Best Outgrown Poems
When I was growing up,
Daily they packed my outgrown:
Shoes, shirts,suits and trousers;
And paid me commendation
As they milled around me
Like night ants around light!
When I was geisha-guy
And my frame was fame
And my gaiety was deity
Oh they milled around me
Like day ants around rose
When worker I was
And my table was the host
To all that delighted belly
Oh they rounded me about
Applauded me with their belch
After my grain and grape.
Now my hairs are white
And my frame is gone
My teeth have left
Sight is dim, hearing is poor;
How quick they dessert me
Like a cinema after the show.
It is home alone
As they call me demented
The brats that once me hailed
No one to tell goodbye
Sad today I must go
My end is now.
When a household is fatherless, desperation drips from weathered eaves.
The children tend to grow wild as weeds.
Slipping from rambunctious into mischievous.
People dismiss it as a phase to be outgrown in time.
But it often cascades into crime after crime.
They do a little bit of time after time.
Years wiggling by into the bin of wasted lives.
My country is much like a fatherless household.
The reflection says
you've outgrown us
I somehow feel sad –
That which we once had
has become redundant
The other side of the coin
says I should be happy
‘Cause you've found that inner power,
the ability to go out on your own
and yet letting go
is like losing
a part of me
that object that I’ve grown
accustomed too –
So I’ll be a bit teary
even feel a bit used
but I’ll always be grateful
no one knew the role you played
sometimes not knowing
is a treasured commodity
©120720121045
A Simple Story
Little child finds upon a heap of rubbish
Favored threadbare rabbit of tawny velveteen
One eye missing
Cloth rubbed to shiny by little hands.
Beloved bunny,
Shopworn keepsake from babyhood,
Languishing in forgotten jungles of junk,
Broken teacups and outgrown sweaters.
Heartbroken child, with faithful love,
Cradles one last time this life companion
To kiss goodbye this forever friend
In a eulogy of tears and turns to leave.
Love works miracles
From the rubbish arises a living bunny
Bulging stuffing and missing eye repaired
Now hugged again in arms of delight.
Golden bunny of dappled coat
Lives in colorful clusters of carrots
Straight radish rows and leafy greens
Planted by the small child’s hands that
Remember…
3-21-23
Contest: A Simple Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
Based on the children’s book – The Velveteen Rabbit
Still l am searching for some explanation
The deepest corners of my mind l now roam
But not wanting to make any real reservasion
I ask is anything ever really setting stone?
I am trying to form some sort of foundation
Between mind and heart that l can call home!
Perhaps though now it is still the realisation
That this mould l've not yet fully outgrown
Or could it just be that my only real limitation
l am still too stuck within my comfort zone
Whenever l am asked what is my destination
It feels as of yet though the great unknown
Abstracts from poem 2007 where do l go from here
The girl and her smile straddle the rainbow.
Neon hair the fluid cascades of northern lights,
her seafoam cloak the ripples outgrown by the shore.
She adores the breeze adorned with gems.
Emeralds fly from silk strings in wriggle-giggle wind,
as jaded kites made of ruby and sapphire and pearl
sit on a picnic checkerboard in envy-green grass
betting on play-dates with zephyrs.
White dice cubes roll beady-black-eyes at their folly.
She chases books as they sail from trees.
Their soft-covers as nimble as sparrows’ flit.
She leafs through slices of fruitcake,
each nutty page a looney tooney frame of insane;
Mr. H. Dumpty carouses with Mick Jagger swagger,
two baby paisley owls drive a ‘67 mustang car,
the car does a hop-scotch down bourbon street.
Field-mouse-flowers meow,
the moon jumps over the cow,
and she sings “the world needs more bumblebees!”
The golden palm of a five-fingered maple leaf
offers a diamond ring.
Palm trees pull up anchor and hover
in sunset silhouette like Mai Tai parasols.
A two-masted schooner scries seawater for its soul.
She laughs as black-habited nuns ride
upside-down on the roller-coaster rim
their feet kicking the billow-bellies of clouds ‘til
they fall into dreamcatchers sticky
and tricky as spiderwebs,
and a doughy-boy-baker loses
the reins of sugar-cookie-horses tilling
confetti seeds in a magician's puppet garden
where Dali wombs and peacock plumes bloom.
Verse I
One time or another we have lied
not realizing that lies show no guilt;
can they be hidden forever in us...
when others withdraw from us in doubt...
and point at the one who laughs aloud?
That pleasure is short-lived and dies!.
Chorus:
Lying is the society's new trend,
it's the god of our loveless age;
liars know how to build an image,
which can deceive and befriend.
Verse II
Has anyone noticed, that lying is the society's new trend?
The more people lie, the more they do gain in the end;
for that reason, honest and humble people don't advance
a bit; they don't give in but remain true to themselves.
Chorus:
Lying is the society's new trend,
it's the god of our loveless age;
liars know how to build an image,
which can deceive and befriend.
Verse III
Must I admit that I have lied to get
what I wanted when nobody seemed fair?
My temptation was a struggle never
outgrown, so more lies I had to invent.
Chorus:
Lying is the society's new trend,
it's the god of our loveless age;
liars know how to build an image,
which can deceive and befriend.
Verse IV
Lies show no guilt, no remorse...a hefty price
they carry; be ready to face their hurt and anger:
not being trusted for the words they won't hear...
make amends and apologize, reveal each ugly lie!
Ending:
Now folks see yourselves in the mirror,
wash that face of disgrace and horror.
Entered in Silent One contest,
" Sweet Little Lies "
Written on 6/26/2016
When did you outgrow my love?
When did the fabric of my tenderness
Become too tight
Too fitting?
When did the garment of my passion
Become restrictive?
When did you start to look for new coverings
To clothe the nakedness of your soul?
When?
Tell me…
When did you outgrow my love?
When did you outgrow this nest?
Was it when you found out that you could fly?
Having been nourished, pampered and preened
Your wings of self-esteem
Unfurling to soar on the word wind of my praise…
Was it then?
When did you outgrow my love?
Ah, Hush…my love, no need to speak
For my heart knows the answer well
I know when it all started to take place
I could read your face
The expression you wore
As I helped you dress
That look in your eyes
Belied the lies
That the fit was just right
And so you tugged at the seams
Unraveled my dreams
The stitches undone
My garment you tore
And yet you swore
Alterations wouldn't do
You needed something new
In the dead of night
You took to flight
Undressed, free
For you had outgrown…..
You had outgrown….
ME.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Before the day breaks in my head
When darkness rules my thoughts in bed
I wonder all my demons still
As though they live against my will
Before the birds sing in my ear
When silence will allow my fear
I worry that the world I’ve known
Will fit no more like clothes outgrown
Before the coffee tastes my lips
To strengthen nimble fingertips
I stumble to regain my mind
With all the fervor I can find
But then, like flowers, beauty lives
The thoughts of love that nature gives
And I see that I’m not alone
Despite the darkness I’ve been shown
Although we struggle, one and all
And though we sometimes trip and fall
The dawn will always bring the light
And I know I will be alright
The detritus of a household of smokers was a joy to the young child, stifled in a family he believed he had outgrown. Matchsticks, by the score, he used to build magical castles with towers to climb or Spanish Galleons to sail away to places far. A live match found was a rare treasure, a pregnant opportunity to destroy--a secret power. The best were the small cardboard matchboxes with their slide-out tray, which he arranged like a chest of a hundred tiny drawers. Each drawer contained a precious item, a pebble, a penny, a bloodstained band-aid, a tooth, four-leafed clover, a tear-stained note, a lock of hair. . .
weaving
a smaller web
spider in a box
Like A Child Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Date wrote: 4th July 2022
Hello, there, little chameleon friend;
Did you come to keep me company?
Scurrying along the redwood rail,
Have you read this book or
Are you just to look
For your buddies of long ago?
You are so green, and easily seen,
Camouflage is not your intent;
You got out of breath, and yet
Your hot pink throat stretches and jets
And satisfies.
You look at me but hope to see
The ladybugs that once dwelt in the daisies.
Where have they gone, along
With the horny toads that shared your faucet.
Will the doodle bugs soon disappear
From under their rocks?
It seems to me, you see, you have a tear in your eye;
And I know we've both outgrown
The life we have known and cried
Too many goodbyes.
“The Clock on the Wall”
That clock! The clock with cruelty, unmovable.
Telling time to be forever in motion.
The ticking, a deafening sound.
Marked by grime.
Yellowed by generations, grown digital.
By generations choosing to be illiterate.
The face, weathered from gazing faces…from faces.
Forever burdened by the echo.
TOCK!
Each minute, reversing youth.
Spinning hours that grin madly at the crows.
Birds destined to stomp divots into flesh.
Surrounding lids and lashes.
TICK-TOCK!
That hellish clock.
Stealing jewelry and lovers and future plans
Dreams given up in anguish to dead time, in the night.
The second hand, proud, purposeful.
Its movement pushing the aged into graves.
Eternally passing hours.
Laughing wildly at years gone by.
Heckling decades…lost.
TICK, TICK!
The ticking of that god-damned clock!
Mocking the genius gone mad.
A shocking reminder of all that is forgotten.
That all will be…forgotten.
The unforgiving clock.
Moving time.
Time, a father, whose knee will be outgrown.
A chastising father.
Protecting nothing.
Holding nothing.
Nothing calm.
Holding nothing safe.
Nothing still.
Curse that clock on the wall.
On walls dropping picture frames.
Loosened by rusty nails.
Images of families smothered in broken glass.
The clock.
TICK-TOCK!
Burning down homes that cradled infants.
With fatty folds and creamy dreams.
The clock, convincing people to set alarms.
Convincing people to startle the soul…
Into a brand-new day.
You are my warrior.
The fighter, my own.
Let me be your armour,
And never outgrown.
I cry for you, warrior,
Or one day I might.
If you, gentle lover,
Are called up to fight.
For you would be taken,
With no time to think.
And see in your armour
The slightest of chinks.
A chink which could open
The door for just one
Arrow, or spear...
Or kiss from a gun.
Fear, a liar that can delude or mislead you.
It tells you that you are cursed and doomed.
Have courage to stop and look at Fear in the face!
It comes, like hooded serpents from dark holes,
with venom in their fangs ready to snap at.
Like, monsters from roaring seas
that rest on the sands
as boulders on a low - lying ledge
Or, vampires hurtling down
to suck your blood in dark
with their outgrown canine teeth
Fears are wasps swarming round,
like embers from a furnace
or scorpions with poisonous stings,
hidden in their tails.
Living with them
is like getting enclosed in a blind alley,
pacing forward and rushing backward,
seeing the gates fastened tight with iron shutters,
or being chased after,
by an elephant on rampage.
Never succumb, but defend its onslaught,
for your arch enemy sure shall
shred you to pieces if you let yourself to be subdued!
Jan. 21. 2023
~ Placed First~
Fear is a Liar Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sotto Poet
Your father is neither dead nor is he sleeping.
He has traversed the thin line of demarcation
Into a marvelous dimension of safe-keeping,
Consider it a marvelous realm of preparation
For what we earthlings refer to as eternity,
An exciting adventure into the vast unknown
Frightening, our limited concepts of infinity,
Where true being-ness in never outgrown,
The gracious Almighty sits on the throne.
No end to the delights of the ultimate reality
To this place your father has quickly flown
Where he shall experience no law of gravity,
Beyond all fantasies of human expectation
Where no longer is one exposed to weeping,
We might think of it as an awesome vacation
Your father is neither dead nor is he sleeping.
Written June 18, 2022
[utilizing my own verso-rhyme]