Long Coming of age Poems
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You ripped me
One word at a time
Shredded my smile
Pulled at my sensitivity
I was never strong enough
To pull back my paper heart
You took the pieces of me
Arranged them in your perfect order
I prayed for the wind to come
Hoping I would be carried away
Flutter to a new more loving home
Instead, I endured your paper cuts
I became your paper mâché
Shaped into the image of you
Glued with your inconsistancies
Coated in your endless smoke
Sarcasm and beer
I marinated in your endless tears
You painted me with a retarded label
Your stupid failure of a son
Forced to endure that brush
It was with your eyes I learned to see
Everyone else was better than me
I was a failure times three
My inside empty
I became light as air
As time went on I ceased to care
It happend slowly you weren't aware
Until one day I floated past your stare
No longer raw and bare
I clawed and ripped
Rewrote my page
My renaissance
coming of age
Not your puppet on a stage
Contorted by your rage
I have lost you to your death
The air much clearer, still I feel your breath
Within my doubts your lies still hide
Yet within me a new strength resides
Your image of me no longer applies
Doubt and fear reduced in size
No longer your "DUMMY"
On faith I rise
For Charlotte's contest, heart and soul confessional.
Written, September 1st 2014.
I ain’t enough, and I know that truth
Like a blade in the chest or a cracked front tooth.
She’s gold-dust real, while I’m broke and bruised—
Tryna be a king in worn-out shoes.
She walks in rooms, they freeze in awe,
Whole world bends to her silent law.
Me? I’m background noise, her “almost-there,”
She could blink once and they’d all be there.
I hustle hard, give soul and skin,
Still feel like I ain’t ever gonna win.
Every joke I drop, she half-way laughs,
I write love in books; she skims right past.
She don’t need saving — she’s fire, not glass,
But I keep bleeding just to make her ask.
Like if I shine bright, just one more time,
She might say “damn, you’re finally mine.”
But deep in the dark where my demons feed,
I feel like a draft pick she didn’t need.
Like I got lucky — a glitch in fate,
And she’ll wake up soon, say “this was a mistake.”
I scrub my flaws, I polish pain,
Tryna earn her heart like it’s some campaign.
But what if love ain’t earned or won?
What if I’m just not the one?
What if she stays just long enough
To prove I’m right — I’m not enough?
What if I break just to see her free
And she don’t even turn to look at me?
I ain’t her type — I’m her pause, her maybe,
The good guy role in her coming-of-age story.
She’s lightning, thunder, a thousand suns,
I’m holding candles, dropping puns.
But still I stay, and still I try,
Stackin’ stars to gift her sky.
‘Cause even if I ain’t “the one” she needs,
I’ll be the man who plants the seeds.
So when she leaves — ‘cause queens don’t beg —
I’ll rise alone on shattered legs.
Knowing I gave more than enough of me,
Even if she never truly did see.
The customs men shake their heads
and watch the women enter Mexico.
Three with skirts, white socks,
one with jeans
and proper blouse.
Seventeen, eighteen
just out of Concord Academy
in a black Packard Super Clipper,
not quite as big as a hearse.
They buy silver jewelry from the women
and beers and tamales from a man.
Night comes,
they watch the moon large
over the Pacific.
They lay under the Packard on blankets,
staring at it
while a whitehaired man swats away
with a broom handle
two stumbling young men
who get too close to them.
What happened, Mom?
We asked her about then-
The summer of 1949.
Did you meet a boy there?
No, nothing happened,
she said.
Nothing happened.
We went there
and came back.
It was the lull in between,
everything happening.
And then-
Everything happening.
I see it now,
my mother,
the girls,
the moon reflected in their eyes,
the smooth Pacific,
a guitar, a song in the air.
Their moments run through me,
each one,
as though
I had never been born.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘’’’’’’
Angular hips now more round than grapes
grieving a little for new voice whispered,
swells of flesh curved in plumper shapes
while the flow of monthly arrival lingered
Almond eyes grew sultry deepening hue
baby powder blending into lavender spray
this crossover of rebellion I harshly knew,
awkwardly choosing between truth or dare-play.
Then, nights gazed at sandals of childhood seas
toes raking, confused about dissent down path;
a ruffled star finding myself sliced by cold trees
as Mom screeched at moody blues ready to hatch
My mind felt strange; Dad became a fading hero
questioning him with glares longer than steam,
rude awakenings cracked fears, tears stuck at zero
with ripening bosoms; this turning point at thirteen
Struggling for identity bloomed in freshman year
when tresses climbed on stairs of clumsy romance
beguiled by some hunger in my bones, a blushed cheer;
exalting the senses, a lady-in-waiting for her first dance.
©
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
For Frank Herrera: Coming of Age
By nette onclaud
So often were there words
Yet most often were left unheard of
One too many perhaps of verbs
And much too much mayhaps left unsolved
Time seem lessened with coming of age
And how much were left from a recent past
Alike stories be told further from another page
Without ever the question no more to only ask
From a hundred days of yesterdays
With a hundred more days of tomorrows
Seem so fast to have begone away
And so long for the coming to follow
Is there a moment to stop to wonder?
A pause within the fabrics of relentless time
Yet whence given… is there a time to ponder?
To see if solace be in tranquility to find
Perhaps a little more is all it takes
A little more of youth to be looking back
A simple dream to welcome a peaceful wake
And so much more will perhaps be too little to lack
...He spotted Jones, and three other rough men,
digging at the ground beneath a large spruce.
Jones was grousing, “I know it’s buried somewhere,
if if it’s not here, I’ll beat it out of that youth!”
It was them Elias spurred his horse on,
emerging from behind a smallish grove,
they all spun and saw him, pistols ready,
said Elias, “I had wondered…now I know.
“Why a criminal could care much for me,
they say there is no honor among thieves,
you didn’t care for you old pardner’s son,
you just though that I might have what you need.”
Trigger Jones stood up with a vicious grin,
said,” Well god damn, if took you long enough.
Who would’ve thought the preacher would buy the land
where old Kerwin used to hide all his stuff.
“I’d hoped you could tell me, show us the loot,
that’s why I bothered toying with your head,
but I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,
if you know, speak, or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Elias just laughed, “I would never help you
even if I knew, don’t you understand?
You call me Kerwin, but my name is Jensen,
my father raised me an honorable man.”
Jones just said and said, “Well ain’t you a daisy.
I guess you’ll die a stone’s throw from your home.”
Elias just smirked back, said, “Do you think
I was fool enough to ride out on my own?”
At these words six others rode into view,
surrounding Jones and all his bandit scum,
the sheriff led them, six shooter in hand,
barked, “You all throw up your hands, or you’re done.”
Jones looked like he might make trouble for them,
but around him his men threw up their arms,
and the old crook realized there was no escape,
he dropped his pistol, saved himself from harm.
There were rewards on all the bandit’s head,
the sheriff rode off quite happy that day.
Elias rode back to his home relieved,
no longer could anyone doubt his ways.
For all the past, his temper, his worries,
none could ever now doubt he had honor,
he wasn’t bound by a bandit long dead,
and now could live the life that he deserved.
Dad, had you been more faithful as you were in youth
and much devoted to mom, God would have opened wide
His door and blessed you, not punishing you with strife...
but the burden weighted on me feeling the scorn and wrath.
I grew up with a lack of paternal affection,
no hugs, no encouragement left alone and sad...
it was very hard to get confidence and feel ambition;
I could have leaned on his shoulder and be very glad!
Hope was never lost, I looked to Heaven
and He consoled me in times of endless fear and turmoil,
He was a Father I could confide in and lean on;
why was my dad so restless and chose to live in Hell?
Dad, my youthful days would have been brighter and without tears,
immensely cherishing the happiness of two happy parents;
unfortunately, it couldn't be realized due to the shameless lust
for your mistress imposing responsibility on a teen who became an adult.
Entered in Frank Herrera's contest,
" Coming Of Age "
Written by Andrew Crisci
And the rain will pour
And I’ll sit at your door
Because the rain will pour
Haven’t talked about much
No worries, there’s no such rush
It’s only paperwork
As long as you provide for your loved ones
Then it matters not if the labor hurts
I married tragedy
A lovely wrath to be
Smile for these troubled times chase after me
No point ignoring laughter
Dimples from cheek to cheek
I’m finally twenty
I’m telling you,
I’m growing to be an antique
Coming of age
Yet more than ever
I script my life on a page
I wish you more than life
I wish you truth
Through the wounds of right
Your kiss my silent night
And the rain will pour
And I’ll sit at your door
And the rain will pour
Conservatives’ banning’s apropos of nothing
At twelve when he delt with this
shouldn't have to jump through hoops
should’ve been able to explore when a teen
But because of many conservative groups
The Ire excessive was the coming of age
Juvenile mistakes made in adult years
Denied the ability to pick up social skills
Sexual assault and sexual awaking
considered pornographic
Q**r’s often live a second adolescents
This is a guide for the coming of age allies
States have taken off the shelves
Intersectional as his life
Chapters are a collection, four acts
referred to as “parts” in this guide
self-contained essay’s
The memoir progresses through Johnson’s life
Two letters appear alongside
the chapters for mother and brother
Conditioned to think what’s the truth
Indoctrinated in us
Stop crying, racialized
School bullies
The flee market incident
Institutionalized violence
Family structure marginalized
Community –college fraternity
And black joy
Tells the truth
A black and q***r boy’s experience
Gender identity
Toxic masculinity
Brotherhood
Juvenescence shines like the sun’s slow climb
and I see a bird not yet flown its cage,
I hear the footsteps in the march of time -
a journey of self, a coming of age!
Thus you Peter Pan on wings of an elf,
who seeks to fly between far and never,
must now say goodbye to your childish self
and dreams of eternal youth forever.
So fly dear boy, fly and never look back
and richly love the heart and feel the soul -
save close your nobilities lest you lack
for all that you do bears a living toll.
And turn your mind from temptation unsought
with all care and profundity of thought.
Written: March 2015