"bragged" poems
Someday a man will look me in the eyes
and I will not see myself reflected in his pupils,
but the best version of myself.
The tangled parts of me I’ve kept buried
deep within coursing veins,
pieces even I don’t understand
but can be unraveled by his hands only.
My ******* will not be symbols of my ability to ****
but will offer warmth and support,
a nuzzling ground fit for only his temples
and the warm wet mouths of our children.
My hips won’t just offer smooth curves
of lust and temptation,
but will prove strong enough to survive
all the wrong paths I took in finding him.
My *** won’t be bragged about in locker rooms
nor silenced by sharp thrusts and stabbing bites.
It will be real.
That thing they call love with entangle us
together in unison and we will be
equals,
making love to pouring rain
dancing barefoot through emotional hallways of our future.
Someday a man will look me in the eyes
And see me as I truly am.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
Last weekend was “Parent’s” weekend at Yale. A time when parents are formally invited to visit. They have receptions and other events - but no potato-sack races (which is disappointing). My parents couldn’t come, they’ve never come to parent’s weekend, but Leong’s parents came again, from Macao, China, a 16,060-mile round trip.
There was a time when boys could tank my self-confidence with a word. When the male gaze seemed overpowering. I’d felt constantly evaluated - but I’ve evolved - somewhat. We’re going to a party. Lisa, Leong, Sunny, Anna and I - we’ve got our shine on and we’re drawing looks. Well, ok, Lisa’s drawing looks and I’m in the general frame.
Lisa sneezed, “The air quality’s bad tonight,” she announced, wiping her nose with a Kleenex.
“I don’t have any allergies,” I bragged. “Me neither,” Leong added.
“If you can breathe the air in China,” I said, “You’re golden.”
Leong laughed “Tài zhēnshí liǎo,” (Too true!) She agreed.
As we left the more street-lit part of the path, the moon, wandering in and out of the clouds, created moving shadows that peopled the darkness with phantoms. Was that impression the paranoia of fatigue? I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Or maybe it’s October and Halloween’s just around the corner.
I was walking in the rear, nestled in the mingled scents of my roommates' perfumes that, like rare blossoms, enchanted and excited the child in me. I wasn’t paying attention, and I stubbed my toe on a misaligned sidewalk tile. Don’t you hate the gap between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain?
Oct 11, 2023
Oct 11, 2023 at 8:15 PM UTC
*(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.
Etched into every tree
The word:
S U C C E S S)*
I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.
I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.
My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).
Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...
Bells,
Chiming,
Dark
Oubliettes,
Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
*Ding **** ding ****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Once there was a girl,
Who bragged all day,
She told almost everybody,
To stay, stay, stay.
Minerva played a trick,
So sneaky and clever,
She knew that Arachne,
Would never find out, never.
Arachne was surprised,
Her eyes filled with fear,
She knew danger,
Was near, near, near.
They had a contest,
With yarn and threads,
They knew who'd win,
Maybe Minerva instead.
She learned a lesson.
She'd never forget,
And maybe now,
She would regret.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
FRIENDS
They were gone to us
Left the impression that the horizon was home
They spoke so highly of us
As is the sunshine were beneath our prints and we lit the path behind us
They held on to our glory like a child to its pillow in a thunder storm
Told of our greatness and bragged of our fellow ship
They took satisfaction in our attempts and celebrated our success
They never new impatience for we were worth the wait
Never felt dissatisfied cause we please in many way
We only showed nerve when defending there honor
And we honored there loyalty by never being too far away
-Alexis J. Meighan-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
He took his lass to the local flicks
By heck he was so very eager
But when his hand slipped down her back
She said, “I smell Swarfega.”
Not so easily discouraged
He went and scrubbed his hands
But when he got back to try again
She’d gone, and thwarted his plans.
They didn't have mobiles in those days
Further contact there couldn’t have been
So he went to the pub and stood with his mates
And bragged about the heaven he’d seen.
The tales those young men told…
©Joe Wilson – Bragging rights, 1950’s style…2014
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
*She bragged (detailed)
You sounded so happy
"I love you"*
--------------------------------
**You heard him tell me
"I love you"
(in bed)**
---------------------------------
I wasn't expecting you to be home so early dear
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Jacques and Emile's veins
pounded in their skulls
as they scrambled down the ladder
and through the labyrinth of sewers
to rejoin their fellow assassins
beneath the Parisian thoroughfares.
They'd tracked the **** Captain's moves
for past a week and knew precisely
what he drank and where he ******
They were ready when he
Stumbled down the brothel stairs.
When Jacques stepped left for a clearer shot
he found a bucket with his foot.
The German wheeled and spotted them -
raising his whistle to his mouth,
but before he had a chance to blow,
A silent report from Emile's rifle
crashed into his trachea
And he crumpled like a rag.
Back in the tunnels
Jacques bragged like a circus barker,
"You should have seen the look on
Gerry's face before we brought him down."
Emile had seen his face alright,
but thought only of the whistle
that would have doomed them all.
What do you when the world goes mad
and **** tanks roll into the Champs Élysées?
Who do you **** and why and how?
Jacques was sound asleep
and deaf to his comrades' whispers -
pondering what to do and when.
The decision came quickly and a
different sort of mission was planned
and Emile selected to execute it.
What do you do when the world goes mad?
August, 2013
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Sometimes I would walk through the halls,
feeling nothing but anxiety.
My mind would become flooded:
What should I be doing…
what should I be saying...
what is everyone thinking?
See-
I used to float to the back of the room
to the back of my mind where
I escaped the world by reading.
Nerdy.
A loser. A freak.
I was too intelligent for my age.
It wasn’t COOL to get straight A’s.
Then I advanced to the seventh grade,
with no idea my life was about to change.
I made a friend.
Then Two. Then Three.
A former unknown concept: “popularity”.
Skater shoes, with laces you didn’t tie,
pink backpacks, hair straight as a pin-
Abercrombie-
led me to a moment I still hate today:
“Try some of this”.
It wasn’t COOL if you said no.
It was my first taste of intoxication,
my first taste of escape-
escape of my mind, the thoughts,
The anxiety.
The more I sipped, the more I let go.
The drinks would become stronger,
we raged every other night.
Tolerances were creeping up high,
control started waving goodbye to my mind.
It wasn’t COOL to be sober.
We laughed, we kid-
called ourselves “alcoholics”.
If only then I knew more, and the future I would soon endure
because of the potion we poured and poured.
It wasn’t COOL to be a lightweight.
Some years later I bragged and I boasted,
over the amount of liquor I could intake.
“The only girl who could outdrink the boys”-
the girl, I’d someday unrelated.
She’d fallen for everything society had wanted to create.
“Popularity”.
Then came the day I knew would eventually arrive-
the day of realization and what it meant to be alive.
I no longer wanted to be COOL.
Because with each drink, the value of life was swallowed-
I never have felt
quite that hollow. As if
all the knowledge that once filled my mind
vanished.
I yearned for nothing but to go back to the days,
when I was uncool
and got
straight A’s.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
Brother, you told me once you were scared
to have a daughter.
You knew this when you baby-sat
a baby girl with your wife,
and you, a former American Army infantryman
melted and was brought down in a way
that the guns you faced in Afghanistan never could.
She’ll be my princess, I remember you saying.
A little girl all dressed in pink,
whatever she’ll ask for, you'll give it.
You were relieved when the first child
you and your wife had was
a baby boy, but to be honest,
you melt all the same,
even 9 months later.
But I’ve always wanted to ask,
“Why are you afraid to have a daughter?”
You know the stories how our mother gave birth for the first time
and how she labored in the car
when she drove herself to the hospital.
And how your pregnant wife came home on her lunches from work
and would cry on the floor because her back hurt so bad,
But she still sat up and went back to work--
the same way our older sister cried on her first day back
from maternity leave and parted with her baby boy for the first time,
the same way Mom went back to work when you and Dad deployed.
What you know of women is that we’re strong,
that we dry our tears and continue on with the world.
Really what we do is keep the world spinning
with the force of how much we love.
So anything, you give your daughter
will be returned in multitudes.
You were taught the same way to love that I was--
instinctively and unconditionally and unrelentingly.
And maybe you’re afraid that your daughter
won’t be able to walk home alone at night
or that no one will listen to her,
And you know this is a poem from your younger sister.
So savor that I’m saying you’re not wrong,
because I don't know when that will happen again.
Your daughter may have to work harder to be heard
and to keep herself safe than any son you have.
But know no matter, how strong she is or how hard she works
that **** still happens
and it won’t be her fault.
and you know because you have two sisters
and you’ve heard our stories.
Statistics say that 1 in 3 women experience ****** or physical violence.
We have one President, who bragged on a Hollywood Access bus
about grabbing women by the *****
because they let him
and because no one stopped him.
Brother, be scared of the men who would hurt your daughter,
but brother, don’t be scared to have a daughter,
Because she will love you the same way
your wife, your mother,
and your sisters have loved,
that our bodies may break and tear in the doing
but we will choose to do it all over again.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
i'm starting to think that the consequence of bragging actually breeds an unconsciously invested in message of: don't make the same mistakes i made, which i now brag about; my, couldn't ask for a finer aversion of said deeds bragged about... perhaps if bragging was salted with nostalgic spices of: if i could only rekindle the said event... the subversion of bragged about, nonetheless regretted events.
the ultimate faux pas is the zenith of
lost etiquette -
tact -
bragging -
translated back into gluttony -
so, why should i feel shame in
writing poetry in writing out the most
mundane, when people start off
their hello with bragging shackles of
turning a hard-on of ambition
into a wet-cunt of envy?
n'ah, joking...
**** me and the need to take a ****
i started to imagine it as:
as much pleasure comes from taking
a **** in a dark alley in winter
as it does being given a...
hmm...
why name it? the antonym is all too
obvious;
lody: ice cream.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
The scent rose up like bonfire smoke,
And increased with each powerful ****
Now here we are together as one
It is time that our story had begun.
Years ago, on a night such as this,
An epic tale began with true love’s kiss.
The impact created quite the stir;
Enough to make the tragedy occur,
And while it seems that all is lost
History is not yet embossed.
It started on a hill, you see,
With flowers here, and honey bees,
The one so precious, her charm did glow,
She made every wish with a loving blow.
As he lay there, lost in her gaze,
The dandelion fluff created a haze.
It wasn’t until the bombs went off;
The blood poured and the lungs coughed.
The gruesome sight was one for sore eyes,
But the couple held tight despite all the cries.
No one was sure of the events to come
They waited in fear for the reliant war drum.
As the deep booms bellowed throughout the valley,
People scurried, dodging down every alley.
The woman, so worried, called out in fright,
And the man, yes he tried with all of his might,
But the soldiers they took her tied up and gagged,
All the while she heard them as they pompously bragged.
A shot to the heart, and he was to blame,
Yet the heartbroken widow felt much shame.
His corpse lay so still and cold,
She cries every night, growing so old,
As much time that’s gone by to this day,
She’s plotted and determined, these men, they must pay.
Under cover of darkness, with knives sharpened just so,
She tied them to their beds, so there was nowhere to go.
Drowning out the screams, humming the song of two lovers,
She grabs her sweet knife and pulled back the covers.
And with multiple stabs you know what she got?
Sweet, sweet revenge for her lover’s deadly shot.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
When a surgeon had to operate on a man, she was ******
She botched the operation because the patient was sexist.
She learned he was sexist and botched the operation so that he would die.
She bragged about it to her friends, it was something that she did not deny.
But she didn't expect one of her friends to turn her in.
Now she's rotting in prison, she's no longer a surgeon.
She doesn't even realize she did wrong, she thought she had the right to ****
A surgeon is never supposed to take a life, it's a surgeon's duty to try to heal.
She thinks her patient was **** but he was a better person than her.
At least he didn't **** another human being, he was not a murderer.
Nov 29, 2022
Nov 29, 2022 at 12:40 PM UTC
It's horrible to realize you're
No different than any one before or after,
For the one you loved.
It's awful to see them
Treat someone else the same way
They treated you.
It's disheartening and heartwrenching
To see them brag about the new person
In their life
The way they bragged about you.
It's terrifying and it hurts so much
For them to show you you're not special
In their heart.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
Pulling at opposite ends of a rope
we put in our best effort
we both won the contest, darling.
and bragged of our power.
I have nothing left at this hour
Except for a rope around my neck
made out of your honeyed voice
confessing love over and over again
Alas! choking is not much of a choice
a dancing derelict dream in my eyes
along with each cell in my heart dies
Poor wretched foolish ghost of mine
now revolves around your house
like a twitching old mouse
to make sure you drink your tea
Every afternoon, but you
Still, unbothered and lowkey
As if the wind took away some dust
off street
And I, gone, with bones and meat.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
The Platypus
(a limerick for adults, teens and older children)
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******
Keywords/Tags: limerick, double limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, platypus, ****** duck, proboscis, nose, beak, feet, webbed, flippers, eyes, eyesight, sight, vision, myopia, myopic, animal, nature, ****** erotica
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
Ballade of the Bicameral Camel
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a camel who loved to ****
Please get your lewd minds out of their slump!
He loved to give RIDES on his large, lordly lump!
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
Other Limericks
The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don't understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I'm brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who's dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!) :
since he's plagiarized Unknown, I'll wager!
"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
i was slicing my ******* wrists open because of what you did to me
what you made me
i was smashing my ******* head against cement walls and crying and thrashing and screaming for nights on end
endless turmoil that removed my ability to ******* feel
...and you
you were bragging to your friends
took her **** virginity
on the floor of her father's (the pastor's) house
while he was upstairs sleeping
she begs for my **** in her mouth
for me to blow all over her face
i finally fully corrupted my christian girlfriend
you said
**** waiting she practically jumped on my ****
you ******* bragged while i ******* tried to **** myself
while i ******* watched blood leak out of my ******* body
while i ******* pressed lit ******* matches into my wrist
you
*******
bragged
that you
****** ME.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
He called me beautiful
But he made me feel ugly
he hurt me
I can never be fixed
he denied what he did
But bragged to his friend
Is that all I am?
A toy?
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
her sun spots bragged of
summers spent reckless
and her silver locks of
once box dyed glory.
her drooping skin bragged of
first kisses and a hundred men’s touch—
from her so-called “glory days.”
her plump figure bragged of
children bore and
lovers loved and
a thousand lives lived.
in this old age I deemed her ageless—
having lived more in one lifetime
than most could dream to do in four.
Nov 14, 2022
Nov 14, 2022 at 9:27 PM UTC
They found sin,
an alluring fruit,
in the forest of the collective night
of their callous hearts.
They avariciously ate it,
though digesting its toxicity wasn't possible.
Its seeds were enthusiastically distributed,
among other creatures of the dark.
Planting seeds of sin,
they thought was good fun,
their technique of brainwashing
was perfect, a lethal gleaming weapon.
The fruits it bore were
what none expected,
explosions shaking public places,
an efflorescence of gun culture,
bane of our times and for all the days to come.
The genie refuses to go back to the bottle,
once again, though few still try.
The lovers of sin bragged ,
about biting the bullet,
if it comes to that,
won't run.
Short sighted,
chafed were their words and deeds,
at last when reality came to visit,
each one bit the dust.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Yesterday, they said there would be a hurricane
but I didn't listen, yesterday
Today I needed supplies, food, nappies, formula
and I was out of time. I had to drive
So I set out into the dark, just me and the baby
we didn't have far to go, not far
Yesterday I wouldn't have picked up a stranger
in the street, 'cause yesterday
was when I learned my lesson
today he was slogging against the wind
and rain, with rags covering his feet
We ended up inside his space
where he carried my baby girl
and laid her next to the fireplace
and he took me down the stairs, by the hand
where he looked at me like he truly cared
and calmly chained me to the wall
where I stood tall, until I crumpled
I was never going to get out of there
All I wanted to do was feed my baby
All he wanted was my baby
I died nightly as he raised my little girl
I cried daily as I saw her become a woman
inside her completely undecided world
He bought many more women to himself
as I looked at him from the wall
hating every single breath that he took
He never noticed as I shook
while he bragged that his baby girl
was growing to be a Doctor of great repute
I just wanted to puke, she was becoming the person
I always thought she'd be, except for me...
She came to see me one day
my baby girl, lied to... standing there
She never really decided to accept what her
Daddy
had to say, as he gave to her tons of excuses
why she couldn't go below the stairs
but by then she was curious
and what she got when she was there
was me
her Mommy
in all my glory, even though I thought
she never saw me, but she got the story
and as he walked down the stairs
in the middle of the night
he didn't see her waiting
she waited for the fright
the look on his face said he did it
because he cared
but as a Doctor she didn't dare
pretend that he was slated to be long
for this world, because in her hand
where her fingers curled, was the injection
that would make sure that he kissed a long
Goodnight
he raised her with all his might
to be something I would have been proud of
She made it right...
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
Would you mind Miss
If I wrote about you?
Would you get offended,
If I bragged about how you make me feel?
Would you care
If I raved on
About how how my heart leaps
When you smile?
Can I tell the world
About your laugh?
Would you mind
If I told them that it's a Symphony?
Would you sigh
If they found out
That you're perfection
In it's purest forms?
That you're a masterpiece,
And that your smile
Should hang a while
In the best of the galleries.
You're amazing girl.
You're modern art.
Not everyone gets you,
But those who do
Knows what you're worth.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
What happens when you grow old?
Do you suddenly realize that you’re closer to dying than is comfortable?
Or do you see the end of your life as gratifying and inevitable?
When your child no longer needs your care, do you feel relief?
Or do think that obligation will always be present, underneath?
When you no longer need to cook for your family, or your mate;
Do you long for the days where everyone sat at the table to wait?
As you made a grand entrance with a turkey for the holiday;
You were the one everyone bragged about at work the next day.
When the time comes that you’re old enough to retire;
Does that make you happy,or, do you ponder all that you did not acquire?
Is there a certain age that all of a sudden you think time is short?
That you need to make plans for that final trip to the morgue?
Do you acknowledge and believe that you are no longer young?
And everything you are supposed to struggle with is done?
I hope that I go through my golden years with some grace.
That I recall having memories of living a life I embrace.
Because in the end isn’t that what it’s all about;
Not the things you acquired, but, the people you can’t live without.
Randy McPeek
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC