Best Runt Poems
Hello There, Runt
By Elton Camp
A cry of outrage comes from the politically correct
For the very word “runt” they will angrily reject
But I have used it only to gain for this poem attention
That it’s insulting and demeaning you needn’t mention
Certainly to be abnormally short is not a desirable trait
But there could very easily be a far worse sort of fate
So short people shouldn’t spend their time just whining
It is their own accomplishments they should be defining
Genghis Khan (5’ 1”) the founder of Mongol Empire
And caused many a taller, ferocious warrior to expire
Yuri Gagarin (5’ 2”) was the first human in space
He didn’t have to grow tall to be able to win the race
Mahatma Gandhi (5’ 3”) for non-violence was he
But he managed to make it so that India was free
Voltaire (5’ 3”), a zealous supporter of civil liberty
Influenced others to strive to set themselves free
Pablo Picasso (5’ 4”) with brush creatively gifted
Into a new age of its development, art he lifted
James Madison (5’ 4”) because the USA president
Influenced the new country in the way it went
Charlie Chaplin (5’ 5”) became a legend on the screen
The films that he made by millions are still seen
Dolly Parton (5’ 0”) is a big person in many a way
A writer, singer, and musician—what can I say
You see that short folks can really do amazing stuff
Use the abilities that you have & it’ll be enough
And those of us who have a more standard height
Don’t mock the short if we want to do what’s right
Hair of blonde
Eyes color of two
to say that I am fond
Does no justice to feelings for you
You look the most like me
although act like me no
the girls seem to see
what we already know
You are a card
no fear for embarrassment
School will be hard
I could see you being charged with harassment
Will have a way with the ladies
This I can already see
stay away from the ones that are crazy
learn the lesson from me
Chetley was a runt dragon, the kind some kingdoms drowned at The Horn.
He weighed a mere 160 pounds, when he was born.
His dad took a hatchet and held it above Chetley’s newborn head.
And his sainted mother begged for his life, and then fell dead.
His father always blamed him for his mother’s demise.
Chetley tried his best to please, but he could never suffice.
He was lucky to have a grandpa, slick and wise.
Who loved him with all of his lungs and his eyes.
Young Chetley grew up and fell Dragon-madly-in- love.
With the dragon of his dreams, who lived in the valley above.
They raised a fine family, and two turtle doves.
He never held a hatchet or hurt anyone he loved.
No? You don't have pity on me? You should!
I'm sure you'd rather be a stick of wood
Food that doesn't smell so good, if you could
~ Rather than be me ...
Spend your days rained on, snowed on
Hailed on, stepped on -- why stop here? --
Spat on, urinated and dumped on
~ Sniff my coat of rancid beer
What I've suffered, what I have endured
From yellow rivers to cursed curs' turds --
The very thought of it all is too gross for words
You were the runt of the litter
Both sweet and bitter
With pretty blonde hair
Without a care
Yet painfully aware
That being born in the middle
Was to play second fiddle
Neither the older or the young
You have overcome
The 24 year's of crocodile tear's
And countless scar's
With angelic grace and stoic face
When all the star's and time align
And all the smile's and laugh's you've left
Are counted up
Every love you never felt
Will forever be yours to keep
When your asleep in cotton blankets
Finally I love you thankfully
It's not your fault that growing up
You failed to matter
You brought the noise kid
Unfortunately we were love deaf
Whatever brings you my fault,
Is a blemish and deceitful lips' salt.
Whatever sings me your joy,
Is a flimsy and brighten sight toy.
In the cool green pasture,
Is your rough niche so obscure.
Searchers flash in spite of snakes,
Blunt faces hunting clouded leaves at stakes.
Stage your breaths away from the shell-
How happy you would be in the pot!
Put off your day in hope of woody hell-
How sweet the tasty soup so hot!
See how helpless you are when picked,
What are useless horny eyes you have got on head!
Watch how easy you are turf out perfect,
What an awesome slicked body watershed!
Here and there, pieces of all raw ingest
Infections after consumption got to digest
when things we will want
even though a little runt
down may have to hunt
RUNT OF THE LITTER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hilda’s in labor!” Mr. Davis shouted across the yard.
barefooted I dashed next door,
witnessing the magic, the slow unfurling
of five milk-chocolate Dachshunds,
slippery and new, squirming in the afternoon light.
they were a writhing mass ‘neath Hilda's warm belly,
each Doxie pup vying for a place at the milk bar,
a frantic, adorable scramble for nourishment.
the runt~smallest of the litter, a tiny replica,
immediately claimed a space in my heart,
a fragile hope nestled in my palm.
giggles bubbled up,
a fizzy sweetness in my throat
watching the Doxies, their eyes closed, wriggle
drunk on instinct and the promise of warmth.
then, the shift~
Hilda’s nudge, almost imperceptible,
the runt, pushed aside,
its tiny whimper lost in the chorus.
the magic fractured,
my first brush with unfairness,
a memory, bittersweet,
etched in the sepia tones of a long-ago summer.
Mr. Davis's weathered hands, a gentle scoop,
a fragile life transferred to mine.
hands, small then, cupped around a life barely there,
a sparrow fallen from a nest.
the shoebox, a makeshift cradle,
lined with a doll blanket~
inside the scent of old shoes, the tiny runt stretched,
then a hesitant yawn, a twitch of his paw.
"Why, Mr. Davis? Why would she...?" the question hung,
a child's innocent accusation against the wild.
Mr. Davis, a sage in overalls,
explained the weight of instinct and
survival's brutal calculus,
too heavy for my young heart to bear.
Now, years later, I understand~
the hard choices and love disguised as pain.
But in the shoebox, in the dust-filled summer light,
all I felt was the fragile pulse
of a life I desperately wanted to save.