Short Flexes Poems
Short Flexes Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Flexes by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Flexes by length and keyword.
There's a ripped, good looking guy...
gals, don't assume he's quite and shy!
Watch how he models:
he flexes his muscles...
winking at ladies strolling by!
The Wizard of Our-Land reigns supreme
cloaked in the garments of fear's dreams
He waves his wands, flexes his muscles
smooths over all problems, as dark winds rustle
flexes his biceps
tucks his flabby tummy in
vanity in vain
a score to settle
through tough machismo's battle
male ego's title
but can't hit his foe
spits on his face, oh, no
worse than a KO !
demure pink panties
orange in the glow of the streetlights
d
a
n
g
l
i
n
g
from a petite
cinnamon colored ankle
the bronze back of ghetto lust
flexes and glistens
above the writhing form of sensuality incarnate
battle of the sexes
the incubus versus the succubus
in a seventy-four chevy
write your name on the window
has you pass by
Form:
THREADS OF DECEIT
The puppet flexes with threads of gold,
the hobby of his mistress to sew.
His wife kneels on impenitent boards, parquet cold.
The puppet flexes with threads of gold.
Scurrying out, floorboards creaking and bold,
he’s grown a larger nose, than the man she once knew.
The puppet flexes with threads of gold
The hobby of his mistress to sew
10/16/2017
What is going through his mind?
I do not understand this man sometimes
He gets mad every time we reconnect with a text
then he flexes with his thumbs typing words,
to hurt me like, a witch casting a hex
Do you think I should be upset? Or do I forget what he just text?
Should I continue to flex my thumbs, to send a reply? No!
I will delete his text and erase him from my cell, before it turns into a big mess.
04/18/12
What is poetry?
My sister, my brother
My father, my mother
What is poetry?
My nieces, my nephews
My cousins, my best fews
What is poetry?
Poetry is the expression of many expressions
A woman fitted for many dresses
A man of muscle for many flexes
It’s how we talk
It’s how we live
It’s how we breathe
It’s how we give
You can say
You can do
You can be
Anything.
If you can see
Then let me
Set ye
Free
The ground is white with powdery snow
Thankfully, I have no place I need to go,
The arctic north wind has ceased to blow,
I see one bird outside, a large black crow
He flexes his wings occasionally for show,
In yonder meadow stands a single doe
Despite the frigid cold, she’s wary of a foe,
The fox she saw skulking in a near hollow
All is peaceful, the atmosphere is mellow,
And I feel like an extremely lucky fellow.
All the women look at Mister Macho Man
as he flexes his muscles
and cracks his knuckles
while working on his tan.
Mister Macho Man is always at the center of attention
wherever he goes.
Needless to say that all his peers and foes
have to settle for rejection.
But despite all of the cheers,
he is not happy
and often even feels crappy
because of his growing fears.
His biggest worry
is that he'll eventually become furry
and lose face
in the race.
An artist will spew at you,
Verbs or beats,
Or oils or flexes.
An artist will want to hypnotize
With these verbs, beats, oils and flexes.
The reader is a fish, searching for a flake,
The audience is empty, waiting for
Notes, and rhythm.
The critic is an empty canvas swirling
Color to find the intimate connection that
Makes an omnipresent black stamp.
And the dance, the patron of the dance,
Together rise and fall, artist forever baiting
Fellow, the master of their bait.