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Coddling the past
“I am accused of tending to the past”

How can I lift my hands
To reach forward
If I cannot learn
To let the past run through me,
Gnash it’s teeth
And bite me
And fight me
Until I can make it succumb.
Don’t urge me to forget her
Cause she will slumber
Until she is hungry
Enough to leap out
And ******.
Redshift Apr 2013
where
will
you
be
in three
years?

i have no idea.
much less where i'll be in three weeks
even three *******
days...
hours.
why do people insist
on setting goals?
everyone pushes it on me
SET GOALS! IT'LL MAKE YOUR LIFE BETTER!
the only thing
that would make my life better
is someone shooting me in the face
dramatic, maybe
but true.

dad wants to know
my sisters want to know
my friends want to know
what my plan is.
my plan is
to not have a plan
plans disappoint
and haven't i been disappointed
enough

people don't get
that you can't set goals
when you're life is more unpredictable
then a menopausal mother
when you don't know
if you'll have a home
right this second
or ever
setting goals
is setting yourself up
not for success,
like all those suits say
but for a lifetime
of regret
and a swaying noose
at 62
...how about not.

life dreams?
counselor.
performance
poet.
but they are empty
full
graves
tombstones
that i have coddled
for years
not any
more.
i will not rest my head
on a bed
made for something dead
anymore.
dead things
are not good
foundations
dead things
are not good
for coddling

they

f
         a
               l
                   l



a                         p              a                                  r              ­                 t
MA Montgomery Jul 2018
how is it
that they still don't understand
that we already *******
KnOw
how to use Excel

we already *******
KnOw
how to pay the bills

we already *******
KnOw

and they're either too **** stupid to realize
that
we don't need coddling or saving

or

they're afraid to let us go
they're afraid of losing their investments
they're afraid of losing their power
they're afraid to let us live
oof
JP Goss May 2014
1
Shh…the rain cooed, calming the flood that rages
Still a concern…or was
Now placed upon the wetted soil
Transfigured, blessed in holy oils scented with cinnamon.
#2
I grasp at the compass that Donne reassured,
Tragic to find it etched in notes
Of the Song of Swans:
It may commune beneath a firmament of birds
Yet, it seems divided in this steely sky—the color of wrathful swords—
I sniff: it smells of cinnamon.
#3
I am drawn by the scented bliss, anointed in general
That is, with the rest,
But somehow, cologned, it’s too sweet, too new
Now a criminal to laws of ancient Hebrew.
To the iron clouds, the necks will bend,
To turn from he who smells of
Cinnamon
That is, with the rest.
#4
Yet, they do not smell
Nor peel back its bark lest it poison the oil
As rain poisons soil,
And ignore, as they do, when rain is to come,
The oil is fragranced evil with cinnamon.
#5
And though I complain, clack to the mud
It, too, smells of cinnamon,
And so we’re the same.
#6
“****” is my cry. “**** them to their hell,”
Burn the concrete buildings, tear away social offal
That, with some entreaty, seems to plague us all! Why so much Injustice?
Who are you? A God? What makes one lump of clay
A clod, the other a home? Upon the heads of refused beings
How do you stand so tall? You can’t lest your empire fails
While the seesaw of suffering hoist up the side of wails
And smoke the vital oxygen,
Scowls, the first impression
Worried not about advancing goals but living day to day,
The things that move metabolisms, world-wide, subject to pay,
Wasting our lives not in 9-to-5s but looking
And failing to find
And toting excess and praising their holders
While blaming the others born from behind
Partitions drawn in world wars started for oil
For money, for wealth, both so glutted and glutting pride a nation wide
While its cells are tinged with cancer,
Both sides of false dichotomy claiming they have the answer, to answer the question
Of recidivism, the poor and they are to live or get along, dangling the carrot so high
It goes above their dreams, and it’s so blurry that it’s hard to tell
What exactly one pursues,
Or race, religion,
Of a woman’s place in the is to see how absurd such a question should be,
Here is a question that seems appropriate: why are differences discouraged,
Who says what is better but the powers that be
Lenses shaped for us to see only those things specifically made
To make the made untouchable,
And they do it, and will not stop, we’re left with no hope
But from where pleasure is wrought: drugs and sedatives that
Blunt the mind that worries, sober, replacing them until they’re over
But without any solution; a bandage to a bandage
Since a sober mind that cognizes problems can’t possibly solve them in the same state
Of mind.
A lust for love with no genuine conception,
*******, deflowering with cold, stony hearts
Fostered in a day and age where manipulation is more inescapable means
And less insidious art,
So broken by our broken dreams and forced to walk without contention
Compromising on who we are
No struggle to help make us strong
A simple shrug to carry on,
While the most powerful blood, the fire in our veins is given, given, given
To those we think we love,
While we sit dreaming and falling in love with love
Always coddling the scars, where the blood and sinew were streaming
Until they are closed and pink, taut and empty like a drum
Still yearning to beat the same rhythm again,
Needing to learn before synchrony may happen
And two drums may beat to the other’s tune,
Feeling some pulse that holds us feet from decay
All the warmth and butterflies
Come in a zephyr smelling of fetid, carrion meat
That makes true affection
Feel like maggots in the skin
And we leave to new horizons, akin in their process:
Where they end, where they begin.
And yet we’re so weak in every regard, being the forge of our own fortress’ petard
Sade-masochists that run, run, run away
Feeling as though we’re cast to sea, waiting for the problem to deal with itself
A shining light house on a miserable horn
Hides by our back, the shore receding out, and even in the darkness
The vastness of the sea, there’s still the light cast ‘cross the sky
With the same, though fleeting, periodicity.
And I can do nothing, least, nothing of worth
Being as I am, a whiny little white boy with middle class struggles,
Well-fed, well-cared for, and some domestic unrest
But I am minor, mediocre at best,
And have never had the muscles, the mettle, put truly to the test.
So I can only complain beneath the anthill of my worries
And all my attempts to make any change are thwarted by my failings, my comfort
My life,
Doing drugs, self-medicating because it’s the best I can come up with
Spiraling beyond uncontrollable until it is no longer
Me whose spinning down to destruction,
That was something of the past
Now, I truly have nothing to grasp
And I kick and I scream and I try and I try and I try
But look in dismay at any hope I may have for people to change, yet their conduct belies
A sense or desire to be anointed enspiced
Since the general oil has seemed to suffice, and that’s not enough, but I just want some change
Some honesty, but I can’t find it, I know not what I feel
All this angst piling up, like a chapter in the life of Holden Caulfield:
He’s my ******* idol since I pressed with all this
Stupidity with no venue but complaints
And this is doing nothing, this ******* poetry, neither solving nor affording comfort
Back to me. It is art and no one cares
It has no voice, save the face-value point
And I want meaning, and so I try to make it knowing full well
The intention is demeaning, but not in my writing
Its filthy fingers touching on everything that I’d like to achieve
Legitimately, but it’s all conditioned
It’s breakdown is imminent  
If only I knew how accept
Oils scented with cinnamon.
I wish I was different, or acted upon it, instead of just ******* in the lines
Of a sonnet,
Or that others may smell of their own fragranced oils
Then trifles, then problems may seem something
Of little toil
But, but, but, where am I to go, where do I begin?
I’ve gone in circles, where I stopped I’ll start again
And I’ll never escape because…
#7
Shh…the rain cooed, calming the flood that rages
Still a concern…or was.
In due time the sun will do as it does:
Show us what is, is soon to be what was.
The nature of me, with little consistency, is grasping for a dawn
I see it coming up
Now that I’ve smelled the breeze
Of cinnamon.
http://neverendingword.com/Never_Ending_Word/The_Holy_Annointing_Oils/Entries/2010/10/18_Sweet_Cinnamon_in_the_Holy_Anointing_Oil.html
Some of my
earliest
memories
are of you.

I can hear
your soft
Irish lilt
humming
into my
drowsy ear,
waking me
to a morning
filled with
sunshine.

Half a
century later
I still see us
sitting at your
kitchen table,
I’m a six year old,
spooning warm
tea, dribbling
a soft boiled
egg onto a
piece of
buttered toast.

I remember
smiling at
the laughter
you and grandpa
enjoyed at my
proclamation
that I ate
three breakfasts
every morning.

You were my
connection
to the wisdom
and ways
of the old world;
extolling the luck
of the shamrock,
the lore of
the shillelagh,
recounting
the haunting
mysteries of
the banshees,
the mischief
of leprechauns
and the magic
of nymphs.

You were my
passport  to
a gathering
of the proud
O'Brien and
Cook clans.

You opened
my ears
to the thrill
of distant
Philadelphia
cousins
crooning
folk tunes to
happy bagpipes
while my
widening eyes
watched young
Colleen's
ecstatically jig
the night away
in full regalia
with stiff armed
step dances.

You are
my maternal
cartographer,
your DNA
etched the
map of
Dublin onto
my face.

You are the
wellspring
of the Liffe
that courses
through my
veins.

You were the
cook who
conjured the
nourishing
aromas of
a Sunday’s
sustenance
from a boiling
***; simmering
ham, cabbage
and potato to
succulent
perfection.

It is a
meal
that still
sustains
me.

The warmth
of your apartment,
the dainty doilies
and light filled
lace curtains, the
spoken hopes for a
sweepstakes ticket
and the hushed
murmurs of deep
sadness the
devastating toll
alcoholism
extracts from
a troubled family
steeps deeply
within me.

I see you
kneeling in
prayer;
the muse
of your brogue
whispers endless
strings of Rosary
incantations.

Angelic fingers
anoint each
blessed
alabaster bead
with the piety
of an honest
soul.

You
endlessly
cycled
through
the family’s
litany of
sorrow and
hope.

With a
matrons
fortitude and
an inner strength
women possess
to bear the
weightiest of
burdens; you
sought the
resolution
of release
from the
crush
of worry
and woe,
by diligently
lifting these
delicate
hosannas
to the
Mother
of Sorrows
compassionate ear.

Your petitions to
the Blessed ******
as intercessor,
allays all fears that
your light prayers
will not be lost in
the incomprehensible
clatter resounding
amongst the
heavenly spheres.

You knew
The Mother of
Perpetual Help
understands
and will
ask her
Son
to whisk all
burdens away
with the flick
of his feather
of absolution.

When your
daughter
became
ill you came
to mother us.

You fed us
Thanksgiving
Soup for breakfast,
lunch and dinner
till the last drop
of gratitude was
consumed.

You made sure
homework
assignments
were completed.

You drilled me
with spelling quizzes
made difficult by
my inability
to decipher the letter
H through your Gaelic
Haayche.  

Your exclamations
to “Jesus, Mary and
Joseph” was fair warning
to give Grandma Tippy
extra sway.

You were fond of
cats and took pity
on our mangy
Tom sympathetically
imploring us to
“look at the face of it”
before laying down
another fresh
saucer of milk.

It took me
years to understand
why you would
commence to
polish my
mothers tarnished
silver plated tea service
as the first thing you would
undertake upon
entering the house.

As a house keeper
for the wealthy,
the sparkle
of your daughters
silver plated tea service
was confirmation
that class mobility
and your enduring belief
in America’s economic
democracy was real.

Your daughters tea service
was just as worthy and
on equal footing with
any tea service adorning
Englewood’s finest homes.

At bedtime your
silhouette would
would fill the
doorway of
my bedroom.

The lullaby of
your blessings
filled the room.

From that
safe distance
you would
dip a brush
into a jar
and sprinkle
holy water
onto your
grandchildren.

When you passed
away I beheld
your magnificent
presence in a
state of eternal
repose.  You wore
a blue flowered dress.  
Your clasped hands
held a Rosary.  

I surmised
your closed eyes
were filled with
the visions
of rest and the
soft light of a
glowing glory.

Your lips gently
smiled.  I knew
you were in the
tender arms
of your loving Lord.

The Blessed Mother
now tended you,
coddling a newly
arrived saint
in the loving embrace
of a mother’s
unconditional love.

I thank you and
bless you my beloved
Grandma Tippy.  I am
caring for your
Rosary Beads.
I consider them
a precious gift
and most
valued treasure.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day
Margaret "Grandma Tippy" Minehan
Love Jimmy

Music Selection:
Bill Evans, Danny Boy

Oakland
3/17/12
jbm
Tatum Routt Apr 2012
All I do is sit and stare and sleep.
I want to eat honey, I want to **** this guy, I want to jump out of my window.
How would they react if I were purged from my room through the window?
The room would hiccup and take a nap.
And it's only the second floor.
I thought that maybe I should come with a warning and waiver
or a stamp on my face that says "crazy."
Then I realized that I do.
Today I'm inhaling rejection,
the fluid and the fire, anywhere I go
the noises and movements wear me threadbare. I'm textured to be foolishly angry, anxious, sad, empty.
No one ever touches me.
I bet if I jumped out of my window, the air would feel cold and the grass would feel cold
and I'd probably only break an arm.
I am a vacuum inside.
Misnomer Dec 2011
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.

Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.

Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.

Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.

Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.

Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.

"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.

Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Susan O'Reilly Apr 2013
Getting too maudlin’
my depression coddling
in sorrow wallowing
tears I’m swallowing

Need a dose of selfesteem
a bottle of cop-on cream
a potion for a daydream
anything to stop the scream

I’ll start my treatment tomorrow
today there’s too much sorrow
the doormat syndrome I borrow
between my eyebrows a furrow
Moe Dec 2012
Listening to peculiar strangers gather in the eavestrough;
Coddling the malleable bloom of rooted trees
An immigrant to prosperity cradled by Mercutio.
-Our revels now are ended. These our actors.
Burnt sand swallows the lighthouse where the savage hang,
melancholy-tea and a pulp-fiction spread
dismal characters, behaving bourgeois
-Gather in the eavestrough
Devon Baker Apr 2013
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic *******
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Tell me gently, beautiful Siren from the rocks
Whisper me memories
Who seeks my life end short
inform me bluntly, Beautiful siren from the sea
the soldiers marching to my gate.
Should I set the pitch to pour?

The demons march
I seek guidance in your song
Is there something I missed?
We’re sick
our morale is feeding the ant hills

Consult me Nicely, Beautiful siren from the rocks
tell me just how many friends,
I’ll lose to this war.

We found the sugar, found the wine.
lost the honey, lost time.
We’re out of rations,
low on passion.
men coddling tiny strands of hope.

Save me Now, beautiful Siren from the Grave.
My boats still floating
I could sail away.
back to my castle,
where my people lay.

I came here for vacation.
but I found your voice, decided to stay.

The people of my land pray,
that I go deaf and return to them.
but I decided to hear your voice
while my kingdom Rots and fades
While my people die and pray
I needed this getaway

my people, dying by my blade.
can’t stand them lookin’ up to me.
Their tears falling at my feet.
Them saying. “Please king, save me.”
praying “Don’t let them **** me.”
screaming. “They took my family!”
I wasn’t born to be a king.
I wasn’t born to be a king.
The siren sang her song to me.
AJ Fredrickson Apr 2016
Devastated
Lonely
Confused
Hopeless
I’ve felt this way for months
The sky has been crying since
I often wonder if it sees me suffering?
If it’s nature trying to console me?
That’s crazy, I know
But I still can’t help but wonder
Every time I start to cry, I mean really cry, it starts to pour
When my spirits start to lift, the weather soon does after
The sky has been grey for at least 3 days now
It’s beautiful
It reminds me of home
I feel safe in the darkness
So I let it swallow me whole
Enveloping me until there is nothing left but black
This is my sanctuary
This is how I escape
This is how I will make it out alive
This is how I become sane
Or is this how I become insane?
I never could tell the difference
What’s the difference between pain and love?
There’s a fine line
With just one stumble, you could fall out of one and into the other
Good or bad?
Right or wrong?
Easy or hard?
These simple questions hold a multitude of different answers
They have millions of questions inside them
Three simple words
That’s it
Three simple words are so easy to say
They hold so much meaning
They get used too easily
Easy or hard?
Easy or hard?
Which would you choose?
With the easy road, it never gets fixed
It never gets resolved
It could possibly end it all
The hard road is filled with struggle
It’s filled with sacrifices and pain
But it’s worth it if you can get there
Which would you choose?
Do you know the answer?
What if you walked that hard road, but they went the easy way?
Right or wrong?
Right or wrong?
Is it right that they do wrong?
Are you right?
What if you’re wrong?
What if you took the easy way thinking it was the hard way?
How do you know the difference?
How do you keep sane?
Left, no right?
Right again!
Left, Left, Left.
Search inside, find your moral high ground
Good or bad?
Bad or Good?
Neither?
Do you know?
What do you stand for?
Keep searching
Unlock that door
Find the key
Find the key
Break it down if you have to
There!
Over there!
The answers you’ve been searching for!
Crack the code
Crack the code
What if I can’t crack the code?
Was this all a waste?
Was this not the hard road?
Slipping, slipping, slipping
Psychosis is sinking in
She is my best friend
Coddling me like a child when I can no longer stand on my own
Sinking in, deeper and deeper
Black
So much black
She is my only friend
She speaks to me silently, but from where I can not tell
Who’s that?
Who’s there?
Yes, I hear you!
Hello!
I understand
Thank you
It’s good to not be alone
I am,
just a surragate
the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with
the ideas of time eternal.
This stick of lead, the narrow
birth canal through which these
words must pass
as I, with trembling palms
and sweated brow, force my hands
to shape the words as quickly as I pass them.
But my hands are clumsy things.
This paper is the birthing towel
on which these words breath first life.
And when I step to the mic to
speak these words,
release these words like one million birds
set free from cage
one butterfly break of cocoon,
each one set forth with their own intent
to heal or harm
to love or ****,
I pray these words remember the time
I spent coddling and caressing
chastising and correcting,
shaping them into the
clicks and tones and dips and moans
you will recognize as poetry.
Simple words clothed in similes and metaphores.
But my words
are week.
They hold no power outside of intent
can't hold you captive without your consent.
For when I speak these words
into existence,
I send them off as dandelion seeds into the
wind to land where they may.
For I am merely
a surrogate the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with the ideas of time eternal.
I am merely a poet.
Nothing more
and probably much less.
PrttyBrd Feb 2017
Satin runs from dried stains
in torn reminders of convenience
Morning tastes of stale sweat and disappointment... again

Displaced retribution is a punishable offense
sentenced in hangover flashbacks fusing pain in lust heavy deviance
coddling complacency, impaling the nuisance of a persistent past

That serrated double edge glistens with humility and humiliation
licked clean by ravenous canine
flinging leftover apathy on unwitting pawns

Feeding on the deceptively needy
blinded by intoxicated cliches
mistaking release for emotion

Condemnation bartered in stolen commodities
Toilet water hydration reconstitutes enough to bleed
behind neuropathic armor and addiction to the nether
2917
Merriment bequeaths mirth,
cheeks shed a glow
coddling the tranquil soul.
Laughter frees your mind from the stressful obstacles of life by bringing a smile on your face.
sinandpoems Nov 2011
I avoid writing poems about flowers  

I don’t need to tell you that roses
Bright, blood red, placed perfectly atop a broccoli-green vine,
Existing solely for the purpose of atheistic pleasure
Is something that is beautiful

Put a white background behind anything and it becomes beautiful

Flowers are more than a hyped-up beauty pageant queen that those old white women grow to fill their voids with

They sometimes manage to grow in my neighborhood too

Once prominent Victorian homes now squalid and neglected
Weathered wood, dirt embedded in the sea-foam green, navy blue, eggshell white paint they were once coated with

Trash thrown in front of their faces
Like their appalling forms granted validity for those who passed by to toss their gum wrappers, soda cans, and cigarettes without hesitation

It’s an age-old tale

Ugly things deserve ugly treatment

I’ll always spot a savage grove of mutt flowers
Amongst the trash cans and recycle bins
Struggling to make their way to the surface of these rejected homes
Acknowledging them, coddling them, interweaving themselves along their battered walls
Ignorant to their repugnancy
Eager to decorate and give them an evanescent glow
Sad too,
Sad they didn’t grow in front of some rich family’s home
Where they would’ve been given weekly haircuts and fertilizer containing only the best **** on the market

They wilt a little
They have no direction,
No will to live or to die

They exist and sit there until a bike runs them over
And takes them out in one swoop

Or until those stray dogs **** and **** on them until their weak
Frames fall staunchly onto the grave sidewalk

Exquisite wild lepers,

You do more for society than I ever could

You’ll sit there with a dutiful posture
Harboring old McDonald French Fry boxes
Eating the sewer-infested dirt that you laboriously grew from
Constantly breathing air swarmed with smog

Beautiful because,

Despite it all,

You don’t hate them

You’ll peek at me through your prison of trash and give me a flash of your purple and blue skin

And

My eyes feel your love and serenity

And for a moment,

The world is nothing but a kaleidoscope of warm skin and heartbeats
Spoken: What is heard
The adornment, gospel truths the pious believers of your personal faith. The Heresy, the voice of those you’ve ******
Spoken: That which can not be taken back
Your frivolous certainties had no hold but now frame our reality because they are always in the peripheral only seeing what it allows you
Spoken: half truths
The victimized, the wronged, the offended just to validate unscrupulous act to those who have wronged you.
Spoken: White lies
The coddling which breeds an ignorance for the knowledge of decorum, decorations and vails to hid behind
Spoken: That which the universe asserts
That which the universe listens to, vibrations that it assimilates making it part of the whole without losing its agenda
Spoken words hold power far beyond communication
Wk kortas Apr 2017
We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?

So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.
Jeremy Betts Aug 2020
(political)

If it were up to me I'd change the entire seen, at this point that's gotta be first thing
I'm taking firing every living, breathing being and put a lien on the Whitehouse till we fix this thing
People are having a difficult time coping and it's only getting worse cause we're allowing this perverse nonsense to keep going
It's a curse, can't be believing the sycophant bigots in church nor office, weaving a dishonest promise that everything will be okay but never delivering
No solution "Just keep doin' what you're doin', this is America and we are American so even when we're losin' we win"
How can more than half the population believe in blatantly false information? Being that blind takes dedication
But this isn't a debate on creation, it ain't an argument about what's better; Xbox or PlayStation
We need to fashion a constraint, one custom fit for the reality of the situation
Our innate ability to shoot ourselves in the foot has proven, in real time, just how broken we are as a nation

If it were up to me I'd forcefully remove the blinders and lift the vale so all y'all can see clearly
Get face to face and look closely at the man behind the curtain, the one who's certainly hurtin' every American family
We've gotta collectively grow a pair cause this turning away haphazardly from real issues is turning out badly
It's like we're trying to escape on a stationary bike hoping a simulated digital effort will magically be enough ultimately
But it's plane to see we don't do enough as a society, continually bringing trouble our way, inviting it to stay knowing that any day it could turn ugly
Smugly we stand proudly next to our failures yelling alternative facts loudly to drown out the reality
And said reality has been a slow burn, catching up gradually as to not alarm you with the coming tragedy
Mercy is an option that's been taken off the table permanently, tough love is the new weaponry, I mean strategy, excuse me

Like I said, if it were up to me there'd be no mercy
The time for coddling is over, if you're not part of the solution you get sent out to pasture and not instantly because technically it'd actually be much faster
No more stumbling over blunder after blunder, it's no wonder we can't get from under this absolute corrupt power
The hour is late and the gate to a better future is chained shut but if you wait I'll locate a detour
There will indeed be fewer unlocked doors but we just need one to advance further
So whether you're ready or not it's time to move the plot along, our end game can not be forgot
We've got a long way to go, it's obvious that collectively we're not as progressive as we once thought
After draining the swamp we have got to get the skeletons out the closet to slow the dry rot
It's a hot topic because it doesn't line up with half the public but once the plan is in place you'll love it and be thanking me a lot

To bad it's not up to me though cause it's honestly getting pretty scary down this ominous hallway walkway
I don't see this ending in a way that doesn't just lead us further astray
And allow for the further decay of our democracy and quite possibly bring forth an inevitable Doomsday
The clock ticks life and hope away, that's not to say we're running out but it's starting to look that way
This isn't something I say for shock value, it's said to allow you insight into their strategy
This great big life conspiracy theory is crazy enough, I don't need to exaggerate any, just look at any headline from today
What do you see? Can you even put it all into words?
What does it mean? Could you tell the difference between 'em if I removed their party placards?
One insignificant step forwards for man, but for mankind it's always a giant leap backwards, heading head first towards collapse and neither direction cares knowing they are the 1% that'll be just fine afterwards
They are born con artists and actors, everyday nominating new content to put towards winning best lie at the Oscars
You might not think so but I know We The People are changing to us and them others, I just hope the non believers notice before the herds of buzzards
It is really, truly unfortunate that it's not up to me...

©2020
constraint
Kenneth Farward Jul 2015
I am making my trip and in the backseat of mine...
There's this kid,
This child.
This infant thought coddling along this journey with me in a baby seat would be all we ever wanted to be.

Safely I arrive with that child in mind...
Full of questions with with answers that take time from the hands of life in his story.
He sees the door all too sure that we arrived at the same place in time the destinations signs said the navigation should find.

Still in the backseat of mine...
This child,
This kid walks.
NO! Crawls.
Right and left.
Forth and back

Asking the question why?
A query so simple if he only new the answer would take some time .
Anderson Ritchie Aug 2012
I call you beautiful,
not because of fact or hopeful lies,
but because its who you are.
I say to you I love you, I mean it.
I don’t say you’re my favourite,
because you’re not comparable,
I listen to you in the morrows,
and try to take away your sorrows,
I watch carefully your eyes,
to see if I can comfort your cries.
You see, here’s one important fact,
it’s true and I try and not let slack,
You are beautiful, simple as that,
its not just appearance,
it not just a consequence,
its your name,
Beautiful.

Beautiful is the name I call you,
not for righteous appearance,
not for coddling affection,
not for the wishful thinking,
but for you are beautiful.
It’s as much apart of you as every drop
or crimson rosy blood.
You are beautiful.
You, are so beautiful,
its more than just a name,
its… its… and identity of truth,
a banner to rally behind,
a truth that says your beautiful,
I believe it.

God calls you beautiful,
ordained with holy hands,
woven as so,
God says you are so,
who am I to try and contradict?
Well, I’m your biggest advocate,
your barracking fan,
the loving hand at the fall,
the one who cries to see you free,
and in freedom hear you cry out this one name;
“Beautiful!!!”
What is the day worth without hearing the truth?
Next to nothing,
but hear is the truth,
You’re beautiful,
not just in appearance, being, or in flesh,
But in the beauty of your true Identity.

Your Name is beautiful,
its why I say it to you all the days,
because I want to gain attention,
and bring a neglected thing to light,
You are beautiful,
You are beautiful,
You are beautiful,
this is a truth, I hope you believe it
as I believe it!
For my love wishes you to know it
all of your days, to live in beauty,
since its your name,
and loving identity.
W Winchester Nov 2015
I have no idea what to say. I don’t know what I believe in.

I do know what I don’t believe in, though.

I don’t believe in god. Or any salvation, really.
I don’t believe in sheltering opinions and coddling students. I don’t believe in censorship.
I don’t believe in the idea that we should teach by word of mouth instead of leading by example. I don’t believe in hitting children as a form of discipline.
I don’t believe in authority that abuses power in order to **** anything in their way.
I don’t believe in searching through your daughters text messages to find out if she’s in trouble in place of fostering a relationship that allows open communication with her so that she doesn’t need to hide.
I don’t believe in hanging threats over people’s heads in lieu of the things they have done when they were a different person.
I don’t believe in kicking people while they’re down by telling them that “someone somewhere out there has it much worse than you do.”
I don’t believe in hurting for everyone equally at the same time.
I don’t believe in painting my nails purple.
I don’t believe in vegetable juice.
I don’t believe in veganism.
I don’t believe in paprika or leprechauns either.
Hell, I don’t really believe in anything– and that, I can believe.
Originally a class assignment, but I feel like it belongs here too.
Love.
I am desert sand. I was lost in the sun. Blinded
Black. Hearted. Ice. Cold. Veins.
Rebel ruined.
Not one single drop of water was spared.
Desert sand. Strained through your fingers, looking for diamonds.
In the heat of the sun. Starched white to the bone.
Devastated by my very nature.
Lost in allegiance to my morality.
Look at you, look at you....me oh my.
My love, has no eye, for a single derision, of indecision, of loss or fate or something along those lines,
behind the broken front gate, and the new pane of glass in the bedroom window.
Did you really mean to make me cry.
I was too loved, for you to get by?
Not 50 per-cent, of a hundred of where i needed to be.
Sitting on your knee.

Love.
I am parched.
Sand grits between your teeth, as you swallowed the ocean within me.
Countless times i wandered around, these dunes.
My darling, darling, i lost you when i loved you.
Where did you go?
Are you hiding from me, hiding from my knee, from my coddling, and, you're not listening to me.
For, i talk too much.
Too long I have sat in silence over you.
For you hold me in your arms but you hate with your eyes, and i am lost in the ****** sand; you dried me out, you make scream for you, in the rain, and i lost sight of you, but i never forgot, how you felt, when i laid in your arms.
Did you really mean to do that?
Reborn in your grief.
You spat me out between your teeth.
From a mouth which made me think heaven, existed on earth, in someone like you.
Eyes of blue.
Scorched with hate.

Love.
You found me.
Trickled water in to my lips and made me believe it was from the gods.
Cold. Hearted. Girl.
Illusionless. Defeated.
I Fell For You.
An oasis, you, appeared to me.
Heat burnt from the inside out, sustainable combustion, which left through my mouth, and made you a man of worth, bespoke with grace, that you never had, but i endowed you with my broken self.
If only to believe i would never, leave.
Ask me, why i love you.
and i will tell you, i have to run.
Running from the sun.
From the fall-out of the world from my chest, on to the floor.
Flying out the front door.
As i drown in sand,
and you let go of my hand,
and my face, becomes a mirage of a hue.
Death, in me, becomes you.
Dany The Girl Jan 2016
The warmth of the fire flushes my cheeks and makes me sweat
just like the day I first met you.
Outside, the snow falls fresh; the sunset is beautiful
just like when you first kissed me.
My heart beats fast like bird wings
just like the first time we made love.

In the forest I lay down and talk to the trees about good things
just like when I was talking to you. And not about pleasantries.
The birds outside fly away frantically
just like you when we talked about the news we were avoiding.
My heart swells in my chest
just like the child that was in my body.

Each and everything I say streams out of my mouth
like a waterfall down the cliff side.

I was the one coddling you
like a mother would coddle a child.
You were the one who was crying
like it was my fault.

The warmth of the fire flushes my cheeks and makes me sweat,
and here I sit with a bottle of scotch thinking
*have you ever wondered why minuscule memories can be so loud?
I really really wish you would shut the **** up.
Joshua Dougan Feb 2017
People should be a little bit brighter
A little bit happier, don't be a miser.

Why is everyone so quick to anger,
So scared of danger and sick on paper.
Get a life, learn to smile you fakers.
Nothing in this world is gonna make it safer.

Misery loves company trust me it's ugly.
They came to be lovely til their feelings need cuddling.
Coddling is more like it, insulating even.
They don't realize they're insinuating treason.

Inciting some violence by some violet snowflakes.
Protesting the silence with science and show dates.

Our heroes reborn, a new purpose and will.
All zeroes now scorned by the true service of skill.
Cece Nov 2013
Turkey and bread
fill our stomachs
almost as much
as laughter fills the air.

Sitting at the little kid table
for a large percentage of my life,
and seeing distant cousins in college
bring their boyfriends to dinner
seemed so far away
and intangible.

This year, that is not
something that will be
beyond me.

Butterflies are clouding my thoughts
every time I think about the dinner to come.
I'm sharing the bustling city of Chicago
and my most cherished family members,
with the man who is coddling my heart.

And for this, I am thankful.








*CVT
I was busy placing detonators under the MIRROR FUN HOUSE,
pitching
piveting
images of
itself for and by
itself,
when I heard over the rusting intercom
the main fuses were being turned off for a
routine check up and I would be
again left, as every one is, every night,
in the dark and
all the better.

The bombs in my pockets reminded me they were
awake and impatient or otherwise
alive;
otherwise, their life,
like mine,
wouldn’t growing steadily
shorter.
The ferris wheel in the
distance without my glasses
a slowly rotating
flower of blinks;
I wished I could hear
the pistons
the generator
understand whatever is making that
Big Wheel turn
but instead I sliced at the end of
the plastic ends of my explosives
to make them a little more
homely and different and
mine.

I looked up into the
rectangle framing my face
while behind me a
rectangle framed the back of my
head framing the front of my
face framing the back of my
head framing the front of
me.

I ran my fingers through
the wires petting them
something pretty then
wished I could hang this
night above my kitchen sink,
just above my rubber plants,
as good luck for
the future,
the wishbone of my
gratitude.

Instead I pushed some
dirt with my fingertips
purposefully without reason
then let the
wire follow me from my back
pocket,
leading the way
for the end like
I would lead a be-speckled French bulldog,
if ever I would give in and
purchase such a friend.

I walked some distance
I don’t dare guess and
laid my body against a
tree,
I hope an Oak tree,
the roots
coddling my thighs and I
can see my breathe in the
darkness and I thought of
the spinning, blinking
stars.

I took the detonator from
my boot and before I
pressed the
don’t press
red button
I glanced over my shoulder
wondering why
I should make it,
before,

presto,

everything shattered,
every light seared the sky in a final
collision with it’s end sister
in the falling dark
and every piece of my
face and body leap
from the ground with it,
flying into a place
the darkness seemed
much brighter
from
here
and
I
was
happy
someone
had
left
the
light
on
for
me.
brea Mar 2013
Fluffy white pillows, and blankets, and fur.
All the little snowflake could remember seeing,
For time immemorial.
Snow capped peaks in the distance,
Frost bitten air tickling its nose.
High hopes, much promise.
The snowflake was instilled with a warm,
Fuzzy feeling that was unique,
And untouchable.

The snowflake felt infinite.
It's brothers and sisters,
Falling around,
Like a mother coddling her kittens.

White was pure,
White was beautiful,
White was love.

But good things don't last forever.
Grey ash drifted down,
Antagonists in a dreary play.
Sweltering sun came out to say,
You can't have it all.

Grey is weary,
Grey is sad,
Grey is tired.

As the snowflake started to drip,
And melt like cursed Popsicles,
It though of the time,
When it felt so pretty and unique,
But alas~ it now understood,

That none of us are unique.
We are all melting snowflakes,
And broken hearts,
And dying lungs.
All the same; typecasts.
We all melt away.
Cameron Pfeifer Sep 2013
I was born into comfort’s cradling arms
And bounced on the knee of a lap of luxury
Raised in an age when the World was coddling
My lullaby was a song of interdependence:
“There’s no need to worry, you’re never alone.”
Quickly, I learned to step like the others,
March like the soldier who never says “no.”
In a land full of freedom, society raised me
To grow into a man without a conscience of his own

Now the World is on fire
And I watch it burn
Smoke rises with prayers from all of Abraham’s children
If I close my curtains
And turn on my TV
I can pretend I don’t see a thing
Put a locked door between myself and the cries of a nation I don’t know
Their burden is not mine.
The They Sep 2012
Our kingdom come
Which now stands lost
To its self-imprisonment in vice,
Finds itself in consonance
With the end its ways have wrought.

Soon we’ll find
Our only chance
To guide the blind
To righteous sight
-A chance that greets us with open arms
Opened by their lack of direction:

We herald now
The bell that tolls
For the impermanence
Of coddling sin,
Which brings with it destructive fires
That wipe away the cultures of decay.

We’ll stand among
The righteous flames,
Prepared to help
With loving hands
Those who survive the cleansing blaze:
Possessing eyes that see in firelight.

Burn
Will towers imprisoning minds!
Razed to dust
Will be walls that divide!
We must show this world new light
From which no one will want to hide.
The collapse is coming.  Hyper-inflation is assured.  Stock up on gold and food and make friends with your neighbors.  The corrupt society led by today's elites will burn and the new society, as a phoenix, will rise from the ashes...
JR Rhine Oct 2016
We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.

We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination

rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--

we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.

We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.

With that realization we weep and

We continue to dig.
SE Reimer Aug 2016
~

i remember the day
when first we met;
your face i can see, 
i'll not ever forget.
hearing your cry,
i sang your first song;
i was just learning then
how to hold on.

off to the playground, 
i think you were three;
while crossing the street,
you were clinging to me.
when pushing your swing,
i'd always say,
'i'm right behind you, son,
i'll keep you safe.'

for years we work hard
learning how to hold on,
and then in a moment,
childhood is gone;
no longer their fortress, 
our arms they outgrow;
we find we're not ready, 
when it's time to let go.

we took you to college, 
we set up your room.
had we prepared you?
had we too much assumed?
driving back down the freeway,
hope wrestled with fears;
our struggle to let go,
became a battle with tears.

now at your graveside,
i've come here to weep;
your guardian no longer,
now you're watching me.
though heaven now holds you,
and though hope i yet know,
it makes it no easier,
its still hard to let go.

for years we try hard,
learn just how to hold on,
and then in a moment
this life is gone.
no longer their fortress,
our arms they outgrow,
we don't get to choose when,
it is time to let go.

i still find this painful,
it's so hard to let go.
i will never be ready,
though yes it's time...
time to let go.

~

*post script.

an exchange today with a dear, young mother and family friend about her daughter, growing up far too fast, brought memories of our own child rearing, and of this write from several years ago and originally posted in 2013. its been dusted off, with a bit of a rewrite, but stands, both in sentiment and in structure, relatively unchanged.

these words left in comment to her, i dedicate to each of you young parents... especially you single mothers.  "such is the tension of parenting... hang on too closely and a child shows signs of coddling, let go too fast, too early and a child shows signs of parental absence or neglect. the fact that you are aware of the tension means you are far more likely to avoid either extreme; and don't even think about some utopian parenting idea... there is no perfect parent!!"
Samuel Francis Jan 2011
15
Cosmic tides hammer the stellar atmospheric shore,
with there cannons firing arcs of illumination.
They Flick and wander
along the experienced and travelled ground.
Which absorbs the life breathed into it, whilst
it gently nods back, to the sphere of light.
That ebb and flow of coddling, comforting energy
caresses the most vulnerable centre of our soul,
Our spirit is granted the tepid heat it demands, so it can bathe and dance in joyous realisation.
A self awareness is reached, a moment of truly unexpected clarity.
We are mere scenery in a infinite story of euphoria.
Our roles are to gain all we can,
But.
Materials are even smaller scenery, just props that interchange between acts and scenes.
Memories and experience are the true treasure of mankind.
Platinum.
Gold.
Silver.
Bronze.
All the things we have valued over our minds because we fear the loss of the glass house, we have built around ourselves.
The fear of the  gleaming yet storm prone waters of endless epiphany,
has driven us into the thick, opaque sludge covered shoreline of individualism and self loathing
However as we allow our gaze, so full of hope and awe to see over the clearing clouds that once blackened our horizon.
We fill our hearts and lift our spirits and confess to ourselves,
even if only in hushed and softened whispers.
That we have the gifts to forge and cast our own paradise with the divinity of our existence.
Copyright Samuel Francis
Solitaire Archer Apr 2010
I was so busy , so involved
polishing and shining all my troubles trespasses and faults
polishing them with my thoughts pulling them through my mind
shining them with endless repetition till it is rote
coddling them to my heart
Woe is me.. an ancient call of victims everywhere

And She laughed a glorious silver cascade that began in a soft chuckle and the scent of lilies

And I was offended

Who had dared to make fun of me?
Who would belittle my close held misery?
What could they know of my pain?

And She laughed ..

softly I felt the warm embrace that is my Lady
Child ..What is this?
Tell me why you collect these woes What pleasure can it bring?
But Lady..if I don't keep them polished and true how will anyone know?

And She laughed,
Exactly, My child
and She threw my carefully polished stones into the air and the scent of Lilly's rained down.

And She laughed...and I laughed

Solitaire - 2007@copywrite
- From A Crone  Recalls
Solitaire Archer Jun 2014
I was so busy , so involved
polishing and shining all my troubles trespasses and faults
polishing them with my thoughts pulling them through my mind
shining them with endless repetition till it is rote
coddling them to my heart
Woe is me.. an ancient call of victims everywhere

And She laughed a glorious silver cascade that began in a soft chuckle and the scent of lilies

And I was offended

Who had dared to make fun of me?
Who would belittle my close held misery?
What could they know of my pain?

And She laughed ..

softly I felt the warm embrace that is my Lady
Child ..What is this?
Tell me why you collect these woes What pleasure can it bring?
But Lady..if I don't keep them polished and true how will anyone know?

And She laughed,
Exactly, My child
and She threw my carefully polished stones into the air and the scent of Lilly's rained down.

And She laughed...and I laughed

Solitaire - 2007@copywrite
Caelus Oct 2013
tired eyes
weary sighs
empty checklists and picket lines
hands that ache
lips that quake
statements and proposals that i cannot make
calculations, calculators
stairwells and elevators
cold cement
old lament
spring leaves
endless seams
single mothers coddling crying infants
millions stare at the monitors, entranced
worn out books and worn out lies,
these are my final goodbyes
Hussein Dekmak Oct 2019
Soar above your pains by coddling them.
Rise above your wounds by embracing them.
Ascend above your sorrows by accepting them!

Intertwine them, hold tight to their emotional charge,
Convert them to positive energy, and
Make them a part of your prayer temple!

Your wound is the place
Where flowers will blossom
With a rainbow of spring colors!

Your pain is the place
Where your cure will emerge
with the birth of a new dawn and renewed purpose!

Your sorrow is the place
Where joy will bud
With a life full of hope and optimism!

Hussein Dekmak
Edited 2
ALK Oct 2013
That smell,
that musty odor caressing the air,
coddling it and cooling my mind.
Growing stronger and stronger with each successive stair,
birthing me into the world.
It doesn't fit,
not in these temperatures,
not in this light.
It's a cube,
in a gray matter hole.
It just doesn't work.
But it's there,
permeating the stinging air.
Cold and deadly,
it lingers without approval or purpose.
Yet,
It's inviting,
sentimental.
As the leaves shake off their bonds,
as they find rest on the dead ground,
it grows.
It's presence princely among the colors,
adorned in darkness and a shimmering beauty.
It's a rot,
a stench of death.
The silent death of a million bright jewels,
resplendent with the auras of natural flame
and lost underfoot with a magnanimous crunch.
Tryst Apr 2015
Thy mother's bounty bundled in thy swaddling
Took up the cry to capture mine own craft,
And taking arms, thou plundered of my coddling;
Enslaved, I toil to serve upon thy raft.
Thy word is law, thy captaincy commanding,
I sleep not lest I miss my master's call;
Thy will is served, thy drudgery demanding,
Through foul and fair I weather all thy squall.
Thy institution has me fear the looming
Of pirate vessels, renowned for their shrift,
Majestic sails billowed in handsome pluming,
Looting thy spoils and setting me adrift.
Surrendered now unto thy vasty sea,
I dread the day thy heart will mutiny.

— The End —