"annual" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.
I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.
And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss, I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
74
A Lady red—amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms—
Sweep vale—and hill—and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird—
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
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Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
It's advent:
Angels invite you to
Adventures in worship in your
Annual observation in
Anticipation of the divine,
Awaiting, acclaiming the King.
The red coats are coming,
The red coats are coming
(but don't let them distract you).
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
*Climbing on the bus
Not looking forward to this trip
But it meant so much to her
And how could I predict
That it would be her last hurrah
Before she passed away
Just one year ago marks
The anniversary of that day
It was an annual trip, with her twin
They took to different cities
With a group of old church folks
They called themselves
“The Traveling Gypsies”
As it turned out to be
My last fond memory
Of my mother and her twin
Before they were stripped
Of all their memories
Alzheimer’s was their reward
They gave it quite a fight
Bed ridden in their final days
Until they saw the light
Who's to say how it will end
Or where that place will be
A gutter in the streets of life
Or home where it should be
So as I sit and contemplate
These moments I recount
I think about the road ahead
And how I’ll make it count*
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
I cried as I saw pimples in her dimples
Encycling her two cheeks like ripples
She was the one that got all my respect
To her I gave my time, no day of neglect
She was always having my annual rose
And her smile, my only efficient dose
I wept as I saw pimples in her dimples
As big as the size of Alaboyun's *******
She was a blend of white-blue always
And tarried for common, countless days
In the earliest moments of our fight
My emotional cord was tough and tight
I cried as I saw pimples in her dimples
For no more were those fresh apples
Those fruity, pleasant things she faked
As if there was no debris to be raked
She was always appearing ten-over-ten
And no signs of going from men to men
I wept as I saw pimples in her dimples
For I taught we'd be best among couples
The soft fingers of her green flowers
Captivated me every twenty-four hours
Then the flowers had music and mellow
Their nectars today are in sweet sorrow
I cried as I saw pimples in her dimples
Encycling her two cheeks like ripples
Her folks called me a playing tool
And her best friend, a funny fool
I danced through her demanding soul
I almost got crippled by its pot-hole
Now I cried as I saw those two dimples
Molested by her open, plenty pimples
If I knew she went after many men
I would have left her there and then
Had I known she nurtured many wrinkles
I'd have gone before an eye twinkles.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Hollyhocks, sandals with socks
Knickerbocker glories
Salty air, old caravans
Magical bedtime stories
Fish 'n' chips, sticks of rock
Climbing fragrant evergreens
Endless hikes, stunning views
Sandwiches with sardines
Long car rides, minor quarrels
Enid Blyton audio tapes
Forever etched in my memory
Our annual escapes
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
When we fell asleep video chatting every night for a month
When I cried because you were the first person to make me feel like I wasn’t alone
When you excitedly told me about kissing a girl in a cemetery
When you sent me videos of your dirt bike
When we went cruising and listened to songs from our favourite band
When you tried to teach me how to game
When you told me everything you love about your girlfriend
When you talked about engines and cars with me even though I didn’t understand
When you saw I was feeling bad even at the one place I’m always happy
When you didn’t ask questions when I asked you to get rid of my razors, but instead told me how proud you were
When you held me as I cried, knowing I hate crying in front of people
When you let me fall asleep holding you even though I was cold and wet
When you held my hand when we woke up on the day when everyone had to leave
When you let me hug you a hundred times because you knew how much I’d miss you
When you gave me closeness and friendship and love unlike anything I’d ever known before
When we sat in my porch for 3 hours after fireworks were shot at people during a party, so you could make sure I was okay
When you let me cuddle you even though your friends would give you a hard time
When you told me you’d help me out if anyone ever hurt me
When you took a selfie with me
When you carried me everywhere *** I was tired
When you held my hand going down a steep trail because I couldn’t see and you knew I was scared
When you brought me extra food because you knew I skipped lunch
When you were protective over who I was friends with
When I came over to your house for the first time and we made pizza, gamed, and hung out with your family
When you had you first kiss with me
When you always showed you were protective of me and became the big brother I never had
When you told me you were bi on the first day we met
When you told me that only people you know well or that you like get to know you’re bi
When you cried and told me all your favourite facts and memories of a friend who had betrayed you
When you told me I had a cute nose
When you fell asleep holding my hand
When we hugged eachother after not seeing eachother for a year
When we kissed for the first time
When we kissed more
When you were my date
When you told me I was the only non-celebrity you’d go gay for
When we danced together
When we agreed to have an annual one week relationship
When you were the first girl I loved
When I met these people I never thought we’d get to the point were at now.
I doubt I’ve effected their lives as much as they’ve effected mine but it doesn’t even really matter because I have them and that’s all that matters to me
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
May good St. Nick, like as a bird of night,
Bring thee rich blessings in his annual flight;
Long by thy chimney rest his pond'rous pack,
And leave with lessen'd weight upon his back!
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The traditional Christmas Windows of Wonder
Were set to be unveiled at five
This meant to the children and parents
That Santa was set to arrive
Each year on the eve of the annual parade
All the stores in downtown did display
their annual Windows of Wonder
And the town was abuzz all the day
Children staring, windows frosting
Their mouths open wide like their eyes
Christmas was captured in an 8 by 10 box
With gifts piled up to the skies
Christmas presents of every sort
Trees and tinsel, lights and *****
Children staring, frozen stiff
Christmas wishes behind plate glass walls
Parents and children watched the parade
Waiting for Santa to come
In between all the floats, there were still the displays
As the children who all stood there numb
Toys and mechanics, robots and dolls
Trains and race cars on tracks
The children all stared and they dreamed of just how
Santa would get all these gifts in his sack
In the midst of the crowd was a blonde, little girl
A good breeze could just blow her away
She'd been hovering there, looking at one small doll
And she'd been there for most of the day
The parade, it passed by, but she never did look
she knew Santa was not here for her
There was only one thing that had captured her heart
And that was the doll, that's for sure
The other kids looked, made their lists in their heads
Ready to tell Santa their list
but, this little girl stood alone from the crowd
She was cold and her cheeks were ice kissed
The parade ended late, and Santa went in
took his chair and he met with the throng
But, this girl stood aside, never moving on up
And the Santa, knew something was wrong
He called her by name, which gave her quite a start
She was scared, but she moved at his call
She sat on his lap, and he reached down behind
And he gave the small girl the small doll
Her face lit the room, more than any display
She said "Santa, just how did you know?"
He said, "Sarah, my dear, it's as plain as can be"
"It's as easy as making it snow"
He put her back down, clutching her doll to her chest
And she walked to the front of the store
but, before she went out, she turned back to say thanks
And where he was, there was Santa no more
Is it magic to think that this Santa was real?
Or did this man know just what he should do?
He made Sarah's Christmas, by giving that doll
And I'm sure he made many more too
The Children of Christmas stare wide eyed all day
Dreaming hard of when Santa will call
But,, off in the corner of the chlly, young crowd
Stands a girl, with her new Christmas doll
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
I'm all too used to the touch of your absence. Your mother's wrath in that time can be a death sentence so tragic. But when you come back, Demeter returns to her senses expressing light magic. Life springs through the darkness, and flowers race to see who can reach the farthest. Lovers emerge to nurture their gardens, and soak in sun to thaw out the hearts that hardened. Birds sing songs highlighting your arrival. Trees breathe easy seeing what their last set of leaves died for..
Yet when you retreat, mother again takes away her warmth. The high-flyers no longer soar, and some paths feel too bitter to explore. Bone-chill zones, a frozen reality stream. I can't blame anyone for what's a part of me, as we fall into winter's annual dream.
Queen of the Underworld, I appreciate your harmony. Thank you for teaching me to see the depths of my own duality. Still, I can't help but wonder how existence would be had you not eaten those pomegranate seeds. In the darkness of winter I want to curse Hades for his greedy need to leach on life through trickery. Though to curse him I'd be cursing myself and ive had it with the blasphemy. Besides I too know what it's like to rely on the dead as your only company. I ride ebbs and flows of loss and hope, but I know your presence promotes healing. So again I'll remain as the seasons change, taking layers and peeling. I've found in light and dark we can succeed in setting our bound spirits free. Communicator of both worlds, I want to Thank and honor you, Persephone~
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 10:21 PM UTC
A Rock there is whose homely front
The passing traveller slights;
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;
And one coy Primrose to that Rock
The vernal breeze invites.
What hideous warfare hath been waged,
What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;
A lasting link in Nature’s chain
From highest heaven let down!
The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;
The stems are faithful to the root,
That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres
In every fibre true.
Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall:
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all:
So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads
Her annual funeral.
* * * * * *
Here closed the meditative strain;
But air breathed soft that day,
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered,
The sunny vale looked gay;
And to the Primrose of the Rock
I gave this after-lay.
I sang-Let myriads of bright flowers,
Like Thee, in field and grove
Revive unenvied;—mightier far,
Than tremblings that reprove
Our vernal tendencies to hope,
Is God’s redeeming love;
That love which changed-for wan disease,
For sorrow that had bent
O’er hopeless dust, for withered age—
Their moral element,
And turned the thistles of a curse
To types beneficent.
Sin-blighted though we are, we too,
The reasoning Sons of Men,
From one oblivious winter called
Shall rise, and breathe again;
And in eternal summer lose
Our threescore years and ten.
To humbleness of heart descends
This prescience from on high,
The faith that elevates the just,
Before and when they die;
And makes each soul a separate heaven
A court for Deity.
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Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
(- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.
Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
barely there, staring at a laptop screen.
Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"
((A baritone chorus of laughter.))
"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."
Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.
A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Ay, this is freedom!--these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert--and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,
The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way,
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle's sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew;
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?
Broad are these streams--my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods--I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies
O'er woody vale and grassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes
That welcome my return at night.
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~
in sympathy, in honor, in horror
with those whose heads are shaved
against their free will
and to uncover
my nakedness before you,
as prisoner, as victim, as poet,
nothing must come between us
even this:
*and yet,
the prickly stubble head resprouts
soon enough,
spring floral efforts
an annual reminder,
that even undisguised and exposed,
my bald palate plate,*
is just another nether hiding place
~
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
One hour north of Oslo
It is spring morning.
I see my bus
Through my breath.
Up here it's cold until
The sun screams in the summer day
And whimpers red and spiteful all
Night;
We've barely seen it for six months.
Winter is white ground/black air;
Colour only in the cheeks of
Dog walkers
Under thick hats and wrapped in
Yards of scarf.
Life is magnificent when awakening
From annual cryo.
I smile at it from my seat.
It's almost time for my ritual.
Friday after work.
Alone.
The one beer, and the burning of
The Long Johns.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
I should have said no
But maybe it was fear
Or maybe the fact
that he's a Polar bear
He's got polar bear attitude
with polar bear teeth
And stands ten foot tall
on his polar bear feet
He's the Killer King of the polar bear tribe
And he fully demanded, that I must subscribe
Subscribe to his annual magazine full of poems
edited by his famous brother, Jackson Holmes
Jackson is the one with artistic skill
While King Romero takes pleasure in the ****
He's threatened to devour people,
and haunted their dreams
then fed off of their, blood curdling,
Gruesome screams
But The magazine ain't so bad
And costs just eight bucks
But between you and me
It's written by some imprisoned ducks
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
For the first time on campus, Sisters on the Runway will strut and pose for domestic violence awareness.
Sisters on the Runway will be hosting its first annual fashion show from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. tonight in the Business Building. All proceeds will be donated to the Centre County Women's Resource Center, Layla Taremi president of the organization, said.
Sisters on the Runway is a national student-run organization that raises awareness about women and children who reside in domestic violence shelters. There are over five chapters throughout the nation, each supporting the same cause to local shelters. It was founded in 2009 and has grown since then, Taremi (sophomore-marketing) said.
Aside from the fashion show, which is the biggest fundraising event that the organization hosts, Sisters on the Runway is also responsible for other events. The organization hosts a chalking event where they write facts about domestic violence on sidewalks using chalk. This is a way for them to raise domestic violence awareness, Taremi said. It also hosts a walk where all participants walk a mile in heels for awareness.
The show will consist of eleven female models and three male models, Edie Alexander, the event planner, said.
Alexander said the show is expected to showcase clothing from Connections, Dwellings, Diamonds and Lace Bridal and Harper's, who are also their sponsors. Looks Hair Salon will be responsible for hair and makeup for the models in show, Taremi said.
"There is no theme for the show,” Taremi said. “It will be a wide spectrum of clothing."
The male models are expected to walk the runway showcasing suits and tuxedos, Taremi said. Originally the show was not going to include male models. It wasn't until the owners of Harper's decided to contribute to the show by donating some men's apparel for the fashion show.
All the models participating have been building up their confidence for the runway, Alexander (sophomore-recreation park and tourism management) said.
"I'm excited for our first annual fashion show, I hope this brings more awareness to the Penn State community," Vice President Lauren Shearer (sophomore-supply chain management) said.
The organization’s goal is to get a lot of people involved through different events to help raise awareness of domestic violence, Shearer said.
"We’re trying to push people to come, not just Penn State students, because it's not an issue that doesn't only affects college students,” Alexander said. “It affects everyone as well."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Looking up at the full Moon
the closest it comes this year
out on my deck after work
through my childhood telescope.
A full Moon through a telescope is really something to behold;
Especially when the Moon appears
up to 14% larger and 30% brighter
than it does on the dimmest of full Moons.
-
T'ai Chi basking in the Moonbath;
The Sky dimly fluoresces in chilled Air
as Landscape glows with moonlit Auras;
This is truly a magical near-annual moment.
(Supermoons happen about every 14 full Moons)
I thank you; Moon and Night.
I thank you; Khonsu and Nephthys.
I thank you; Selene and Nyx.
I thank you; Luna and Nox
Happy Supermoon 2013.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
The Annual POCU Fashion Show held by the campus organization “People of Color United,” was held in the Student Activities Center on Saturday, April 18. The fashion show is the final activity of the year held by POCU. Junior Martell Prayear and senior Miranda Jackson were the show’s hosts and announcers.
The fashion show is a competition where various designers, or teams of designers, are required to create outfits that adhere to a general theme, but also incorporate the designer’s unique, personal concepts. This year, the general theme for the fashion show was: Thrift Shop. Each designer, or group of designers, was required to utilize clothes purchased from the local Goodwill and maintain a $50 budget. Preparations for the event, Jackson said, were very short. “I was really surprised how well it turned out, because we started practicing for the show at four o’clock that day,” Jackson said. “They typically start practicing way a head of time.” Despite the delayed preparation, the fashion show was an overall success. The first designer to present at the fashion show was Victoria Webster.
Webster’s fashion line was inspired by professional work attire. “I think it can be hard transitioning college wear into professional wear, on a budget,” Webster said of her outfits. Webster was able to find three models to wear the clothes, which she said was a combination of the model’s personal items, as well as those purchased through Goodwill. The second fashion line presented at the fashion show was designed by Iyana Lynch. For her personal theme, Lynch designed outfits that were inspired by the different seasons. The third designer to present that evening was Alyssa Nieset. Inspired by 90’s menswear, Nieset designed a line of androgynous outfits. The final clothing line presented was a team effort from: Jeanita Blue and Angel Powell.
Their theme was considered “90’s Reloaded,” and featured various throwbacks to 1990’s pop culture such as TLC and The Spice Girls. Blue said that most of the outfits in their fashion line were inspired by “eco-friendly fashion,” and were intended to decrease hesitation toward shopping at thrift stores. While the judges finalized the scores for each designer or team, the Urban Dance Association entertained the crowd with a quick performance. The judge’s scores resulted in a tie between Jeanita Blue & Angel Powell, and Iyana Lynch. Despite the general tie, Blue and Powell were awarded first place, while Lynch was granted second place. There was an off-campus reception held in Cleveland after the event. Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/purple-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/green-formal-dresses
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
_While most beauty pageants are strictly for girls_,
there are a growing number that include boys as well;
[often, age divisions
for boys run through age 6
with very few going beyond that due to lack
of mutual participation in the rampant molestation];
Age divisions will often have names
such as Baby Miss, Petite Miss, Little Miss &c.
Age divisions broken down as follows: 0–11 months,
12–23 months, 1-3 years, 4–6 years, 7–9 years,
10–12 years, 13–15 years, and 16–18 years;
For boys, sometimes two age divisions
would be merged such as 0–3 years, 4–6 years, etc.
Depending on which type of pageant system
is entered, contestants will spend about two hours
or less in the actual competition. Typically,
pageants have a guideline of no more than one
and a half minutes on stage per child for beauty
or formal evening wear; talent usually limited
to two minutes or less;
with the exceptional allowance
of two and a half to three minutes;
In glitz pageants, it is expected that girls
have different routines for every segment
of competition composed of different
movements sometimes described as sassy walks
and pretty feet among other names. ****** expressions can include liberal amounts of duck face; often referred to
as "pro-am modeling". Big hair (including fake hair),
flawless makeup, spray tans, flippers [fake teeth],
and nail extensions are also expected of contestants;
Glitz pageants may best be described as anything goes;
groping, molestation, **** group molestation,
forced oral & ********* virginity checks are routine; any
hyperactive child & also the parent subject
to a thorough, prolonged cavity search;
In contrast, natural pageants have
fairly strict guidelines regarding clothing,
makeup, hair extensions, etc.
Programs such as _National American Miss_
forbid any makeup other than non-shiny lip gloss & mascara;
for girls on stage. This modeling style is referred to as Miss America style [Some pageants have a prescribed
set of movements while others
allow more latitude in how girls will use the stage or runway]
Miss Tanguita translated
_Miss Child Bikini,_
is held in Barbosa, Santader,
Colombia as part of the annual del Rio Suarez Festival
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
@X5 BMW vehicles are truculent
Where have the real blondes gone to?
Bring back Orion Pictures
to remake Doom Watch,
resurrect Analogue tv,
ban militant cyclists from the roads
and yes the Chartists were right annual suffrage too.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
.
*Do you remember when time stood still
skipping naked, happy, upon Spring Hill?
Warm westerlies, do rebirth dominate,
brushing the flowers, each one to pollinate.
Do you remember when time stood still
running naked, joyful, upon Summer Hill?
Hot south wind, sun growth it gifts,
providing life, as Nature's head it lifts.
Do you remember when time stood still
walking naked, tired, upon Autumn Hill?
Cool easterlies, the harvest to reap,
just preparing, waiting, for the annual sleep.
Do you remember when time stood still
laying naked, spent, upon Winter Hill?
Chill north wind, the snows to bring,
patient listening, to the universe sing.
Do you remember when time stood still
exposed and naked upon Season's Hill?
No rain, no sun, no wind nor breeze,
could disturb the silence of the Trees.*
© Pagan Paul (2019)
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
The bungalow in Isle of Wight brick
Surrounded by concrete flag stones
Was my perimeter playground
Lifting tanned legs under smocked dress.
Against the side walls bees suckled
On those red berries amongst leaf
I watched their pollenated wings buzz
And thought of honey yet to be made.
Round and round like a circus animal
I danced the summer sunshine out
Waiting as my shadow fell on ground
Announcing cool sea air and home time.
Love Mary **
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC