Best Muscled Poems
Ellie was just three months old,
When she was brought to our sanctuary,
A safe haven was our fold.
She was an orphan, her mother,
Her sister, her aunt, her brother,
All chased and shot, and left to die,
From our sad experience we knew,
That probably a foul mouthed,
Red faced, sun frazzled man
Whose muscled legs would look
Disgusting,
And who with red eyes bulging
Would say,
What a booty,
We have in the truck today.
He would generate an excitement,
Of the atrocity they had
Committed, saying they would
Receive a bonus this month
Added to their pay.
And what was their booty,
A truck full of tusks
Elephants killed when it
Was still light,
Until dusk
Too dangerous at night.
A war between poachers
And rangers
How could rangers,
Gentle souls, who loved animals,
Equal the poachers trained brutality,
Who had not a trace
Of humanity.
Baby Ellie
Was found,
Starving, scared and cold,
Somewhere in the African bush
Almost dead,
But she survived a shot to the head.
We had other young orphans,
They all would play
As baby elephants do,
And slowly Ellie became stronger.
Her mummy who faced
Horrific slaughter,
Would have been so proud of
Her daughter.
Rehabilitation was done,
It was both work and fun.
Eight months later we all
Thought that it was time,
For Ellie to be with her own kind,
And knew she would find
In the African bush, a new
Family who would care
And love her.
Clumsily she got into the truck,
Perhaps it was fear that
Brought the smell of death near,
Awkwardly.
And hesitantly she walked
Down the ramp,
A mama elephant spied her first,
And with their recognizable gait,
And heavy weight,
Walked to one another,
Swinging their trunks,
And so, they met,
And side by side they walked
To the nearby water pan,
Our hearts sang,
As Ellie turned and let out
A loud,
But proud,
Thunderous trumpet,
Thank you she meant,
I love you too.
Ellie had finally
Come home,
To her own.
Look, anyone can stick two words together and rhyme,
But you gotta have rhythm and you gotta have time,
And you gotta have the guts to put it all on the line,
And stand up to whole world though it might make you blind
You gotta bleed out your heart, you gotta pour out your soul,
You gotta speak with every single syllable that you know,
And there’s moments you’ll think that you’re apart from the rest,
Still trying and dying, giving it all of your best,
Until you’re out-hustled, out-muscled, and you’re up to your neck,
Until you’re thinking you should stop and maybe give it a rest,
But don’t give up yet, no this is only a test
To dig deep inside and until you out-rhyme the best
You gotta write ‘til you’re sick, you gotta write like He wills it,
Gotta take all of your anger to paper and spill it,
You gotta gather your emotion like and ocean and let it go,
There’s no stopping your hustle and there’s no stopping your flow
So get out there and show all of the people that dissed you,
And remind them of the time that they’re all gonna miss you,
When you’re up flying high and looking down to see
All the haters wishing that they were you but can’t be
So you gotta keep on going, holding onto this thing,
And don’t you dare let go no matter how hard it seems,
Just set it up in your mind and you can do anything,
Because it's all in your heart, boy, now just follow your dream.
Woman
legs ~ breasts ~ thighs
hips ~ lips ~ eyes
Man
strength ~ muscled ~ arm
masculine ~ grit ~ charm
Children
fun ~ run ~ toys
playful ~ girls ~ boys
Baby
cradles ~ diapers ~ cribs
sleepers ~ cryers ~ bibs
Grandparents
canes ~ glasses ~ walkers
old ~ wise ~ talkers
Family
fathers ~ sons ~ brothers
daughters ~ sisters ~ mothers
Six Word Couplet Series Encore Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
10/10/2018
The night I met him
Unknown to me
This knight of the dark
In blood lust spree
He takes me home
To his house on the hill
His handsome looks
My body thrilled
His long brown hair
Beautiful eyes
Body so muscled
The want of me cries
He holds me close
In adventurous roam
His hands hiking
He's sensing home
My clothes fall
In slow undress
My breasts bare
His hands caress
I feel his breath
Delight my nape
I feel him close
His manly drape
My body warms
I feel his bite
Tonight i'm his
In wanton excite
The wonderous sights
That picture my mind
With my knight of the dark
Away from my living kind
With him I will soar
In centuries we'll roam
Looking for maidens
To call our own
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-5.php
I love a sunburnt Aussie bloke, with great big, muscled arms,
His rugged well-built shoulders, and face with all its charms.
I love his thongs and singlet too, and stubby shorts you see,
His beer gut proudly hanging out, he is the one for me,
I love his Aussie greeting way “‘G’day mate” when we meet
His laugh so loud, make no mistake, you’ll know him in the street.
I love the Aussie Sheila too, she’s really trim and taught.
Long legs, tight skirt, big bust, great smile, a real good-looking sort.
I love her when she’s on the beach, bikini clad real brown,
Or when she meets her friends for lunch, all dressed up for the town.
I love her friendly way she says “G’day mate” when we meet
Her laugh so loud, make now mistake you’ll know her in the street.
I love an Aussie BBQ, with lamb chops, snags, and steak
And ‘Big Red’ sauce, a loaf of bread, some salads we do make.
I love the Aussie breakfast time with Vegemite on toast
Or Sunday lunch no better that an Aussie dinkum roast.
I love our wine and spirits too, but best is Aussie beer
It’s Fosters, Gold or Tooheys Blue, you won’t find soft drink here.
I love our sport, we watch a lot, of course we are the best,
We’re always fair, we understand, just better than the rest.
I love the Aussie rules we play, that’s football, not ping pong
And how the crowds call out real loud if the umpie gets it wrong.
I love the summer tennis too; it’s watched by young and old
Or a cricket match the Aussie way, dressed in the green and gold.
I love our patriotic style, the anthem that is sung
‘Advance Australia Fair’ I think, don’t know the words just hum.
I love our multi-cultural race, from lands quite near and far,
As a nation proud we do stand because that is who we are.
I love the freedom that we have, our wide brown land to roam
This place we call Australia; this place we call our home.
Wulf they called me; they called me
long ago, in track and fathered field,
muscled and thighed for the dash to kill
and share the beating blood, the quarry’s
stumbling heart
yet I have kin too, and brave the arrow
and shot you send; nay giddy lad your prey’s
yourself, in your eye’s window, and the wind of
fell and moor, bows to no man, no brother of the
cub, or sceptered raking horny club;
see tis the moment of wind, and bloody fur, that cuts
the screaming cat and rabbit to fearful death, and warms
the wormy hearth, the wulf-mother’s den; the spirit
so nourished yet rushes on, into the black minds of men.
She ran her finger through sun kissed locks
As he lay sleeping in her bed
His handsome face smiled in a dream
Her breasts the pillow for his head
How she wanted their night to last
But soon t’would be the break of day
When he would arise and then be gone
Her charm could not make him stay
But, oh how she did adore him
As she gazed at his muscled form
Even more than she loved his strength
Was his passion that took her by storm
She had lain often in this bed
With countless other horrid men
But none had ever touched her heart
As this man fast asleep right then
Earlier she’d once more asked him
That which would bring her wealth and fame
She asked as she slowly undressed
“Delilah, your question’s the same.”
“But, Samson if you do love me
You’ll share your secret that’s profound”
Then she molded herself to him
He couldn’t breathe or make a sound
He moaned as she touched and pleased him
But she knew timing must be right
Before she’d let him possess her
Her vict’ry had to be in sight
She called him in the grip of passion
“Your strength drives me insane
But, Samson, if I don’t know the secret
You’ll never touch me like this again”
His hair flowed down all about her
Curtaining all except his face
“You’ll always be mine, Delilah
My hair is my God given grace.”
Then she closed her eyes and let go
And they both tasted ecstasy
Now he lay spent on her full breasts
Would she let her strong man go free?
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Must you leave again?
Your strong, capable hands
rest naturally upon my
curvaceous hips
masculine against feminine.
My world explodes with your
seductive, electrifying touch
as your inquiring blue eyes
penetrate mine so deeply.
Knowingly, you scan every
inch of my body and face.
I melt, as your well formed
lips curve into a faint smile
as you explore with restraint.
My hands glide over your
tanned, muscled arms
feeling secure, as they
wrap around my small frame.
I silently plead, stay with me
always, and never let me go.
Must you leave again?
Written on 3/7/2016
CHARLIE'S CARTOON CHARACTERS
Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a far away land, in the land where Charlie lived, there was a group of cartoon characters who felt as though they were the greatest thing to come along since sliced bread was put on the market. They were truly a curious bunch of characters who could be seen on any given day careening down the thoroughfare on their coveted tricycles causing people to scatter for fear of being crushed by these cavorting crazies who carelessly chose to clutter up the sidewalkway and the crosswalk while practically choking with laughter.
From the other side of town, there came a handsome, muscled up soon to be champion of the people because he had come to clean up this careening group of cartoon characters and put Charlie in his place. This champion's name was Clint, as in Eastwood, but even more impressive. He came into town on his cherished red, white, and blue skateboard. Clint was on a crusade. Yes, he was certainly charismatic and rather charming with his crooked little curved lip smile and the cheroot cigar clamped tightly between his crystalline teeth. Well, his very appearance was enough to convince Charlie and his gang of cohorts to seek a change of scenery and move to an entirely different city. Clint never even had to get off of his skateboard except to convince a certain little campus cutie that he was to become her cherished companion and settle down in a clean little cabin on the corner of Clint Avenue and Colleen Boulevard. Yes, that is what the town folks named that location. Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that the little campus cutie was named Colleen. She and Clint are the proud parents of Curtis, Catherine, Constance, and two classy little girls named Jan and Andrea. They all live happily in Cunningham, Colorado. Cunningham is a little place named after a poet, Tom Cunningham. Tom and another noted poet named Bob Hinshaw help Clint maintain law and order as they sit around thinking up stuff to write for folks to read when they don't have anything better to do.
13 November 2018
For the contest sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
He was born too late to be,
What he knows he is in his soul,
And though he’s quite accomplished,
Sometimes he doesn’t feel quite whole.
He’s a lawman of sorts,
Born out of his time,
Trying to uphold basic beliefs,
As an example for others to toe the line.
And he rides an iron horse,
And though it’s not a muscled steed,
It gets him where he’s going,
Whenever there’s a need.
They say, sometimes he’s crazy,
Plumb out of his mind,
Searching, for something,
They say he’ll never find.
He rides the asphalt prairie,
Through the heat and through the cold,
Just a Concrete Cowboy,
In search of Days of Old.
He believes in rescuing maidens,
Stuck beside the road,
And he wouldn’t have it any other way,
Than to live by a Code...
“Do what’s right by every man,
And never compromise,
Be good to little children,
“Cause life is a surprise.”
Stuck between buildings,
Of metal, brick and glass,
The only time he sees green pastures,
Is when he cuts the grass.
Looking for a way out,
To a place that’s in his dreams,
Only other Cowboys,
Would ever know what he means.
When he says he’s headed someplace,
Where he’ll race the open sky,
Only other Cowboys,
Understand the reason why...
Why he rides an Iron Horse,
For all the world to see,
It’s his one last chance to go back,
To a time when he was free.
Loyal in his heart,
To those who have gone before,
He scans the horizon,
Looking for that open door.
In the company of Ghost Riders,
In the roaring of the engine and the wind,
He searches for his destiny,
Old lovers and old friends.
Galloping across the miles,
One day he’ll reach the open sky,
Many, will see him pass,
But only other Cowboys will sigh,
Because he rides an Iron Horse,
Through time reflected in the glass,
Riding towards the future,
In an effort to reach the past.
Desire
His wide shoulders
Flowed to narrowed waist
Her eyes locked on his vast manhood
Muscled sculpture captured smooth perfection
Her tongue caressed his lower lip
Spreading thighs he entered
Fulfilling her
Desire
© Kim van Breda – 22 October 2014
His granite form against blue skies
Rippling on the bulging eye, wild waves
Of muscles the netting cloud defies
Reason in concrete, his pride raves
In self glory of athleticism, what a gem
Hard and shadowed without a diadem.
I know that man, I lived inside him
Long ago, slurping applause like a child
Incomplete in potrait, morally dim
About the treasures I often defiled.
That man is just a screen of muscled skin
A pampered fear that won't give in.
He will not cry, because he was taught
It's wrong for boys to show emotions
His destiny by a web of lies once caught
Leaves him lonely, old aspirations
Become wrinkled raisins in the callous sun
Manhood and wood subterfuge the pun.
Tired of being told he cannot become
From school to dull signs of no vacancy
I hears the sirens penning his freedom
He looked for himself, found no legacy
In history or family achievement that will
Stand up to the praise of gatekeepers ill.
He feeds his hungry urges into children
Fatherless because his woman must think
She cannot balance her budget with heaven
And for welfare cheque he's o'er the brink
Thrown, used, demonized, discarded, weak
Now, no virile glory left in love to seek.
He turns to her helpless in his helplessness
Angry with the impotence of history
Mute before her need to have forgiveness
The saddled statue slouches into misery.
You know him too, the black man, proned
Against pale paperbag of evening, stoned.
In Africa he was redeemed by mother, queen
When things fall apart, in America his old
Structures uprooted, he cannot be weaned
Of the nurture that never existed. The mold
Upon his life is history, and only the lover
Carrying the cross can be another redeemer.
Look at him like a child asleep after his spawn
Of delapidated family and garrots of dream
Only ego keeps muscle bulging under the brawn
The heart is mute, and pride wil not scream
For pain though like a white cataract it drowns
Him. How still the victim 'fore the victor frowns!
LIMERICKS NOT WRITTEN FOR A CONTEST
Men will slobber and drool when at the beach
Cuz bikinied women are out of reach
So eat your hearts out, men
For those girls you will yen
Fine women would consider you a leech
Men are enticed by girls with flat tummies
Though theirs are obese from eating yummies
They can keep dreaming
With beady eyes gleaming
Some of the male gender are such dummies
Men think of untying bikini strings
Of Victoria Secret girls with wings
They'd like to touch their tush
or better yet their.... shush!
Men want to do so many wicked things
Ogling girls clad in skimpy bikinis
Wishing they had three wishes from genies
Each one would be the same
Trying to UP their game
With enlargements for their teeny weenies
Turn about's always considered fair play
Many women would be glad for a lay
With a well muscled stud
Who would heat up her blood
Spendin' a lil time rollin' in the hay
Aspen leaves flutter like birds
as a breeze ponders the lake's surface
and I brush away a willow leaf of cold jade.
Soon there will be a face in the moon
with its familiar brow arched
over what should be cornflowers
now residing beyond the lambent braids
of feral rye and muscled hillocks.
A miracle in cerulean sprouts in distant concrete,
a bluebell behind a sheet of glass,
unaware of the secret I share with wildflowers,
nor a memory of snow where appeared
an epiphany of morning glories.
I stumbled a dandelion kiss
to be blown on one's lashes, but it disappeared
in a gust of diesel smoke, the shriek of pads
on brash steel.
The rings of felled dogwoods measure seasons
cyan skies ignore. Each spring revealed the promise
of lapis daisies, the rush of violets.
Late summer left barren spikes of amaryllis.
It's been many thaws since I awaited the shy crocus.
Posted 10/3/23
Vehicles, muscled cars were built, to be fast;
creatures of iron and steel;
the wildest beasts.
In the day of manufactured power, Lynx and Jaguar raced; thunderbirds flew low to ground with wings,
as fast as, a road runner.
The mighty Chevy of “57” dreams;
leant compassions ear to young Edsel,
when he failed his popularity test.
Lightening swift, these darts did fly;
racing down, route “66” back then,
the pride supported its own.
Metal, mega-mammals, like all others;
live and die their last wheeze and cough,
recorded by the crusher.
Those who signed away body parts;
the donors left a re-built legacy.
Beautiful and powerful, as their ancestors;
legacy lives on but, route “66” is a much milder path.
In Heaven’s showroom;
lion and lamb lie, side-by-side;
these are the souls of the metal mammals.