Long Growing up Poems
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Loitering around at the expense
of my parents back,
I too wish to be at the resemblance
of hardworking thumbs,
those same fingers that sewed
the futile grounds back home,
my mother’s yuca farm,
my father's dying crops,
dance taking their final
waltz with the tumble-
weeds in direction
where my ancestors
sleep while their bones
continue
to prosper,
their voices evoke
within the breeze
that had asked
for generational appeal
to the heavens that took
their last breath,
“My body crisp
at the sight of the sun,
my mind wavers as my heart
knows endless
bounties of weeds,
twisting,
turning,
suffocating,
all of life beneath
our breaths,
Yet The Night is upon us,
offering eternal rest as
mercy has finally reached
it's limits, a new vision
begins alongside
the Golden
thread of Youth,
a soul that marked
a beginning and now
an end.”
All that's left withered
away as each ancestor
departs,
my parents left their grounds,
the vibrancy of life dried
up leaving no generations
behind,
My Youth became
their bodies and my life
framed forever in each
era of my ancestors.
Candles and nightlights flickering bright,
blackout curtains shutting out the moonlight.
Snuggle down cosy with blankets tight,
perhaps the war will end to-night.
Dripping setting from Sunday's roast,
spread so thick on Monday's toast.
Meat bones simmer on the old gas ring,
Pa's homemade soup,the 'real thing'.
Paper chains cut and glued,
beer in glass bottles brewed.
Christmas puddings with threepenny bits,
the Meccano present made to fit.
Sunday school outings upto Coombe hill,
my first ever train ride,so quite a thrill.
Walks over corn fields to the Bugle Horn,
crisps and lemonade upon their lawn.
A weekly soak in a round tin bath,
towelling off by a fire in the hearth.
A viewpoint from childhood scene,
growing up at sixteen,Beech green.
What can you see from where you stand
So tall and brave and strong?
Where will you go now that you are a man
And what wisdom will you bring along?
Like the eagle, ever steadfast in flight
You’ll find the mountains ever nearer
The stars have never looked so bright
And the future never clearer
Amazing how your whole view can change
When you stand just a little bit taller
And it can feel, at first, rather strange
When you begin to lead instead of follow
Like the eagle, ever higher you’ll soar
Beyond the mountains, and farther still
To see the same bright stars over distant shores
And a future that’s yours alone to fulfill.
The world is a child growing up
Demands much, asks for too much.
It could be a fragment of one's character
Or a pinch of value, yet a burden thereafter.
As a distributor, meeting the demand
One may be tempted to forge identity:
Tainted nails, a pair of dark glasses
Extended brows, ugly looking eyelashes.
You can wear a mask to play a part
But the play may never start.
Like changing girls for satisfaction
No one will know your true attraction.
Life is a dark humor play—
Believe it or not, you’re just a stray.
You can act well but can’t fake a role
Or change what the script hold.
Poetry, a patsy mourner here, would you be the churn?
Tamanna Ferdous
Poetry, a patsy mourner here, would you be the churn?
Tamanna Ferdous
I cared for the beauty spot , her left trickle salt takes oath there in bittersweet chime
The smile and the smile line , a mystic rhythmic rhyme.
Her smile and the wind catcher , assonance, anaphora , anapestic and the trochaic, as 100 hair fall after a comb
The streak of moonlight, a droplet of beauty , submerged in homesickness, border less and home , in exile home.
Her toddler fingers , gone yesterday, broth of a messed later , growing up
Modulation and a flight of a tune, a journey to rhythm back to the rhythm , superb
Poetry that bits with heart beats and peaces , will you break free to tame the words, misfit, they are gods' hands ?
In glum, in tears , rejuvenation of the easier love, the placid affluence and all right throughout the caravan of timely rounds..
I adore you, I breathe into thee, homegrown soil, my distraction, my homeland, that forced to zoom out to Babylon, tragedy
Phantom would lure me to cuff again into the evangelical oxymoron, key mono-Lilith to polymath-a Murfreesboro prodigy
The fathom of the salty water step, and Soho, and an easy simile
They static, they enigmatic and they empathetic , not for, anymore, than seely!
Copyright Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2025
What do you want to be
When you grow up?
Today it’s a doctor,
Yesterday, a chemist,
Last week, a singer.
It doesn’t matter
Because at eight,
You can be anything.
What are you going to be
When you grow up?
Now I say a professor,
Because I want to sound smart,
And really,
It doesn’t matter
Because at twelve,
You can change your mind.
What will your major be
When you grow up?
I hesitate, because I don’t know.
My friends do,
And somehow, I missed the memo.
But now it matters
Because at sixteen,
You should have a plan.
Who are you going to be
Now that you’re grown up?
And it hits me that “grown up”
Was never something I thought I would achieve.
Someday, somewhere, someone
And it’s all that matters
Because at twenty,
Grown up is just a child’s game.
Poetry Journals
Poetry's a way of writing a journal
Of things joyful, sad or controversial
Poets write of friendship and memoirs shared
Or despair at end of a love affair.
They write of the seasons that come and pass
Of moonlight beams and stellar stars amass
Stories of Christmas and all that it means
Of witches, ghosts and ghouls at Halloween.
Poets tell tales of their husbands or wives
Children and joys they bestow on their lives
Mother's and father's and the in-laws too
Brothers and sisters, all things that they do.
Some write of their youth and of their school days
A time lacking worries, blissful always
Of growing up and finding love that's true
Best poetry comes from what love can do.
When poets come to writing their last page
Afore departure from the worldwide stage
It's hoped their poems become history
When poets have flown to eternity.
*+*+*+*
30th April 2023
UP TO 20 LINES Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet
In there no reason to believe in things the USA could manifest?
While growing up, being an American meant being the best,
whereas now it seems reduced to an incredulous jest.
I was raised believing we were freer and stronger than the rest
and I, myself, felt truly blessed and safe in America’s nest.
Oh, intent of America’s young song, what note failed at strong?
An ideal lyric at the start fell apart as time sang each note wrong.
For too long, only games are played by a congress rigged and framed.
Gone are even flickering shadows of America’s patriotic days
(maybe they lay garbage-trapped by the rot lining her roadways.)
Journalism is a joke, a knife at each good voice that ever truth spoke.
No good person’s sincerity can survive the media’s strokes.
Priorities are lost in the past; good and bad themes did not last.
Now no public concern is stronger than web-spread germs
that breed ignorance clouds to foul real needs with false terms.
How it hurts that so many no longer even try to believe.
Smile a smile, slam a fist, make a hiss – protest;
be more than America’s indifferent, residing guest.
I know how to tie my shoes, but lack clues to subdue
the apathetic fog billowing blogged, social consciousness smog.
Somewhere between
stretch marks on my voice
and the lurch of wanting,
I left the comb behind.
Let wind speak.
Let the cowlick rise
as shrine.
Some revolts come hushed—
no banners, no drums.
Only the refusal
to be pressed smooth.
Mine was spiral,
tender.
Unyielding.
In photographs—
always at the edge,
eyes doubting the lens,
halfway posed
between certain
and unsettled.
They named me Alfalfa—
after a rerun on Channel 12,
my crown a stubborn herald,
slanted with knowledge
I was too young to carry.
It whispered
to wind and window alike: go.
Mother’s hands smoothed it—
Blue Magic thick on her palms.
The brush grumbled in the bowl.
“What kind of boy’s hair does that?”
I didn’t answer.
What language holds defiance
that sprouts from the scalp,
a swirl refusing compliance?
No shadow held me.
Not in the barbershop glass,
nor beside the field
where fathers raised their voices
like flags of demand.
Manhood—a thing trimmed,
gripped, endured.
What I recall most:
the pause before questions,
heavy as drapery.
Hands—mine,
uncertain of posture.
Too much wave.
Too much reach.
They warned:
keep your hands plain.
Fists, if needed.
Folded, if God called.
Manhood, they said, came in parts:
a belt’s cold buckle,
a coach’s growl,
a girl’s number smudged
on math-paper margins.
I declined the offering.
Marked my own rituals—
in glances,
in beads of refusal
rolling off strings
never meant for amen.
The barbershop—
each time, a quiet chapel.
Men in capes awaiting
judgment or absolution.
But I kept the tangle.
My minor crown.
The map drawn by refusal.
Each coil: a quiet psalm.
Now—
I walk, not straighter,
just truer.
A boy turned man
by the long arc of detour—
learning joy lives
along roads that curve away
from expectation.
The Head's
A narrative poem
Lionel Derbyshire
My grandpa is like the mountain
I strive to scribe.
Around a Indian ocean
Of her flat mountain
Twains a head and peak
Of lion and devil
Left and right.
Heft steady her burden.
It weighs rhino strong
Like my grandpa Rhino
The handle of Grandma
It wears a overall of green flora
There serene the mountain sits
Since Methuselah
And watched the many refusal
On how the ship's began to sink.
This the Cape ocean link
A sweeping place where
Rock and cloud meet
On her mountain flat
Labelled Table Mountain.
Growing up waves we always made ..
"Out my way
Flatheads! lay flat"
Grandpa scowls
And rhino bump us
Out his way
"Bless you .. bandit's"
The head whispers afterwards
Grandma would shake her head
To relief he did not drop us
From the mountain top.
Grandpa our lionhead
A headstrong patriarch
Was a devil ..
When you gambled him.
He neverminded
Anyone's business
And like the mountain
Still he sat ..
Watching ship's
Seeking refuge in and out.
He loved us with duty
And never abbreviated this.
We, his little blazer's.
A bridge to him we be.
On many times
Rhino would bark
"O life taste great !"
To a roar with pride
The times when
Grandma brought him chow
This claim she knew
Was his love for her
Right a top
A beautiful mountain
Her heaven on earth.