Long Manhood Poems
Long Manhood Poems. Below are the most popular long Manhood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Manhood poems by poem length and keyword.
To be a man in a world of false men
And keep honor as a good Sherpa guide
To not lose dignity in the lion's den
And stay ever humble before such pride
To know that character, is coin of the realm
And duty to cause is the cloth we wear
As we steer our hearts with truth at the helm
Protect the lives of those in need of care
To be a child in the world of children
And teach wisdom learned without demanding
Accept those in need as they wander in
And claim no reason beyond understanding
To give up childish things, to have foresight
Truth, honor, character should be your quest
Know worlds further than your line of sight
To become a man before one's death
contest Animus-Anima Part II-Animus
5/30/16
Oh Vanity Thy Name is Metro-Man
At the gym,
admiring his bulging biceps in a giant mirror,
he reaches for his ever-ready smart phone
and stops to make a boastful tweet.
Driving home, sipping his protein drink,
he involuntarily sneers
noticing construction workers on a roof,
their strong bronzed arms glistening in the sun.
He makes a mental note
to stop off at the tanning booth tomorrow.
At the salon, and after his daily massage,
he lies back for his manscape.
Oh, how it hurts, he inwardly groans,
but as he contemplates how the hotties at the pool
will love his baby smooth skin,
a smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
At his sterile home
with its many beautiful toys meant to entertain
the largest and oldest of grown-up boys,
he goes to his social media account
eager to relate how just today
he broke his personal best bench press record
Before bed, he brushes and carefully flosses
and then applies his special lotions.
Looking down at his manhood, he smiles again
until the thought
of pushing papers at the office
flits through his mind:
Oh the drudgery that I must endure
to afford my awesome life!
July 10, 2017 for the Modern Vanity Contest of Lewis Raynes
The voyage of life trails its course,
With a mature man at the source,
A journey etched in light and shade,
Where dreams are born and fears are swayed.
With steady hand on the boat`s helm,
The man sets for the boundless realm,
The distant shore, a promised land,
On its soil, he wishes to stand
The river banks, with boulders rough,
Promise a voyage rather tough;
Greyish clouds soon darken the sky,
Wild winds whips, with waves waxing high
Yet the boat of life bravely sails,
Through sunlit seas and stormy gales
Each woeful wave, a lesson learned,
A wisdom wide, sincerely earned.
The journey spins a vibrant hue,
Of battles fought and triumphs true;
The storms may rage, the winds may blow,
But inner strength is set to glow.
The years like seasons, come and go,
And with them, seeds of wisdom grow;
The face reflects a deeper sight,
Illumed by flame of inner light.
Love enters the scene, a bright hue,
A new shining spark, a life true,
With a gentle face, a shared gaze,
Lighting the labyrinthine maze.
The man stumbles, the scraped knees sting,
But the spirit still starts to sing,
Extracting strength from courage pure,
Fanning faith in heavens, for sure.
The artist's touch, so keen and true,
Captures the spirit, fresh and new.
The voyage onward, still unfurled,
A part of this expansive world.
Indeed, Cole with his art's soft grace,
Seals the journey in time and space,
The painting stands, a testament,
To manhood’s strength, divinely lent.
The colours blend, a harmony,
Of what has been and what will be.
A life well lived, a spirit free,
For all the watching world to see.
It's weird to think to be the opposite sex
take it from one who knows best...
being a boy is much more fun and wild,
but being a girl will destroy my manhood!
No chasing after gorgeous girls with beautiful hair;
no asking for dates and kiss by candlelight,
no showing off those muscles of might...
becoming fragile and feminine: a real nightmare!
Some boys dress up as girls wearing wigs and earrings;
I couldn't see myself and slowly walk on high heels,
I'll break my nose and look like a bleeding hooker...
so sorry for having tried that and excited an onlooker!
All I will say, " A guy can never be a gal, and a gal never a guy. "
Have that sex change, get rid of your body hair ...
and you still be despised and given the evil eye!
This is my motto, " Born a man, always a man: straight or bear! "
Written By: D. Collins 3/15/19
After graduation it ain’t over, that’s when it starts.
When you show your grit, and what you’ve been taught.
From that day forward, you’re on a whole new level.
The realm of manhood, so don’t fall down, ever.
Go out and get all the world has to offer you.
Get used to paying bills just like we do.
This is the time to show you’re still hungry.
Flaunt your skills and make them show you the money.
Real life is getting ready to smack you in the face.
With respect, you’re now a part of the human race.
Welcome to the club of struggling to survive.
The reality of how it is for a black man to stay alive.
It is a whole new level once you exit college gates.
There are some ill-meaning people out there lying in wait.
Its nowhere near over. Its one notch in your belt.
There is a long way to go before you ever know wealth.
Her cremated ashes still remain sealed in the same nondescript box
white, powdery and chalk like material
devoid of any vestigial semblance to her once living and vibrant self
that unique persona pulverized and vaporized
(housed former svelte and tall Arthur Murray ball-room dance teacher
a half century plus prior to demise
which beauty, charm and grace quickly caught the attention of my father
who courted and eventually proposed to this young flirt and tease of a gal)
inert organic matter now represents sole residual embodiment
reduced to dust and near nothingness
former corporeal being of blood, bone and flesh
weighing no more than a few hatch marks on the scale
absence still bears down heavy like some millstone round the neck
per the black hole void created by defeat with Grim Reaper
toward this woman who helped birth and nurse me into manhood
momma’s only grown son still feels ripples of grievous sadness
no matter the years of suppressed anger and rage
in addition to emotional conflicts between us
which invariably wrought unpleasant relationship
and a legacy of discord writ large across the tapestry of my life!
Force fields from this lithe Brooklyn native
(whose pronunciation a dead ringer giveaway to any amateur and junior linguist)
lives in the guise of aural spectra
especially within the hallowed sanctity of Glen Elm domicile
and continues to emit indomitable and unfading rays of pure energy and light!
What's this reflection?
Sad mockery of a younger, better man's dreams.
One hand with a choke-hold on easy prosperity.
The other splayed out - each finger scraping for sensual delight.
Numb the mind with drink until you no longer care,
oh troubled, fearful, nervous man.
Let the grinning sultan have his sway.
Strength and unbendable pride.
Sardonic grin.
Imperious eyes -
uncaring if a challenge comes or not.
It doesn't matter.
Nothing matters.
Nothing but the now,
Lording what you can
over who you can
while you can.
And if one is better than you, grin all the more;
for time shall claim you both just the same.
Nothing's ever good enough.
No-one's ever good enough.
No-one but you.
Would that their simple minds could fashion keys
to unlock the rich mysteries of your mind!
But they don't even try - the fools!
My God ...
What have I done?
How have I grown into this?
This mockery of manhood.
How does this arise from the careful young scholar who bore my name?
So gradually, the monster grows ...
So innocuously, the serpent shows ...
But thank God for the grace of glimpsing the truth with an honest eye.
Let me repair myself before I shall die.
24-25 September 2023
Mystification prevails stupefying yours truly
befuddled, he blindly stumbles along rocky
pathway illusory impediments strewn helter
skelter intangible obstructions hinder access
psychological barricades effective impasse
detains, deters, detours manhood maturation
manumission manifestation materialization
linkedin, when permanent submission arises
beckoning corporeal leaden entity into avast
eternal realm, where material disintegration
promises venerable salvation releasing angst
strummed plucked fretful existence denied
utmost exploration sequestered soul hermit
tickly sealed courtesy custom made NON-
GMO supercalifragilous expialidocious
airtight, vacuum sealed with trademarked
matts scott good housekeeping approval
lifetime achievement award maintaining
quasi pristine mint like condition afford
double (FREE for the taking) full refund
if dissatisfied with stutt...tut...tut tearing
functionality, yet batteries NOT required
and assembly unnecessary, but maximum
remaining life usage, asper garden variety
mutant requires preservation within sterile
bubble, lest exposure to human contact are
rouse dormant (latent) propensity breeding
biologically pre programmed predilection
to propagate species, this despite low libido
level, thus Memorial sale steal (actually no
expiration coincides with natural longevity)
slight depreciation before cessation arises,
which I project - little less than half life of
ordinary Earthling, whose quixotic, poetic,
ecologic, plus conscientious ethos promises
greater fulfillment, sans spirit, mind, and
body versus being addicted, hypnotized, or
tranquilized by latest technologic contraption.
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.
I don’t know how I lived so long
without poetry by my side
to uphold enfold and console me
as time went passing by
how did I miss the gentle kiss
of rhythms all around
the sound of rivers rushing
and rolling tides with waves unbound
the chirping birds whose secret words
were music nonetheless
even though I did not sense
the Whole-iness of being blessed
nor did I see the unity
between poetry and the stars
always missing the meaning
of whom and what we truly are
the miracle of miracles
why anything is here at all
was supremely overwhelming
for a man like me so small
nor did I hear the Sound of the Spheres
Homer’s Odyssey or Tennyson’s Light Brigade
was never too clear with Shelly and Shakespear
and the mystical magic they made
while metaphors and similes
enjambment and free verse
were all just mumbo-jumbo
to me one giant curse
but slowly and imperceptively
I felt a change within
as words became more meaningful
and a strange new kind of friend
and it took a while to learn to smile
on a haiku in the woods
but time’s been kind and let me find
rhythm and peace inside
my poetry and manhood
© Terrell Martin, 02/26/2025