Statured poems on Hello Poetry

Nico Julleza Jul 2017

Anxious
Dull, a boy is he
names he would not plea
eyes like baby blue-
lips a crimson hue
Feelings like me and you

Reclusive
Outsiders he'd not choose
In his mansions he bore
luring himself-
with enchanting lore's
drifting away, loosing woes

A Xenos
Traveling in his hallways
unknown, ominous
a wretched life he portrays
even in his heart, he'd say-
"Loneliness, such a Cliché"

Forsaken
Befriended, unseen
though he's not a devil
-for I believe
tortured, battered on thee
delude by his mistress' skim

He Left
portals out from misery
gone himself eagerly
then comes back, with such
-A Victory
for now, a statured man is he

Knights & Kings
upon bended knees
and everything he please
from a man to a boy
-in a dream
A Castle, now he redeems

YES TO "ANTI-BULLYING"
Support "ANTI-BULLYING"

#Boy #Castle #Man #Dream

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017

Kara Jean May 2016

Her smile lit a fire

The devil sat upon his toasted grieving red throne
Gulping his tongue, the devil never stressed
She seduced his powerful taste
He knew she was a lost soul, out of control
She was a walking mess, who was taking her toll
He had no business taking a hit to his statured entitlement
He promised to distinguish her from the rest, implicating a battle every dawning blue sky
His threats do not scare her passion to fight
She's a rampage with braided hair and an innocent glare
Zip up your sweater vest, here comes Hells pest

Edith Wharton

A Torchbearer

Great cities rise and have their fall; the brass
That held their glories moulders in its turn.
Hard granite rots like an uprooted ****,
And ever on the palimpsest of earth
Impatient Time rubs out the word he writ.
But one thing makes the years its pedestal,
Springs from the ashes of its pyre, and claps
A skyward wing above its epitaph—
The will of man willing immortal things.

The ages are but baubles hung upon
The thread of some strong lives—and one slight wrist
May lift a century above the dust;
For Time,
The Sisyphean load of little lives,
Becomes the globe and sceptre of the great.
But who are these that, linking hand in hand,
Transmit across the twilight waste of years
The flying brightness of a kindled hour?
Not always, nor alone, the lives that search
How they may ****** a glory out of heaven
Or add a height to Babel; oftener they
That in the still fulfilment of each day’s
Pacific order hold great deeds in leash,
That in the sober sheath of tranquil tasks
Hide the attempered blade of high emprise,
And leap like lightning to the clap of fate.

So greatly gave he, nurturing ‘gainst the call
Of one rare moment all the daily store
Of joy distilled from the acquitted task,
And that deliberate rashness which bespeaks
The pondered action passed into the blood;
So swift to harden purpose into deed
That, with the wind of ruin in his hair,
Soul sprang full-statured from the broken flesh,
And at one stroke he lived the whole of life,
Poured all in one libation to the truth,
A brimming flood whose drops shall overflow
On deserts of the soul long beaten down
By the brute hoof of habit, till they spring
In manifold upheaval to the sun.

Call here no high artificer to raise
His wordy monument—such lives as these
Make death a dull misnomer and its pomp
An empty vesture. Let resounding lives
Re-echo splendidly through high-piled vaults
And make the grave their spokesman—such as he
Are as the hidden streams that, underground,
Sweeten the pastures for the grazing kine,
Or as spring airs that bring through prison bars
The scent of freedom; or a light that burns
Immutably across the shaken seas,
Forevermore by nameless hands renewed,
Where else were darkness and a glutted shore.

Emily Dickinson

Not all die early, dying young

990

Not all die early, dying young—
Maturity of Fate
Is consummated equally
In Ages, or a Night—

A Hoary Boy, I’ve known to drop
Whole statured—by the side
Of Junior of Fourscore—’twas Act
Not Period—that died.

Critter Khan Oct 2011

Wild Traverse Through Nothing...

To where do I traverse my verse of sentiment.
Sediment set in said increment
played upon the ears of a child,
wild upon the planes of plain immortals,
powerless gods, and ill-statured titans.
Widen my view to see nothing,
or, perhaps, nothing noteworthy.
Divorce my discourse with abandon
meant for one that cares.
Stare into the bare soul of half-eaten fruit.
A point as moot as I am mute.

CharlesC Jan 2019

doors of perception

doors of perception
when cleansed will reveal
our true nature..
this is the sage advice
of a statured voice..

the cleansing
clears away beliefs
which have imprisoned
for so very long..
beliefs of locations
and of timespans
which have locked
the doors of access to
our infinite blue sky..

freedom awaits
as in hasty fashion
we release the hold
of stifling beliefs
and sink into the blue..
then from the viewpoint
of an infinite self
we understand that
the doors were never
closed...

"If the doors of perception were
cleansed everything wold appear
to man as it is: infinite."
~~William Blake

betterdays May 2014

ok so thats new.....

a new piece to my mothers
puzzle....
rather frank and bewildering conversations.

this one regarding ***...
one will admit....
very disconcerting over a breakfast of muesli and cheerio's

her  " your father enjoyed ***, me not as much, i often
just lay there and let him get on with it...it was over quickly enough"

me  reeling internally,
you must understand my mother, the epitome of the straitlaced woman,
sent me to the doctor,
with a group of my peers for 'the talk'.

"oh, um...did you see the whales"

her  " he never forced me tho, he was polite not just any good at it all fumbling and grunting...i don't think
i orgasmed once"

me   * dumbstruck

her*  " after he left, i only had *** once more,
it was so much better...
it was as much about me,
as him.
i orgasmed then...
it was nice.....
but he was married."

me .... who?

her " i suppose it doesn't matter now.
mr clement, bob,
he used to bring the rabbits
and vegies from the farm.

me  "oh.... him" remembering a short statured,  swarthy man
with a kind nature...
and big hands

her  "after that...
i did for myself,
much easier allround..
*** is important in a marriage....good for communicating.
you and ben,
seem to do alright .......

me  " thanks for breakky
mum must get on."

i am so very sure,
i don't want to discuss
my sexlife, as good and rich as it may be.....
with my up till now, prudish
85 year old mother...

even if she,
finally,
wants to talk to me,
about ***..

just way too....disconcerting.

new and a little freaky weird
too many images flooding my brain......

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson May 2014

December 15th, 2011...C.H

Dust flies from the rotation of an oscillating fan
Its pale fragments coat and clothe the semblance of man.

Wake up, broken dreams, bounce forward out of stasis, collectively dropping down to the focal point of races, all they see is shades of grey, a blurry bunch of victimless prey, spectrum free skin, to make all akin.

In the midst of all that spin, they packed fiberglass in the tin. Walked out last, a fetish for the past. Drooling blood, it’s a wretched flood. Life’s passing by, wrapped in a papist lie.

The winged are envious of a capability to fall; they haven’t gone high enough to pivot and stall.

Diluted folks talk in statured forms, learning off of intelligible norms. Baptizing a culture of youth, in the blood shed by imagined truth. Cultivating a guilty conscience, in those stuck with the deceit of providence.

His name is hollow and shrewd; in fact, it’s quite misconstrued. Supposed valleys jumped in leaps and bounds, factual evidence’s show only bodies left in heaps and mounds.

Where the broken lay, you may be sure He paved the way.
...................................................................................................................................
"Clouds and darkness round about him: righteousness and judgment the habitation of his throne."

Izzy Jul 2017

Screams of Silence

That girl
That
Hazel eyed
Brown haired
Big hearted
Small statured
Young lady
Screams
Screams so loud that not even the wrappers of half eaten snicker bars of her room can hear the shrieking of
terror
Sadness
Hopelessness
The shrieking of that girl
That
Fat assed
Gluttonous
Out of order
Confused
Young lady
Devours
Devours only to shove her hand down her throat in attempt to get rid of that monster that eats at her every living moment
That girl
That
Calorie counting
Food obsessed
Good for nothing
Bulimic
Young lady
Screams screams of silence
For every
Cut
Bruise
Scratch
Burn
Of this relentless hell.
-I.I

This isn't a new poem- I wrote this a while ago but at the moment I don't have new poetry.

Hope you enjoy!

#bulimia #sad #depression

Guadalupe S Partida Oct 2019

Crowns of Flowers (they prepare for their dead)

They pick circular crowns of flowers
recalling their loved ones’ favorite colors and their quirky inclinations to dress using a certain shade of green or purple.

Lulu died as a baby so, her mom,
my aunt Hermelinda and Lulu’s younger sister Licha add her to the list of people that need floral crowns while counting relatives on their fingers.

Generations of loved ones equate to my small statured aunt, taking multiple trips from the florists’ shop to her car.

#diadelosmuertos #dayofthedead

matthew scott harris Jun 2020

Hypothetically, what if I (a born again atheist)...

tentatively took page from playbook of devout believers...

Allowing, enabling, and providing
cautious optimism to abound
thus easing grief instead
reason to rejoice found
once corpse cremated
or buried underground.

Whereby reincarnation will eventually...
mitigate grief otherwise...
mind numbing skull will experience
shell shock twill forever stun

unable to square circle
defying reality analogous to accept flying nun
(matter of fact) reunite each loved one,
thus resisting automatic reflex against secularism
just for fun.

Bidding thy nonagenarian
papa permanently farewell...
tis no rhyme nor reason
for me to cry inconsolably
versus ruminating diametrically
opposed outlook pray tell.

How bittersweet mortality doth taste
grievance especially unpalatable,
when existence of
Boyce Brandon Harris erased,
whereby fading memories
offer small consolation baste
within the noggin of his sole sun
twice orthodontically braced.

I still remember, when ye shlepped me
to Lancaster Cleft palate clinic
(mother came along for the ride;
plus she enjoyed stopping at Entenmann's
Exton, Pennsylvania location)
splurging for sweet tooth.

Doctor Mazaheri (small statured)
(a renown prosthodontist)
fitted yours truly for speech appliance
to rectify submucous cleft palate -
a bony defect in the midline
or center of the bony palate

imparted nasal twang
pronouncedly noticeably distinct
mutation genetically bequeathed
middle offspring born this way
offering yet another defect
whereupon token scapegoat
opportunistically targeted by bullies.

Twilight (zone) of your life
metaphorical draws curtain call
concomitantly ushering
remembrance of things past.

Recapitulation of most salient sunny events
fondly recalled mostly boyhood circumstances
many incorporating Lilliputian Matthew Scott Harris
forever jinxed (think hoisted by his own petard)
thus **** of jokes and laughingstock
among madding crowd.

Alas, methinks how robust, intimidating
and indomitable dad appeared
when yours truly a wee lad
undersized even now as an elder statesman (ha)
still the runt of rat pack

(though this measly once upon a time miserly
mousy man no pack rat)
matter of fact downsizes personal trappings
when I eventually make trek
across River Styx.

During interim (between now and then)
hope springs eternal
that suspended animation courtesy cryogenics
will halt biological aging (particularly mine)
preserving till end of time

freeze frame where mise en scène
retaining vestigial said countenance
portraying boyish looking good (older) fella
until peace on Earth
and good will to all men/women prevails.

I thaw (ought) how grand
to donate and/or repurpose body
as science fiction becomes reality,
where mise en scene art becomes life
cessation of senescence held in check
once defunct corporeal edifices

gentrified to instill longevity
twerking, seeding, pollinating...
**** sapiens fostering civilization
to take root across solar system and beyond
sphere where sunlight doth bathe bedlam.

— The End —