"runt" poems
On flat bank’s where
grass runt reeds grow
waiting for rising tide,
A lone Heron stealths silently
while Gulls cry warning, and dive in to a cold sea air.
Phoenix Peanut and Pandora
stranded on wet mud bank,
wait for their chance to escape
but it’s bonds that need to be severed in their quest for freedom.
Estuary lights dim and flicker in the distance while closer to shore Mermaids sing on the breath of a storm.
Beckoning sailors "come ride the waves"
Siren songs of lost souls and shadows
“Come with us” on this bursting sea.
And they sing with a drowning charm
as fishermen launch vessels under a shawl covered wife's watchful eye.
And yesterdays widows weep, face rained bright from navigational lights.
Ships bell ring in time with a rollicking sea,
Pheonix Peanut and Pandora
still await their escape but not this night.
While the Heron has long fled this great swell.
No cries now from gulls nor mothers hurrying their little ones to the safety of their coal fired warm homes.
Just the rage of wave riding mermaids that will have their bounty
the heart and souls from a fisherman life.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
When you turn a blind eye
I know you still see
it just means its ok
what he's doing to me
You think of yourself
and what you have to lose
every time he comes home
stinking of *****
Turning your back
gives the ok to do
whatever to me
so he don't do it to you
I hope that its worth it
all the **** that you'd lose
to you let me your son
become bruised and abused
You dont hear the screams
or the cries in the night
or the slaps and the punches
when I put up a fight
But don't worry about me
cos I died long ago
just forgot to lie down
so that no one would know
There's nowhere I can run
and nowhere I can hide
When folks tried to help
you just stood there and lied
Well lie about this
when this poem gets read
the truth will come out
they'll know why I'm dead
They'll know that you knew
and you turned a blind eye
right up to the day
I decided to die
For the longest time now
I've been dead inside
well enough of this ****
I got nothing to hide
I was only a kid
that was destined to lose
so his ***** of a mom
got her smokes and her *****
And her **** of a boyfriend
that twisted old ****
got his pleasure from kids
or as he called me her "runt"
You should know when you read this
fore the razor bit down
that I emailed this poem
to the papers in town
I hope that you find me
and it fills you with pride
try and turn a blind eye
now you've nowhere to hide
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I sit here and let this Punk Rock fill my mind
it's like a sweet drug, just so ******* kind
Madness and violence then swirls the room
that's ******* it, get ready for doom
I'm so angry and I need a release
this violent girl has broken her leash
You created this beast, you little ****
I am no longer that little runt
I'm ready for destruction tonight
You better hide, cause my mind's not right
I want to pit and smash your head
**** you, **** you I wish you were dead
I'll connect my steel toes with your face
be ready, this isn't delicate lace
I hate you and want you to hurt
Your the ******* bottom, nothing but dirt
The dirt I stomp on and kick around
This Punk Rock is the most loveliest of sound
I'll rage and swing my fists about
I'll knock you straight the **** out
I hate you and want you to bleed
**** you
cause
Punk Rock
is
all
I
need
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
With different people come different skills,
in the game of life which we all play.
And like a game of chess , each piece,
unique in its own way.
To the smallest pawn to the greatest knight,
each piece reflects who we are inside.
But as one might think a disadvantage is at hand,
that the pawn has not any chance.
With the queen’s strong offense,
and the bishops swift attack,
the pawn’s presence is sadly overlooked.
For many see it as a worthless runt,
only used in the scheme of the king and ignored
until the bitter end.
But in fact the pawn is the most courageous of them all.
The only piece who knows how to charge.
Fearless and brave, it surges forward,
unhesitant and void of fear.
Who won’t retreat when defeat is near.
So who are you? Which one are you?
The decisive knight, the stubborn king,
the blunt rook, the potent queen?
The swift bishop or the valiant pawn?
All of which reflects who we are.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 12:08 PM UTC
Ey my name aint cinderella
I'M not your ***** you fake *** ****
get in reality you stoopido runt.
i hate your ways and despize you're plays,.
give and take.
I'M wide awake. check your self before you wreck your self.
stop telling your pg tale.
watch my gore .....FEal this ****
tahh who cares cadd you nott fit c:
show it with a smile,. it makes them have moreh wonder for the mile,
once you're there through out the walk they no they'll have you through the talk.
yessss,'
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Ey my name aint cinderella
I'M not your ***** you fake *** ****
get in reality you stoopido runt.
i hate your ways and despize you're plays,.
give and take.
I'M wide awake. check your self before you wreck your self.
stop telling your pg tale.
watch my gore .....FEal this ****
tahh who cares cadd you nott fit c:
show it with a smile,. it makes them have moreh wonder for the mile,
once you're there through out the walk they no they'll have you through the talk.
yessss,'
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
The darkness fills my heart inside.
I'm left to burn, char and die.
Why does this sorrow just come to me?
Why do I always pay the fee?
My heart just burns,
The smoke churns
Darkness whispers,
"Come Hither"
And I'm just left to wither.
The shadows hunt,
Like I'm a runt.
Darkness fills a void.
Hell now screams,
Burnt all my dreams
Now I'm burnt and toyed.
Hell now slithers,
Come hither.
And I'm just left to Wither.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
Skidmarks on your *******
Tells a tale on you-oo
Skidmarks on your *******
Shows you did a poo-oo.
Bet you twenty Euro
You and I are through
Skidmarks on your *******
Show you followed through.
Skidmarks on your *******
Skidmarks back and fro-ont
Shows you didn't wipe up
Your ******** or your cu-unt.
Bet you twenty Euro
You stupid little runt
Skidmarks on your *******
***** bumholed ****
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
Forgot the man who said
He used to hide in the TV shelf's cabinet
Out of anxiety and sadness
Hidden from everyone
But haunted by demons
He could not escape
Remember the one who bikes at full-speed
Strong legs, taking himself places
On adventurous journeys
To the neighboring destinations
Remember uncovering the eyes of the girl you love
To show her an expression of your ardor
In full bloom.
I want to love someone like you
Someone articulate
In expressing compatibility
Someone free-spirited and sturdy
I want the you I remember
The you that remains is one I forgot
The sadness that desperately clings to
The joy that nervously trembles on the steeple
I know there is more to be remembered
And less to forget
The story I remember is spray-painted
On a construction site spelling out:
L-O-V-E
It is music playing in a nearby house
Two love-struck teenagers
Dancing under lamposts
Imagining moonlight
The you that remains
Is you with your puppies
And just loving the runt
"Maybe", I think now,
"He's the runt and the runt is him"
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
loose yawn of a gob on him
all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
channels through the public
and scatters a juggler's performance spot
lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles
he hoicks a resuscitation doll
and stamps down a posing boot
on the 'defeated form'
an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :
"i smear to god all the phalluses
[he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
a full jug of uglies
tug on [makes the hand gesture for male ************
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
amen ************ !"
he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 11:38 AM UTC
Here is a tale of a dog and a cat
And a *** bellied pig, so pink and so fat
Of days in the garden alongside a farm
A whimsical story of magic and charm
The dog as he was of bushy descent
Yellow in color where ever he went
Digging a hole was his prime source of fun
As a matter of fact he had just finished one
The collar he wore was a leathery find
With studs made of silver so brightly it shined
His tail ever wagging, a happy old guy
He hung with is friends as the hours passed by
The cat on the other hand, sleek and so fine
A coat made of orange with stripes it combined
Cleaning a habit I see in all cats
But this one was special for it wore a hat
A tiny straw chapeau with fine feathered brim
A ribbon of pink that was wrapped round her chin
Though not really sure if a cat finds the style
But more as I looked I would bet that she smiled
And there to her left with a snort and a grunt
Was a portly built fellow the legs of a runt
Fine wispy hair that did cover the skin
With a gather of long ones that hung from his chin
Puffing along an attempt to keep pace
The dog and the cat and the pig they would race
Faster and faster they’d run through the fields
Though what was the secret of friendship revealed
None were the same as they differed and so
Still bound together a’ running they’d go
Never before as I think about that
Has a dog or a pig ever friended a cat
For ever so prissy, no memories jog
A cat who was friends with a pig and a dog
Though still I could see right abreast of my eyes
These three companions did bring the surprise
What is the moral of all that I see?
It sure does not matter of your company
Whether a dog or a pig or a cat
You can make friends with whomever you chat
People are different in color and race
But everyone seems to be wearing a face
A face that can smile, a face that can cry
A face that can hello or even good bye
If only we look at each other the same
Will we find fortune in learning their name
No matter the differences that we might see
It pays for each of us to every time be
Nice to each other and all things like that
Just like the dog and the pig and the cat
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
What is hoped trickling between
splintered crags of hard matter
as between slabs of sliced I
like water through the desert crust
the beginning-end fusioned whole?
it resplendent through the cracks?
What might be enough
for its time being
might be the first loosening
a knot’s dissolution
beginning
unwrapping light and breath
deep underground
after prying like suffocation
the thing loose, never budged,
still you yanked, pulled,
screamed, spumed, more than
frustration through your fingertips.
For the brain, don’t be fooled,
s’more the psychedelic fruit
than just saying apple computer
the pulpous embryo of imagination
feeding
what seed, sprouting tendrils,
protracts without desire
(but causing desire)
ever outward, growing, clasping,
(hinging on unhinging) meshing
an electric net
and collapsing a shock they say
until the taste of its taste
is so succulently pungent
that after hours of dull mumbling
its projection upon the mirrors
it bursts in puffs of screams
short tense contractions
[image fizzing, over-heating].
Like a cracked computer reading
an animal program: *Alpha Beast
of the Ill-Illusioned*. Or: *Runt Wolf
of Gaia, the Undarwinian Survivor*.
Software ones and zeros digitizing
the command:
Must do the act cannot be done.
Till it breaks. Unimagined.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
we took the long way
to Hadley and MacFadden, goin' about twenty-five in twenty-six ways...
twelve sheets to the wind at a cosmic chili banquet. we wove through the tambourines and headlights -
cruising through the pinch in the grid, on the Eastside. where Margret hustles feathers from very still pigeons, and Mosley, that little runt Mosley conquered Connie Haskel's Willow Tree in the backyard.
we were coming up on something special in our Hometown
but we were low on gas, and had just bought Beer.
this scenario was on repeat. night after night in the sultry debauch of a languid stroll in a couch rocket.
glaring at the skirts on Perkins and 5th, that eat seaweed and cough drops.
they're so hot you just wanna drive a better car.
we used to park -
at Todd's Mom's and walk to the Slaughtered Hog and order a rack O' ribs and drink moonshine, smokin' that **** and sitting next to ****** jockeys in jogging suits and headbands that say " i sweat profusely, when I want too. "
And Carmen What'sHerName? used to get our table 'cause i figured out the location of her section.
she would smile and bring pecan pie
and flash those eyes that said " i'm off in an hour " . we sang to Muzak - and
left our To-Go Boxes at the table; stumbling through the lot
fumbling for the keys to the TARDIS.
and thinking about Carmen.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
I'm sorry I wasn't what you wanted
I'm sorry I'm such a waste
I'm sorry I can't do anything right
I'm sorry I'm such a disgrace
I'm sorry I can't make you happy
I'm sorry you're not proud of me
I'm sorry I cannot change
I'm sorry this is how it has to be
I'm sorry I'm not polite
I'm sorry I'm so clumsy
I'm sorry I can't think straight
I'm sorry I'm so grumpy
I wish I wasn't such a disappointment
I wish I lived up to your expectations
I wish I could be how you wanted me to be
I wish I wasn’t such degradation
I can see every time
When I try to make something right
I see that look in your eyes
Filled with disgust, embarrassment, and shame
But you just sadly smile and say it's alright
Those are all lies
I know you’re just trying to be nice
I know even though you don't tell me
I don't make the cut
I can tell by the way you look at me
I'm the weak one, I'm the runt
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
I learned an important lesson
during a street hockey match.
Don't stand in front of slap shots.
Some runt boasted
of how powerful he could smack the ball,
and I howled with laughter, a hyena,
standing my ground,
confident as a peacock,
feet away from his stick.
I was a hockey god none could conquer,
and he, a puck peasant
whom I could smite with a single shot.
But then he slapped
The ball, Crack!
the start of a track meet.
From there my memory is as shaky
as my knees when the ball
crashed into my eye.
They say I wailed and crumpled
to the ground, clutching
away, feeling the stinging
tears come.
I tried to fight them,
but like the eternal rains
endured by Noah, down
they poured. I slunk home, head-hung
In shamed defeat.
I ran to the bathroom
to inspect my battle wounds,
and there in the mirror,
dark and purple as a stormy sky
was my first
Shiner.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 11:20 PM UTC
I was dead all along
Predisposed to be a waste of wheezing breaths
I am the **** of the earth
Growing from ***** roots
I will always be the mutt,
the *******
the runt.
Never will I reach heaven,
And never will I be at the top;
The cream of the crop.
I was born this way.
I am an addict.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 12:29 PM UTC
Just now, laid out like your favorite uncle
gone before his time with auntie stretched out beside,
I woke to the perfect metaphor for the too-bad,
so-sad, too-fast nature of time—or maybe
was a simile, as in: the way month upon hour slips away like…
Like…like the runt daisy in the bouquet from
the ex-lover you never wanted to hear from,
least loved bloom among a fistful of beauties
never smiled upon at all—Yes—least of all,
this wasted flower, its whole-milk petals yellowing
And (like time, lest your forget) fluttering, broken-off,
to the coffee-stained and salt-strewn
countertop…like that, indeed, or something close.
That was on my mind as I half awoke—but stirring entire
the bundle of words
of the ideal image
died (yes, sad)
in its place:
I thought of writing some clever tale
how waking up the flash of a line
of the perfect literary device
some glowing simile or metaphor
(how time is the flight plan of a hummingbird
and before we can begin to grasp the next orders
barked at the co-pilot, the captain
has steered the thrumming craft from sugar water
to sheltered branch, and what moment passed between
is one of many such ticks and tocks, the aggregate
meaning that when we wake up
suddenly 30, 40, or
deceased like your dear uncle,
it never seemed like time was passing at all)
slipped away from me—wait, I’m getting there—
and the words’ escape and time’s escape
were somehow one and the same…
But no, I thought, too precious.
Besides, it’s for sure been done.
March 30, 2012 4:02 a.m.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
Are today's young people troubled?
Is their hearing all impaired?
Do they think that thier loud music?
Will make some people scared?
I don't want to hear it
And I think that you'll agree
That their music sounds real ******
And I know it's not just me
They sit inside their cars alone
Playing sound bites at full bore
If it gives me **** headache
Then they must be quite sore
The bass just shakes my bladder
The treble hurts my teeth
It peels the skin back on my skull
So you can see what's underneath
If I wanted to hear their music
I'd ask them for a ride
But intstead of going with them
I think I'd rather hide
Today, while waiting at the lights
A car pulled even with my front
His music shook my windows
The kid looked like a runt
I couldn't hear my wife at all
She was just two feet away
But, I wouldn't let this twerp fiends noise
Destroy my perfect day
I yelled at him profusely
I had tourettes of my left hand
I flipped him off eleven times
While he listened to his band
He smiled and turned it louder
Just to show he didn't care
Then he smugly, turned away from me
Just like I wasn't there
I thought about how vengeance
Is something best served cold
And I thought I'll teach this *******
I'm not that ****** old
So, as he increased his volume
His hip hop shook my glass
I fired back with Mel Torme'
That sure put him on his ***
He cranked it up again some
And this song hurt my liver
But, I left him sittling stone faced
When I hit him with Moon River
I don't wan't to hear their music
And they do not want mine
And if they blow their ear drums
To me...that would be fine.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
You were a shadow to me,
You would follow me without question
Around every corner and on the fold of a bedsheet.
You would leave the house
Explore a tree
But you always left a trail of pinecones
To find your way back home.
The graceful thud of your paws
On my sleeping body,
Black fur darned with white socks
And I loved you,
I always loved you.
Life had dealt us a silent friendship,
Language was our deficiency
But we made it our own
Speaking through pupils
And reading the curve of our bodies.
And you were small,
You were always so small.
The runt of the litter
But you had the personality
To **** all the demons
That had scattered in my head through the day
And lull me back to sleep.
This knot in my stomach,
And the tears I concede
Are all for you and I don’t want to stop.
I will atone for every summer as a child
Lost in a dizzy haze of fun,
As you sat in the window
And waited for me.
Just waited.
Now it is my turn.
I saw you break into a shadow of yourself,
Even smaller every day
As you faded away by degrees.
I saw you fall limp into a dreamless sleep
And now as you are buried beneath the snow
I hope the first thing you see is me sat at the window.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:36 AM UTC
The runt down by the river.
Canvas sheets that form a home.
Locked within the magic.
Most every moment
spent alone.
Lost within the nature
Yet somehow always finds a way.
To laugh away the madness.
To laugh away that useless pain.
He'd sit and play the fiddle,
to the cows and to the moon.
He'd play the whistle to the stars,
then raise his head long after noon.
I remember once he told me,
"Kid remember this!,
the ones that you have hurt the most
will be the ones your gonna miss!,
Never dwell in anger
never fold or bow to pain.
Take this from a black sheep
the one they think
is lost,
insane."
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
Desert and mountains merge into brown haze
in my recollection of those days.
The smell of gunpowder or paupers' fires
could ignite a conflagration of memories
if I would not extinguish them
which I do.
But one burns ever clear, even in the fickle fog of memory
—the mongrel and her pups
scrounging for scraps around our camp
and the Afghan village below.
We watched them in their scavenging and their play
until one crystal blue and frigid day
when Randy captured the runt of the bunch
and fed her some of his meager lunch,
and placed her inside his jacket
where she slipped into rabbit chasing sleep
and did not make a peep
until I heard her whimper
as the bullet that sliced through her gut
lodged itself in Randy’s young heart.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:22 PM UTC
Breath hard alright the it done you runt!
Ran t whoa that was a
title tortoise for me my. Kankakee barer ahhhhhh
You think I'm still good,
...?
Think I've changed?
Maybe ha aha fatti
I've still got the touch, the magic touch caçede ahhhhhh ha!
Gût you toot
I'm just, it's just uhhhh
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC