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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 254

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    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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    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    141 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 254

    1. cstewart says:

      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 says:

      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 says:


      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 says:

      “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 says:

      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—-


      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 says:

      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. 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.

    9. seingraham says:

      BY A HAIR

      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. 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 says:

      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. 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 says:


      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 says:

      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. 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 says:

      (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 says:

      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 says:





      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. Complements

      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 says:

      “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 says:

      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 says:


      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.


      My hairy friend, you must be starving’
      as big as you are, it;s not so alarmin’.
      So have a seat, your dinner’s ready.
      On the menu tonight: Yeti Spaghetti!


      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!


      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!

    26. Hair

      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.

    27. lionetravail says:

      “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!

    28. JWLaviguer says:


      “Pull my hair” she said’
      “and spank my ass”
      I asked if she liked the rough stuff
      and she said no
      “but if you hum a few bars
      I’ll join in.”

      JW Laviguer

    29. Jane Shlensky says:


      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.

    30. JWLaviguer says:

      Hairly There

      Hair in my face
      hides the tears
      that you caused
      with your carelessness
      bangs on my forehead
      with the heart-shaped chocolate
      that you gave me
      last year.

      JW Laviguer


      snow will soon be there.
      I will have hat hair.

      © Susan Schoeffield

    32. De Jackson says:

      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.


    33. priyajane says:

      Searching For Answers

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


      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

    35. pmwanken says:

      (a shadorma)

      The tender
      touches, the caress
      of fingers
      on my cheek as he brushes
      hair aside…I sigh.

    36. lionetravail says:


      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!

    37. elishevasmom says:

      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)


      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.

    39. lionetravail says:

      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.”

    40. deringer1 says:

      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.

    41. PressOn says:


      Hair today
      changed tomorrow.


      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!

    43. PressOn says:

      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.

    44. lionetravail says:

      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!

    45. PressOn says:


      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.

    46. Domino says:

      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.

    47. Glory says:

      Sadly true, but I like the it.


      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

    49. Glory says:

      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?

    50. priyajane says:

      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 —–

    51. annell says:

      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

    52. PKP says:

      Against his cheek

      Against his cheek
      it swept softly
      as a butterfly

    53. pmwanken says:

      (a piku)

      Hair today
      gone tomorrow.

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