Men Poems

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• “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,
  he takes
  a long
  time
  to fall
  to the earth.

  It folds
  or unfolds
  in stages
  during the descent.

  Nobody knows, or remembers,
  or cares to remember
  Who it was that struck the mortal blow,
  or when,
  or how.

  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
  nobody sees
  the roots
  spreading
  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
  Going somewhere.
  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
  Those behinds,
  Men.

  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
  Air disappears,
  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.
  Knowing something.
  Going someplace.
  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,
  of humanity,
  of God.

• 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
  of afterwhile.

  Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs
  to whirl in tall buildings.
  Allow them many ships at sea,
  and on land, soldiers
  and policemen.

  For black man, God,
  no need to bother more
  but only fill afresh his meed
  of laughter,
  his cup of tears.

  God suffer little men
  the taste of soul’s desire.