Best Pencil Thin Poems
I don’t care what you think of me
Or the label that you give
I don’t care what box you’ve found
Cause in there… I won’t live
I don’t care what thoughts you think
Or how you judge my soul
I frankly couldn’t give a damn
If shaming is your goal
I don’t care you think I’m base
Too fat, not pencil thin
I don’t care, cause you know what?
Your judgment is YOUR sin
I don’t care, I do not CARE
I do not give a DAMN
So scroll on by or disappear
Or get caught in this SLAM!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
People see what they want to see....nothing more...nothing less...
This is a sample of SLAM poetry.
Pencil thin Lenny from old Liechtenstein,
Built a long skinny house near the Rhine,
It was all that he need
Provided his feed
Doesn't include cakes and desserts all the time.
Well thank God they left. Nice local sports bar; I sat close to an elderly man, probably 80 years old, and a younger guy that was his son, as I gathered from their conversation. The old boy kept an even keel and decently good humor throughout; he was used to it; the allowances we make for close family; or no use to fight a battle now. Much of what the son said bounced off and ended up on the floor, like water off a duck's back, and thank God for that too. I was instantly irritated - the constant patter of vacuous suggestions from the son as to what the father should be doing in his life, what he should do differently.
Just look at him: the old guy is fine, you can tell just by seeing him. But the son, ah now this was worthy of a stage character, the slight build, the receding hairline, the pencil-thin mustache, a mousey look overall, even rat-like, with furtive eye movements and almost constant physical twitches, he must fear silence indeed to have the need to fill it with such drivel, if not telling his father how to improve his life, he was proclaiming his own shrewdness and ambition, such prowess we rarely see, to joke about it - ah, when the truth is that he's a 35 year old in a job that would be barely good enough for a 20 or 25 year old. When you have to go on about it so, we all know it's not the truth. I never once snorted, or caught the old guy's gaze and rolled my eyes; I stayed within myself.
Maybe it's just me. Really, how bad could it be? Well no, it's not just me - any sane person would be inwardly cringing, massively, fighting the urge to run screaming into the night before the younger man's words induced brain cancer in them. What a world....
But I suppose that at least a little bit it is just me.
I first met her on a holiday at Shuklaphanta Wildlife Reserve.
Love strikes me like lightning when I saw her,
so powerful and intense it can’t be denied.
It turns me inside out,
and there was no going back from it.
Once the thunderbolt hits, my life irrevocably changed.
With a carved stem-thin figure,
And sparkly appearance.
Her pencil-thin eyebrows,
eased down gently to her velvety,
Eyelashes.
Her beauty is the celebrity's cute wind-swept
twisting through
the late evening's darkening heavens.
Her smile shines stunningly
like the sun rising over the skyline,
her luminous, heavenly-white teeth flashed
as she pawed at me with her flick star nails.
Her gorgeousness is the stars
that is now quivering into view
as their star shine ends its life journey
as a whim I am.
Her enticing, constellation-blue eyes
gazed at me
over her syrup-sweet lips,
She had a springy character
and a syrupy voice, which I idolized.
She is like a candle's flickering flame,
radiating a soft warm light into me.
Her hair was ebony-black
and it tumbled over her shoulders.
Her beauty shines from the inside out,
It flows like a journey down a long route.
Those sugar candy-sweet lips,
her well-designed personality,
all awestruck me.
Her eyes sparkle like a bright star in the sky,
seek out the good in me.
Her body ornately furnished with typically girlish curves,
Her voguish garments still kept enslaved an odor evocative
of lemony fresh and floral-fresh mint.
It loitered in the apartment long after she had gone.
I woke up this morning
Sporting a Beret
Speaking in a French accent
Parlez-vous francais?
With a scarf around my neck
A pencil thin moustache
Afraid I might have woke up French
A slight giggle to my laugh
With a strong urge for fresh Baguette's
I head to the grocery
I told my cat that I'd be back
He looked at me... Cest la vie
when did the
douchebag get his own
beard?
when did the pencil-thin
maintenance of the facial
hair of a male
become something
with which
we walked with our heads
held high?---
first time i saw this
idiot stripe
wrapping round the
larded jowls of a man
was when that fat bastard from
smash mouth
came hopping around
“singing” about being a
“rock star”---
but the douchebag style has
continued &
one wonders where it came
from?
one wonders what women
actually get off when they
see a guy standing in front of
the mirror
preening himself,
snipping all the little hairs away,
buzzing & shaving,
doing his best to leave that
little line to trace whatever
he thinks is a
jawbone---
pity the fool who parades around
with a pencil-thin douchebag
beard---
pity
pity
pity
the
****.
Down that street. The big house, teeming transmissions
of penciled degrees from paper thin ‘pedes,
has basic nature themed accommodations.
Mud wiped under feet. White fresh carpet steamed
and obvious windows certainly so
I walk on hands. Here’s a photo I can’t hold.
Denver on rental skis on stolen snow
a sneaky crook took (much later it snowed).
Pencil thin frames. Too much foundation. Here’s more
in the kitchen. A pumpkin on the counter top
hands over a knife. I open a door
then I carve through a window. Snow hasn’t stopped,
but Cinderella (who’s a lunatic)
undressed before one (still) looks pretty thick.
12/17/2018
She didn’t have the classic big blue eyes.
She had eyes the color of chocolate.
Ones that glowed when she smiled,
Ones that twinkled when she laughed.
She didn’t have pale, porcelain skin.
Her skin was tinted
From hikes
And from beach days.
She didn’t have blonde,
Glowing hair.
Her hair was dark
The color of fresh soil.
She wasn’t pencil-thin.
Her cheeks were filled out and rounded.
She had a soft chin
And a full belly.
She wasn’t long and tall.
She was shorter,
5’ 3”,
And looked up to see the world.
She didn’t notice these things.
Until the world told her as much.
But she put on a bright yellow raincoat
And let the world slide down and away.
She wasn’t the prettiest one.
But she still glowed.
Pencil-thin branches
topping a tree outside
the picture window are
thrashing in tandem
with the tempo of
your distress. The sky's
as leaden as Northern
Europe's daytime
dailies. Rainwater
pools prettily on building
roofs for your bedside
pastime. A good thing as
Baptism for birds. Not
for you, such simplicity,
waking in a blood bath,
the IV ripped from
your flailing wrist. Was
it good dreams, or
nightmare? Death wish,
or wake-up call?
Good omen, or bad?
Daylight
is the referee.
The Stiletto Life
Her Infectious smile and rhythmic click-clack on the pavement,
Mask the pain from her eight-inch, pencil-thin Louboutin heels;
Flying, neat, long dreadlocks, trail her incredibly steady strides,
As, gracefully, she sashays past, turning heads and dropping jaws;
Her white dress, a slightly revealing flutter in the breezy drizzle!
June 8, 2018
Written for "She Walks" Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Julia Ward
UNSUPPORTED CODE
She jumped the cables of this earth and landed on their stratosphere
not much was interlocked inside that interstated space except a high
the coded silence telegraphed in tetrotonic voice was plugged in near
twas' all she heard... computer telepathic knots and sounds of nigh
She had been in an MRI machine and she was saturated in their vibercy
she was a conduit to their human questionaire and viaduct's enscry
pitching her a high pitch sound they pierced the quiet longtitude of chi
then rocked her world with their achromatic lense and telescopic pry
They asked for her binary code dumbfounded and in lack she kept to mute
for it was long ago and way back when the numbers of her match encode
imprinted on the fascmile of mind's extole. Adrift in the sky with no refute
she glided on and found that life is different when your not a metal node
She was sent back to earth with a mind erase and a pencil thin memory
and it was so that when they came to find her many years from then
the only thing that she recalled was the momentary freedom's history
twas' all she knew... that once upon a time she was coded in their glen.
The End.
October 20, 2018
The panelled walls of cedar wood, pencil thin red aroma
Reflect the firelight burning light, warming coals
Black windowpanes bar the cold and wind to a blacker outside.
Pictures in the flames rise, to an occasion or a dream
But in retrospect so strange, as the chimney above grows cool
And snowflakes melt on the black dusty dead scraps of wood.
I had hoped to pen a poem today
Before laying myself down to sleep,
But I have to admit with some dismay
That my emotions were not so deep.
The pencil-thin line of flaming red
Drawn so lightly in the morning sky
Announced the sun’s rising overhead
Yet left no impression upon my eye.
The crisp morning air that greeted me -
Rich with the scent of apple wood smoke –
Must have left no mark on my memory,
Nor knew the language my spirit spoke.
My children’s laughter at games and play
Fell on my ears like notes from a bell,
Though I heard those notes so clear and gay
My heart, I fear, did not listen well.
The aromas from the kitchen stove
Promised a meal for which I must wait,
But the smell of cornbread, ham and clove
Soon departed with my empty plate.
The evening stars that gently twinkled
Against the dark of heavenly height
Sent a warm glow that lightly sprinkled
On my too insensate soul tonight.
I had hoped to pen a poem today
Before laying myself down to sleep,
But I have to admit with some dismay
I had no sense of what to keep.
Courtesy of Marx (albeit Zeppo,
Harpo, Groucho, and Chico), whose
acts (along Seuss iz Zacks Fifth
Avenue) brought generations of
laughter to Vaudeville, and then
the Silver Screen adlibbed, linkedin,
and ransacked skits zoid material
Bing very loosely based on his best
known writings (Oh Pee Yet Of The
Masses) by Karl Marx (no relation
to Bros Grin), and Friedrich Engels
whar they whiz instrumental qua
Cingular Capitalone political philosophy
paradigm as spit, and (shoe) shining,
seducing, and salivating players trans
formed Msn Netzero Linkedin Petsmart
Aleck outlook and pinterest, when their
collective insight did cents how masses
(i.e. bourgeois) took a rakish (otherwise)
up standing Norwegian bachelor farmer
for comic relief to break monotony of
agrarian obligations, and serve up one
heaping healthy portion per production,
sans whatever whims would crop
up by infusing thespian showdown
incorporating commune nic cache shun
(disproportionate) app peals studded terrain
with locked havens avast re shtetl ment.
Hoi Polloi re: common folk in sore need
of distraction and belief in a brighter side
of life, than saliva dehydrating brute nose
to the grindstone pathetic existence, yoked
as oxen to plows, where plodding tattered
shod feet scraped a pencil thin line, whence,
seeds sprinkled into futile ruts forecast angry
birds to shutterfly, twittering like bada$$
beastie boys Dharma bumming while On
The Yellow Brick Road.
Inn ascent bystanders avian avatars initially
supposedly sprung from ergot, mushroom
and/or smut spores, whereas the myth of
one mortal idol (Matthew Scott Harris) did
rival Vladimir Ilich (frequently corrupted into...
An actor returns to his Beverly Hills mansion –
blows his brains out with a 38 special.
I must have dozed off,
cops at my door,
a line of chain-smoking flashbulbs
in baggy turn-ups.
I watch myself being taken away in a body bag.
The movie is badly spliced.
Black Packard’s keep morphing into flying saucers.
We are all wearing hats,
even the writers in the backroom
are wearing wide-brimmed hats.
The women are wearing hats.
They wear pencil thin skirts,
and talk out of the side of their mouths.
A screen flickers;
a skinny man behind an obscuring microphone
apologizes for the delay.
Meanwhile, space aliens have landed in Brooklyn,
and are exterminating people in hats.
It’s a radio show hoax,
but I don’t know that –
until I wake-up
into a world filled with terror and chaos,
but there are no aliens and few brimmed hats.
I check that my Glock is loaded.
I can’t sleep.