Am meisten gelesen ▸
Maxwell Bodenheim
Your criss-crossed ringlets of hair
Are tipped with faltering opalescence.
At dawn a lost smile ever returns
And hides in your hair because he fears
The solemn marble profile of your face.
His presence caresses your lips to wings of color
That beat against each other and release
Dulcet, feathery tinges of love descending to your heart.
And thus, each morning, your rising heart
Wears a new bridal robe.
Ashamed of my race?
And of what race am I?
I am many in one.
Thru my veins there flows the blood
Of Red Man, Black Man, Briton, Celt and Scot,
In warring clash and tumultuous riot.
I welcome all.
But love the blood of the kindly race
That swarthes my skin, crinkles my hair.
And puts sweet music into my soul.
head combed by my girl
to whom I am an ape
I rain down wool
my hair cut short
I am a globe where night
cannot endure
between two apothecaries
the chemistry is charged
language might not be a physician
at some appointment
we come to no agreement on the heart
to part with it or not
I cut off my hair
as everything that is over
to whom might it call
her hair of red silk
no Christ is ever as light
as a private joy
that comes to be
more than pleasure
the country
where now is
not staying there
but breaking up
we put on other clothes
full of morning
who would not
who could not take
that loss
I accept gray hair,
in which I am finding
my father and my work:
this is the last
lost ice, all
my accounts.
A chickadee in the garden
fills its beak with thistle down
and flies off to its nest.
I take a closer look:
that’s no down, but my own white hair
from last month’s haircut.
A spring azure butterfly
lands on the blue gravel road
and disappears.
Each time I go out,
I interrupt something: a hawk’s meal,
a groundhog’s courtship.
I make an offering
of my gray hair—a fine
nesting material—
toss the cuttings out
onto the snow. The warm wind
blows them right back.
Today I spoke to the "Quiet Kid."
Found out he doesn't like his voice.
Said he should talk more cause I did.
To be honest, it sounds like an angel.
Not that I'd ever tell him.
I wonder tons about him,
Like if he likes the rain.
Maybe soon I'll ask him,
Unless he tells me to go away.
Quiet boy has fluffy hair,
So I'd really love to see
If I can get him to let me touch it,
Or if he'll get sick of me.
See, I'm the "Wild Kid"
Who all the students know,
But that's not really true, cause if they did
the first time I remember you, you're blonde and don't love me back.
I wish it stayed that way. but soon You're brunette
and You do. It's the sweetest thing I've ever tasted.
Your brown hair was like hot chocolate in autumn,
wool gloves in the snow,
a candy store in February.
it never occurred to me that
candy rots, gloves get soaked, and chocolate residue
pools at the bottom of mugs like tea leaves.
then, You're a red head with fading freckles and a consuming love.
i stay because i feel responsible.
maybe loving me is just as addicting as loving You.
i stay because that burning is intense, yes, but it
reminds me of past candlelit dinners.
warmth and heat are one and the same, aren't they?
Happening to glance at my left forearm the other day,
Dark brown skinned and hairy
I notice that more hair have turned white.
Someday, if I live long enough,
My left forearm would turn all white
The darkness of my brown skin,
but not of my mind, hidden, hopefully.
Looking at the tuft, the bushy growth of hair
On my chest ( ah, not on my head!), again white ( why grey?)
I wistfully remember how, dark, how black it once were.
I hardly need a mirror these days, having not much
On the head to comb and pat them down.
I cling on (and at times nips at)
The vestige of my manhood, my moustache
Bristling, drooping bicycle handlebars,
The beard I dare not grow