"agreeable" poems
when you went away it was morning
(that is,big horses;light feeling up
streets;heels taking derbies (where?) a pup
hurriedly hunched over swill;one butting
trolley imposingly empty;snickering
shop doors unlocked by white-grub
faces) clothes in delicate hubbub
as you stood thinking of anything,
maybe the world….But i have wondered since
isn’t it odd of you really to lie
a sharp agreeable flower between my
amused legs
kissing with little dints
of april,making the obscene shy
******* tickle,laughing when i wilt and wince
15k
If I'm a bit more agreeable;
If I'm a little nicer;
Maybe you'll like me more?
If I'm submissive
If I'm patient
If I bite my tongue
Maybe it'll be enough?
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 2:41 AM UTC
They flock in the summer—
Sunlight and heat beckoning, even
Advertising an agreeable picnic
Or stroll.
But later, the building’s heat is what attracts—
As the wind whistles
And shrieks across the field,
Through the trees,
Over the ponds—
Not the sake for which it is named.
Yes they hibernate and hide, but—
The will to seek them out
Should never be scared off.
The weight of snow blankets
And the blinding shine of mirrored lakes,
The intensity of the clouded sun
Surely give the most wild experience.
But rejected it remains
As the fields and forests persist on,
Deep in the freeze
Near a wildlife center in January.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
if it is suggested to me one more time
that my self-worth
is defined by
• my weight
• how attractive i am
• my ability to be submissive and agreeable
i will unleash
in all her feminist glory
my inner warrior princess
and she will rip your soul out
and spit on it.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift,
ignore the hum,
ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters).
ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state
I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber:::
eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**)
Synaptic friction
she is a pleasant fiction
flash/sparks segue a dormant memory ,
the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips:::
There is no end to (your) energy
It even finds me here::: in my dystopian dream (eternal)
now
an inescapable, **myopic curse
(nocturnal)**:::
the nightmare of not having you near
Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight)
I find only a fragrance,
i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short
isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats
(the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent)
cdh
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
I didn't mean for it to end like this, this wasn't meant to happen.
Broken shards and broken hearts.
I watched it tip and tumble and break.
I watched her countance tremble and shake.
I broke her.
My best friend, my superhero sidekick.
My clumsy hands had strangled her with my clinging affection.
I only wanted to show her
how much I cared
how much I cared
how much I cared
Oh did I care!
I cared enough to ****
I cared enough to move mountains and change lives and shift perspectives.
I cared enough to leave.
It was better
It was better
It was better
Not for me!!!
Not for her!!!
For us, it was better
For us.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:31 PM UTC
My younger brother still fishes
when he can, when the weather
is agreeable, when he can afford
some tackle and beer for the cooler.
He sits alone on the river bank
and smokes and drinks and waits
in the shifting shade of cottonwoods
for the unmistakable pull on the line.
He fishes whether
the fish are biting
or not. He is intimate with
psychology and the placid
deceit of undisturbed water.
My brother is an angry man.
As kids, we fished
together on the dock
and killed them
with our hands.
Careful not to kneel
on scattered hooks,
we baited the lines
on our knees a foot
above brackish water.
We dropped fish heads
off the edge of the dock
and watched them float
down, almost out of sight,
settling into final stillness
only to snap back to life
(or the false throes of death)
by the white claws of *****
picking them into oblivion—
goodbye eyes,
goodbye gills,
goodbye teeth,
goodbye scales.
Brother, I don’t remember anymore:
was it triumph or merely shame
that left us shivering in the sun?
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
please come flying.
Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
please come flying.
For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong
with a priceless set of vocabularies,
or we can bravely deplore, but please
please come flying.
With dynasties of negative constructions
darkening and dying around you,
with grammar that suddenly turns and shines
like flocks of sandpipers flying,
please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,
come like a daytime comet
with a long unnebulous train of words,
from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
2.9k
Suppose I was more agreeable
Instead of arguing over coffee about politics, religion
*All those subjects deemed taboo that neither of us truly give a **** about*
Pressing my point like daggers against your ribcage
Knowing the sweet spots that make you moan
I would give in, applaud your cleverness, then leave for work
You would be left wondering if you should feel insulted.
of course you should
As usual,my filterless memoirs have become vocalized
******* them back in tight and quick is useless
Once freed, the damage is done
But. they. are . just. words.
the previous statement is ridiculous and the author should be shot
Never could I slice you deeper, **** your private mind or lay your soul bare
Then with the bitter, caustic, truthful edge of my observations
You are just as vulnerable as the rest of them
Barbed wire telegrams
Frozen emails
Ash and arsenic letters
Cut you to the quick
Delightful.
But I like it better when I can witness the damage
Basking in the upper handed afterglow of my superior ability to mortally wound
For no bit of silver that I've ever found
Was ever sharper than the razor edge of my tongue
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Death showed me how to dress.
it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more
modesty, less certainty."
Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues
rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now
to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,
death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,
more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your
fingers through it now,"
Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,
instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"
it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'
'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'
Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a
token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers
Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come
as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now
Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."
since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
After I wrote this, a friend scrawled on this page, "Yes."
And I said, merely to myself, "I wish it could be for a
different seizure--as with Molly Bloom and her 'and
yes I said yes I will Yes."
It is not a turtle
hiding in its little green shell.
It is not a stone
to pick up and put under your black wing.
It is not a subway car that is obsolete.
It is not a lump of coal that you could light.
It is a dead heart.
It is inside of me.
It is a stranger
yet once it was agreeable,
opening and closing like a clam.
What it has cost me you can't imagine,
shrinks, priests, lovers, children, husbands,
friends and all the lot.
An expensive thing it was to keep going.
It gave back too.
Don't deny it!
I half wonder if April would bring it back to life?
A tulip? The first bud?
But those are just musings on my part,
the pity one has when one looks at a cadaver.
How did it die?
I called it EVIL.
I said to it, your poems stink like *****
I didn't stay to hear the last sentence.
It died on the word EVIL.
It did it with my tongue.
The tongue, the Chinese say,
is like a sharp knife:
it kills
without drawing blood.
2.3k
The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
1
Dear Poet Friend at HP
(I don't know your name, as the name you use at HP is in a typo I can't decipher.)
* I welcome your question and comment as it gives me an opportunity to explore this issue of plagiarism. It will indeed be useful for everyone.
* This is my modus operandi: I take a joke from online and I convert it to poetry. The language is mine; I give the joke a context, even alter its spirit, create characters and by the time I'm finished with it, it is a new and original product.
If I took the words exactly as they are and passed them off as my own, then that is plagiarism. I never do that.
Plagiarism is taking another person's words and phrases and work and passing them off as one's own. That is not what my work is about.
* Take the example of Shakespeare. His "Julius Caesar" is actually based on various sources. So is his "Romeo and Juliet" and other plays like "Othello". Do we charge him with plagiarism ? No, as he has used his own language and puts each material from various sources into his own style. I have taken many jokes and I have put them in poetry, in my own style, in my own narrative. It shows a great lack of understanding of Literature to call that plagiarism.
* You might ask why I do not have a note at the end to indicate the poem is based on a joke found online. I used to do that (see my older poems) and decided for purely aesthetic reasons to keep notes to a minimum.
Kind regards
Raj Arumugam
2
Would it be fine with you if I posted your comment along with my reply as a separate post on my page? It will benefit everyone to consider this issue.
If you are not agreeable to my including your view in such a post, then I will simply post my reply possibly entitled "Reply on being charged with plagiarism".
Thank you
Kind regards
Raj Arumugam
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
I. The Minor Poet
His little trills and chirpings were his best.
No music like the nightingale's was born
Within his throat; but he, too, laid his breast
Upon a thorn.
II. The Pretty Lady
She hated bleak and wintry things alone.
All that was warm and quick, she loved too well-
A light, a flame, a heart against her own;
It is forever bitter cold, in Hell.
III. The Very Rich Man
He'd have the best, and that was none too good;
No barrier could hold, before his terms.
He lies below, correct in cypress wood,
And entertains the most exclusive worms.
IV. The Fisherwoman
The man she had was kind and clean
And well enough for every day,
But, oh, dear friends, you should have seen
The one that got away!
V. The Crusader
Arrived in Heaven, when his sands were run,
He seized a quill, and sat him down to tell
The local press that something should be done
About that noisy nuisance, Gabriel.
Vl. The Actress
Her name, cut clear upon this marble cross,
Shines, as it shone when she was still on earth;
While tenderly the mild, agreeable moss
Obscures the figures of her date of birth.
2.2k
He puts it out there, the Schrödinger’s cat of invitations.
Now, I’m irritated. “I TOLD you I don’t have time for.. involvement.”
“But you have to eat - so eat with ME,” he shrugs. “You can build a friendship with someone and still have freedom.” His observation was casual, as though it were unrelated to anything between us. He seemed to have the intuition that I’d balk if pressed.
“You’re subversive.” I said. “Why me? There are prettier girls, more agreeable, fun girls. I feel like I’m on the edge here,” I look around to indicate the room, the environment, the university. “And I can be a complete as-hole.”
He looked a little offended, “You’re interesting, I like what I know about you and, yeah, we can all be as-holes - we’re in a pool of “A” types, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“What do you KNOW about me?” I ask.
“I’ve read some of your writings,” he looked thoughtful, “I may know a little about how you think, It’s unusual.. interesting.”
I’m shocked and I squirm, “You looked me up?”
“I looked you up.” he nodded, “to be sure you’re not an axe murderer.”
“How much did you read?” I asked, wheedling, my inner-writer engaging.
“Tell you at dinner - YOU name the date and time,” he smiled.
“My idea of “dinner” is walking to a dining hall, picking up a bag of food, bringing it back here and taking ten minutes to eat it between chapters,” I warned.
“I have a meal card,” he says, jiggling his student lanyard.
“We’ll see.” I said. “Have you talked to anyone else about my writing?”
“No,” he answered, “Why?”
“Please don’t, I have to think about it.” I say. As far as I know, no one I know in RL has read me - it’s an odd feeling - like maybe he got ahold of my diary. I haven’t worried over the fact that someone I’m in physical proximity to could look me up. That all this stuff is actually out there.
“Don’t think my misgivings can be cajoled away,” I say, “no more talking.”
He chucked but we got back to studying.
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 10:21 PM UTC
The words pierced through the too bright cellphone screen
directly into the place she had always known that was true
too much
He was not the first to tell her
He was not the first she had believed
“Less is more”
She had tried so many times to channel
But her love was:
a riptide
a volcano
a force of nature
It exploded in every direction
like riders in the desert in search of towns
with food
with water
with shelter
Her love was:
too hungry
too thirsty
too weather worn
for its once agreeable host
Her host who had once said,
“Let me drink you dry”
He found that there was no bottom
Only more of the same:
Insatiable. Hungry. Love.
And once he had drank his fill
He declared:
“maybe I needed less.”
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC
seventeen shadows
sit around the edges of the room
seventeen faces darkened by their days
blighted by the imposed image
broken thought and collapsed reason
seventeen shadows
under threat of night
one steps forth and begins to utter
carved words from the bedrock of emotion
that they all share
sixteen heads nod in unison
agreeable to the notions
sixteen hands launch the labor
of bending the kings english to the love of words
rather than the devotion to ideal
twelve souls remain hours later
unburnt by time and efforts
sweat bathed they break the silence
pay homage to the daily grind
'unto Caesar what...'
so the twelve sit in attempted rational judgement
weigh the matter with deliberate care
but the carousel is running backwards now
and the man with the funny nose and oversized shoes
is the caretaker and caregiver
to the dead and dying ideals of democracy
five more of the shadows in the room slip to the door
and flee
five remain standing
testament to the resolve
of mans inability to reason
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
When lightning has struck me
eighty-two times
I want to hear everything
and on the eighty-third
hear nothing but
the most precious of memories.
I hope I can recount stories
of our embarrassing proposal
and the angry Presbyterian ministers
performing the ceremony
because in twenty-two and a half
years I have never once believed
my grandparents loved each other,
but last night the second Julian
recounted he and Lavern's saga
of a marriage that ended in
four fuck-ups and decades of
disappointment
with the most agreeable disposition-
even for a man dying
of too much salt in his diet.
I only hope someone will love me
enough to eat bland food
and our grandson's vegetables one day.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
Yes, only a mother, truly knows,
The true extent of her child’s woes.
Pain blossoming so deep inside,
Hurting so, while trying to hide
From a mother’s, knowing eyes,
Confident that mother, never pries.
Instead she gives her sound advice,
Being agreeable, saying how nice,
The flower garden looks today,
While in a sublime, pleasant way,
She soothes the inner aching pain,
Removing all the stress and strain.
She sees the strengths, weaknesses,
Gifts with which the child is blessed,
The nature of all burdensome traits,
Heart’s desires, the loves, the hates,
Character blooming through the years,
Sharing laughter, along with the tears.
Reflected within the child’s face,
Throughout awkward early grace,
She herself soon becomes exposed,
And as intrinsic recognition shows,
She gathers to her humbled breast
A tireless love that knows no rest.
The child hoards with thoughtless ease,
Bumps and bruises and skinned knees,
And if the hurts are too much to bear,
A child knows mother is always there,
Her calming words soon gently caress,
Soothing all troubles with tenderness.
The child grows and finds another
Person to love as much as mother,
But the bond of life remains forever,
Cannot be broken, not now, not ever,
And the child realizes as it grows,
Yes, only a mother; truly knows.
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
exquisitely beautiful "you have lovely eyes"
beautiful, pretty, attractive, good-looking,
appealing, handsome, adorable, exquisite,
sweet, personable, charming; enchanting,
engaging, winsome, seductive, **** gorgeous,
alluring, ravishing, glamorous; tasty, knockout,
stunning, drop-dead gorgeous; killer, cute,
foxy, hot; beauteous; comely, fair
"a lovely young woman" scenic, picturesque,
pleasing, easy on the eye; magnificent, stunning,
splendid "a lovely view"
very pleasant or enjoyable; delightful.
"we've had a lovely day"
delightful, very pleasant,
very nice, very agreeable, marvelous,
wonderful, sublime, superb, magical;
terrific, fabulous, heavenly, divine, amazing, glorious
"we had a lovely day"
noun: lovely; plural noun: lovelies
1. a glamorous woman or girl:
"a bevy of rock lovelies"
Old English luflic, see love, -ly [1 above]
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
I remember vividly,
The days of my tender immaturity,
That complemented an air of naivety I had.
But now I have learnt,
How to maintain a reticent manner,
An agreeable countenance,
And an unceasing anesthesia.
I have tamed my heart not to beat fast at the sight of you,
But it still needs practice.
It needs practice because it has never known how to face its fears calmly.
So, it remains hidden right here in my chest,
Eavesdropping on you.
I have taught the sinews of my wrinkled lips to smile freely.
I have taught them to smile freely because sorrow chokes me.
Sorrow chokes me because I cannot resist the thoughts of your indifference,
Running wildly down the nerves into each sombre inch of my skin,
And every inch of my skin mutilating itself,
Tattooing your name,
Slowly.
Silently.
'Painfully'.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC
From the other room
I listen as you explain the many, many, many
reasons, things, times, and appointments
that necessarily mean
the end
of us
The otherness and incidentals
of the often forgotten
details and to-dos
of lives
better
and happier lived
From the other room
I listen as you describe your life in words of
painful regret, missed opportunities and hopeless futures
that don’t exist
so very much
for me
The pain and ingratitude
of a poor life
disrespect and disregard
becoming the
ante
of daily living
From the other room
I listen as you check emails and vmails and texts
of agreement, refreshment, and immediate joy
that shower down
from new confidantes
not me
The pleasure of escaping
from the marital mundane
dancing and drinking
re-becoming
the woman
admired
From the other room
I remember the choices we made
when agreement was agreeable and available
that made lives
worth
living well
The simpleness of a look
the knowing confidence
day in and day out
when someone,
You,
cared.
10.iii.10
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
cold water, harsh ripples
grey clouds, unmoving
never nodding, never agreeable
I could do this
yes, I can, I can
I will
yes, yes
small steps, tiny steps
yes, I could do this
colder water, harsher ripples
howling grey clouds, unmoving
never nodding, never agreeable
they are taunting
mocking, spitting pebbles
no, I can't do this
I can't, I can't, I can't
they're taunting, mocking, laughing, pointing
stop, stop, stop taunting, mocking
stop
please
stop
coldest water, harshest ripples
screeching grey clouds, unmoving
never nodding, never agreeable
cold, so cold
I will get out of this cold
no more taunting, mocking, laughing, pointing
no more cold
yes, I could do this
yes, I can, I can
I will
yes, yes
smallest steps, the tiniest steps
yes, I could do this
ice water, murderous ripples
yes, I will.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC