"cajoles" poems
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This is the story of two lonely souls....
Who found each other, without cajoles...
Neither had ever had a mate....
Yet Jack and Gill decided to date.....
They felt an instant connection....
As both were Chefs and had a fixation....
One for Chicken the other for Bacon....
And so decided to take their direction....
From what they had learned in life....
Party animals that they were....
And perhaps now you can concure.....
Their feelings for each other....
Was so far from any another....
People just didn’t understand....
Why when they walked, it was always hand in hand....
They never strayed and held tight to their ways....
Believing their world was just another phase....
But eventually the world would accept you see....
That what they had was called * “ smaltzy “....
*Yiddish word for rendered chicken / animal fat or a garish over the top fancy party...
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
weary of mothers and friends
losing their children,
before their time,
weary of failing
to achieve reconciliation
with whatever one nominates
the force that regulates,
fate, Name-Your-God,
deity of your choice,
nature, laws of physics,
the "whatever"
that controls, interferes,
that you think to believe
wills these event's occurrence
non-randomly
cessation of formalities,
one sided truce
signed and delivered,
unafraid to call this
what it is,
**** and damning fate,
for no god
could be so cruel...
If only there was a
Dislike button
for life and the poems
wrenched from death
at 5:00 am
this thought is my
sole inhabitant
once again,
nature's bosses distort,
another friend's grief
asks, cajoles me
to betray my/thy belief
banish it or me,
for we both cannot be
cohabitants
under the one roof,
of this limited mind,
where flailing
poems
never good enough,
failing
to express my
sorrowed rage
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
A growing sickness
Flowing through my veins
Burning away inside, eating me away
As the darkness takes over from within.
Lapses in sanity, I find myself lying
In cold sweat, falling through the chasm
And I know its only a matter of time
Before the demon inside has arisen.
A manic bloodlust takes over my being
I ache for the violence to be set free.
In their dead eyes, I see reflections of mine
A murderous gleam shining within
As my face stretches into a smile that isn’t mine.
Every fibre of my being, repulsed by myself
Petrified by the beast I have become
I cry out in pain and anguish
As I feel Him taking over again.
Under the light of the gibbous moon
I revel in my madness, as her
Screams goad me on and take me
To the precipice. I stand grinning at
Her broken,bloody form in the earth
As she whimpers a pathetic plea for mercy.
No one knows of my disease; He only
Claims my body for himself in the dark
Leaving me behind to feel the horror and disgust
In the cold, grey sunlight.
Every night I struggle inside
I fight against my inner devil, pleading
For reason and humanity to return
To the twisted ******* I have become.
He stretches my face into a wide smirk
Reminding me of that exquisite, repulsive
Scent of flowing gore; He coaxes me,
He cajoles, He beckons me to join Him
As my will weakens and my body surrenders.
And so ends my tale, I have lost myself
To the contorted insanity I bred inside.
Horrified, repulsed, revolted with my being
My death only entices me now
Promising relief from my unholy illness.
But I know that small comfort is lost on me
Eventually, He’ll possess me entirely
And in the remorse of this truth I lie
And I feel Him return inside, eagerly awaiting my demise
No more can I hold out against Him.
No more can I wear the mask of Jekyll.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
1023
It rises—passes—on our South
Inscribes a simple Noon—
Cajoles a Moment with the Spires
And infinite is gone—
1.7k
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
Many more steps to go.
Hardened feet.
No longer are my steps maligned by stabs of blood.
Condemnation . . . Damnation . . . Corruption . . .
My seasoned back launches into my perennial burden.
And another step I take.
Into an inevitable future of drudgery.
Hope . . . Exoneration . . . Absolution . . .
Have long been forgotten.
Their burnt ashes adorn my forehead.
My shoulder screams ahead, into the weight it upholds.
Rumble . . . Rumble . . . Rumble . . .
Each step like the millions before it,
thrusts the stone another foot towards the jagged peak
that towers impressively up ahead.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the day goes on.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the night lives long.
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
My war-torn muscles relax.
And the stone sits.
Stares at the valley below.
Lightning . . . Rain . . . Thunder . . .
The wind caresses and cajoles,
And the stone rolls down below, echoing Thor’s exclamations
And my heart leaps with joy.
After all, there will be another day.
And my feet have hardened anyway.
Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . .
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
if i were to ask
if you'd prefer the truth
over happiness, would you take
the red pill or the blue?
in *Your Heart is a Muscle
the Size of a Fist*, Sunil Yapa
writes, "care too much
and this world will **** you cold."
but there is no greater love
than this: i'll lay my life down
for both strangers and friends.
it's true what the adages say.
knowledge may yet yield power,
but most find bliss
in fictitious myths.
the tyranny of dead deities
cajoles the soulless, self-inflicted
ignorance claps the mind in shackles,
a brain neutered by obedient acquiescence.
there is a somber courage in sobriety.
i'll deny until i die, defying the urge
to idolize a substance that distracts
the mind from misery. i choose to question
everyone and everything,
even if a clear-head invites
utter agony. conviction is certainly
a long and lonely road, but our integrity
is the very last inch of us and—within
that inch—we are free.
so steadfast, i remain
a stone anchored to the riverbed
by the weight of gravity and the rushing
tides eroding me. we'll stand strong
in solidarity with all those suffering,
opposing the specter of dominance, illusory
as a phantom, ephemeral as the passage
of time. i'll unleash an omnipotent psyche,
inspired by the insight found in the closing lines
of a punk and artist's call-to-arms:
pursue what haunts you.
if the truth terrifies you, good.
that is precisely what veracity
ought to do.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
Like puppets dancing on strings
Are Presidents and princes
Prime Ministers and politicians
And the tune they dance to
Is older than their kingdoms
Behold the King of this world
Hidden away from the public eye
Yet commanding nations with a whisper
He was glorious and beautiful once
And he walked among the innocent
But, in one moment of vanity
He stole rulership of the world
His personality is stamped upon mankind
For he sets the pace
While most men follow
He spoke the first lies
Inflicted the first casualty
And he has never felt regret
Has never shed a tear
Though his wars have taken millions
And his devotees have enslaved nations
He is the author of confusion
The instigator of Hellfire and hatred
The creator of trinities and tribulation
He accuses you and I of cowardice and selfishness
Yet is himself running scared
And clinging to power and life
He is the excuser of unholy child abusers
And the inspiration of Jihadist bombs
He speaks lies about the innocent
And glorifies the guilty
He hunts all good men
As a lion hunts the deer
He will tear at your throat
And consume you
He is the Resistor
The Slanderer
He cajoles those who consider his existence
And paints himself in mythical proportions
He would destroy the earth rather than surrender it
Would rather ruin if he cannot rule
Yet the whole world is in his hands
But not forever
Because forever does not belong to him
And not life
For the gift of life is not his to give
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 1:55 AM UTC
Cryptic dreams awaken the mind
Telling more than I want to know
Hinting at emotions undefined
The glint of rough gems to be mined
Possible rapture threatens contentment
Disturbing the balance and the flow
Turbulence enters the calm of the present
Subconscious susurrations could prove prescient
The painstakingly built façade stays intact
But the lingering dream won’t go
No use denying its deep impact
As it cajoles me to think and act
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
*Different breeds of the same very greed
Variant creeds many of the desire same
Different loves, heart the same so very lame,
Thoughts many from a brain conditioned.
It isn't me...Am I what when that YOU divine
Teases,taunts,cajoles me and short circuits
This circle vicious, cycle of lives and thoughts?
Then verily am I a soul unbonded and Free,
Living constant with possibilities all unbound.*
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
On The Great Lawn of my mind,
The city's biggest dance floor,
Upon its cushions, stepping lightly,
The spring breeze, feeling its way,
Making, reawakening, a thousand acquaintances,
Absent parent kissing each long-lost babe-blade of grass
Breeze takes each blade of spring grass:
Cajoles, asks not,
With windy hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes
Breeze makes each one
Neck, caress their neighbor,
A thousand pas de deuces of
fresh faced green children.
All in all a triumphant processional,
Cloaked in robes of sky blue velvet,
Crowned by the sun's burnt orange kisses.
At the middle school dance,
The walls are portrait painted
with the shy ones,
The ones-who-don't-know-how-to-ask.
Passover's children
Needy for a Moses.
Student of the spring breezes,
This silly earnest teacher/chaperone,
Grand-pa-rent will:
Cajole, ask not,
With hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes
Under his tutelage,
Every boy and girl
A dancer, a blade,
Each a Passenger on the fuselage
Of his Spring Ballroom breeze.
These are my spring rites
imagined,
Visions of my sight
unimpaired,
Present and future
clarified.
Soon we will teach our own
Little Princes and Princesses,
The shelter of dancing,
Feel the embrace of nature,
Under the mantle of an
A Capella choir of tree leaves,
We will lie side by side,
Skyward pointing,
Sharing our spring-sprung imaginings,
Performing each and all
Upon the breeze to carry away,
For all to gleeful applaud!
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
I don't think winter
Was ever meant to be
Who can live when the cold
Freezes your soul?
I want the warmth of the sun
To kiss my skin
I want the delicate flutter of
A butterflys wing against my cheek
But nature plays this cruel trick
On me every September
It cajoles me with red and gold leaves
The shades of amber and burnt orange
Delight my eyes
All the while the leaves are dying
And I will never behold them again
Bare branches will reach up like skeletal arms
Against dull gray clouds
Snow will descend and a hush will fall
Like death, but not quite
And I must wait so long for the first bloom
Of color to push up through the spring snow
Promising the warmth of summer to follow
I don't think winter
Was ever meant to be
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
Those remembered doubts
which night trysts dissolve.
Those careful steps ascending
towards bodied joy
Come abide with me.
Silhouette Maple tree
hither my Wile.
Those nagging doubts
dissolves night's gown.
More careful than misplaced steps,
cajoles
the pressing concern
Come hither with me.
For your silhouetted laughter
flights from loves concourse
Those raging doubts
Have left me
I had to choose
Between you
and the clear blue light.
That night gown you apologetically wore
is abject in happen-stance.
Shrouding the matter further
Loves discourse blighted
Where hearts resolved to meet.
Metaphysical garden,
overwrought thoughts revealingly
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
I'm not "Religious".
I believe in sin (Wink wink- If you know what I mean)
but I don't believe in religion when it cajoles or demeans.
Yet there is a ray of light in the windows of my dreams.
And it calls to me in a voice at once radiant and dim.
I call it the universe, but were I Religious, I'd call it "Him".
I am not loud, nor do I preach.
I believe in soft voices, and hymns sung only in one's head.
I believe in the reach of silence, broad and inky and welcoming.
I believe in my own inner thoughts and their peace (and too, their dread)
Yet there is a voice that tells me, in words softly said
that sometimes only the loudest sermons truly can teach.
I am non-religious, and I have been for a while.
I believe in dulcet whispers, and the sweet touch of sin.
I believe in Metal Music, and the musical devil within.
Then why, whenever I see someone capitalize "Him"
does my mouth turn up at the corners,
and grant me an unasked, yet welcome smile?
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
The sunlight,
Softly removes the blanket of snow
To awaken earth from winter's sleep.
And the mild breeze
Gently cajoles the cocooned bud
Out of her drowsiness.
Slowly the blossom wakes up,
Stretch towards the unbound sky
And the light drizzle
Freshens her to face the tunes of nature.
A playful butterfly and a bubbly bee
Greets the jubilant flower with great enthusiasm.
In the frame of time and space
Life after life unfolds in spring's loving care!
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Your muse sits on the draining board
Swinging her legs like a child
A quizzical look on her face
As you make yourself a coffee
Eyes follow you round the room,
You haven't spoken in a while
Pen and paper lay where you left them
Since the last time you were inspired
Writing words to shake the world
Simile and metaphor straight from your
Soul, but even though she whispers, nudges
And cajoles, you continue to ignore her
There are other poets in the world
Screaming out for inspiration
Begging for the right word to guide them
Bring them to the ****** of creation
Don't leave the door too long open
She may slip away without you noticing.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
10,000 reasons,
ten thousand years,
A cloud of witnesses,
over head
They are the ones who praise and roar
raise their voices; for you.
Many years before though
one fallen,
lost before the fight was fought
thought it right to recruit with doubt.
These are the unseen, not good, and the Unseen not at all bad,
both are armies, only One leader leads;
the other
cajoles, then,
takes his toll, many
a jaw dropping,
eternal soul.
Then you look around you, the landscape,
city, country, mountain, lake open ocean
and outer space, awe and wonder on your face.
Then you look around you, after you text,
talk, and tap your phone, 'buds in your
ears, what you experience replaces your
fears.
Of being alone.
When the dark (one)
closes in,
and pours over you your sin,
and it has been so long you
only want to hide, but you are part of
the Seen world, where is the light switch,
anyway...
the noisy noise,
breaks your poise,
separate
yourself and make time for ... prayer
"Open my eyes, so I can see"
©DWE062013
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
for Richard Shepherd who wrote to tell me
one of my babies, (1) made him:
“Oh my, speechless”
my stated aim, my purposed gain,
is to write of only love poetry,
oh too human am I, going astray
the most human contributory trick,
is when “she,” temptation,
oft cajoles,
“this way please” and I easygoing
and submit obligingly
your words spontaneous, mark &
make me, likewise spit out gratitude
of words simple, informing you that
you are too, too kind, then pause reflective
does such a thing even exist?
bemusedly, smiling silent at my silliness,
as I debate~contemplate, the potent notion if kindness can ever be measured as in excess, by what measuring cup system could we
contrive to ascertain if there be lines drawn,
for the most best of human attributes?
it is Monday Morning and such silly peculiarities have no busily business populating my gray matter, but compulsory
demands state forthright you cannot retreat
from this windrowed wonderland hedgerow,
for when seeing these deep waters,
can easy sink a poet
for a funking, dunking, nay, a drowning!
but I am only dancing around the edges
of a fire upon the beach, and gingerly admit
that there is no limitation to this conceptual,
can we be too human, could one ever not say
your loving, your essences~senses fragrant,
are airborne and therefore unlimited,
beneath this shared sky~sphere.
yet never my intent
to rob a human of
the power of speech
*but this statement of de~unlimited awe
too much,
and therefore my understanding deepens,
when and what a heart feels
is without definition,
without lineage,
every time reborn,
and my loving of your kind words,
overflowing will be my
principled purpose
this day
that every person whose path
intersects mine,
shall be greeted with
the tools in my possession,
which thanks to you,
are identified as an undefined
unlimited
too, too much
kindness
and my one job is to
be a proof
of this
raison d'être
for all ofour
existences*
this hen issue
now resolved,
be a lovely
au naturel love poem
and obedient
to my
only truest mission
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 10:55 AM UTC
Quand tu touches ma tige
Tu ne la touches pas seulement
À proprement parler :
Tu l'aiguises, tu l'affûtes, tu la redessines
Tu adoucis les angles et les courbures
Tu la fais flèche de cathédrale
Juste en la frôlant de tes ailes de fée.
Quand tu touches ma tige
Je ne savoure pas seulement
À proprement parler
Je frémis, je frétille, je pétille de tous mes rhizomes
Je sors de mes entrailles telles des queues de comète
De petits couinements infinis d'années-lumière
Adulterines et incestueuses
Tu m'effleures, tu m'effeuilles
J'enfle, j'enfle, je gonfle
Je vogue entre les galaxies et les îles
Et toi pendant que tu m'electrises
De tous tes cils
De toutes tes tentacules
Pendant que tu me transfigures
Tu me cajoles sans hâte en geignant.
Et dans chaque gémissement
Je crois entendre en playback
"Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland"
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 4:13 AM UTC
Her excitement wet, on her hips, and lips
her tongue, dips, rolls, cajoles, and licks
**** as no surprise
deep within, her eyes
as her deepest sighs, his body, mind, transfixed
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC
On this auspicious day of Her becoming a Republic....
BHARAT MATA DESIRES
Our Bharat Mata, today requests; and Her children cajoles, to truly love Her.
Wondering, from their sleep, their siesta, indifference, when will they rise n stir !
Ages of attacks n conquests have tired Her, now our solace She seeks.
She asks Her soldiers n leaders to truly love Her; and not become meek.
Awaiting eagerly She is for Her children to love Her; waiting for that truly happy morn.
Wishes She another Gandhi, Shastri, Dadabhoy, Bhagatsingh n Patriots many be born.
Desires She that correct n clean up they, all the mess; all that has sadly gone wrong.
Desires She, that all Her administrator sons, become honest n strong;
That for Her, they, a great name in the current times earn, is Her burning desire.
Can all the leaders, big n small by their deeds n actions everyone else aspire.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 2:38 AM UTC
Curled in a quivering ball,
She holds her lips sealed tight.
Her sole goal is to pass the night
Without utterly losing it all.
Fingers pressed to temples,
Eyes shut with all her might,
She waits for dawn's first light
And begs for it to be gentle.
She begs for Time to have mercy
On her worn and wearied soul.
She pleads, beseeches, and cajoles
For Time to find her worthy.
And when the sun's beams
Breach the womb of dawn,
Her exhausted form looks upon
A new day and a new dream.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
Information guarantee
ask and what will be.
In her guidance, moments changed this man and what will be is what?
I am,
surrender,
I give in
She has won,
this tug,
if war is what it be she wins at every thing and today is everything and she wins, she wins,
the game.
I have aces up my sleeve though don't believe I'll use them yet,
She
gets me, understands the foibles that trouble me, cajoles and comes close then she cuddles me,
If it was only up to me
I'd ask for information guarantee from everyone's in this but me,
and
what will be?
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
I am a forest of many small fires.
Matches tossed carelessly
into tinder which waits fervently
for the touch of a sparking disarray,
I am all at once a smolder and senseless blazing flame
and the smoke which billows away from me reeks arrestingly of shame.
And so I am ashes,
purely enveloped the black sickening airs of ghastly passions,
insisted becomings and hasty stashes,
I am shame
and attempts to mask it
seem to disintegrate like the cajoles of yesterday.
I am a forest of many small fires which have melded into one,
as the blurring of myself with the long observed sum.
As dust dry bones to the carcasses of slain,
the creatures of innocence whose tried escapes but in vain,
I slough the suffering of a thousand drunkards on the undeserving lips,
of the meticulous sparrow’s sloppily incinerated nest.
I am dissolution to good and my flames stand to show,
of how easily destruction may pass for personal growth.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 2:58 PM UTC
I may have never been the light of your life but you were mine. Recently when people voice the word ‘therapy’, it elicits in me a feral sort of anger. It's a routine: rage, panic, and exhaustion.
My mother’s quaint china dishes have found a steady home on my sienna wooden floors. Please understand why I taste acid and rancid flesh when I think of your hazel eyes and strong arms. My Tracy Chapman record echoes monotonously out to me, but the blood simmering in the grooves of my brain fills my ears with a sound that displeases my auditory senses. It sounds like static from a broken radio. The wind howls through the cracks of my windows and sometimes it cajoles the door open. Somehow, my penchant for you never fails to disappoint me as my eyes flit up for the briefest second to see if you've arrived. I use my teacups as wine flutes and my heart as a pincushion, but maybe your broad shoulders and firm chest could shelter me from myself. My desk stands proudly in the corner of the room. Enrobed in dust and half-eaten pizza slices, it stands proof of what you've done to me. Mr. Teddy is taking a nap. His cottony, soft, white insides poke out in tufts from under the patchwork.
Another one bites the dust.
The poison seeps through the gaps in between my teeth and panic swallows me like an ocean. If you want, I would clad your feet in my shoes but I have never been one to chase after something so I cannot fathom how to explain to you why they have holes on their soles, much like my soul. The towel pools at my feet as I feel the heat behind my eyelids start to cool. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I can hear fast cars as the put me to sleep.
It smells like petrichor; wet earth after the storm.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC