Browse Best Men Poems, we have a special collection of superb, one line and short Men Poems. Get Beautiful Men Poems.
- “Little Boy / Little Man”
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
Hopes and Dreams
Mischief and Laughs
Climbing up Trees
Splashing in Baths
What are the best men made of?
Hugs and kisses
Cuddles and Joy
Patience and kindness
Will make a man from this boy
- Ancient Men
and there came an ancient woman,
and she brought mushrooms to their cave,
and many ate them, and nearly died,
some couldn’t sleep all night-
- Men’s Movement to Earth
When a giant is slain,
to the earth.
during the descent.
Nobody knows, or remembers,
or cares to remember
Who it was that struck the mortal blow,
Perhaps he was slain years ago
and I have been dancing
with a corpse.
Did I think I was dancing in creative enragement
at the Feast
of the Alchemical Marriage
when I was making love to Skeleton Woman?
“Oh, no!” “Say it isn’t true!” “He lives!”
“We’ll kill you for saying he’s dead!”
In the fertile dung
like wild strawberry runners
playing on a hillside meadow.
New fruit springs forth.
- “A MANS BIRTHDAY”
“Birthdays,” men say, “they do not exist,”
Somehow every year, they still do persist.
Not wanting to face getting old and gray,
Having their youth,they think is the only way.
But they fail to see what good comes from age,
Each year passes, life goes on to a new stage.
Maturity and wisdom makes a distinguish man,
Knowing what he wants to do and saying he can.
Man should not be ashamed of age, but proud,
There’s a man’s birthday, in every single crowd.
Stand tall and be proud of your age today,
Receive the Birthday wishes that is on your way!!
- When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pauses,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.
- For the Blind Man in the Basilica di Santa Croce, Florence
Our stories can only carry us so far. I know
there are layers beneath the layers and
you haven’t asked but I would describe
a fresco not even finished in the workshop,
discovered beneath damaged plaster here
in the Scuola del Cuoio. A simple Madonna
and child marked off with a draftsman’s
patience, a sketch of faces each etched
with a different kind of cross. Evidence
of a man working out art’s proportions
like a map in the sand: golden mean in
the plaster and articulation balanced
between the bridge in the distance
for scale and the sketched-in step-child
abandoned almost in the foreground,
clutching at the mother’s skirts—all
the necessary work that gets covered over
in the finish, smoothed out and blessed
with plaster and color, that blinding light
cast by the angelic child, mother adoring.
I would describe it all—but that’s easy
and I am not so foolish anymore. I know
you don’t need me to tell you this.
You know the chittering of swallows as
they fill the courtyard of the cloister and
the weight of sunlight on cypress and stone.
If meaning is made of anything you will
have heard it in the sound of great space
that flows down the stairs of the Pazzi chapel,
in the rattle of the tourist dragging
his bag on the pavers as he moves toward
enormous doors flung open into the heat.
- Man never desires anything so earnestly
as God desires to bring a man to Himself,
that he may know Him.
- Man’s abiding happiness is not in getting anything
but in giving himself up to what is greater than himself,
to ideas which are larger than his individual life,
the idea of his country,
- They do it without realizing,
They don’t really have a clue,
Reading between the lines,
Is something they just can’t do.
When there is an argument,
They think they’re always right,
No matter what we say or do,
They didn’t start the fight.
They blame it on our hormones,
And never take the rap,
If they call us moody bitches,
Then they get a slap.
- God Give to Men
God give the yellow man
an easy breeze at blossom time.
Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover
every land and dream
Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs
to whirl in tall buildings.
Allow them many ships at sea,
and on land, soldiers
For black man, God,
no need to bother more
but only fill afresh his meed
his cup of tears.
God suffer little men
the taste of soul’s desire.