Best Boy Poems
I wish to claim
My boyness
My yesterday sillyness
Innocent shyness
My crinkled nose grininess
That hide and seekiness
Spin the bottle
kind of geekiness
Getting caught
My hand in the cookie jarness
That pushing too farness
Collecting comic charminess
Pulling pigtales
Stolen kisses
Hidden playboy kinda business
Cop a feel inquisitiveness
Being a bit
Self conscience
A true life witness
Loving the mysterious
Laughing more than being serious
Feeling delirious
Not afraid
Somewhat curious
Wondering
About adultness
What it was all aboutness
Thinking that it leads to freeness
I'd know just how to be-ness
Eating what I want
Staying up late kinda keeness
Now I wonder
What was the rushness
To reach adultness
Full of it's doubtiness
What's it all aboutness
I witness it's dreamlessness
It's no longer about me-ness
More mundane
To much saneness
Routine and sameness
No one cares if you cameness
Less is less
And more is moreness
Can't see the trees
Through the dark forest
So grab onto your girliness
I'll bring my boyness
There will be more
Way more
Yesirey
Hotdigity
Joyousness
No more boringness
We'll spin in circles
Enjoy our dizziness
After all
Having fun
Is a serious business!
For Nina Parmenter’s Tongue Twister Contest.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing it.
Gary, you are my little soldier boy,
who died on Veteran's Day. ('83)
My sunny, golden-haired soldier boy,
that I still miss in every way.
You had just turned 13,
getting interested in girls.
When CF took you from me,
my heart, like a flag, unfurled.
You fought CF with every breath.
For 13 years you tried.
And four lung collapses later,
after each one, I said,
"Son, you will survive."
Oh, how I lied!
Now, no more hugs and kisses,
No more birthday wishes,
I watched you go
and please God know,
Heaven, receive my treasure.
Author Note: This poem was written in memory of my son, Gary,
who died of Cystic Fibrosis at 13, in 1983. I honor my soldier who so valiantly
fought his fight on the battlefield of a life threatening lung disease, which fills the lungs with sticky mucus and makes it difficult to breathe. With all CF children,
they struggle with every breath they take just to breathe! My son eventually
started to have lung collapses. He had four before the last one took his young life on Veteran's Day weekend in 1983..(Read my poem "A rainbow Glitters")
I wouldn't be a poet today, if not for my son. He was diagnoses at age three.
As I sat by his hospital bed crying, I reached into my purse for a tissue, but
instead, I pulled out a pen. I thought to myself, "Ok, God, I get the message.
You want me to write and not cry." So I wrote my first poem that night, "Not
MY Son!" Which eventually got published in Elizabeth Kubler Ross' Book "On Children and Death." Later, I wrote humorous poems to entertain my son, who
was often to sick to go to school. And I'm still writing my poems today.
Oh Avi, Avi
Sometimes, with my eyes closed
I see you dance
A dervish, whirling, like me
And I wished
Oh how I wished you would
pirouette into my arms
You would hold me
How I would hold you
But my arms and yours
caught girls, alluring and delicate
Oh Avi, Avi
When you laughed
My stomach turned
And multi-coloured butterflies
And small flying kites
danced into the air
Occasionally you glanced at me
the way I did at you
I think you did
Oh Avi, Avi
We were so young
Just boys, small boys
Thinking about you still
makes my day smile
I wheel my chair
With light rhythmic movements
Dreaming about a time
Where I still had dreams
And you were in them
With our tights and muscular
Frames and our *****
Avi, oh Avi.
***
March 7, 2017
© Darren White
Playing at night on rocky ground, he sprained his foot.
He hobbled onwards careful where his foot he put.
The lonely shepherds had long returned to their sheep,
But he wanted to see before he went to sleep.
Shepherds said that angels sent them to the stable,
So he wanted to see all was not a fable.
The night was cold but he did not really mind,
What worried him was if he would manage to find,
The new born babe that promised peace and love to all,
So he entered quietly in the forlorn stall.
There in the half dark, dimly lit by an old oil lamp
Tiptoeing softly inside like some escaped tramp,
He saw two persons asleep, but in a cradle
He saw the sweetest babe: he felt so disabled.
The dim dark turned bright and sweet angelic voices
Turned the cold places in feelings of rejoices.
Afraid the lonely boy would not approach too near,
This king of king, was no fable and he felt fear.
The kindly woman woke and beckoned him to see,
Do not be afraid, come hither she said, It's He.
The boy hobbled slowly to the heavenly child,
Instinctively he kissed the new born babe who smiled.
One day I shall see this babe though I live so far
I'll know him for only he could possess the star.
I shall be a great fisherman and so I’ll know,
My name is John and with Him I shall always go.
27/12/2012
Placed 1
Nativity New Poems
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
He scooped and he packed
He rolled me good and round,
When all was done, I stood there
Only three feet off the ground
I had wondered why...
Why did this teenage boy,
Build me up this way
No bigger than a toy?
No bigger than his dog
In fact, we saw eye to eye,
I looked around for answers
And still I wondered why?
Then I came face to face
With an answer that was clear,
When the boy in the wheelchair
Slowly came rolling near
With his teenage brother
Lending him a helping hand,
He placed a smile upon my face
A smile so wide and grand
My eyes, two big buttons
From Grandma's sewing kit,
My scarf, one of their Dad's
Was striped and hand knit
From their Mom's kitchen came
My nose, a long gnarled carrot,
My arms, two maple limbs
From the family's tree I did inherit
My heart, warmed by the boy
The boy who could not walk,
His eyes laughed when he saw me
Though he could not even talk
No prouder stood a snowman
That towered, oh so tall,
Than me, the littlest snowman
The proudest one of all.
A quote from "90 North" by Randall Jarrell:
"I see at last that all the knowledge
I wrung from darkness -- that the darkness flung me --
is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness.
And we call it wisdom. It is pain."
The first bike I ever owned --
when I was ten or eleven --
was a Christmas gift
from a friend. He was receiving a new one
and I was gifted with his old bike.
He had cleaned it up and brush painted it
with a nice coat of red paint.
It was the only gift I got that year,
one of my only gifts as a child.
I loved that bike:
it freed me to pedal around so
I could accompany my friend
as we rode anywhere in our tiny,
sandy, two-paved-road fishing town.
Before the bike, I ran alongside him.
I was quite accustomed to running everywhere,
especially in summer, barefoot, usually shirtless.
Most years from first grade
until we were about twelve,
we spent our time together,
at his house or in imaginary jungles
or on wild, indian-infested wagon train trails.
We defended those trails from apaches
intent on taking our scalps.
Sometimes, on pirate ships, we manned canons
or forced reluctant traitors and mutineers
to walk the plank for failures and misdeeds.
We were never bored, usually outdoors.
On jungle safaris we were frequently attacked
by ferocious lions and tigers and
often captured by cannibal head-hunters
who put us into large pots to cook us
while dancing all around and brandishing
their spears. They sang or chanted
amazing, invented language repetitive
verses overloaded with frequent "ughs'
and tongue-twisting nonsense phrases.
His mother served us gallons of Kool Aid,
gave us snacks we ate with relish.
With a child’s trusting nature,
I hoped this could never end –
I felt secure in friendship and
apparent acceptance by
my friend’s parents. Of course,
things did change.
But..........I did not.
Not for a long, long time.
He was skipping along, swinging his arms and laughing
At what I don't know.
His grandmother, lagging a few steps behind, was laughing at him I suppose.
And I thought to myself, she loves him, she does,
This Beautiful Brown Eyed Boy.
He stopped when he got to the corner and waited for me to turn right.
A smile crossed his lips,
As he waved at me - at me and my shabby old car.
And when I had passed him, he started to prance quite merrily on his way.
This Beautiful Brown Eyed Boy.
The confidence of youth flowed joyfully through him,
Just looking at him made me smile.
And you know what I did? I pulled to the curb and parked my silly old car.
I watched for a while as he started to run and then charge on out of sight.
This Beautiful Brown Eyed Boy.
How old he was then, I'm really not sure, Maybe five, maybe six,
Not yet Seven.
But ageless his quest to embrace this life whatever might come his way.
A sadness crept into my heart just then for I knew life would never be fair to
This Beautiful Brown Eyed Boy.
It will be harder for him to be special. The color of his skin will not help.
I wish I could be there
To tell him be careful, stay safe in this white man's domain.
But maybe the people he'll meet in his life will let him be just who he is
This Beautiful Brown Eyed Boy.
This song, it is for you
Because my heart is singing
All that I feel is true
The happiness you’re bringing
Because my heart is singing
The sun is burning bright
The happiness you’re bringing
Chases away the night
The sun is burning bright
And though the nightmare lingers
Chases away the night
With friendly fiery fingers
And though the nightmare lingers
I shiver in your arms
With friendly fiery fingers
You keep me safe and warm
I shiver in your arms
You whisper in my ear
You keep me safe and warm
I want you always near
You whisper in my ear
The words that live within me
I want you always near
Two hearts, eternally
The words that live within me
All that I feel is true
Two hearts, eternally
This song, it is for you
***
1st place in contest Pantoum Poem,
Judged October 16, 2016
Watery eyed thoughts came,
Zap! Pow! a short circuited brain.
Inward turned burned ocular pain,
too many thoughts to restrain
I’m a cheap sheep making my mistakes again.
Smell my seared wool going down the drain.
Ba, ba, blackishly wishing I was right as rain.
Words accessed by my fingertips
help to quicken my sheepish heartbeat
Yet I bang on my keyboard, DELETE, DELETE!
Ripping out digital scores, sheet by sheet.
Never once listening to what other sheep bleat.
Instead I feel my brain draining
as my barnyard thoughts are straining
I can’t translate what they’re saying.
It sounds to much like blah blah complaining.
I’m watching you fake shepherd boy,
black sheep never sleep
into the darkness we’re destined to creep.
Sad sadistic secrets you’ve burdened us to keep
So we push our charred thoughts way down deep,
as we travel paths dangerous and steep.
Within the silence of the lambs,
you devilishly relish hearing us weep.
While I admire fleece as white as snow.
I’m not inclined to go where those sheep go.
Their path leads to your fictional rainbow.
They’re not safe just because they travel slow.
The True Shepherd wouldn’t lead them to and fro
I listen to my uneasy queazy feeling
and exit your proverbial row.
I wish I could stop them too
but, ba ba ba, to the slaughter they go.
For Wow Me Poetry Contest entered August 26, 2019.
Written August 21, 2019
Re-entered in John Hamilton’s N/A contest
Poor Little Boy Lost plays a game of peekaboo
Pretending everything in his world is well
Spoiled was his plan for organizing a coup
and now he hopes none of his friends can tell
that he's been evicted as some had predicted
Biding his time, twiddling his thumbs in a cell
The entry door is locked. It's safe and secure
He's a cast away... on the outside, looking in
How much longer can he possibly endure
Is Little Boy Lost maybe missing kith and kin?
No one is listening to his babble and prattle
He wears the sorrowful look of sad chagrin
There was another sighting, just yesterday
when again he knocked on the playroom door
Not being allowed entry is the price to pay
for returning seeking praise with another encore
Bitterness smolders inside the blighted apple
where the wiggling worm is rotting the core
He was dragged off stage by the dreaded hook
No longer can he read his script in the limelight
because of the low road and wrong turns he took
A playground should not be a place meant to fight
Kiddies there have been getting along very well
Apologies, Little Boy Lost should be made to write
His eyes, like cornflowers, are pretty blue.
From where I sit in back of class, I gaze
at his soft lips – two petals sweet with dew.
I think that I could stare at him for days,
imagining at least a hundred ways
to make him finally aware of me!
Oh, dreamy boy, please take the time to see
the girl whose heart begins to palpitate
when you look back at her – though randomly!
You’re keeping me too long in this dream state.
Feb. 8, 2022
Theme #3: Dreamy
For the D Forms - Dizain- Poetry Contest of Constance la France
I am a girl,
Everyone sees it.
I graciously accept the label,
Twirling in a girls spool,
And playing it up for others.
Sometimes I feel an itch,
In a place I can't reach.
There are times when it quells,
When my voice cracks,
And I am somewhere else.
Where my hair is to my neck,
And my voice bellows.
But I am brought back to reality,
Because I am a girl.
He comes out again,
Stilling me when girls are asked to line up,
Twitching when a teacher asks for a 'strong boy',
I hold him back,
A slap on the wrist,
A prisoner in a cell.
But in the deepest of my thoughts,
I am free,
Completely and utterly.
He is with me,
Unchained,
But it ends every morning I wake.
I step out of the shower,
Hair cascading down,
As I stand in front of my reflective captor,
A deep rumbling comes from inside me,
And he bubbles up to the surface,
Itching and scraping at my soul.
I claw at the confines of my chest,
And he bursts out like dynamite,
Sparks flowing,
Tingles of electricity follow my nerves,
And I truly see him,
Staring back at me,
He smiles softly and my eyes open wide,
The words linger on the tip of my tongue,
But they stay rooted in my brain,
As him and I both realize,
I am a boy.
Always Prepared
Ready
Freddy
The Untamed
Feral
Ferril
What’s in Frankie’s Pockets?
Frankie’s
hankies
Patriotic Guy
Yankee
Frankie
Of the highest Quality
Fraser’s
razors
Small Eater
Grazer
Frazer
The Warlock
Pagan
Fagin
The Brilliant One
Star Glow
Fargo
Something’s About to Happen to Him
Herald
Gerald
Poet
The bard
Gerard
The Mimic
Parrot
Garret
Who Needs Pudding and Pie
Georgie
Porgie
Good Grief!
Lordy,
Gordy!
Best Things in his Garden
Gerrett’s
carrots
The Stoic
Steely
Greeley
What People Always Say to Him
Really,
Greeley?
The Generous One
Sharin’
Garen
Thrill Seeker
Gnarly
Harley
So Angry
Snarly
Harley
Embittered
Soured
Howard
Not Brave at All
Coward
Howard
What’s in Henny’s pocket
Henny’s
Pennies
The Pest
Vermin
Herman
What Herman Gives Each Sunday
Herman’s
sermons
Why Can’t He Just Stay Home?
Roamer
Homer
Better Than Ice Cream
Sherbet
Herbert
Get Him Band-aids
Howie’s
Owies
Nonsensical
Phooey
Huey
Always Amazed
Wowie
Howie
The Overly Sentimental One
Gooey
Huey
He toddles toward the pebbles, tumbling the smooth stones over
in his four year old palms, rubbing them like Aladdin’s lamp, tossing
them back into the mix, impishly shining with the zest of a boy.
He sees the overflow of snowy petals, finds the lowest hanging
stem, the gardenia bends to touch his greenhorn nose. Forever
that scent will remind him of grandma’s garden like she remembers
the tubes of trumpet petals in her own grandparents’ backyard. A
twinkle of tremulous joy impacting the fingers of her and her siblings.
The rare treat of parties, the round table laughter, heartfelt antiquity.
The boy explodes from the bottom of the driveway into the steep
mossy front yard, feeling each measured bounce, ne’er a straight
path to the door, exploring the red and yellow roses, the crumbling
timbers, walking the wall, following scurrying lizards, stepping on
ants, a roving eye for the fearful red, yet no thought of turtle monsters
nor copperheads that have precariously occupied my property,
nor coyotes that have encroached the boundaries. Unboundless energy,
nerve, verve of a courageous man in the making, trampling his feet,
owning the property then oh so gently snapping a stem, handing
his childhood princess a gift, pulling strings of a puppet’s heart,
winding the twine like pulling in a windswept kite, ever learning
nuances of my mind, tucked away to love, rebell and trust.
6/1/19
Steps up to the mic and loses his cool
acts like a fool, way too cool for school
flunked out twice
wasn't raised to be nice
but you better believe he can pay the full price
with his back to the wall, he falls back on his own
just when everything blows
he's spitting lyrics so hard when it hits you
you know he does have some issues but that isn't the issue
its part of a plan
to be bigger than Stan, or a man who abandoned him when he was born
fatherless can't be stressed when he's reeling in all of the cash he can get
won't look back not the way
gone for now but to stay
won't leave us not today
he isn't going away
media says he is getting depressed but they only see lyrics
they don't see his feelings
don't you run now
you can only see how
a little support raised this kid to be a rap god who took an
a whole army and won
so don't say he's done because he's winning not won
and his song has been yet to be sung.