Boys Poems - Poems about Boys

You could see in the blush in his face He was life itself He spoke about the stars With the same tone he spoke About his beloved mother And it infected me And I was in fire....

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This limerick is about a clown, who when shopping in a nearby town. A mother with small boys, said his giant shoe made too much noise. Shoeless he shopped while tip toeing around. ...

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Different individuals, yet sharing the same heart, Different individuals, yet united by the same vision. They emerge from their shelters at dawn, Invigorated by the morning light. Boys with diverse talents, They transformed the unused and discarded. Boys of profound grace, They knew how to summon the elements to do...

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1969 WAS A HORRID TIME IN CHICAGO MARTIN LUTHER KING WAS KILLED CHURCHES LOOTING CHICAGO WAS LITERALLY BURNING DOWN ESPECIALLY THE WEST SIDE GANGS CONTROLLING THE STREETS SINCE JEFF FORT LOST THE GOVERMENT FUNDING FOR CITY YOUTH PROGRAMS BECAUSE HE WAS FUNDING THE GANGS BLACK SOULS SO YES BETWEEN HIM LARRY HOOVER BLACK PANTHERS CIVIL...

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They told him, “Boys don’t cry or feel,” “Stand tall, be hard, and never kneel.” So he learned young to wear a mask, To fake the strength they dared to ask. He bit his tongue, he clenched his jaw, Afraid to show a single flaw. And every tear he held inside Just made him hollow, made him hide. They praised him when he...

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They can be so much more if only you let them in if you show them a world beyond screens and borrowed dreams. They are not yahoo boys. They are survivors of a broken system running from the weight of waiting where opportunity hides behind closed doors. Imagine who they could become if the field was level if rules were sacred and hope wasn’t taxed by...

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They say boys don’t cry. They say it like a promise. Like strength is stitched in our skin at birth and weakness is something you have to unzip your chest to find. I was eight when I learned that sadness had a gender. That girls get tissues, and boys get told to “tough it out.” That scraped knees get band-aids, but broken hearts? Those just get...

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At the age often, Aztec boys back in the day Had all their hair cut except one lank, out of the way They could not get that one cut off until their mission was complete. Bring home a prisoner from battle, isn’t that sweet?...

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*A Meditation on Growing Up* ## I. [Age 6] — First Light Your fingernails, chewed down to pink, sort bottle caps by rust and shine. I offer you my father's Pepsi crown— you pocket it without a blink. ## II. [Age 7] — The Promise Under sheets stretched between two chairs, your breath carries grape bubble gum. You whisper secrets through the cotton dark: "Blood...

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Gates once locked with poverty's rust now swing on golden hinges Every child a key-holder: the girl whose fingers paint light from darkness, the boy who dreams in mother tongues and thinks in mathematics, wheels spinning stories across threshold stones. Breakfast arrives with sunrise and hope, satellites whisper knowledge to mountaintops, libraries gallop on horseback to forgotten villages. Schools are changing. Democracy breathes in corridors where...

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so icky so stinky so gross that’s what we were told growing up i didn’t talk to them because boys had cooties he hits me because he likes me he flirts by making fun of me he talks about me to his friends and says i’m easy is this what love is like? i’ve never had anything real he pays for me he opens doors for me he worships...

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Black boys deserve flowers too Black boys deserve flowers too Not just at their funerals Not when they're already gone Not when we are just mourning them Black boys deserve flowers too Not just laid at their tombstone Not just because you feel guilty Not just because you couldn't love them fully Black boys deserve flowers too This is long overdue They deserve...

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These days I often find myself lying on my pristine rock, hard bed thinking about why the world would ever care about someone like me. I wonder how my thoughts ever drifted this far. Maybe social media? Or my own self-conceit, brimming with forbidden passions even van Gogh or Picasso couldn't imagine. Yet, I only say that because I can't...

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In somber silence, the Old Boys sit. Only ambient noise they permit. Not sitting face-to-face, it's such a lonely place. I, frankly, don't want to be in it....

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Jibber jabber, pitter patter; another one is screaming, now what's the matter? Little feet, stinky feet, how many rocks did you just eat? Sticky hands, runny nose; did you just pick your nose with your toes? Booger picking, booger eating; do we need to have another prayer meeting? Messy house, stained up clothes; with these three boys, anything goes. Terrible two's and attitude; where'd they...

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