Robert P. Langdon

Combing Her Hair

Hair standing on end. Far from the quaffed doo she was used to.
The hairdresser she once was would be wounded by what she sees now,
but her hands gave up and she can no longer grip a comb.

Resignation hangs on her face like a cross. She no longer looks in the mirror,
staring at her reflection and plucking stray hairs. Now she’s afraid of the shell
she’ll see staring back. The whiskers circle her chin now. Pointing. Mocking.

The bald spots at the back of her head are rubbed bare from months of laying
in a hospital bed. Its a blessing she cant see them, red and raw like a bad sunburn.
I run a comb through her hair, its teeth tugging, grasping knots. Holding on.

She closes her eyes. The comb runs through smooth now. She’s comforted.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that a hair comes loose with each stroke.
I swaddle strands in my hand and slip it into my pocket.
I’ll hide it someplace safe and never let her go.

-September 2023


The Tale Of a Wonderfully Curious Romance

Once upon a time
is the way most tales begin
but this one is a little different.

In a pink palace, nestled away on McKenzie Avenue,
lived a young princess some called Little Joan.
Unlike most princesses, this sovereign girl
dressed in leather and defiantly changed
her lovely locks from honeyed gold to Jett black.

She realized early that she would rather rock out than frolic
in a field, as most princesses tend to do. She built a music chamber
in her dungeon, where, instead of picking petals, she picked
a guitar. She tutored herself in the arts of Townshend
and Honeymann Scott until she found her own groove.

She never allowed herself to be wooed by the pursuits of gallant
princes but instead invited a dandy one to the ball.
There, they exposed their true selves despite
the traditional corsage and boutonniere
they pinned to one another’s bodies.

Over the years, this maid grew into a maiden.
Her virgin skin gave way to a magnificent tapestry
that included dancing skeletons and Sir Ozzy with Rhodes.
Her golden locks returned but the cut was rumpled
and too un-princess-like for some with traditional taste.

A series of doomed loves and failed musical troupes
only seemed to strengthen this maiden’s resolve
for finding her own unconventional fairy tale ending.

A few provinces away, in a different garden in this same state,
lived a daintier princess. Unlike the rocker one,
this noble maid followed a more time-honored path.
She harvested great joy tending to her gardens
giggling and frolicking among her flowers.

She held an affinity for horses, as many maids do, and fell
into popularity among the youth of her kingdom.
She cheered on the masters at the royal games
and acquiesced to the courtships of noblemen
with a titter and coy flutter of her fan.

She adopted the classical veil of princess by tossing
a bouquet into a hopeful crowd of maids and by dutifully
ruling over a nobleman’s castle. But this contentment was short lived
for she found herself trapped in a tower
built of tradition and Tupperware.

She found this storybook life was one unworthy
of her pursuit and escaped this stifling stockade. She, too,
embarked on a pilgrimage for finding her own unconventional fairy tale ending.

One princess preferred the grating of rock-n-roll
while the other preferred the twang of country,
so it may come as a surprise to learn that it was music
that bound these two together.

One maiden’s resting quarters renovated into a music
chamber for the other. And one maiden’s horse power
gave way to the power of another’s horse.

In time, their love-at-first-sight renewed into a love
usually only reserved for the conclusion of fables.
The daintier and rocker princesses found in one another
the happy ending that they were searching for.

On one picturesque day, these two princesses stood before
their court and expressed to one another a devotion
built on truth. Those present were enchanted forever by what
they witnessed that day and by the knowledge that
sometimes it’s not always a prince that rides in to save the damsel.
And that sometimes it’s not always a horse drawn carriage,
but rather a horse powered hog, that carries them into
happily ever after.

written for the union of Carolyn and Beth, October 16, 2011


Visiting Day

I never liked visiting day. Mom would take me with her to the “home.”
It was always cold and smelled of antiseptic. He never remembered
me — the one that his wife fought hard to live to see born
and once I was, she would let go.

He would stare at me, confused by how familiar I looked, then back
to mom with a blank face while he listened to her updates
about people who had long fled his mind.

He would look at me again. Hard. Trying to figure out the connection.
The tips of his shock of white hair reaching for answers. Sometimes
he would grab them and his eyes would get excited,
but he would just as quickly lose his grasp and slip back to forgetting.

“Why do you still go to see him,” I ask mom on our way home.
“Because he’s my father,” she said wiping her tears. “And I want him to know
that I’m visiting. And that he’s not alone.”

Years later mother would go through this again with her brother.
Holding his hand. Talking to fill the void. Recounting stories from childhood
in the hopes that one would trigger a memory and the brother she loved
would pop up for a mere second to say that everything was OK.

But sometimes I question if everything is OK. These days
I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there.
I talk to people I know that I know but can’t figure out how I know
them. Or a conversation drops out of my mind minutes after it’s been had.

I’m hoping these are signs of getting old. That they’re normal.
But if not …. Then I hope I don’t forget the music. No, not the music.
I’ll need something to focus on when the strangers come on visiting day.


About the Author

Robert P. Langdon has worn many hats over the years including Director of Sales and Marketing at a publishing house, Director and Curator at an art gallery, professional photographer and teacher. Robert was born and raised in NJ and lived in San Francisco for 13 years which helped raise his political and social consciousness and a strong appreciation for diversity and community in all its forms. These themes show up often in his writing.

Robert has been writing poetry and the occasional short fiction since the late 1980s. He began writing after being exposed to the poetry of Anne Sexton and discovering, through her writing, that poetry can be exciting and accessible. He is drawn to strong imagery and is influenced by confessional poetry and the works of Sexton, Sharon Olds, Diane Ackerman, Robert Lowell, Ai, and Gregory Orr among others. Robert’s own writing tends to focus on issues of identity and he uses poetry as a way to work through personal issues and reflect on meaningful events in his life. His first collection, The Candied Road Ahead: Poems & Stories is available through Amazon.com in print and Kindle formats. He currently lives in Saugerties, NY.

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