Best 11Th Grade Poems | Poetry

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The Best 11Th Grade Poems

 
Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

You are more than what eyes can see

You are not what they think of you,
Your heart doesn't change when your hair gets hue.

You are not the fashion trend you follow,
You are above perceptions which are hollow.

Your bright lipstick is just an accessory,
It shouldn't change due to sarcasm or decree.

Your tone shouldn't overrule your statement,
Your no is denial and your yes is the agreement.

Your smile is mere happiness, not a proposal,
Your stands in an argument are views, they don't make you unfilial.

Your body is a sheath for your soul,
You must never accept judgements for a part or the whole.

For, you are precious and a blessing on the earth,
Nobody can do your job and can ever fill your dearth.


Copyright © Deepika Srivastava | Year Posted 2018

Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Love is a bond

Love is the confluence of two peoples,
this bond is of two relationships,
one is way and one is the destination.
One of the hearts of both heart beats.
This is the bond of all their births.
Love is the confluence of two peoples,


Copyright © Kishan sharma | Year Posted 2018




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death of a christian science English teacher

i remember well the name of my 11th grade English
teacher---
Ms. Tominson,
who had been rumored to have given
some of her students
fellatio, during the time when she wasn’t lecturing on
Shakespeare---
perhaps it was the passion in her that
let her go wild after hours,
drinking with her teen pupils &
then sucking them dry---
but what led to her decent into
christian science,
one may never know---
it was a part of her life kept secret,
an insanity that only she knew &
when she fell down her stairs
(or so we were told),
she refused medical treatment,
lying in bed, unable to move,
hoping, no doubt,
for “the good lord’s guidance”---
but it never came,
um, pssst…..
(whispering) because “he” never does
&
she died TWO MONTHS LATER.

when her death was made known to us
over the loudspeaker,
in early morning home room,
those who had been rumored to have been 
pleasured by her,
had conflicted feelings, 
because though they still wanted blowjobs,
they were sad to see her go,
for she was, after all, a good teacher &
a fun person,
despite having been brainwashed by the 
absurdity of Eddy.


Copyright © andrew delapruch | Year Posted 2013

Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Life:Real or taught


He wakes up,
He brushes his teeth,
Just because it is like that for years,
Not for a mouth neat .

Heads embedded in books,
He mugs up the scraps,
Just rot learning,
No practical mind.

He walks towards success,
Through the thorny struggle paths,
Avoiding the smart smooth route,
Cause thats what he is taught.

A dash of failure,
Makes him cry,
Taunts of folks around,
Refuse him to try.

Already in love,
His heart is retained,
But he cant go ahead,
It spoils the society's name.

He runs behind money,
Working as an ass,
Serving as an slave,
Treated as trash.

He lives the life,
The society wants him to,
His dreams dont matter,
But the madcaps do.

Continues the cycle,
Peddled by the guild,
Not his future,
But the society's he'll build.
                  - Kedar K


Copyright © Kedar kate | Year Posted 2018

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Instagram

As I am lying down in bed alone
my spiritless body rolls in bed and 
once again I reach out to my smartphone 
I click an app and see someone blond. 

On busy schedule, I always 
check Instagram on a daily basis. 
And I always see your face every day 
Your posts fantasizes like an oasis.

I wonder if you look at my pictures 
and hesitate on liking my photos
I wonder if you see me in features 
My heart broke down when I changed my bio 

I'm always drowning in a square ocean.
In your Instagram with emotion.


Copyright © Golden Closet | Year Posted 2018

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Pride or love

A girl whose beauty springs from her heart-,
her image in the album of my mind-
is like a golden waxing moon
exhaling torrent of light into a river,
but she in her real self is my love,
this is us in the planet of joy.
.
.
We shared poems to share joy,
but hers clinged to my heart.
with a promise of an eternal love,
which her words inscribed in my mind,
like the golden tears pouring into the river,
from the meek eyes of the moon.
.
We once sat under the moon,
with the golden light wetting us with joy.
You talked and poured an endless river-
of bliss and tranquility into my heart,
you have cleared the field of my mind-
and planted roses of love.
.
But now that I am for you, oh love-
why have you erased my pride? like the moon
that vanish at the birth of the sun. My mind
used to caress pride with joy-
but now that love is in my heart
I have lost my pride's river.
.
You spat into me like a dirty river-
because I am now enslaved by love
which govern the realm of my heart,
like over the night does the moon,
but I will enjoy the slavery with joy
and erase every pride from my mind.
.
It took me a while to cast away my mind
from pride's river,
although it seem like I was loosing my joy-
but much joy I now will receive from love,
So let me write a poem to you under the moon,
to tell you that love is better than pride in my heart.
.
My heart wont hold pride and love-
so let me accept love for it is a moon in the river
of my mind. oh my dear, be my joy.


Copyright © Ibrahim Clouds | Year Posted 2018

Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Social media

We walk around faceless, nameless
doing whatever we want, shameless.
Nothing ever changes
140 characters to spark outrages

Can’t flip pages online 
but we can sure as hell
act like we’re “trying”
to make the world a little less colder
but everyone’s judging
over one another’s shoulders

Boast and repost
everyone’s at each other’s throats
but who really cares the most?
We’re all behind screens
nobody knows what anyone means
relationships bursting at seams
families torn apart.

Is the best interest
really in our heart of hearts?
Keyboards fueling fires
that didn’t need to burn
when the **** will we learn
to let it all be
and be the best version 
of ourselves the world really needs?


Copyright © Amelia Josephie | Year Posted 2018

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My Jiggling boobs

since maintaining a diet 
of exercise heeding "yo dude" 
(you look like a lady)
the inner fitness maven against 
the temptation of high caloric junk food 

and nightly snack king 
on a flexible fitness routine, 
this LIX aged body electric feels good
these myopic eyes and 

well-calibrated hands measure less dense hood- 
winking bosom, that if I feigned being 
a "bared naked lady" - 
as per this chest lewd

city in reference to "man boobs" 
that seemed to materialize overnight 
now appear to decrease as well 
that unwanted "love handle, 

this chap more inclined 
tubby in a greater mood 
to parade around 
this noncrowded house shirtless 
AND definitely NOT in public, 
BUT no weigh Jose 
would this generic guy go completely nude
cuz being self-consciousness of my physique 
might prompt outsiders 

to consider me a prude
and even during closed bedroom door 
sexual exploits deter me tibia rude
fellow (with average go daddy long legs) 
and my dangling dipstick smallish 
(concluding biology screwed)
a chap worthy tube he more endowed,

though gratitude proffered
to same divine cosmic consciousness
but as the year's pile up appreciation 
of functional faculties alter matts' at tee 'tude
accepting physical characteristics 
more or less static 
hoe ping belive mass elf ya wood.










Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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A Civil Soldiers Tale

"Lie still now, soldier", the Union General said,
As he knelt down beside the boy’s bloody, wounded head.
The dying young lad, no more than fifteen, if a day,
Wore the blight of cannon, and being in its way.

The General swallowed hard, to fight back the pressing tears, 
Before he gazed upon his soldier, now less limbs and gear.
"Is it b-bad?" the soldier asked, in a voice filled with fear. 
"Not at all,” the General lied, knowing the boy had not a prayer.

"You’ll soon be headin’ home," he continued in a whisper.
"Back to your mammy and your pappy, and your favorite dog, Kipper."
The soldier forced a smile and then closed his swollen eyes,
"Why Sir, I think I see them! Looks like ma baked me two pies."

The General shuddered knowing, the lad's folks died years ago,
And the dog named Kipper-- killed in an avalanche of snow.
He only knew these things, since he had taken the boy in,
As this dying soldier's father had been the General’s next of kin.

"This bloodshed has to stop" the General groaned and shook his head,
"Did our boys grow up together just to shoot each other dead?"
"Must be something I can do!" he shouted, rising to his feet,
To be silenced by a bullet as it grazed across his cheek.

The soldier took a breath, his head fell back- eyes open wide.
The General took his sword and laid it by the boy’s side.
"Go now, son," he said, "back to those you love,"
"And give them my regards; in fact give your pa a shove."

Sudden, in the distance, he heard another soldier’s cry,
"The South just surrendered as stated by a Union spy!”
The General stood up slowly and brushed off his dusty knees,
Wiped away a single tear, returning to his company.


Copyright 2006/Shirley Petrandis


Copyright © Shirley Petrandis | Year Posted 2018

Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I Am Young

There has to be a time
There has to be a place
Where the world turns around
And sees itself face to face
There has to be some “way”
That the colors will never fade
A time when the young can be alive

The sun sets on the water
And I try to understand
How anyone could love this world
When they can’t even give a hand

I am young, I know
But I will never grow
If they cannot let me go 
If they will not let me go

There has to be a time
There has to be a place
Where girls become women
And boys turn into men
These feelings inside of me 
Will never be set free
If they lock me behind a door
And throw away the key

I am young, I know
But I will never grow
If they cannot let me go
If they will not let me go

There has to be a time
There has to be a place
When they have to let me go

- Published Fenton Independent 11-3-82


Copyright © Chris Hagy | Year Posted 2018

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Think Spring

Now, unlike my usually trenchant literary librettos, i regale the unknown (tum me) reader for savoir faire articulation, elocution, and indomitable tour de force proffered by spectrum of bounteous expropriated hegemony rightful to Mother Nature. 
--------------------------------------------------------
A Place Revisited Within The Mind
(an illusory escape during dead of winter).
 
The shafts of a golden veil, spring sun at noon
break through the heavily coated
overgrowth of leafy foliage
and cause shadows spar upon forest floor.

In a field of wild
a mosaic of crystalline color
from prismatic play of sunshine
upon the silently talking heads
of the swaying stalks.

the scintillating and sparkling rays
in unison with the weft
(and warp across an invisible loom)
weaves a delicious tasting warm breeze,

(which sways the boughs of treetops to and fro,
akin to an unseen baby being cradled)
brings a ladled spate of cool freshness
from the map-cap world (webbed wide)
of a manmade existence.

The grandeur of the fallow spring meadow
a pageant of exquisite dignity
by the graceful movements
from the un-choreographed fall and rise
of the unplowed acres

eyes orbit, ear re: Canal,
and twitching nostrils of sensate beings
to the mellifluous sounds
and sweet smelling aromas
that gently teasingly assault the senses
beguiling the sight,

and lulling ears into a transcendent state.
A buoyant airy tonal plume
rises into the surrounding heights
touches the breadth of cerulean sky
and scythe lent lee gently tumbles back down
like a merry widow waltzing flowery water fall.

In quiet circumspection 
the antics sans plethora of buzzfeed ding
busily buzzing foraging insects,
which contentedly hum and alight nearby

flitting to and fro
oblivious to plaudits encore
harmoniously thriving 
within the living laboratory

of Mother Nature,
sans, Insects or Insecta are by far
count as the largest group of
hexapod invertebrates
within the arthropod phylum,

where simultaneously
underneath the earthen surface
the ground tis abustle with
glorious heart throb

of one micro universe
comprising architects, builders and weavers
engage in all manner
of natural devices for a livelihood.

This brilliant splendor tantamount
to top notch operatic performance,
a sensational visual and audiological feast
hypnotizing one humble human (me)
into an inebriated state of bliss.


Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Social-Pity

Social Pity
Upon the land of which we hate others
of a mirror of ourselves
we destroy ourselves
humanity is a mirror of this truth
take a look
beyond the facades
can you see
thats where the truth lies
beneath the surface
people fear
the change they cant handle
so dwell among the surface they will
as others dwell deeper
those are the hope for human kind
my hope for them have not died
but day by day it grows a slimmer chance
the distruction of mankind
will be their own ignorance
and fear
may their minds rest
and be of peace
till the choice is of time
where the scale may tip
of opposing favors
for that is the truth of humanity pitifulness may shine
till then
go of peace


Copyright © Raiven Everett | Year Posted 2018

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My Self-Communing Silence


Relate to me with not one word of sorrow,
As from some timeless lay,
Regale me with a numinous poetic theme
That shall take me faraway!
O’ forespeak to me no form of darkness,
That may lie beyond my sight,
Nor utter thus to me of life’s nearing end
To time’s everlasting flight!

Address me not with one fallacious word,
Nor vocals of dispute,
Reply to me only with the purist of truth
That no one can refute!
O’ thus retell to me from the ethereal verse,
As God I then may hear,
For I wish only the sacred prose of Heaven
To fall upon my ear!

Speak to me no despairing words of sorrow,
Nor one single utterance of pain!
I beseech ye!
Sound gently now, upon this burdened soul,
As the drops of summer rain!
O’ or leave me to my self-communing silence,
Lest all madness be unfurled,
For it is difficult to hear the muse of harmony
Through the discordance of this world!


Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2018

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death

DEATH

HE ROAMS AROUND SUCKING SOULS DRY
CUTTING THROUH TH FACE OF THE EARTH
HE OCCUPIES THE DARK RUINS OF HELL
HIS THE BROTHER OF LIFE
A SON DEVOTED TO EVIL
KILLING HIS BROTHER
TAKING HEIR TO THIS CORRUPT THRONE OF THIS WORLD

HE LOOKS AFAR AT WHA SINS LIFE HAS MADE
AND SILENTLY HE LAUGHS
CURSING THE RIGHTOUS AND MERCIFUL
BUT FOR THEM COMES 
A HAEVEN ,GLORIOSE THEN ANY PARIDISE
FOR THE POOR BECOME RICH
AND SORROWS BECOMES JOY

LIFE DEFIRES DEATH
AND BANNISHES HIM IN THE BOTTOMLESS DARK PIT
WHERE HE SHALL SIN NO MORE


Copyright © thabiso xulu | Year Posted 2018

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'Tis The Gift To Be Simple

The Valley Of Love And Delight':

An anniversary feting mine birth (date),
a plan we almost didst ditch
nonetheless the general game plan 
soared like an Eagle,
and went off swimmingly (into a dive)
hence we chose Wegman's with doll finned porpoise
minus a sue per stevedore tailored hitch

cuz the China Jade restaurant
near Collegeville Redner's
nearly felt cold as ice dining niche
as if we accidentally 
got highjacked to Siberia
where heat took precedence

verses restaurateur eatery reputable pitch
thus despite praise worthy Yelp reviewers,
whether they be named Poe or Rich
hard, earning their keep whose fingers

hut till lee diploid across 
warp and weft to stitch
together disparate threads
weaving a webbed whirled Magnum Opus
where thoughts analogous

to this aspiring paperback writer exerts,
(whose muscles twitch)
in an attempt for phalanges
tortured as going every which

way with to craft a non ode us paean
from deep within thy bowel
applying me magical diving rod –
essentially a computerized dowel

which makes a dinging sound,
or emitting an odor most fetid and fowl
unintentionally inducing creatures
large and small to howl
at the abominable cursing and swearing
using languages that lack a vowel

sound - clouding ability to communicate
to remain steadfast 
with intent thwarted by (third eye blind)
minor detour of fate

three doors down and celebrate modestly, 
NEVER thought to "FAKE" 
forgo wing NOR deferring
time to be spent with 
a gluten and MSG free 

NON GMO endearing sibling
NO whey iz she dee snide dour twisted sister
hood moost likely become irate
invested in marriage to a loving mate.





Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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Total Time I Spent In Dental Chair Post Adolescence To Present Age second appointment

some agents provocateur didst maim
self-acceptance, and (found thyself 
as a boyish twenty something
weathering onset of gum recession, 
maxillofacial surgery, impressions, 
xrays galore, scaling) 

necessitated (score years later) urgent intervention 
i.e. treatment plan under auspices 
re storied name
University of Pennsylvania 
Dental School to mitigate malady 

entailed every last tooth plucked with ease 
since no other recourse could tame
accompanying jaw bone loss, 
which destabilized rootless choppers,
and despite the state of the mind turning to pulp 
(this haint no “fiction, nor FAKE)

thus I acknowledge sincere gratitude thru poetic aire
for the entire fleet of dental students, 
and staff that didst care,
who assuaged distress, exceeding the best expertise flair

which eventually warranted being fitted for dentures here
bringing an exemplary end result 
encompassing yours truly writing in his lair
after about a dozen years encompassing 

so many wing (bitten) angels far and near
across webbed wide world to help repair
chronic distress minimized now, cuz there
prevailed the most blessed delight 
when Medicare picked up the tab
now smile more willingly with artificial dental wear.







Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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Dear Miss Bully

She looks in the mirror
I tell her she's ugly,
She puts on a dress
I say that she's fat
She tells me her problems
I say to leave me 
She puts down her blade 
I pick it up back
Everything good 
I snatch it away 
But I feel no qualm 
At least not today 
For one thing I know 
Forgive me she will 
She has a huge heart 
Too big for stand still 
Broken like glass 
Alone she stands 
A victim she is 
A bully I am 
No I am not proud 
Of what I have done 
For I am a bully
And victim in one 



Copyright © shabana hunte | Year Posted 2018

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Words

What lies between, bears the truth. 
The words that are never spoken.
The promises made that are broken.
Certainty- but an illusion. 
As is love.
Truly unseen, but for what the heart beholds,
And to what life dares unfold.
Voiceless grievances veiled behind smiles.
Manufactured stories,
Designed to manipulate,
Easy to articulate.
Deceptive just the same.
Innocence lost in a whisper,
A play of words,
Intent deferred,
And decisions made in the heat of it all.
Arguments ensue,
From far-reaching points of view.
Misunderstandings- many,
As the answer escapes the question,
Devoid of reverence and definition.
You want for something more,
A validation for your persistence,
Confirmation of your existence. 
Yet, you hear only what you choose.
All of which you stand to lose.
Somewhere therein lies the truth.
For it’s only when you can close your eyes,
And hear the music within the silence,
That you will know your word’s true meaning.

Shirley Petrandis©2006


Copyright © Shirley Petrandis | Year Posted 2018

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If I were that rose

If I were that rose
[purple]from the breath of may,
I would preach love
not the blood of heartbreaks.

If I were that rose
my necter I shall give freely,
and not as a loan
given to the poor out of greed.

If I were that rose
by the horizontal splashing of water,
I will not tell the folks-
that ponder the scene of me and the ocean's shower,
about the storms and troubles of the sea-
but of the enjoyment of the beach.

If I were that rose-
alone amidst a battalion of Aphids,
my redness will glow-
to say my prayers- oh God help me.

If I were that rose-
dreading the claws of spider mites,
I would use my shadow-
to scare away the enemies might.

If I were that rose-
in the hazy wind of harmmatan,
I would put on a coat-
of hope, without yearning for a cardigan.
for yearning is the root of pain
and attraction takes sanity away.

If I were that rose-
wilting in the hands that pluck me,
I would bear no sorrow-
but let death deal gently with me.

If I were that rose-
that left behind not a single seed,
I would relax my brows-
for in many hearts my soul will live.

If I were that rose-
in the dualities of life,
I would welcome both-
the eas and the strife.

©®Ibrahim Clouds(SWC).


Copyright © Ibrahim Clouds | Year Posted 2018

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Gravitation Defied

Even now, Pigeons stool surprised 
     while ensconced in dovecote
whose twittering translated as coo coo not bright
asper Icarus aiming for mythic cull magic did excite
     popularized notion to take winged flight

And for twenty first century mortal to wax poetic  
     this January 2018 bitterly, brutally day and night
Stymied sans principle 
   contradicted laws of Physics 
   soaring to limitless height
Away from temporal axon light

Into the infinite cosmic dendrite
Realization to soar above heavenly vault 
      spectacular sight
Brainchild of anonymous genius minds 
      left stratospheric legacy 
     To witness awesome might
break away, sans gravity 

     tacit Obeisance acknowledged 
     this hundred year plus anniversary
     Aero planes success got off the ground
     Pardon saying may come across as trite
More than a century elapsed 
   since machines first attempt to remain aloft
     Man made invention glittered silvery white

Beauty, grace and poetry in motion 
     excises Luddite trace
     Despite countless fatal crashes 
     Tragedy to those loved ones lost in fiery plight
Invisible ethereal essences dwell 
     and hover some place 
     Occupy a netherworld housed 
   with fellow nymph and sprite

Return to Earth to deliver miracles 
   and prevent near disasters
Although many a skeptic 
   may ascribe phenomena to luck despite
Angelic visage impossible to dispute quite.


Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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Karma

I tie myself to you
But the ropes begin to burn our skin…
I hold you above the water,
But my grip begins to slip…
I try to save you from you’re a demons,
Though I’m a demon myself. 
My meaningful words,
That I so often come across 
Of I love you
Begin an avalanche 
Of distress and misery.


Copyright © Lukas andrew | Year Posted 2018

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You Used To Be

 You used to be mine. You used to be my only one. You used to be my love. You used to be my lover. You used to be my knight in shining armor. You used to be my prince. You used to make me happy. You used to made my day. You used to be on my side. You used to be my favorite. You used to be my treasure. We used to wake up in bed and say "I love you baby, only you", and with a kiss on my lips. We used to celebrate our anniversary. We used to be crazy with each other. We used to love one another. We used to be so close to perfect as a couple. We used to be a couple. You used to be my happiness. You used to be mine, but now you leave. You left me broken in pieces. You broke me like a promise. You used to be my everything, but now everything has changed.


Copyright © Allaika Mae Igot | Year Posted 2018

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Fanaticism Runs Poetically Amok As Pseudo Tribalism village two

Case in point comprises emotional state of euphoria 
would deafeningly, definitely, deliciously get 
frenziedly expelled from stadium. Roe ting for 
“our boys” packing every last seat in the bleachers 
all manner of humankind would (during lulls) 

Instagram, Kindle, Messenger, Outlook, Quicken, 
Snapchat, Twitter. Santander, Verizon,Wells Fargo 
might be sponsors for major competitive challenge. 
Zero tolerance imposes winning at all costs versus 
grievous miserable rapacious violent yawping 

linkedin loss outcome of sporting events. Under
stand able home team owns an advantage (true 
for rival players on their turf) predicated on avid 
loyal fans boosting morale from family members, 

friends, neighbors, et cetera. The ear splitting 
roaring cheering hoopla emanating from spectators 
(housed in relatively close proximity to handsomely 
paid putting Pontius Pilate and bad ass Brutus brutes 

rolled into one mean human fighting machine. 
This previous comment meant as an honorable 
kickstarter, hyperbolic endearment. My humblest apology 
if said statement misinterpreted as a NON off fence sieve 

strong moderate slight against any creed, race, religion, 
et cetera. I merely sought an analogously effective 
impact asper these hypothetical Popeye muscle 
bulging arms length professional athletes plush residences 

lodged in general metropolitan area to rubber baby 
buggy bumper screaming banshee spectators. A 
winning score affiliated with bruising, cutthroat, 
dynamo...fierce-some giant, heaving, indomitably 

jinxed, “killer” macho no nonsense, outlandish packed 
quintessentially robust searing troopers translates 
into utter screaming, quaking outrageous merciless 
krazy individuals generating ecstatic cacophony 


Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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Ansley Piper Dunning

(this written about a baker's half-dozen years ago)

this then stunning lithe oldest teenage niece, daughter of
my younger sister epitomizes a tall drink of water
(similar to the mother at same age)
What with her willowy young woman body
brimming with budding potential 
   for breath-taking beauty
enhanced by her quiet mien

expressing itself thru exemplary 
   artistic and literary flair
if asked to draw a character sketch anime 
   or wax poetic she would demure
modesty restrains her 
   acknowledging creative talents
so I thought to compose an ode in praise

of this quiet-natured adolescent 
   teetering on the brink of adulthood
(now a glowingly radiant young woman)
evolving positive qualities 

   via submittable the strength of said sibling
whose ambitious parents embarked to Spain
late summer found them 
   bound for the Iberian peninsula

this brother suppresses 
   envy adventurous bold risk-taking
exposing offspring to world wide web of Europe
fostering cultural awareness represents continuity
for I remember this youngest sibling 
   as gently conniving for courage
to act on her je nais sais qua esprit de corps

as like an inner divining rod 
   and faith in self-enabling an exemplary example 
of motherhood constituting
both this and Marleigh 
   (the second of deux whip-smart darlings)
with the world at their fingertips as hands-on learning
all the while insinuating courage 
   to take life by the red dee bull horns!??


Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

Details | 11Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

World wonder

Wolrd wonder that you are,
You boast with so much beauty
Stolen from others but put into good use
You're gods right hand woman
You're flesh full of life for everyone
You're a spectacular showdown
You spark fireworks for the universe
The world is in wonder still

World wonder that you are,
When you move you leave trails of love
Your steps are friendly to the earth
The soil feels sponge in contact with your feet
Your smile can stop any war of the world
Your eyes are too much for mankind
The corners of your mouth are perfect parabolas
When they stretch they cast the devil out in any man

World wonder that you are,
Your whole body is a castle,
Your voice must be commanding like royalty
Your brains should be snow white,
No wicked thoughts about them

World wonder that you are,
I see life forms in the color of your eyes
I see survival in the curves of your body
I see nature springing out of you
I see clear future in your reflection.


Copyright © Treasure Nkosi | Year Posted 2018