Men Poems

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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,
    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.

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