Best Size Up Poems
The difference in saying you,
a great big unseen pointed finger, or we.
I didn’t know. Some figurines
wave while others scrutinize with wizened eyes.
The analytic panics, hairs raised by static.
The simple leans in to catch butterflies. One is cynical.
The other sensuous. One slaps your hand away.
One squeezes it. Personality
like the word itself broken in pieces, a flotilla.
In the storm the words like jigsaw waves.
In placidity, the sun’s too hot or doldrum’s ebb and flow.
We will make it!
Still, even in this exchange, coarse sand,
a castle with a moat. Your motives sought - there I go again
“Y O U R…”
Sisterly size-up. Am I trying to win? I didn’t know
we were preparing to arm wrestle. I’m unshaped,
neither the flat piece of a puzzle or linked.
The dreamy sky from the beach. Salt in the air,
eyes on the horizon, lap of the waves —
the same lift I feel when swinging high and higher.
The excitement of adventure, no one’s judging
my every word. I’m breathless…it’s breathtaking
when my feet float above the ground.
There I’m in the arms of love. There I point
and God answers with his digit reaching out, touching mine.
I am reborn by the finger of God.
We will make it!
12/19/2020
By thirteen I was quite tall—
Five-foot seven—friends were small
Always tallest in my class
On school lines—was always last.
Friends were shorter, more petite
Always looked to size-up feet
Compare shoes, I do not fib
Was self-conscious—mine were big.
Their size five to seven, fine—
I was BigFoot! Mine was nine!
Teenage complex anguished me
BigFoot phobia, you see!
Later friends caught up with me
Height and feet grew handily
Soon size nine in grownup form
Looked upon as kind of norm.
Thinking back on “BigFoot” years
To fit in, drove me to tears!
Teenage stresses to compete—
Happy now with normal feet!
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
~3rd Place~
Contest: BigFoot
Sponsor: Skat A
Judged: 05/07/2015
Why am I attracted to certain types of women
The ones that display that indescribable feminine trait
Demure yet with that certain openness and lust for life
Those that send out those unmistakable signals
All men know what I referring to
It's a very feminine charm that beckons us to come hither
That says I want to know more about you
And we are all too eager to oblige
Hence the beginning
Stage two of this trial period happens
Engaging in conversation, we size up each other
And then it either ends at that point
Or it becomes the beginning of a relationship
With further exploration
More times than not, the relationship flourishes
Because the initial attraction was genuine
And is followed by a lasting affair
It is amazing how one's instinct
Usually steers us down the right path
Until we discover it, love is very difficult to define
It is all encompassing, life changing
The ultimate emotion, three cheers for love
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE!!!
© Jack Ellison 2014
As Miss Luby watches from her window
a moving van backs up
the driveway across the street
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
its warning cry has a beacon-like effect
on the neighborhood
arousing interest from all corners
everything suddenly shaken awake
Even the squirrels stop, stock-still
save an occasional flick of the tail
Miss Luby's cat, also
watching from the window
pauses momentarily, paw suspended
before continuing to clean herself
And one by one, the other inhabitants
invent clever ways to investigate
without seeming obviously interested
Miss Luby's next-door neighbor, Fred
flits outside to water the plants
in his front flowerbeds, distractedly
soaking the sidewalk instead
While dotty old Mrs. Pappadopoulos
puffs along, pulling her little Pomeranian
up the street for a “walk”
slyly turning her head, rather owlishly
as she passes by
Silvia, Miss Luby's other next-door neighbor
is still in her housedress and can't go out
so she sends her three beastly little boys out
to play, knowing they will get the inside scoop
and sure enough, within forty-five seconds
they have accidentally-on-purpose
sent a toy airplane across the street
and spend the next half hour retrieving it
following the new neighbors
in and out like so many
playful puppies
Not to be left out
of the hullabaloo, the hoity-toity
housewife from two doors down
high-steps out to size up the new arrivals
over-casually strolling with
her beautifully bundled babies in tow
putting on quite a show
suddenly disappointed
realizing they're just common-folk
not the kind she wanted to know
All the while, the new neighbors
exhausted, amble in and out
of their new home
staggering
under stacks of small pieces
lumbering along
awkwardly lugging larger ones
A teenage boy
silently glides past on a skateboard
giving side-eye to the boring, middle-aged
couple- as he is nearly hit by a car passing by
driver distracted by the moving van
I waited all night long for your expected call
Wanted to listen to it ring and ring and ring
Needed to size up what message you would leave me
Sure enough, again just meaningless and empty
Told you I needed a break and would later call
You’ll one day figure out that I will never call
You always thought my time was of little value
Because I gave you all I had and so much more
I heard you clearly laugh inside when I would say
I have no time for people who get on my nerves
You don’t appreciate how my time is precious
After all, you’ve never seen me do anything
Other than cater to each of your every need
I wear an invite to take me please for granted
A big old sign for all to see but it’s a trap
Just once I would like to stumble on the one man
The one who will outwit the ambush I set up
My trap is my one fail proof filter and my shield
Protection from relinquishing my fragile heart
Lose respect for someone entangled in my net
Like some distant relative of the black widow
Watch merciless and leave the victim there to dry
Yet a tiny piece of me dies with each dim fool
That is always the fleeting price I have to pay
AP: 1st place 2021
Submitted on February 11, 2021 for contest MY FOOLISH HEART sponsored by CRAIG CORNISH
Originally posted on January 9, 2018
I knew a cat once named Peaches. He was an all-black cat, but not one of those that could be described like a “shadow”, never be named Bagheera, never moved like a “black bolt” or even be described as “mysterious”. You’d never mistake him for a bad omen. He wouldn’t make a very good Halloween mascot either, the boy ran with wide-eye from vacuum cleaners and drooled in his sleep for God’s sake. Peaches had one eye. I never asked him how he lost it, or if he traded it for some extra lives or something. Frankly, I don’t even know if he remembered having two. He, with astounding two-eyed confidence, would size up the antique, conversation stained dining room table and leap up there, skewed depth perception and all, to fall six inches short of his goal. Never seemed to bother him though, two seconds later (eight seconds in cat years) he’d wiggle his butt and give it another go. Never letting one eye or wood tables or any of life’s other traditional inconveniences stop him. He could have written really great self-help books. Now that I’m thinking about it, Peaches taught me a lot about life. Most importantly, that the two o’clock sun was the best place to close your eye and doze off for an hour (four hours in cat years), drool a bit, and dream of a world without vacuums.
Old-fashioned parloring. Dreaming
of friendship with tea and cakes.
Feathered fascinators, blooming hats,
all dressed like a bountiful bouquet.
Chatterbox of lovely talk, liveliness
in eyes and lips. Excitement of togetherness.
A cozy of ladies is the best. Dress us up,
kiss us with tasty treats and sips of chai.
Such is the picture of yesteryear, placed
in the Southerner's space. Children pass by
with hardly a howdy-do. Little girls pleased
by a lit up screen, chattering at a box,
unable to size up the others by their character,
wearing ripped up jeans and too small shirts.
These girls don’t know the beauty of baking,
the blossoming of a glass teapot, the lumping
of sugar, an afternoon of nestling in proverbial
glow with sun streaming its shadows on the wall.
One girl glances up, her eyes fly off, like butterflies,
into the space behind the frame, the fragile glass
removed for this moment of time. Her great-grandma
smiles and weeps, holds hope for this progeny.
Suddenly, the girl of twelve, is whisked away in time.
She’s seated at a fresh set table, not questioning why.
So they call me sister
Um hum, they think they know my name
I think I got him now check the game
What’s up baby?
How you doing?
What’s your name?
They call me Exotica cause I roll with a lot of `em
What you know `bout that?
Oh no I don’t need no ride
What about you, hop in mine
I’m so fine baby no he rolling with a dime
You don’t have to call me later lets do this now
No sense procrastinating
I know how you get down
You want my body over my mind
We don’t need to talk intellectually
Everything we do is sexually
Oh sure you can call me tomorrow
And we’ll do it all over
This time I might invite a friend
A ménage à trois
Not just me and you no mo’
You think I’m great
This friend will never let you escape
She’ll be on your mind all the time
She will make you scream
Having pleasure like in a 14 year old boys dream
We’ll even go to the club with you
Help you size up your next victim
They’ll never know where together
Our disguises are very cleaver
We go incognito every time we roll
We’ll be a part of you forever
`til death
do us part
We can travel the world together
Leaving our mark
Making people blind with out inseparable love
Making couples break up
Because
They hate
that we gave them a taste of our
night long lasting burning passion
Some people’s skin will itch
Others will get a tingle
When we welcome them to our circle of forever
Now that we are all acquainted and I’ve found a new home
You don’t have to call me Exotica now that I gotcha
More appropriately
YOU GOT ME
Let me share with you my other names
These are what others have called me
In my previous games
Syphilis
Chlamydia
Gonorrhea
Herpes Simplex 2
AIDS
All STD
And don’t forget to tell your friends about me
They can get me too I’m very contagious
And I don’t discriminate
I take `em 16
25
40
Even not yet born
I run like a river through your blood stream
I make you ache wishing you’d never crossed my path
I sometimes laugh
At people who think they can escape
Because they really don’t want to
If they did they’d pay better attention and break the chain
By communicating with others
How they have suffered
From my wrath
I am STD the sexually transmitted disease
December 14, 2012
Little pink coat, Mommy holding
little pink hand, the firehouse
must have seemed a marathon away,
the longest run of their lives.
Skedaddle little pink coat,
miniature uggs flopping,
one size up so they’ll
fit next year.
Nametags sewn in elfin collars,
forever suspended mitten-
sleeved jackets
in a Sandy Hook cupboard.
Good morning Ms. Davino,
Good morning, Mrs. Hochsprung,
Good morning, Mrs. Murphy,
Good morning, Ms. Rousseau,
Good morning, Mrs. Sherlach,
Good morning, Ms. Soto.
Who knew you’d be so brave?
I remember my first grade teacher,
when the hallways were safe
and nuclear attack seemed so remote.
Mrs. Lanza, did Adam
say good morning, Mom,
or just get down to
business?
We are all so sorry.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
December 18, 2012
These shootings occurred in my hometown.
Try this on for size, we'll all exchange jobs,
Having new tasks just might teach us respect?
What of a career
as an engineer?
or a clerk whose books are suspect?
(without cause)
A starter, try serving as a fireman
No, change spots with somebody’s chauffeur.
Work the fac’try lines,
labor in the mines,
swap posts with a president’s go-fer.
(without pause)
Keen understanding of what this world needs -
Skills that bless a people so diverse?
Though there’s no guarantee
we might come to see
our livelihood could always be worse.
(you could get fired)
Look at yourself - a struggling artist.
Imitate the sweetness of a bar maid.
Be a kids’ teacher
maybe a preacher.
Pause to wonder how their bills get paid.
(do they get tired?)
Value the career of mother/housewife
Interceding among five children - quints!
Trade jobs with a cook
who’s writing a book.
Some vocations need a seventh sense.
(or just plain gumption)
Now what if we size up occupations
Go out and find someone worthy of praise?
Our motivation --
ap-pre-ci-a-tion
for the world of people who fill our days.
(make no assumption)
written November 27, 2012
People Poetry Contest, Richard Lamoureux
(a love poem for my son)
Dreams spill out of sleep
sift across the hardwood floor
covers the window
in colors of May
slamming me back towards childhood
or perhaps just to the ashtray.
One forged with labor
in elementary school ceramics;
patient fingers size up,
roll the earthen clay,
pinch it to perfection,
this unusable object
is made with skill,
crafted uniquely for my father.
A tribute greater than mountain carved faces
monuments of life’s reward.
Baseball camps, tee-ball games,
selfless Sunday morning catch,
sitting in question
understanding Auguste Rodin,
your etched piece of history
proclaimed in this ashtray.
The long afternoons,
bedtime stories,
day dreams of musketeers
tree-forts and bandaged knees,
wisdom contained in a receding hair-line
without the restriction of bookends.
This is your medal
placed with vigilance
impatient in time
yes, a five pound ashtray.
Reflections of your accomplishments
schematics of fatherhood, fired
painted with magnificence
useless to anyone but you.
Standing at the door, a lone sentry
hands outstretched boastfully,
here is your prize
an ashtray!
The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates,
you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition,
rite of passage
generation to generation,
the tribulation of the ash tray
passed from father to son.
Thirty-something
as I lay in bed
the warm morning symphony
shines bright upon my medal
like a polished chrome hood ornament,
I too have taken my place
among the tradition of the ashtrays.
She is in her 59th summers, while he is in his 60th winters
The way they size up themselves
They are what “on” toward redeeming
And regaining each their respective separate lives before
To one lofty and solid momentum in their lives
If they are today an aged wine, they are the savor
They delve and sip on it to quench their dried lips
Their dried throats to their hearts’ contents
For they are still endowed in spirit, mind and heart!
Once more their paths crossed
Forty two years ago of gnawing, searching
And to a halt, they met again
Destiny, they believe in the making then
Finally they found themselves fulfilling
Lost paradise in a kubo (hut) at the back of a hill
Near a sand dune mountain near the China sea in the North.
A love never and never in their far fetched imagination
They cohabited and concocted this love story
Together they trek a new life with hope
A love never in their lives as separated and divorcees
Ignited a new love and a new, good and compatible relationship
That they alone knew.
Witnessing the romance are love birds in one nest
And bamboos swaying with joy acquiesced their longings
Together they drown themselves
And into high potion of endearment
They have not indulged into drugs like addicts
They were likened but this time
They are really HIGH..into LOVE.
Till the reawakening break of a new dawn
And beyond every pages of calendar
Their love will stay forever.
Dalila Agtani 1/5/2012
Entered in a contest
Sponsored by:
Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name
Tell Me a Story
Life is an uphill battle
No credit only blame
You play the cards they hand you
But there’s no meaning to the game
The rock rolls down upon you
And you try and you try again
As you justify existence
To live in the world of men
Oh, Krakatoa
Raining down on me
Oh, Krakatoa
You size up situations
Dig your trenches and hunker in
Wear your machine gun bullet halo
As if you had a chance to win
But in the country of your spirit,
You’re awaiting deportation
Still, your wet eyes greet the morning light
In stagnant celebration
The anvil of your calling
Keeps pressing for response
As the blacksmith strikes the molten mash
Amid your veil of sparks
And it seems like you’ve been bent this way
For a hundred-thousand years
With the peoples of antiquity
Who learned to explain their fears –
Oh, Krakatoa
Raining down on me
Oh, Krakatoa
My mom is a rosebush
lovely and red
but if you are careless
you’ll wind up quite dead.
My dad is a slide rule
useful and endearing
whose entire career
has been engineering.
My bro is a penguin
laid-back and cool
who hangs out with buddies
his size up at school.
I am a journal
tucked out of sight
listening, watching
more chapters to write.
We are four
corners of a square
connected by thin lines
inside the same lair.
this story's about a good o'boy
that knows his wits ain't the keenest
and a writer that thought he was cock-of-the-walk
we'll refer to him as genius
genius liked to hang around o'boy
and make fun of him all day long
he would pick and poke and make sick jokes
o'boy would just laugh along
now genius decided to protect his work
so he sent it to washington
said i'll be a star, yea i'm gonna go far
and my songs'll be number one.
well, his head began to swell a mite
when he started to receive
the kind of deals that come in the mail
when you register with the L.O.C.
now, o'boy might be simple folk.
he don't claim to have a great mind.
but he can spot a scam, size up a man
and read between the lines.
o'boy tried to warn him
said be careful or ya might get burned
but the know-it-alls are bound to fall
cause there's nutin else they can learn.
they said they'd sell genius his spotlight
make his name known all around
so he bent right over, stuck his head in the clover
and pulled his britches down.
well i can't really say how it happened
but the story soon spread around
and before ya know it that singing poet
was the biggest joke in town.
now, we can make fun of the downhom'eez
laugh at their back-wood way
make the simple folk the butt of our joke
but sometimes it just don't pay.