"handsomest" poems
He may be old,
but he is the most
handsomest man
ever.
Mid-sixties maybe.
His eyes are blue.
Pale blue but circled by dark blue.
His hair is gray,
but was once brown.
His skin is wrinkled and worn
but was once smooth.
His face is small
and heart-shaped.
I can't stop staring at him.
I imagine him
as a young boy,
entering the military
in a green suit.
The way he smiled for his picture.
How he hugged his crying mother goodbye.
Smoked a cigarette as he served for his country.
Overcome the nightmares
he's seen and heard
while protecting America.
He was handsome then
and he is handsome now.
He holds the door open with a smile
and I thank him for
the dinner that he
bought for his wife,
my parents,
and me.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
I'm in love with
the most
handsomest man
with the most
breathtaking smile
and the cutest
dimples.
Not to mention the
most mysterious
brown eyes.
But wait there's a
catch.
He's not in love
with me...
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Oh, here I am confined to the walls of my sadness!
I am lean and weary,
my heart thin and dreary.
Oh, how I've longt to wander yon mountainous hills again,
this time with thee,
descending the steeps, our bare foots brushing against the heath beneath
blending into the hilly surroundings
under the laughter of the joyful heavens -
o how riveting the bank underneath shall be!
O how delicacy shall reign my frame abruptly -
bequeathing its foreign spirit gladly,
so that I am showered with its frantic idyll
with adversity whose love can never forget!
O how this joy shall conquer any rivers of indignation,
drive their disdained yoke away
along with those conceited tears
of sullenness, hatred, and amorous gluttony!
But unreachable art thou!
O Kozarev, my prince, sole prince in these silent wintry dreams,
how thou appeareth like a gleaming apparition,
soothing my reposes, making whose armours complete,
with smiles can bear all my gloominess away,
whose lovely jests are warmth to my soul, my yearning and choking soul,
in the deathlike bursts of this misty day!
O Kozarev, in today's laborious air I shall think of thee,
thy stately figure, thy youth of ardour!
Thy grin the star to the fading sun;
thy words that calmeth sorrow; and sendth thrills through my bones!
O mumbling lips, o trembling horns!
My little treasure, if only thou could hear my earnest longing
my very earnest desire; sincere yet tempestuous
that I shalt lift my hands around thee
Just how those rocks stand firm on the glaring sea
Cheers in its coldness; praises its bland waviness
Like a small boat unyielding to the melodious storm
when the last harmony is no longer sounding!
O, how I long to share this fondness with thee!
Kozarev, my demure pleasure, my belated fate!
My firing snow, my blazing sun,
the handsomest flower of my being!
My lithe little heart might be of nothing to thee
I am unworthy, yet I yearn for thee so willingly!
Kozarev, amidst the rolls of my dreams I devour thee,
wherein dwells the upmost of our affection
and sits our sheepish little village!
And adjacent to the gentle fireside
upon our wooden squeaking chair
brimmed with love, smeared with laughs
I should rock by thee
sew thee into my very own loveliness
and ****** thy grace
to the faint redness of my lips.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines
It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass
It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement
It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.
It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all
But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.
Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.
-W.J. Thompson
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
O'DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his atms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
1.6k
A very wealthy and handsome man,
Owned a mansion and a bay,
But was not at all married,
Which baffled him every day.
He was as proper as a royal prince,
And was the utmost handsomest guy in town,
Hopefully he will get the chance in his life,
To simply smile and not frown.
When one same ordinary day,
The wealthy man took a long walk into town,
He then further noticed a small party,
With several women in the same color gown.
It was the brightest and sunniest day,
And the perfect day to be outside,
But the man was dressed for winter,
So he decided to step aside.
He waited until the music stopped,
Then did he roam his way into the crowd,
He had to close his ears,
For the people were very loud.
The man was very timid and sensitive,
And barely spoke to anyone,
He'd sit near his beautiful bay,
Which was supposed to be his fun.
When the man spotted an attractive young woman,
Who looked tall and friendly,
He made his way over to her,
Boy how nervous was he!
The wealthy man introduced himself,
And told interesting facts about him,
The girl looked fascinated,
As it was starting to get dim.
The couragous gentleman went on one knee,
And asked, "Will you marry me?"
The girl looked baffled and terrified,
As she ran to spring free.
Such a beautiful girl,
Who he really didn't deserve,
So he went to find another gal,
The next looked superb!
She was average in size and looked gorgous,
But when she glanced at the hopeless man,
She didn't care for him,
And rather joined in on the song, "Can-Can."
When the wealthy an suddenly gave up,
He sat by himself in the corner,
To him it felt so hot outside,
That is felt like a sauna!
At that very moment,
A gorgous girl walks up to him,
The poor man felt so hot right now,
That his whole body felt limb.
When the woman introduced herself,
The man did as well,
This woman was the prettiest out of all th girls,
That, he could surely tell.
After a long discussion,
The hopeful man bent down on one knee,
And asked the big question, "Will you marry me?"
The woman gracefully accepted,
As they both left with a smile,
But there's one thing the wealthy man now knew,
That all this waiting, was definitely worth while.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
Always say
'He's the handsomest man alive'
Always say
'He deserves better'
Always say
'He's a charmer'
Always say
'He's perfect'
Always say
'He's a go-getter'
Always say
'He's a man who gets things done'
Always say
'He's a man of many talents'
Always say
'He's never harmed a fly'
Always say
'He works himself half to death'
Never say
'I love him'.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
Mummy
I think you should send Grandma back
to where she came from;
she comes into my room
stares about, and she says:
“Decadent! Decadent! Decadent!”
And then she mutters:
“Never had such things in my day!”
Ma – it’s a good idea to send her back
to where she came from, I think
And when no one is home
but me and Grandma
she puts plastic flowers in her hair
and dances all round with her song:
*"This eve is my wedding;
this eve am I the bride
And I've me the handsomest man
in all of the land"*
She hid my shoes the other day
and she grinned when I found them under her bed;
when you are not looking
she swipes her hands over a pretend iPad
and sticks her tongue out, and pops her eyes out
and whispers to me:
*“That’s how you look, dearie dear;
like the village idiot in days of old”*
She says I dress too short;
I should wear skirts right down to the toes
Grandma stood over my bed
yesterday morning
and she said I was sleeping late, too long;
and she copycats me eating, and she says:
*“You are at a sumptuous table
but you eat like the poor”*
And she pretends to kiss me goodnight
and she whispers her secret curse:
*“Girls who don’t wash their toes,
they don’t go to Heaven
You might wake up in the morning
and find yourself walking
on the hot coals of Hell”*
Mummy, please
I think you should send Grandma back
to where she came from
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Oh precious Hyacinth, in my eyes a jewel
In front of your radiance, my knees fell
You’re like a glistening pearl in a ****** shell
I am enamored by your enthralling spell
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh King of Sparta, you bear the tastiest fruit
On the land he is the handsomest youth
This is for everyone a crystal clear truth
That’s why in my heart the arrows of Eros shoot
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh precious Hyacinth, you have equaled the glamour of a god
Your face is fairer than any mortal lad
Your muscles are firmer than any man had
Because of such beauty, you make me feel glad
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh King of Olympus, let me have this seductive mortal
For him my godly being turned carnal
The appeal of his flesh is oddly unusual
I want him to be mine for time eternal
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh precious Hyacinth, under my wings you’ll never fall
Come to the West Wind’s most desperate call
To you I’ll reserve the prettiest room in my hall
The most romantic & blissful haven for all
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
Oh deities & humans, grant me this costly man
Boreas, Notus, Eurus, bring me this heavenly Spartan
Let our powerful Anemoi bequeath him from his clan
Turn him over to the Western Wind, his greatest fan!
Listen everyone to Zephyrus’ Serenade for Hyacinth!
-02/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*Hopelessly Immortal Collection
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
Tell me will you poet?
tell me sweetly in my ear,
tell me of your darkest sin,
and of your hidden fear,
then I will tell it back to you ,
and jot it right down here,
so tell me if you go with it ,
just what you wish to hear?
( I'm listening )
I can tell you that you're perfect,
that you're nice as nice can be,
an I'll tell you that I am your friend,
that you have a friend in me,
( ugh...not so much )
I'll tell you-
you're the handsomest,
as handsome as a star,
the dreamy one from childhood,
who lives somewhere a far,
( I wish... )
I'll tell you that you're wonderful,
that you're honest -
and you're sweet,
an I'll be at your beckon call,
just waiting at your feet,
I will be the sweetest girl,
that you will ever meet,
( Oh boy )
I'll curve the pretty world you view,
an distort it if I must,
tell me will you poet,
are my words the ones you trust?
I can tell a sad goodbye,
or sheets we tangle up in lust,
( ....uh..notta chance, but-)
I can tell of heated passion,
of heated lovers in the night,
while some have heated ***********
some others have a fight,
either way with all that heat,
there's hope they both ignite,
an when you cut your own hand off,
it's only YOU-
you spite,
( OK don't get pissy )
So I can kiss you with my paper,
I can caress you with my pen,
I can leave you feeling anxious love,
or I can leave you feeling zen,
I can be beside you there,
just name it where and when,
( hope not tho )
I can mention that you're genius,
just the smartest guy I know,
except for when it comes to love,
and then it's all for show,
or I can just omit that part,
so no one ever know,
( I'm sure you'd prefer that )
I can tell you any fake thing,
so sweetly in your ear,
it may not be the truth though,
and there in lies the fear,
if I tell you only truth then,
when I'm drawn in really near,
then tell me will you poet,
what should I say my dear?
( oy vey )
Because some objectified objects,
well they have opinions too,
and flattery gets you no where see,
even if these facts I say are true,
it's only in a certain light,
when you tip it all askew,
so that everyone can finally see,
The real "beauty" there in you,
as it all comes out,
now so clearly into view,
And I wonder why would I-
ever waste a single precious breath?!
Ma Cherie © 2017
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
You make me
wanna write poems about you
You have been on my mind for so so long
probably because you were honestly
one of the most handsomest men
I've ever met in my life
that was so so my type
and the funniest thing was
that at the time
I never realized that
We met in Jerusalem
I thought you were gay
because you were so beautiful
the most gorgeous hair
the most beautiful eyes
that I could get lost in
forever
the most beautiful earrings
we sat on the bed
in your room with all your plants
and pleasured me
I dream of you all the time
we sat on my bed and spoke about
concioussness in hebrew
it seemed fluent on my tongue
when I was with you
I held your curls close to my face
carrassed your hair
stared into your eyes
with lashes so long
you walked to me barefoot
and asked me how you looked
and I told you handsome
you are always so handsome I said
it seemed fate brought us togehter
how weird that was.
You told me how beautiful I was
and that you didn't need anything from me
just to hold me and kiss me
maybe it was because eventhough
you were probably a bit of a player
you showed me that a man can be
romantic sweet and a pretty boy
who is deep
and that people like you exist
so I don't know what this poem is about
but I wander about you
so much
I hope maybe we will meet again
in another metaverse
or down the streets of Florentine
or Dizengoff Telaviv
I wander what that would be like
I love the pretty boys
I try to convince myself
that I am always just gay
but I gotta admit
I love the pretty boys
the ones who are deep kind
have a great fashion sense
and love to strum a guitar
the men that I was always taught not to like
that they weren't "man" enough
but to me they are
because I think real men are kind
loving sweet and beautiful .
Sep 4, 2023
Sep 4, 2023 at 2:17 PM UTC
I feel like Nietzsche's Bridge,
a transition for my child
to be the man I never could.
He is so gracious there crawling through black tunnels,
dampened with squid ink
dodging the dirt and grime that I left behind.
He is already smarter than me, I think.
Could it be that he is meant to love
all the world I left unloved and untraced?
Finding allusion where I create bitterness, and hate.
I bought so many toys,
and he swallowed so many parts
to make room for my affection.
He wants me to be there, and I am
in corporeal spirit and empty words.
I might say 'you're a good boy'
or
'congratulations on your drawing'
and he'll spit
'thanks daddy' and look dead with flies stabbing at his apple.
It was of me, of course, that he drew.
My head covered with nappies, my arms in yellow and blue.
No torso a blob, a perfect circle, whole,
too naked for the choir to sing.
It was the most handsomest I ever looked,
no Elizabeth Armada painting could be more true.
Oh beautiful Lazarus,
how I wish you could
emancipate me
from this gluttonous guilt.
I dream of you child.
I'm choking on this quilt.
Come back son.
Come back.
LONG TO REIGN OVER US
GOD SAVE OUR QUEEN
He's 26 now, unemployed, reading about books.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
didn't apollo just love daphne
or it was a ****** thing?
didn't zeus cheat on hera?
that's for sure, my deary.
but my love for you is real
like demeter loved her daughter
so the times she left her mother
autumn came along,
and then the winter,
all so cold.
in the deepest land
you'll ever see
where king of death
have lived for many years
where he keeps her as a prisoner
persephone's just,
for good,
his slave.
slaves of gods
that's what humans are
they've got no point
on their decisions
cause in olympus
they're not born.
the most beautiful
goddess couldn't archive
the goals she wanted
with hephaestus,
the ugly one
in the night her husband
saw her lying on a bed
with mars, god of war,
screamed both of their names.
if titans hadn't been so rough
their sons and daughters
wouldn't have done that
keeping them in jails
so they couldn't escape
from the tartarus,
under the hades,
now they are the slaves.
and now let's go back
to the beginning
when the nymphs heard
her screams
trying to escape
from the handsomest god
turning her into laurel,
not letting her live anymore.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
Your face is in my dreams
In my life, my skin, my breath
that is so dense in the morning
so hot at night.
You are the handsomest
The king in our throne
our legacy
of purity.
I love you so god ****** much.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
It was an atmosphere.
It was an atmosphere.
It was oxygen mixed with southern fog,
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots,
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind,
The rolling hills behind property lines.
It was the question you asked,
It was the question you asked,
Not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass,
While I leaned against your Corolla,
And we sang under the overpass.
It was graffiti,
It was graffiti.
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple
hair and acid wash jean jackets,
Melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement.
It was the way the reverb spread the major 7th across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor 9th which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars), and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd,
Surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.
It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat,
soaking up the air of my A/C heat.
And the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall,
And now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all.
It was how my energy dripped away into the floods of San Jose,
And how her eyes began to sink into her iPhone 7's screen.
It's in how I long for prolonged eye contact,
It's in how close the answer is but never slips,
I'm not interested in the electric work of fingertips,
I'm interested in connection.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:45 AM UTC
Handsome girl
You charge two rupees for your service
And it’s too small for all your distress
Being for sometime my mistress!
But I love those silken cheese
That charge me five rupees
Wet in oiled black curls
Handsomest dark skin girls!
Can’t get me all the white
What I get from her all night
Turn me a slave her power
Aroma of her hair’s flower!
Are you free of shame
O girl what’s your name
Else how you give freely
Yourself for a sum measly!
Someone’s wife or mother
Tell me why I bother
And not pay you in my pity
When you sell you for poverty!
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
Definitely not
Fastest
Strongest
Handsomest
Smartest
Or even too clever but
The nicest must be clever enough
Because like those other ests
It must be noticed and noted
To pay off
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
Heroic horses hammering holy heaven,
Hooves hounding, horseshoes howling,
Hot heads hurtling headlong on the horizon,
Handsomest horses hacking habitually,
Hugely-hung hoses hanging out hellishly,
Hardy and hardening, heartily heartening,
Harping at heartstrings, harmonious harkening.
Hades the hell-spawn harnessing hedonism,
Heckling horses, harassing the harmony,
Hot-blooded horses, huffy and hungrily,
Hearken the hell-dog, hail him and hallow him,
Hellbent and heinous, horse hearts are harvested,
Hundreds of horses haemorrhage helplessly,
Harrowing Hellscape, hostile humidity,
Haggardly horses hunching haphazardly,
Half-dead and hateful, harshly and hardily,
Hardhearted horses hurting and hurtling,
Heroes of history, humbled in hopelessness,
Holiest horses, howling and hollering -
Heeding honor! Hailing Hell!
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 1:25 PM UTC
I have learned, years ago, to work quite hard to make the proper changes in myself.
I may not be the greatest at my trade
The handsomest of Faces
However, I believe I have worked quite well for what I am.
An equal seller on Life's Library Book Shelf.
I might have been a lose and broken man before.
Not this time.
I've broken the circle of being the "repeater" and I have blossomed once more.
I change for the better of my own life becoming brighter.
To repay kindness of those who always believed in the real me.
People who never hung on to what "Bad" I used to bring onto the table.
A more delicious and brighter dinner for those who have supported
and have clearly waited for me to set myself free.
Free from worries about who shall accept me or what status quota I shall fit ,amusing.
Myself as an actor portraying some one other than who I truly am.
A comedian who brought down his own house of cards by becoming the laughing stock
of the Drunken Clowns.
I rose up upon life's stages and became a truer actor.
One who is the truer artist by appreciating those who enjoyed his "Newest of Magic tricks."
**** I metamorphosed into a dove.
I fly away,now, to a glowing life which fits me
like a hand in a glove.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
paper and pen won't do,
i'll pool blood around my frame and hope to find words in my own ink.
you'll stand right here and give me all the ammunition i need,
carving my skin from bone as you speak,
for i know this is your exit interview.
i will be a skeleton of a woman,
and that's just fine because at least i'll have been skinned by the handsomest man to leave this apartment.
my magnum opus,
i'll trace the blood with my fingers
and try to write about how it felt to have your attention for a moment.
you'll leave and stain the carpet with crimson footprints,
but that's just fine because there will be a painting to match my poem.
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 5:57 PM UTC