Manikin Poems | Examples

Vermilion, Maybe

A parrot, a toucan,
a horse’s head,
and a girl in red shoes
follow a manikin
walking like an Egyptian
into the room
where I used to dream.
None of them speak.
They just rearrange
the brushes on the table
and wait for me to notice
what I left undone.

The Virgin of Guadalupe
smiles at their shenanigans—
a parrot on her shoulder now,
the manikin offering
a rainbow shoelace,
like a ribbon of penance.
Her mandorla ripples—
not with judgment
but something warmer,
forgiveness braided with laughter.
She doesn’t speak,
but the shoelace glows
in her open hands.

Then the toucan sneezes
and vanishes in glitter.
The girl curtsies to the Virgin.
The horse’s head rolls
against the leg of my easel,
and comes to rest
facing me.
I still don’t know
what any of it means—
only that I’m reaching
for vermilion, maybe.

Outlive It

Some get over a bad childhood,
they rise to the top of a hill
to set fire to the bloody rags of a choiceless youth.
The beacon flares, below a forest
of wide-eyed animals
watch as the sacrifice, now a smoldering fawn,
blunders among them, its throat cut and bleeding.

Others drag around a blind doll,
day by day the macabre manikin grows larger,
its face a picture of apathy,
for apathy is the ghostly dress of
all long dead ballerinas.
That hand-stitched doll
gets too heavy to bear, and so daily,
they must give it away to beggars and saints,
The doll is insane, its pain is a robber's key
that returns to unlock any cardboard castle,
or iron fortress.

When the wild dogs come
to scavenge among the bones of a childhood,
throw them something raw and still wriggling,
let them slaver and chew it over,
until they sicken,
then chop off their gray heads,
one by one.

Born There

I was born there,
there between the grey days and ghostly nights.
I came out of the warm cave
fully encased with my mother's sadness.

The ghetto walls moved in or out
inch by crawling inch, they were a mirage,
but they remained in our eyes
as forever impenetrable.

I still dream of it, in that nightmare,
the buildings are too close together,
too full of bricked-up holes.
The narrow streets leading to no roads.

Sometimes, I find in the rubble
of a derelict building,
a tin wind-up manikin,
its painted form flaking,
yet its eyes
blink in the sunlight
as I carry it away.

Does It Say Itself

What is that central pole
does it hold up a voice like a brazen spine?
          And the many rooms
all of them built to be seen
                        with no modesty nor privacy.
Rooms where the talking clacks
never pausing, never harkening.
                                        There are mouths
in the air free-floating.

This artless architecture, does it say itself
as a poem does?
Or does it clatter and broadcast its presence
                  turning, revolving as a display will.

There are holes in this unstructured edifice,
holes where mice
                          go to eat their own bones.

Look!  It is a brain, it is calcified
                    a rabid ego haunts it.
Can it be covered up, subdued, made to speak
only when spoken to?
Or is it a robotic manikin that will drive your being
while you sleepwalk
                                    through its hollow domain?

The Widdershins

Leftward went his stride, counter to the sun he strode.
They said he was magicked hence by the fairies
or was a mechanical manikin
witched up from a pot of spells.

Old widdershins had a stove pipe hat
and his clothes were plucked from a crow
he was a longshanks, and wicker-boned,
when he circled a church counterclockwise
old wives muttered about the ‘devils work’
but he was just crook-legged and addled.

Queen Mab midwife of the odd and less ordinary
made him from willow cane and burnt straw
and when he circled the wrong way all day
it was only to stabilize the penny-farthings
that roamed around country churches back when.

The land, despite dire warnings,
did not lose itself in a maze of sorrows,
for all was an enchanted misdirection
a hocus-pocus roundabout detour,
a contrary conjecture
that right was always right despite,
and left was just a gauche and a gangly wish.

The Manikin

So many manikins
In the store windows
Dressed in fashion clothes
What  does happen at night? 
When no one is around? 
I ponder this question

Do they come to life?
Walking on the floors?
Having a chit-chat
Or walk on the floors
When I am in the mall
I do ponder this scene

Marilyn

Marilyn, Little Girl Lost.
.
Little girl lost
who never grew up
burdened throughout her short life
by a lack of her Mothers love.
Thrown into the limelight
beauty made her a star
loved by everyone
but never felt good enough
so insecure
Longed for a family
always searching for true love.
She became a pin-up
and every man's dream
because of her alluring beauty
femininity and sensuality
hiding the real person inside
and everything she aspired to be.
But the hurting child inside would not set her free.
Always feeling lonely
felt uneasy in crowds
so misunderstood
even though her intentions were good
Two different people
Norma Jean who no one wanted to know
and Marilyn who everyone wanted to know
a product ans manikin
her real self and dreams denied
with her finger constantly
on the self destruct button
finally it got too much
But even now our hearts are touched
and they'll always be
a place for Marilyn in our heats.
Quote~
''Help me! Help me !''
life is getting closer
and all I want to do is die. ~ Marilyn Monroe.
''She has become more than an icon''
She has become apart of our psyche.
.
 ~ Peter Dome. Copyright 2012.

Invasion of the Manikins

Can you hear the hypnotic hum of the production line?
Education Rehabilitation factories rolling out images of humans made of plastic and wood.
Minds are erased of parental guidance.
Memory banks programmed with political correctness.
Manikin, manikin
Original thought, personal passions, is like a stick of dynamite, it will splinter their heads.
They are invading our world.
Replacing our friends and family, when they go to sleep.
Don’t allow them to erase your original thought, snuff out the polite to your burning passions.
Beware of the manikins, manikins.

Written by Stephen J. Vattimo 5/4/2020

In My Mind a Manikin

In My Mind A Manikin

In my closet a manikin will find
Always remaining in my mind;
Memory like her will never forget;
Though now gone and do regret.

She always has been self-sufficient
With quietness her time she spent
Only an image someone once made
Whose memory into passed did fade.

Jim Horn

Dedicated to Solomon

Cheated

Like an intimate massage,
our lips embrace in a kiss.
And in that perfect moment,
two hearts experience bliss.

Love grows exponentially,
getting stronger with each day.
For once rooted in my soul,
nothing can take it away.

At the birth of our daughter,
my heart nearly burst with pride.
For your tears of happiness
touched me, and I cried inside.

A broken remnant of war,
I'm more manikin than man.
But love rallies around me,
and I do the best I can.

Behind a bastion of hope,
my spirit's undefeated.
And yet, deep in my being,
I can't help but feel cheated.


(Quatrain)


11/12/2015

A Moon Manakin

A Moon Manikin 

A moon manikin;
Yellow and round as ever
And I so clever.

Ho, ho.

In reference to Moon over Poet Destroyer,
not Miami.

James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet

That Old King Mammon

The sound of shoes within the malls
Reflects a time of honoured halls
Where Knights and ladies in bright attire
Would cross the floor to royalty higher
Yet the sound of shoes in mirrored malls
Pass by halls of trader stalls
Of royalty paid more than honour
Of manikin displaying the royalty upon her
Where halls are made for old King Mammon
And footsteps tap out praise upon
For royalty is bought not handed down
And museums displays a dusty crown

Streetcar Named Desire

Long deceased actors
‘play-acting
On an unobserved TV
set
blaring from a
vacant living room.
In the kitchen a
widower
tends eggs
splattering in a
pan.
Then came a loud
interjection
from the room
beyond, “Hey,
Stella!!”
sending through him
a trembling pall
memories of his wife
Stella
who had died many
years ago
and never gotten
over it.
Still as a
storefront manikin
till the last memory
faded
he realized what
taken place:
the son-of-a-*itch
burnt his eggs!
Ding! Ding! I
tricked you didn’t
I?

Fantasize

As you hug my thighs 
I fantasize
About the time we first met
You were on a manikin, strutting your stuff
Making me want you more
Dreaming about the day we'd soar
High and about into the nights sky
Glowing in the clouds as I bungee jump from the airplane
We'd be together, forever
As you hug my thighs
I fantasize
About how things used to be
You were shining in the sun
Glowing in the moonlight
There were no holes or patches
Bruises or scratches
You were new

Man and Wooooman

Eyes pierce;
words penetrate;
countenance corrodes…
pity those tough hearts
of rough masculinity
genuflecting
tender muliebrity.

Just think of poor God
…He dares once in a while
out of Maya-muffle
to eavesdrop His devotees’ troubles.


Got encapsulated in Her
enchanting shell, spell
…the God became a helpless manikin
caught within Her tall
woo-prison walls.

What to say
of frail mortal man;
truly gullible
to sirens’ smirks,
swings, snits and whiffs!

O’ man, O’ man…always gets tangled, wangled
and ‘woman’gled
like a fish in an angler’s net.

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