"accommodate" poems
I like to think that I'm a mixture of a sunflower, a lioness, and a tortoise.
why?
simply because a sunflower is
exuberant,
vibrant in color,
flows softly and carelessly with the wind,
plain and simple,
Intriguing to say the lease.
why a lioness?
because she is Queen of the Sahara desert.
she is loyal,
she is independent and does not fully need to depend on a male,
though when given the right one, she'll go through many lengths to accommodate him.
she is also full in color, plastered with battle scars to prove that she is of worth
and can handle the meat thrown at her
with nothing but scavengers surrounding her,
tempting her.
why a tortoise?
because they are slow and steady,
live on land with feet as claws, being able to dig into troubles and come out more wise than before.
Also they can retrieve back into their cave for as long and as endless as they want,
solitude is acceptable and perfered.
one is noticeable yet, easily breakable and disposable.
one is lazy, yet keen
one is small, yet can take on the world for three hundred and thirty years.
I'll be forever, and memorable, and radiant.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 5:22 AM UTC
Dig the ground,
Deeper & broader,
Large enough to accommodate,
And peacefully lay us,
The commoners to rest,
Without causing any disturbance,
To the Clout-clad looters.
Don't rest till you collapse lifelessly,
Into the mud extracted for digging,
Digging their trap deeper enough,
Deeper enough for all the clout,
'Cause you wouldn't even want,
Their zombies to be turn-out,
Escaping out stark naked,
Out in future to plight,
****** and blight,
Pester and fester
The future generation.
Oh but do we not know,
They will survive and flourish,
Indian or Russian or American or British,
The clout will always be there to suck/eat,
**** blood and eat meatballs,
Why they will survive,
And why the civilians suffer isn't riddle.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
half a cup of
a two toned muse
yeilds a quarter of
a sultry pair of cat eyes
& a tragic obsession
with princess serenity
stirred in with a dash of inconsistencies
and every teenage boys dream
under the heat of a mistress gaze
correcting grammar and errors
mixed in with your matching blacks,
& a quarter dozen
of féline decor
with shoes to complement
toss in a diamond ring
throughly wrapped around
your annulus finger &
indulge it with
strange behavior then
top it off with a silky whip
to accommodate
the quenching fluid of
a ******* *****
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
Last night I saw the fear in your eyes
the vulnerability seeping in.
I made you vulnerable and you hated me for that
you hated that I was the only one
who actually made you feel something
so you had to go and cheat
but I was the **** all though your inbox
says different
A flirty message with a heart faced attached
it doesn't mean anything I tell myself
he loves me.
But I never truly believed. Us girls caught
up in our heads is he thinking of me too.
you broke my heart and I want to break your spine
my therapist says letting anger out is healthy
but I actually want you to die
I want you to feel the pain I felt when I saw you with not the first but the third girl. But I was the idiot for going back.
I want you to not be able to sleep at night
Having panic attack after panic attack
wondering why you were never good enough
I want you to die
because I see in colors and you shut your blue eyes and now all I see is black.
because you said you loved me
and her
and her
my liver trying to accommodate all the alcohol just to get a weakened smile
my veins screaming for me to stop
bleeding them dry my head spiraling trying to get me to think of anything else but you
your manipulative blue eyes and your sinful lips but I am my own worst enemy
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
it seems we live in times
when helping hands extend only reluctantly
to those in dire need who had to leave
the ruins of their devastated homes
not waiting for more bombs to fall
to those who had to save their lives
from the barbaric rule of self-styled prophets
and those whose simple love of education
was met with inane terror and oppression
why is it that so many people
are afraid of them and think
these desperate refugees are perpetrators
not the victims
why is it that the nations most responsible
for chaos and destruction in these countries
far from their own safe shores
are the least willing to accommodate
those they have driven from their homes
good Samaritans have become scarce
only a few today share their possessions
with those who are in greater need
our humanity has been outsourced
to NGOs and sundry other institutions
to whom we donate so they feed
the hungry poor and the displaced
it makes one wonder whether shameless greed
has indeed
and without any saving grace
become the only goal of our race
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
Never trust the establishment
They do not exist for our benefit
For they believe that we exist
For their convenience
Their only purpose is self-perpetuation
And they think that our only function
Is to accommodate that purpose
Whereas our true cause should be
To get rid of the ********
By Phil Roberts
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
There are hearts of gilt,
And there are hearts of sin
There are hearts that lose,
And there are hearts that win.
There are hearts of stone.
But if my heart was anything,
It'd be a cactus.
Prickly and unwelcoming with tight alien-green skin,
That never fails to swell to accommodate whatever grew inside unseen.
With love it'd bulge,
And it'd shrink in the absence of love.
(But with the right care it could bloom the most spectacular flowers.)
There are strong hearts,
But even strong hearts give in.
My heart is a cactus heart,
My heart could keep it all in.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
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I recently got reminded... Oh how I am caught
In a delicate web of disillusions
Make me see what is actually not
Make invisible my heart's secret questions
Been successful in putting aside all grief
But truth has it's way to make you pay
You can bury all grievances; you can mask all disbelief
But it'll all catch up; these things you've kept at bay
Make your silly compromises
To have the the best you just make allowances
Keep up your futile pretences
Accommodate your selfish preferences
Day had dawned where each question need their answer
Questions I've shrugged and left unaddressed
Indistinguishable when fact and fiction begin to blur
When dreams and reality have coalesced
Tonight I lay with the load I bring
Body asleep with my heart fully awake
Blessing or curse, this rude awakening
Decisions and choices left for the following suns to make
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Amadou awakened with a start, it was Omar one of the guardians(security guards) of Yaldagou (the largest Hospital in the capital of Burkina Faso) knocking on the window of his taxi, Amadou had just settled down for the night after a long day in the heat and fumes that was Ouagadougou it was just after midnight on Sunday, he struggled to wake up rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Omar explained in Mori(local language), that there were two white people in need of his special service.
After a quick explanation that someone had died in a private clinic nearby and the body needed to be transported to the morgue at Yaldagou, he snapped out of his sleepiness and thought for a moment how much he could charge the rich white people, it was two days after Eid and as a strict Muslim he had been celebrating the holidays and now he had been offered an opportunity to supplement his taxi income, someone had to do it and it was an unsavory job and anyway on the few occasions he had done it, it had been lucrative, it might as well be him!
Amadou thought to himself, if you had the misfortune to die in the day time there was a private service but in the night dignity went out the window and it was up to people like Amadou and a select bunch of taxi drivers with seats that could be configured to accommodate the corpses of the recently deceased to perform this service, so taxi 87 driven by Amadou would take this lady who had died from kidney and other ***** failures, after struggling for some days she eventually lost her battle and slipped into unconsciousness and finally died.
Amadou finally settled on 10000 CFA(local currency) a fair price, after all the so-called professionals would charge 30000 CFA three times more and it was around Eid "Allah Akbar".
A quick "Thank you" to Omar for helping them and the two white people left with him for the short journey to the clinic, after the usual discussions the body was released and transported to the morgue to join the other recently deceased waiting for burial in the morning,
Amadou, rearranged the seating in his taxi after parking up in his favourite place under the trees of Yaldago it was just after one thirty, a good ninety mins work he thought to himself, yawned, and settled down to sleep a few more hours before dawn prayers.
This was Africa and "someone had to do it" was his last thought.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
I can feel my lungs collapsing with every shallow breath
And I can't decide if it's the holes left behind from
cigarette smoke burns
Or the pieces of me that followed behind you
It's 10:05 and as much as I keep trying to warp the truth
the minutes tick on leaving me stranded in seconds of long lost times
Wishing from fruitless bones
Remembering could have beens that weren't
And chasing endings that never quite were within reach
And I know cigarette fills don't last
But I can taste my time running out
And my bones refuse to give away hints to weather it's a
countdown or liftoff
The essence never quite strong enough to disguise
the bitter after-taste your words left behind with me
It's 4:00 am and as smoke fills my lungs
I vaguely remember being told
the only souls awake at this time are
the lonely and the loved
Now it's been months since I was introduced to this hour but still
all I feel is nothing.
You told me pretty girls don't light their own cigarettes
but that never stopped my lungs from burning
every time you breathed my way
Leaving scars of razor sharp words never spoken
Pushed down to the hollow of my scorching throat
Thirsting for the oasis of the syllables
they were never quite within reach of quenching.
They say cigarettes curve your hunger.
And I guess they're almost right because
so far all this nasty habit has curved is
My appetite for you
Now it Hurts to realize that the attention
I mean cigarettes
You willingly offered were just cleverly disguised poison
Burning away my insecurities only to reintroduce them in misunderstood exhales of passion
All I have left to feel are my lungs gasping for every last breath
Lungs pulsing for every last breath
Lungs shrinking to accommodate every last breath
You took away from me
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
"
I'm am tired of people asking me to smooth my name out for them
They want me to bury it in the english so they can understand.
I will not accommodate the word for mouth
I will not break my name so your lazy english can sleep its tongue on top.
Fix your lips around it.
"
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
I'm like an overgrown child
in this world
who keeps bumping
and stumbling
I've tried to change too
its emotional intelligence they say
so i put on a mask
and learn to walk smooth
learn to speak in an confident way
but then my true personality
would be exposed soon
becuz the mask makes me breathless
i start to despise the pretense
so I'm back to square one again
and keep banging my head
the world is too big and tall
it's supposed to be able to accommodate all
kinds of people
the first thing you need to do
is grow up
but the only thing left is
i am standing still
i am not afraid anymore
of being alone
i just want to pursue
my own sun and moon.
Nov 21, 2022
Nov 21, 2022 at 8:28 AM UTC
(Rock Lake, Canada)
In this country there is neither measure nor balance
To redress the dominance of rocks and woods,
The passage, say, of these man-shaming clouds.
No gesture of yours or mine could catch their attention,
No word make them carry water or fire the kindling
Like local trolls in the spell of a superior being.
Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacation
Where trees and clouds and animals pay no notice;
Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses.
It took three days driving north to find a cloud
The polite skies over Boston couldn't possibly accommodate.
Here on the last frontier of the big, brash spirit
The horizons are too far off to be chummy as uncles;
The colors assert themselves with a sort of vengeance.
Each day concludes in a huge splurge of vermilions
And night arrives in one gigantic step.
It is comfortable, for a change, to mean so little.
These rocks offer no purchase to herbage or people:
They are conceiving a dynasty of perfect cold.
In a month we'll wonder what plates and forks are for.
I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
The Pilgrims and Indians might never have happened.
Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas;
The pines blot our voices up in their lightest sighs.
Around our tent the old simplicities sough
Sleepily as Lethe, trying to get in.
We'll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn.
3.8k
The mind
when immersed in memories
of yesterday carried by
hopes of tomorrows
and thoughts that like stones
on the surface of a lake
skip from feeling to heart
tracing ripples of emotions
as from nature's beauty
to the smallness of self
is a universal totality
brushing wind over water
to wave onto shore
a life that lost on Earth
helps grow the next wave
that reaches beyond
into the horizon
where some go to sleep
while others wake
are born or take last breath
to be born again
matters not if the sun shines
or the moon reflects on its surface
glass only gives back
the reality of what is
not what one wants
the universal blanket
over and under
above and below
into time on end
not wavering not changing
to accommodate humanity
sustains eternity
what was and what will be
wishing to be more
is as a mere leaf that falls
over an oak seed on its bank
majestic in the passing
before and after us
is where we take part
of forever
Marta
06/01/2017
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
Becoming myself
Rising from the ashes of a girl
Into the fires of womanhood
I am between
Slowly, gradually
I am finding things about myself
that I never knew
Was it that I never asked?
Or is it newly hatched?
That I'll never know
But surely I am becoming me
Flaming feathers of confidence rising every month or so
As I molt my childhood fears
My body shifts to accommodate for life ahead
And make me beautiful
Victory comes closer
As required schooling gets closer to ending and college creeps in
Drama is soon to taint my crimson
Pressure increases
But I will continue to transform
Despite all this
And become the brightest phoenix I can be
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
I have become angry.
I was sad, and now I am angry.
I have been told you pass through stages of grief
When the one who got away is indifferent
Indifference hurts.
So does anger.
And anger is building inside me like a volcano
Anger is rising to the surface like burnt milk forgotten on a stove
Anger is seeping into my veins because I have been nothing but nice
Nothing but convenient
Yet
You make me feel like I am a bother
A stain on your carpet you cannot wash out
A nail sticking out of the furniture, just a little
Out of place
You make me feel out of place
I am right where I need to be
Right where I belong
You do not get to kick me out because I have become
Inconvenient
I won't accommodate you any longer
I have been nothing but truthful
Honest
Myself
And you do not get to make me feel any less than that.
I will not stoop so low.
I will not bow down.
I am here to stay.
This is my life.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
I.
There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)
II.
I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)
III.
Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.
IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
She has a bruise on her left knee
reminiscent of science-book nebulas,
and the veins reaching into her palm
look like the ivy vines wrapped around
the old oak at the end of my grandmother’s
driveway. But as she presses contacts into each eye,
her pupils dilate and contract like a camera
lens shifting to accommodate for motion
blurry as her unaided vision, and her wrists
crack as if made of ill-fitted cogs chipping away--
both a tempest-tide and midnight snowfall,
yet the sum of neither.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
This trail leads to the animal crossing
It fails to accommodate intrepid adventurers,
Bushy tailed explorers, mountain climbers,
Talkers to squirrels and chewers of pine pitch.
The divine medicine denies us the headspace to believe we're really dead,
The reclined estrogen felt good against twenty million years of insecurity
Golden-layered, factually flawed
It lay exposed for decades
Rusting innards and misfiring sparks
None of the heavy equipment does what it says
Robot arms move with intensity
No programmer yet programs tenderness
The limiting factor has always attracted the acting crowd
Always desperate for theatrical work they magically appear
When it's clear that they're needed
But heed the warnings, they're known to be cheaters; the people who say so could also be wife-beaters
No need to wait for a stereotype
Follow the one you haven't lost touch with
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
I haven’t got a heart of gold,
Gold is too soft and beautiful.
The world sinks its teeth into gold
And leaves a bite mark for every hungry mouth
And I haven’t enough surface area to accommodate them all.
I have a heart of silver.
Let the wolves bite into that,
Let it stick in their teeth.
They will not break the skin.
The don’t deserve to see my blood,
My silver dragon’s blood,
Running down my head and chest,
Dripping and pooling in the darkness,
Shining and reflective
Like a thousand little moons
And worlds made of moons.
No, let them trade in gold.
My heart is ugly enough to survive
And beautiful enough to live.
They will not steal my blood to spend,
The will let it pool and lie
As unattainable stars lay in the sky.
If any other silver bleeder comes to claim me,
Let me be his and he mine.
If any blue-veined miner puts away his pick
And loves me without claim,
Let him be mine, I will not hurt him.
But if, God forbid, there is yet a man
Who bleeds gold and loves me for my blood,
I will love him to the reaches of my sky -
I will spend myself on him to the last cent -
For that is a claim that cannot be paid,
It is a love that would destroy me.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
Upon a huge, lush garden,
on a cold autumn day...
various leaves fall, in sweet surrender...
some still rise and go with the forceful wind
floating...along with dreams, wishes and prayers
murmured in the air...uttered fervently
...from near......or faraway places
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
papers, leaves, souls, sighs, and whispers
all circulate, dance in the air...blending with nature
like drifters...and seekers, far from their homes
their habitats...their comfort zones,
suspended, in the atmosphere of every season
...yielding...to the will of the wind,
...while the wind obeys...the will of God
they swirl...land, on new destinations
face new dimensions...
friendlier seas...no more running, just waiting,
while winds of change settle down
touching new base, new grass,
hoping, for a peaceful existence,
for some....the end of life's turbulent journey
..........on safe...tranquil grounds...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
somewhere near, or far...huge gardens exist
where leaves fall, where some rise again,
where new beginnngs, new lives are offered...
havens that welcome and accommodate
...refugees...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sally
Copyright August 27, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
The smell of shadow clung to our clothes like white to chandeliers,
but we walked…
we walked hand in hand, skin to skin, bone to bone.
We walked a world where our indifferent sides
were painted a shade darker than our dark sides,
a world where we spent time
as time mutually spent us,
a world
where every touch of toe upon earth
felt like the devil rearranging hell
just to accommodate our arrival.
But how could death swim in our chests
when we held forests in our hands?
So we washed our shadows in our tears
& hang them up on clothing lines,
Then with all the end in our lungs…
We run into the embrace of the sun,
Ferociously… we run.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC