"congeniality" poems
The stereotype of the female type/ packing more than you give yourself credit for/
Spineless, backstabbing ******* in backless dresses fronting to impress dogs who are/
Barking at ******* that are easy to prey on/ hoping to get a good **** to sniff/
While your tail is out there waggin/ makin’ their tongues turn stiff/
There are many who live in that dog eat dog world/ And boy it can get pretty rough out there/ catch that innuendo?
You see, effing around is simple and it works like this; you F what you see/
Sometimes you find what you think to be ‘the one’ only to be deceived/
Because you believed what you saw and didn’t take the time to dig deep/
Next thing you know, your heart has been sunk in the pool of tears you weep/
You resort to a resolution to that’s easy to keep/ rectify to the erectified/
Yes, maybe some of this is harsh/ but if you cant handle the truth/
You wont know the difference between what’s right and wrong to do/
There’s a difference between a princess and a queen/
A princess who’s prince-less will settle for the frog/
While a queen knows how to stand on her own two feet/
Royalty is respected and they stand tough even when they’re rejected/
It’s hard to see something beautiful be used by a tool who’ll/
Only add her to the collection of his tool box/ then look for a new one/
But the reality of realism is/ reality can be pretty unreal sometimes/
And Miss Congeniality secretly believes the fallacy/ she wasn’t born to shine/
Selling herself at a price her mom would hate to see/
Giving out discounts because she can’t even count on herself/
The worst part is, it’s all manipulating her moral health/
And it’s demeaning her demeanor, being treated like Miss Demeanor/
But she didn’t mean for/ her life to turn to this/
She made three-left turns/ only to find the fourth right doesn’t exist/
Maybe a forthright person is all it takes to set her straight/
Boost her confidence/ make her feel great/ and tell her it’s never too late/
To find a new place to start over/ and get your mind in a better state/
That’s why this poem is called Tulip Teaser/ your own two lips are teasing you/
Impeding you from being you/ misleading you through your own garden/
But you’re better than that/ and there’s more to your garden than you think/
Just stick to your roots and let yourself grow to be the beautiful flower everyone likes to see/
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
One man and lots of women
Gathered in your kitchen
For a barbecue and luncheon
Full of banter, wit and glutton
Wrecking ***** and chat roulette
And an 80s design vignette
The food was finger licking
And the company uplifting
What congeniality
Thanks for the hospitality
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
******
A symbol of denial, congeniality, and assurance of love;
the fate of maternity, motherhood, that is witnessed
and cherished from afar.
From a sacred little haven;
from a struggle of motherly defense.
O ******
Temptations are to you never a bother,
in the tempests of lush dreams,
the draining of purity,
and veritable sensations.
Steadiness is your notion;
it barely leaves your mind
you may be deeply hurt
but never hurt,
you may be a stranger
but your grace is your power.
Truth that is unpardonable,
veraciousness at my simplest words,
clarity that is gleaming in your eye,
a token of pleasure but indestructible affection;
adorable as you are,
serenity is beyond question;
dreams are but inseparable from your docile life.
O ****** the sweetness and gentleness of thy eyes
are my irreplaceable silence,
my appraised soul,
and my most resolute
and irrepressible invocation.
O ****** one that is so rare a rose
Many as in the May-day dance are tainted;
marks of annoyance, omens of indulgence.
With hunger for nothing but moans;
unsober groans, and quickening breaths in paces of outward satisfaction;
intoxicated desires but unloving movements;
on the grounds for endless dancing;
there is the thirst for grips, the grossest of stateliness!
Voluptuous romance, perfidious touches, and
false-hearted toys!
In the wakeful dreams of which
I long for you, a handful of thy chastest kisses!
I pray for your hands, so delicate
as mine, how they shall fit into each other!
I long for your lips, your spotless, uncorrupted cheeks,
My demand is for your hands;
for sanity, and sincerest cordiality
Despite of my guilt and former unconsciousness
I shall amend my grief for you,
for you only,
for oureth perfect, unconquerable happiness,
and the union of our souls
in a day of holy matrimony.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
Honey, I don't even ******* know.
What the hell is a crush supposed to be anyway?
Sweet warmth filling up my soul?
A skipped heartbeat with a mere touch to the shoulders?
Afraid to look too long in fear of falling into fascination with the way their eyelids touch their cheek?
I don't even know.
I don't want to know.
I'm the worst sort of lover.
I don't even like people.
I mean, I love people, but not PEOPLE.
Besides, why would anyone like me back?
Miss Congeniality, not Miss Sexuality
I don't- don't know how to- how to-
****
I can ******* swear just fine, but I can't even say-
See? What's there to like?
I don't know what love feels like.
Does everyone just...know?
I'm not pretty.
It's not that I don't know what to say.
I just don't know if I believe it
Deserve it.
(Hypocrite).
**"No, not right now." (Smile, **** it)**
Honey, I don't crush.
I fall.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.
This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.
His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.
Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.
A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
"She is so cute!"
said the grand mother type
in McDonalds today.
**"Yes I have heard that said.
Every where we go."**
Miss Personality makes
an impression...
on the young and the old.
Purely unintentional.
Little head strong at times.
Mostly when awake.
She will go far.
Disagreements with Nana
can be fun at times,
'"Lucy! Don't do that! No!"
Can ping pong three times.
Then must stop. Or else!
On hearing the verbal
exchange between
the two one day
Gpa asked Miss Lucy,
**"What part of 'NO'
do you not understand?"**
The reply coming from
Miss Congeniality was an
emphatic "The N."
Gpa left the room.
Laughing held to elsewhere.
Reporting to Nana.
She is cute at times.
Four now...
going on fourteen.
But still cute.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Communication technology recognition
Reformation in monopoly contortions
Feel the attuned tunes from satellites
Setting light like an antenna televised
Usher prolific hologram vised in vision
Bid manipulation bye to new world neon’s
Motivation from free thought movement
Commendations cemented in another time-zone
Complement to comment for extra terrestrials
Electrical vibrations moving from wired modems
Floating up above the skies, a heaven end
All life become a past tense lie, come lie
A dead fantasy for the oars ain’t tacky
The most surreal reality, the stability, an ability
Congeniality, this is an alien evasion, adaptability
Figure a boxer on the ring, trenching victory
An agility the accessibility to the victorious flag
Tracing admissible tunes, planking in a cool challenge
The heroic and not hectic hologram check the angiogram
Its not a diagram, but a radiant heart an earthy soul
Am a do anything, buffing myself to do anything
Ain’t a deal rocking the crowd in crazy clouds
Breaking the underground like a Fujita F Scale tornado
Ronaldo tormenting the ball in a field with F clef societal
Social control and orders, tormenting the ****** to extraordinaire, an extradite
Streaming live make you believe like you can live for real
Stratifications, ****** classes and sewn mobility
Chasing dreams in the winds deeply wheeled in a well
Be well as we sink so deep to seek and hold the dense
The essence of the whirlwind, it’s a seep through static
This rollercoaster an aspiration to inspire then perspire
Ever higher, from the root to crown charkra, a tantra
Annata,the ascending holographic magnetic hero
Tuning visions to dreamers and travellers
Hold my hand as we sink underneath the stratums
No sputum, just headphones.... a culture, it’s the new age soul
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
My Office
Veneer and gear cogs orbit my sky eyed bored writ
Face, fuzzy bottom trace rings masculine tell bells ‘cuz
I’m lazy, not hazy on congeniality or veneer reality.
This cube main lines fake hued bane mines and vain finds
Purchase on surface of brown turf dust or brick fur guts.
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 1:26 AM UTC
Surrounded by demons and ghouls on every side
their evil surrounds me
they gnash their teeth and sharpen their claws\
they wreak havoc and despair
but still my halo grows
and from it i can see the tranquility of the innocence
inside of the paradox of despair
inside of the pandoras box of congeniality
surrounded within a maze inside of the conciousness of the unknown which re evaluates
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
These politicians are lying, and the children are dying, and mothers are crying, and why the **** are we fighting when we should be uniting and all of this writing don't do **** Man I need a vacation from this sicking nation, with all it trivialization, I need some civilization, THIS ain't Any gods creation... Forget about nationality, I got to stop watchin reality or I'm gona become a fatality, where the HELL is morality, how bout some congeniality? Hey stop watchin television before you lose your own vision, you got get up and make a decision,we need a total world revision, and all this writing don't do ****
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Sitting on my porch,
A refreshing morning
Breeze gentling blowing,
Conveying aromatic scents
Of yard plants blooming,
The hum of fluttering Bee’s
Seeking Nectar among them.
The songs of early birds
punctuating all this convivial congeniality.
You can not purchase a ticket
to this particular show at any price.
Other than say,
An invitation to sit beside me.
Young dog at my feet,
Him with full tummy,
Basking in the sun.
I can almost see a smile on his face.
Already he knows how to live.
There is tranquility here,
In my yard,
Among these plants and trees,
This grass so green, still fresh
With drops of recent rain a dripping,
The ethereal scent,
Of now wet earth arising.
No real need to go a traveling,
Far or even near a field.
I have almost all I need and want,
Right here in my yard,
on this porch of mine.
There is one other strong sensation here,
It is my feelings of utter contentment.
The simple things are always the best.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
At the laundromat today,
my stomach flipped
on demand
hearing a familiar chord
on the public radio station.
I panicked, yelled
a curse before
the lyrics even began.
Customers all
grew silent and turned
to look at me.
Which made the song overhead
only
louder.
Delirious.
I hate your ******* music,
your popularity, your effervescent
congeniality.
I hate your stupid songs about the ocean.
Lost respect for you, your
band, your
God.
Resent the fool you've made of me
behind closed doors,
rubbing your fears off
on me in the dark,
a doubting Thomas with
convictions.
I argued your qualms
at Bible study tonight.
Down to Ecclesiates and
the girls in India.
Remembered buying you a sandwich
in the bookstore
the day I met you.
You were looking through C. S. Lewis,
confounded, almost bewildered,
debilitated by questions I
hadn't ever
thought to ask that
I can't get out of
my mind now.
Like a bad song
stuck in my head that
I can't
seem to shake.
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
Your childhood dream
Your teenage dream
Your 20s dream
Your 30s dream
Your 40s dream
Your 50s dream
Measure them in decades
Transfixed before a distorted hall of mirrors
A cycling fun-house
While presidents come and go
Parachute pants, bomber jackets, bangs
When you’re drifting off to sleep
What feeling awakens in your heart?
What small feet run across your translucent landscapes
Cubists blocks of what might have been
Twisting , reforming…, parallax
Like Etcher in motion, Inception
Dark cities floating overhead while eclipses burn red
Do your hands tremble with rage or with despair?
Or do you lie perfectly still, resigned
Practicing for your casket
Selfies of your head sinking into starched pillows
You’re responsible now
Clerks and coroners pat you on the back
The least you can be is responsible
Hunting down dreams in dreary forests
With bow knives and bandanas
Is foolish
Better to fill out your W2s
Calculate your interest and help with homework
Don’t be selfish
Let others burning with madness, desire and discontent
Dream for you
Shape the future for you
Preferable to be content
An anti-pioneer To Nest in paperclips and razors
Satisfied with consolation prizes, Ms. Congeniality
To sink silently down the toilet of trivialities
Floating listlessly like a ****
Flushed out into the polluted ocean of time
But let us not dwell on dreams
Let us drill, let us dance, let us down
Korean BBQ and snap-shot sunsets
Never mind the shadows swirling
Through you, deepening with every tock
Civilization calls - You must be integrated.
Not like days of yore
On the hunt
But wrenched into a mechanical maelstrom
Input into a coded vision
An alien incubator zooming through metallic tubes
You are an app
Of Aborted dreams
Of pragmatic passiveness
Fingered by millions of strangers
To **** time and hope
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
*Weekend watercraft launch across blue bay waters ,
dolphins leading family and sailor out to awaiting nautical arms
Great Herons stand in silent royalty as sandpipers -
scurry their harbor home , enthralling the romantic -
fervor of Charleston , flickers of blessed creativity ,
the endearing gifts of maritime congeniality
Knock thrice upon the Atlantic doorway , write a song
of the placid waterway , count the Brown Pelicans that
ride criss-crossing zephyrs , pen your Carolina wonderment to
last forever* ...
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
It hurts so deep
The pain is no relief
From the feeling of being an outcast
And lost
And losing yourself more than what you ought
To find yourself skirting around in the distance
Never the object of embrace
Just disgrace in this case
Cards were stacked against you in a way
In such a way
Where there was no way out
Just deeper in it the pain deepened
Feeling lost and hopeless
Holding on till another weekend.
And the week starts again
The weak go on in pain
Refrain to reframe the reality
You’re so lost
You become the lost cause
There is no congeniality.
It wasn’t your fault for being born with no spoons silver or forks too
It wasn’t you who chose the broke life it was chosen for you
It wasn’t fair then
It isn’t alright now
It’s easy to forget but harder to move on
Easy to live in denial with rosy glasses on
Take it off for it is…
Always harder to move on.
Sep 12, 2024
Sep 12, 2024 at 1:10 AM UTC
What words are there
That can adequately describe
The reasons why I hide
Behind
A mask of congeniality
And blissful frivolity
With just a dash of innocent naivety
Due to my blatant apathy
Towards
Everything?
I'm a turtle withdrawn in my shell.
And I like it here!
There.
I think those words are adequately perfect!
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Death perched on a rotten fence clothed in Autumn colored quills
in the ancient pens that storied him in the colors of the fields
in the costume of a Cooper's Hawk slowly laid his eyes of stone
on me. Neither could I move nor stay an arm's reach
great and awful silence he commands living things gone
still as death itself is still. And this he deigned to show me
did not flinch fierce and fearless marked me with his eyes
of stone. This - a muscular stretch of wings untiring. This -
the sharp sure weaponry of death. This - endless curiosity
searching seeking sanctuaries never locked hides thrown open
shadows laid to rest. And this - an intellect uncaring cold
science mocked congeniality of birds societies lost
to appetite ceased by fear. Or is it better angels
gave the knowledge of prey to such as these what I
will not admit:
Hawks carry us away.
We will not return.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
The trick is
to break the fall,
prepare soft landings
roll forward with
some standing joke,
calling-in the softball laughter
drawing on that coruscating
excellence of company
the fool congeniality
we coaxed in all conditions
We'll repeat this to ourselves
as we go about our
business....
Time will take the evidence,
possessions from the locker
but nothing is forgotten
as you're always
with The Boys..
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 7:27 PM UTC
A demure river converges with the sea and turns into a scepter of intrepidity.
My eyes try to follow every ebbing wave into the strands of illimitable resurrection.
The wind carries the clouds toward a ruffled terrain and turns sunshine into rain.
Reckless movements seem to convey the act of solicitous tenderness.
A forsaken lighthouse on a deserted island tries to revitalize the ship that never arrived.
The enlightenment seems to brighten up its separateness
From the world of decreasing congeniality.
The resplendent pasture seems to absorb the colour from the verdant trees.
Scintillating dewdrops variegate the cusp of the grass like an exhilarating crown.
The inaudible murmur of pastoral life wraps the passing day in its tranquil impeccability.
The lucent stars seem to burn the vacuousness of night with its satiating fire.
Nature seems to have become the harbinger of my lost words
That long ago manifested my dauntless but wretched love for you.
The uncanny omnipresence of the unbarred memories seems to amalgamate
The unreciprocated past and the abeyant present.
Stirring thoughts in an invigorating mind seem to lose its scrupulousness
In the midst of these harrowing days of ruthless truthfulness.
The metaphors of nature seem to have juxtaposed with the feeble pieces of my fragile heart.
The ineradicable retrospection of moon-sharing nights seem to have emerged
From the irreducible darkness around me.
The twinkling shadows of inseparable hearts seem to converge
Into the enticing hills of the unlit valley.
The honest moon seems to have lost its sagaciousness in the night of relinquished lovers.
The closing day is enamored of the festering odor of onrushing annihilation.
The transcendental road to salvation merges into the heath of transcalent despondency.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
Indulgence in thoughts my abusive mind uses
To induce this confusion
That leads me to a crisis of loneliness
A license to use words of holiness
To rip to shreds any attempts
Made to get over this
Is all of this just indulgence?
No, these thoughts, they are
Worth being heard, being spoken
No matter how absurd, or broken
But not worth being kept
Or being nurtured like a pet
Like a cat that doesn’t stop biting and scratching
Regardless of all its visits to the vet
To snip off its claws
What am I governed by?
Self-proclaimed laws
That hold me back,
Peel at the wound till its raw
Again
Do I deserve this? Who’s to say?
Or is it good as long as he, she, they,
It, say it’s okay?
In chemistry, I would be amphoteric
Nothing generic, but I would rather be a salt
To end this aggressive assault
On my mind, from my unkind
Ness, leave it behind
Not forgotten, but put aside
I will remedy this sick mentality
With poise and gentle congeniality
Cure is not out there,
it’s a formula yet to be made,
And I will make it, alone
But you are welcome to participate
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
A poise possessed, in unfulfilling actuality,
Longing for freedom, freedom from normality,
Quelling every bit of counterfeit congeniality,
A taste of reassurance, isolated from individuality.
Driving this jalopy, a man dressed to nines,
His undergarments ragged, camouflaged to blind,
His teeth are pearly, though the pearliness grinds,
A moment of glory, he has yet to find.
Phony fads infesting fraudulent causes,
He sits in silence, while sounding the applauses,
A bittersweet flavor of momentary diapauses,
Every year holds similarity, inevitably with menopauses.
Commitments crumbling, chafing positivity,
Vows are demolished, rebuilt with ****** proclivity,
Reputations are finagled with selfless anonymity,
As society lacks honest accountability.
A shadow he’ll reside’n, distant from sight,
While pleading for nobility and faithful delight,
To remain a man and not out of spite,
As a room filled with vultures ravage his might.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:11 PM UTC
After you spilled hot cider
on the opal-purple plastic
sequins of the dress our great-
grandma bought you, we ran
down a cigarette-smoke
saturated neon alley
that dripped red blues and greens
between ivy-wrapped cracks
in the antique-brick buildings
across the lopsided street.
Carnies barked over plywood
counters draped in tablecloths,
shouting, “Prize every time!”
at kids grabbing pink ducks
from a foodcolor-blue model
of the White River, while other kids
popped balloons with darts like
the syringes our town is famous for
stabbing like stakes into undead
methed-out arms, and we hid
behind a coffin-shaped green porta-
***** near the chain-linked swings.
You held your nose in a gloved hand
and tried to dry the steaming cider
with a napkin I found hanging
half-out a yellow trashbag
full of skunked beer and flies,
and you said, through mascara-
poisoned bubbling black streams
and sour-pink lips, “Mamaw’s probably
mad enough I only won
Miss Congeniality — just imagine
how mad she’s going to be when mom
goes to the hospital tomorrow
and tells her that the cocktail-
dress she worked to death to put
her spoiled great-granddaughter in
smells like rotten apple pie!”
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Is this what “it” looks like?
The jumbled and frantic mess of
a wit
without constraint-
without silence,
calm, or congeniality?
Is this what it “feels” like?
A tornado of turbulent misconceptions,
strewn about
like leaves on the wind-
peppered with the biting
chill
of crisp droplets,
soaking through to skin and bone.
Is this “just how it goes”?
When the grey and black blanket of night
and sadness and just existential emptiness
cloud the sky.
When the darkness that surrounds encroaches,
blurring the point where the horizon
meets terra firma.
Would the power lines
connecting the neurological
pathways break?
Would the ceiling of introspection
fly off of the supports that so long
held it in place?
What is left when the
onslaught of the brain
brouhaha slows and only the
photographs, the memories linger;
when the dust of duress settles?
What follows when
the final downpour
of shattered expectations
fall,
leaving the silent and still
dejection
that comes at the end?
Is that the end?
Could I wipe the rain from my eyes,
to see the brightening of the day?
Could I see the illumination of the sun
and the clearing of the sky?
What about the curve of crystalline
precipitation, lingering in empyrean;
brimming with a wash of beauty
known only to those who behold it?
Is that the end?
When and what and
where is the end?
- A. I. Myles 30 May, 2019
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 5:02 PM UTC