps it is what happens
    When one gets older
    Just a reminder
    Get your things in order
    ‘You aren’t long for this world’
    The road ends
    Nothing lasts forever
    Everything fades