Best Pubescent Poems
She’s always drawing mermaids, and they bear
resemblance to their artist, for each one
is but a girl. Dark, wavy, thick, long hair
hides pre-pubescent breasts; Elysian
the islands drawn for all her mermaids seem . . .
so different from her own reality.
The islands that she colors are her dream.
She also yearns to swim the wondrous sea.
She’d have a mermaid’s iridescent tail . . .
No place between two legs to cause her shame!
She’d be a strong free mermaid, but she’s frail,
and so she sketches dreams she cannot claim.
Her mother sees each picture that she’s drawn,
yet fails to see her daughter's joy is gone.
For William Kekaula's Sonnet's Salutation Poetry Contest
From 2011, this is one of my sonnets with the deepest metaphorical meaning
Categories:
pubescent, sad,
Form:
Sonnet
Wide the mirrored water stretched,
licking green upon the pointed pines, limbs sweeping low and cool.
The creek meandered, soft giggles escaping mossy rocks
where polliwogs swam, nearly, but not quite frogs, still sporting pubescent tails;
the adults pontificating against the shallow bank,
throats swollen with amphibious wisdom.
Soft brown mud squished, a buttered cream,
between summer toasted toes wading into wonder.
Fragrant evening campfires heightened hungers,
supper roasting over charred coals flavored
the stirrings of a tempting crush on a boy much older;
this girl just barely navigating puberty's powerful push,
his smile extracting heightened pulse, blush brushed.
Life's long summer slipped slowly away
and autumn found his wife and child laying him down,
the plot unknown, unmarked by me;
yet, painful, still, the memory of broken trust,
of love-crust pitched to a not quite woman
deep in the rusting woods of Timberland.
Copyright, February 14, 2016
Categories:
pubescent, betrayal, crush, first love,
Form:
Free verse
Brave is the rose caught in November’s thorn
While she endures nights of chill and snow,
Awaiting gold daylight's warmth to bestow---
And liven her frame…her mouth drooped, forlorn.
Gently, new moon peeps into kohl of eve
While its luster reflects on this bud , soft
Like a pubescent ovule held aloft
By elms guarding her round shape NOT to cleave.
Though one kind-hearted owl perches nearby
Mutely disapproving this ghastly tread…
An obscure fog sprays crystals overhead
Instead, wings lock against nip of the sky.
How unwavering…in her innocence
Morning rises, its lucent gleam so young
That frozen dusk pales with wheezes unsung…
Oh, grit of a rose saved by providence!
Written 9/10/2018
Contest of Broken Dream
Enclosed Rhyme - September, 2018
Categories:
pubescent, courage, flower,
Form:
Rhyme
Perhaps I’m facing pogonophobes?
Apparently wore the wrong face.
Age-hardened wiry wisps forge
post-pubescent platemail -
protect strangers
from my truest fleshy pores, protect me
from the xenophobes of the Winter Conference.
It’s all pitching and coffee breaks
In a hall too grand for these meager mergers
Silent hecklers - likely clean-shaven -
likely Twitter-blasting about
an awkward pitch
and bitterness.
A beard grows opacity over my ebullient disinterest,
feigns sophistication amidst sophists,
and harbors microbes – an entire ecosystem –
Bored, I wonder;
Do they hold conferences as well?
Share stories around a follicle?
How uncomfortable
the itch of capitalism,
This profit pilgrimage
huddles us together
for that sickness to spread.
Free meals, networking with the estranged -
connect vacuously over downed drinks
and political action.
Shallow words spread thick
on the biological superhighway
bacterium feast freely.
The Winter Conference;
a microscopic windfall.
CONTEST ANNOTATION:
I’ve attempted to employ alliteration (‘post-pubescent platemale’), ambiguity (‘…for that sickness to spread’), double entendre (‘free meals’ and ‘bacterium feast freely’), imagery (‘my truest fleshy pores’, ‘Age-hardened wiry wisps’), paradox (‘ebullient disinterest’, ‘networking with the estranged’), and parallelism (‘likely clean-shaven – likely Twitter-blasting’). Not sure I’ve nailed every aspect of these devices - love the contest format as a way to force us in new directions!
Categories:
pubescent, business, people, sick, society,
Form:
Free verse
I embrace the nocturnal shade
coiled beneath tangerine lamplight
on the corner of the street
in case a certain little lady walks by.
I am ever watchful
in the telephone kiosk bathed in smells of damp
directories, of urine and pubescent vandalism;
silhouetted at the mouth of the
tubeway entrance;
sat in the rusting Lada across the road;
ever watchful,
gaze unwavering, unflinching.
I have perfected the dead-eye stare.
I am the vigilant sentinel.
I am watching you.
Wherever you choose to go I am
mere footsteps away,
dogging your trail.
At the salon I watch your pale tresses
cut and blown dry
through stencilled window glass.
That time I got a lock of your hair.
I like to collect souvenirs.
They bring us closer.
I know you know I am here,
I make certain of that;
dead certain.
I want you to know I am here,
always present
on the periphery of your vision;
live ghost haunting your existence.
The police have made empty threats,
charges of loitering with intent.
Intent to do what, though?
That is the question.
Intent to do what?
It is for me to know and you to discover.
This is the game, my sweet,
the game we play.
I feel your fear when you pick up the 'phone
and no one answers,
only the romance of dead silence;
I can smell your sweat leaking down the line,
taste your breath, sharp and spicy with fear,
burning down the line.
I sense your arousal,
the wetness of your loins, slick
with the lubricant of anticipation,
of desire,
of surrender.
But we do not speak, no,
not yet,
but soon.
Be patient, beloved, be patient as I am patient,
stoic and timeless and patient.
I hear you sobbing, crying down the line,
hear the crystal crash of vodka glass shattered
against the wall. Be patient, calm yourself,
for soon, very soon, we will meet...and
then my intent will become clear... as
clear as those shards of shattered crystal,
my sweet...
Categories:
pubescent, death, mystery, social,
Form:
Blank verse
An affection grown from pubescent soil, watered with innocent infatuation
Leaves of dreams gently budding, off naïve branches of a youth shortened.
The roots, ventricles of a choice-less heart, her fate twisted by a mothers hate.
No stopping nature’s fruition, and now the growth, the change, will not abate.
Her spring leaves, open and green, stretch brilliantly to reach the sunlight.
Her roots of youth still soft and warm, her sun remains golden and bright.
But his roots go far deeper than hers, once green leaves are already changing.
Growing stiff with age, as they reach deep into a sky that is steadily graying.
The years between them, once not so many, now shade her with their height.
She can’t stop the cold fear of abandonment, someday being left in his night.
Her heart wanders over the fruit, so delicately hanging off her branches.
Who will pick them up when they fall, when he is no longer there to catch them?
Will she watch his leaves flutter to the ground for years, while hers remain crisp?
When hers just begin to tinge with color, what will be the state of his?
Perhaps the soil of innocence should have been sated with more wisdom
So that she might have better acknowledged the future yet to come.
Never to know if it would have made any difference, not wishing it would be.
Just unable to fight the realization that her winter of life may be lonely.
Sixteen years were just another number then, seven years has changed the way she feels
Each year now deafens with its ring, creaking branches and wrinkled bark makes it real.
What will become of her in years to come, will she remain up on her hill alone
Mourning his once strong branches, solemnly tending all that he has sewn?
She imagines that this will be her fate; the acceptance is agony with a silent shout.
But she relishes the days she knows she has with love, because that is what life is about.
Categories:
pubescent, devotion, father, health, husband,
Form:
Rhyme
At winter end
comes the time of lilac
pubescent shoots tipped light green
budding up and down each branch,
young growth stretching, flexing new muscles
ready and anxious to answer the call;
a gentle but large white sun
hangs low in the gray blued sky,
spring comes as it often does
every year around this time
softly waking earth
shaking loose the ice-cold winter drab
until all is new again
reborn to grow and blossom;
only time, weathered and season worn
anguishes to leave some mark;
this aging earth draws from creation itself
imagining its restart from memory
as humanity appears to remain
self-absorbed, hard-hearted and indulgent
until living in oblivion
returns to see taking in the time of lilacs,
natures bounty and beauty recharged.
Categories:
pubescent, beauty, seasons, time,
Form:
Free verse
Rubbing boys shoulders with sunburn oil. The sun smiles at the pain, the brush of fingers against raw flesh. But like a war wound, those boys be proud. Offer them a salve and they scoff, don’t need that stuff. Head back to the beach. Nudge them with a board and a wave, and they take off, up to their knees, casting themselves into the sea. Cheeks and hairlines have enemies, but the boys will wait for the tan that turns them brown, puffed up, back to tell the tales to jealous schoolmates.
They won’t speak of palm trees, nor the hot sand; perhaps they will not even remember what to say, until a prompt. Perhaps they won’t shut up about the knock down, drag out fights with the ebb and flow of riptides.
They might not remember the food that filled their empty bellies, but they enjoyed each bite of burgers at Ford’s Garage in the oldest city in America. I heard from an eyewitness that it has ghosts, the city, not this particular haunt.
Packed like fish, we headed to Florida, having to use one of the back seats for the overflow of things. My oldest grandson had to endure his seat, likened to a ball turret gunner. But this pubescent heartbreaker, though cramped, loved the isolation.
Speed traps, speedy biker, ear-splitting emergency vehicles, pelicans;
and a swift breeze upon a chilly-sunburn covered up with a soft blanket and cozied up to grandma (of course this is the nine year old).
Trip back as the GPS constantly pushed us farther from home, not in miles but in minutes and hours. But the miles moved quicker than a remembered icestorm where I couldn’t get home (only 10 minutes away), so like all long travel, the kids got their first taste, and survived.
So much to say, but signing off…
Categories:
pubescent, travel,
Form:
Narrative
Forgotten Hero
I was awesome;
destined to be rich and famous when I grew up.
Until that happened,
I settled for being a superhero…
And I was!
I was untouchable.
Bulletproof.
So fast you couldn’t even see me,
and faster still in my special shoes…
which was a good thing
because I had underwear on my head.
I was the picture of heroism
posed before the oscillating fan
which billowed my bed-sheet cape
and modulated my voice
to mimic a pre-pubescent Optimus Prime.
With a giftwrap-tube in hand
I was armed for any conflict.
Yet for all my power, I was incorruptible.
My faith was absolute…
in the certainty that
good always triumphs over evil,
and I never intended to lose.
I sought the distressed damsels
because that was the right thing to do…
not for any reward;
certainly not for their cootie-infested
kisses of gratitude.
I was great beyond everything I knew,
universally loved and adored.
I was the greatest hero the world had ever known,
and everyone wanted to be my friend…
…until they didn’t.
Because wearing fruit of the loom helmets
is for weirdoes and losers.
Because children need to stop daydreaming,
and focus on their studies.
Because not everyone can be rich and famous,
and it’s impractical to chase after foolish dreams.
Because there is no such thing as “special shoes.”
Because everything isn’t black-and-white, and
standing for what you believe to be good is intolerant,
and unacceptable.
Because superheroes aren’t real,
girls don't have cooties,
and it was time to grow up.
…and I have.
07/31/15
Categories:
pubescent, growing up, hero, identity,
Form:
Bio
There I was.
Inside a crowded Toys R Us
On a mid-Winter’s evening
Abrasively loud 5 year olds
And depressed fathers
Ready to throw their “angelic” brethren
Into life-size Nerf basketball hoop
(Because it was on Clearance)
To embrace sanity’s madness
I was simply here to search for a porcelain doll
For my darling 8 year old angel
To match her serene complexion
But, toddler stomps & red-faced pouts
Equivalent to octaves of Hell’s 5th circle
Could not stop the strut that suddenly coated my foggy nerd glasses
There she was.
Her 5 foot, 10 inch majestic walk
Performing exorcisms on corrupted tile floors
With each
New
Step
My ear canals
Swimming in the serenity of
Her olive-coated curves
And violet-auburn shaded, shoulder-length curly locks
Left
Right
Left
Sensual witchcraft was placed upon my resilience
Chipped away by her Hazel ribboning pupils
My heart’s atrium, flat lining, with laughing hyena smile
Frozen by igloo’s revenge upon madness
“Excuse me, sir”, she vehemently moaned
(At least, in my head)
“Hi”, I expressed with pre-pubescent coarseness.
“I’m looking for a porcelain doll.
But, I’m a tad lost in this maze.
Could you help me find my way?”, she whispered with demure smile
With my tongue pressed against seconds’ icy arm,
Locked for dear life,
I inhaled with Olympic stature
“It’s 9 isles this way. May I show you?”, I confidently declared on sanity’s edge.
With constellations aligned by blue moon signatures,
“Yes, please”.
As crux of evening’s audible stresses
Faded into final curtain’s epileptic sunset,
The winds of Yahweh curtailed all foggy affirmations
Into palms of bliss
Because
On this night
I proudly took the long route
Slow dancing with magnificent silence
To the isle
That was only 2 steps to our left
I believe we both discovered our porcelain dolls on this night.
©Drake J. Eszes
Categories:
pubescent, fun, heart, life,
Form:
Prose Poetry
(Although this was inspired by Olusequn Adelana's poetry challenge about betrayal, it is
much too long to enter it; but I'm thankful for any poetic inspiration I can recieve!)
What Finally Set Me Off
Sometimes Mom would mildly chide me
for my seeming inability to stand up for myself.
I would call myself tolerant, mellow, and forgiving.
But she’d sometimes put it this way: You’re a doormat!
And sometimes when she saw my lack of self-assurance,
she’d heave a sigh. You see, she loved me.
And she suffered, with her daughters, when we endured injustice.
Which brings me to my own tale of betrayal
and what first-time betrayal meant to a young too-trusting girl.
I think it was in junior high, the time I was emerging
from my pre-pubescent shell, flowering, not just physically;
my mental faculties were blossoming as well.
I had a best, friend, Sheila, blue eyed Sheila,
A pint-sized world-wise, Alabama transplant to the heartland:
sweet Sheila, to whom I would confide
all my teenage dreams, crushes, and beliefs.
And Sheila had a brother, older, pint-sized too, but oh my!
A wondrous gorgeous guy that Danny was!
And Sheila knew completely how I felt for him.
At our school was Margo, a “bad girl.” Rumors followed her.
In grade school, it was she who happily revealed to me
her hinted-at “real” knowledge of the birds and bees.
For just a while, she and I were friends, then parted ways.
But now in seventh grade, Margo was re-entering my life.
She had her eyes on Danny, and Margo wasn’t playing any games.
Categories:
pubescent, friendshipbetrayal, me,
Form:
Narrative
BIRTH came to me without my permission
possibly doomed to spend my life
no questions asked with strict submission
various sojourns from breast milk to sweets
then pubescent hair begins to sprout
I cannot figure my parents out
they call it a rebellion
of an immature child but I am immature
but what lay in store is wisdom
that comes with each winding year
to encounter a feeling or sensual dream
that one day will inhabit a new scene as it seems
To wed or elope and to cope with my life
to raise children in the midst of
love hate and joy as I recall
a generation ago
But as generations change it is time to renew
the changing colors of their state of mind
with a new world order they are left to imbue
to sneak in and out of chaos with a lollipop
to indoctrinate them into societys fold
and the vicious cycle goes on and on
continually with each aching breath
until you say hello to DEATH
September 7, 2014 ©Ralph Sergi
Categories:
pubescent, life,
Form:
Free verse
Flowers of Midnight
I am not a morning glory
I am damsel of the midnight
When misery struck my family,
wrath of God, classy people cite
To appease the Almighty,
pubescent girl at home be left...
as a "Devadasi" which meant
literally, " Servant of the Deity"
This immoral exploitation
veiled under wraps of religion
Ignorant, illiterate with superstition
my family lets me into this with celebration
A ritual follows during my initiation
into this system of south Indian society
and 'am declared deity's wife...
My new home the temple premise
All my life dreams in air collapse
At this point, am made a midnight flower
to the classy patrons and priests
My duty is to dance and sing
and cater to their insatiable carnal needs
I am craved for at nights
and like trash rejected as dawn heralds
for I am their queen of the nights
I am a withered midnight flower
My fragrance lingers only at night
My voice subdued beneath my
footsteps as I dance to their dirty desires
My soul weeps in deep hiding suppressed
while outside emanate my forced joyful songs!
© Anulaxmi Nayak, 2015
P.S: Devadasi system refers to immoral exploitation of girls who were dragged into prostitution in the name of religion which was deeply rooted in south-Indian states. Awareness and social reforms has removed this from society this centuries old deeply etched socio-religious malefic practice.My attempt just to throw light on this system and not to deal with several details and controversies associated with this.
Categories:
pubescent, abuse, art,
Form:
Free verse
Dreaming of a pot of gold, you came to town
It was sprawling, this metropolis, you knew none around
Your earnings were scant and engagements, irregular
The overseer assured steady income in lieu of a favour
You succumbed to ward off uncertainties, and gradually sank deeper
You were born of impoverished stock, high up in the Himalayas
Your clean looks and youthful age were your kin’s panacea
Your home, the arid plains, where land is mostly barren
Starvation a reality, your innocent world was broken
When it comes to sacrifice, inevitably you are chosen
You were a country girl, pubescent and barely thirteen
Travelling to the big city with a distant kin
To serve an urban family with mop and pail
A drug laced cup of tea made you vulnerable to a cartel
You woke, imprisoned, in a dingy room of a highway brothel
Battered and beaten and raped to submission
You forgot the gods and your daily oblation
Your escort paid dearly for his betrayal and malice
Was it your homage to the gods or backstreet justice?
You languish now in jail, but the brothel still exists
You were in your second year, studying BA (Honours)
With a weakness for the life of the upper class
And the knowledge to achieve what you felt, you must
The initiation was debasing – no niceties, just frenzied lust
The payment was in cash –the first time wasn’t the last
You are not alone in your tainted existence
Women arriving at the metropolis in suburban trains
Working by day and exiting before the peak hour rush
Living in opulence, in times past – barely middle class
Very discreet, these devil women and financially flush
You conceived, a professional risk, and the baby you resolved to keep
Now nineteen and actively trafficking, his misdeeds make you weep
His latest catch, a tender ten year old, the same age you were shackled
Your flesh and blood, the son, you had mothered from the cradle!
Your agony was incomplete, now it had completed its cruel cycle
Hail lady of the night
With time, you’ve overcome both fear and fright
And blended the distinction between wrong and right
You’ve lost your vision, though you retain your sight
In a world shrouded in darkness where the sun still shines bright
Categories:
pubescent, life, sad, social, world,
Form:
Narrative
I told you that you are the one,
of all the women I've ever known.
I told you that you are the best,
so unique among all the rest.
I told you I Love You and could never love you any less.
I praised your beauty as I watched you undress,
but now that we've done the nasty, I must confess.
I just did all of that stuff only for the sex.
To all the young maturing pubescent beauties;
This is how All Boys think during puberty.
To all of the fully matured adult ladies.
Many men carry this attitude into their adulthood unfortunately.
Why do I reveal these secrets and betray all men?
Probably because I was raised in a household dominated by women,
wonderful, loving women I might add,
and that's why I'm a traitor to my gender kind of lad.
Categories:
pubescent, betrayal, gender,
Form:
Rhyme