"consultation" poems
He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide,
He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside;
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair,
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear
He was very poor and humble and content with what he got,
So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot;
Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain,
Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.
Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief,
And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef,
Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right
And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.
'Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who'd stood his friend,
To adopt a slang expression, "went in off the deepest end",
For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse
He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.
Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate:
'Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate,
And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day,
Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, "On your way."
8.4k
Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man?
He scammed fig leafs in the garden,
And **** cloth in Ottoman.
outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up
The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss.
He offers snake oil, spins a tale,
So you feel smart, healthy and hale.
from top to bottom, bottom to top
The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop.
He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.
right is left, left is wrong
That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song.
Consultation for now is free,
No hidden added extra fees:
You buy two, you get three.
north to south, east to west
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest.
I've heard his feet are cloven;
The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen;
He has two fingers, wears silk- woven.
He sweats like water to the lowest level;
He's quicker than the slyest devil,
Selling hell, but we hear heaven;
Doing so twenty-four seven.
He photo-shops secret desires,
Twists truth-tellers into liars;
Artful, wily, scheming, subtle,
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.
*today is the day, yesterday's late,
tomorrow's a place that just won't wait*
I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man,
Peddling apples from my jardain.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Madam we are at your door
No worries... of the body odor
We took your advice we went outdoor
At the mall bought a bottle of Jadour..
Fresh smell we are Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and Miss Taylor
Do increase consultation time by 15 minutes or more...
Okay now open the door...
Take your turn but stand at the door...
Hey! now don't you cheat
Fresh looking nice and neat
but still I smell... your smelly feet...
Out you go and wash your feet!!
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Hellenic days of poetry,
From a land of myth,
In legend dwelled the child of Zeus,
Head of the gods,
Zeus created ******* child in tryst with mortal chick,
Alcemene was the name,
Hera, wife of Zeus got angry at his infidelity,
Alcemene expected two, twin boys were on the way,
One baby conceived of Zeus the other was a mortal's son,
Hera had a consultation with Lithia, goddess of childbirth,
Hera twisted Lithia to prevent the childrens birth,
Alcemene's legs were cross locked to stop the birth ocuring,
Zeus declared in oath, child of house of Perseus born that night,
To become High King in place of heracless,.
Hera made Eurytheus, arrive too soon in premature immaturity,
Athena, half -sister of Heracles,
Protector of Gods, tricked Hera into nursing child,
Known as Alcides,
Real name Heracles,
Hera nursed him out of pity,
Heracles gave Hera pain on suckling,
Milk sprayed the heavens,
Hence there created, The Milky Way.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Calf augmentation => silicon implantation
Endoscopy, otoplasty, baby
Mentoplasty, rhinoplasty, scalpel
Juvederm at 4, Starbucks pit-stop right after,
pop some xany's and go
Chemical peel, dermabrasion
Dr. Unknown PhD. meet patient Montag XR3.
Brain stimulation, kneecap replacement
Doc, I'm starting to miss the table, is this a complication I should expect?
Fat grafting, bone grafting, mystic tanning
(what really is natural nowadays?)
Chin reconstruction, laser resurfacing,
(what really is me anyways?)
Consultation with your post-op pain,
It's gonna be "Ouchy" for a month,
but worth it in the end.
Self-esteem scan shows a cancerous tumor and growth
Yuck
And here I thought plastic was
"cancer-free"?
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
A little blood, and then nothing.
Waited. But there were no cramps,
no sweats.
No shrimp-like cell cluster.
She recalled the dates of
this downfall: Of a
**** no law’d recognise.
Bus drivers’ strike.
Consultation with a grumpy-old-doctor-man.
"... you’re probably too late.
Try an Aspirin between your knees next time…”
This is how she told her love to me. Measured against in-spite-of,
not by because.
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
To kiss someone's lips
Or grab them by the hips
One must enlist
In the power dynamic
Inside every relationship
There are surprises
Of different disguises
I must ignore the lies of
Reachers and settlers
Stalkers and meddlers
Those who are aloof
And those who are goofs
The process never foolproof
When animals hide their hooves
I took that dubious bet
I thought it'd be fun
A game of Russian roulette
With a fully loaded gun
There were unfair rules set
That's how you won
A one hundred percent threat
I'd be hurt a ton
It started effecting my health
When I couldn't be myself
Because my self emulation
Amounted to self immolation
So I sought your consultation
For the vacation
Of placation
But you took advantage
At least from my vantage
I could see your rampage
Straight from the Stone Age
Like a time traveling mage
That summoned a cage
There was a pattern
We kept going around
Like the rings of Saturn
Until I hit the ground
You made me foolishly wait to test me
And then hated when things got messy
Now you claim that you're a blessing
For what you do after **********
You must be jesting
Confidence cresting
Never confessing
Or addressing
The emotional underbelly
You just like to undersell me
Saying that I'm underwhelming
I'm talking to a tundra telling me
That it makes me a better me
Apologizing not part of your plan
You tell me you don't understand
You must think I'm stupid
To treat me so putrid
My patience you've used it
So the dead weight loosened
Once I let go of your noose hand
You come back begging
You incorrectly pegged me
As forgiving not petty
I guess you never met me
Or at least said goodbye to the best me
After never acting on the behest of me
And making me think less of me
You've become a pest to me
Not part of my destiny
Just part of the generic sea
Of those I let be
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
Independence and autonomy are subjugated by the transnational bourgeoise; and a colorful Mediterranean cuisine is not dissimilar to the Machiavellian arrays of contemporary propaganda.
Therein lurks a traumatic bonding from the origins of Stockholm, which is characterised by a cryptogram of questionable empathy.
It truly is a lucrative business, oh hamster on the wheel of dissociative conformity. Have a consultation appointment with Salvatore Lucania of La Cosa Nostra.
We are boiling in a fascinating and central superintendence. Therefore, my weary and ego-dystonic figment of contemporary virtual relationship: Do not express allegiance to your captor.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).
Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.
I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.
There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.
Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.
Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.
My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” **** war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 3:30 PM UTC
For we vile and unquenchable creatures
scavenge the twisted fate of imagination;
take pleasure not only in the creation
but in the movement, harmony,
and persuasion a verse evokes.
Enthralled and misted by
Ambiguity,
Intangibility,
and a verdict -
a sole desire to reach
what the mind wails,
a conclusion.
Beware,
for elegantly,
a writer scribes
or utters nonsense
for a mere, distant
consultation
yielded by the
faithful art.
Ordinarily,
we create while
lacking meaning,
gratuitous spirits,
echoing
a whimpering quail,
yet, we are bewildered
by profound imagery
and indescribable joy.
Doubt arises
in regards of
each word's validity,
bringing upon
interrogation,
scouting the way
for infinitive
journeys
yet to be written.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
these days a visit to the doctor
is quite dear
and it fills the patient with
a great deal of fear
consultation charges
are well above inflation
but if you don't pay the set fee
you'll receive not proper medical investigation
the day before yesterday
I went to see
my quack
and when I got the invoice
I was taken aback
GP's are making
really big bucks
by treating themselves to the
ailing person's money trucks
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Despite the daylight
It was going to be a torment of fright
Footsteps that stomp the streets
A past from the underworld neighborhood in their retreat
Every footstep in wanting to be heard
The moans with the multitude in being a herd
Every pounding heart is the coming stomp of footsteps
The neighborhood questioned often in their why, but heard stories that seemed a lie
An old man would sit and tell the tail
The neighborhood listened to every detail
Stomping footsteps an enactment of the trail
Former citizens who previously lived in the neighborhood
They were part of “Spirits Concealed”, a consultation group in casting out spirits
But a curse was transformed and it ended the neighborhood in defeat
The curse has caused deceased stomping footsteps in being unrest
Who will live will be anybody’s guest?
Now the spirit footsteps must roam the streets
Looking for new souls to live in as an eternity feat
The footsteps are determined to get revenge
Endless mark of no trail and the spirits soul that won’t fail
It’s let the games begin
The walking until when
Taking refuge on new citizens to the neighborhood
But they will be living on if they could
Followed by even if they would
It’s the footsteps that continue to preserver
The moans are the diehards of the fear
The walking footsteps not wanting anyone to come near
Death in the footsteps search, and the soul being what they want.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
“That good for nothing Gary
hurled Princess off the balcony -
I don't know why we married!
(It was because of money.)
Sure, she kept him up at night
but God, she was a dog!
All right, so what, she liked to bite?
She was a little dog.
But we agreed it's time to part
and ended on good terms.
Now, Mister Assassin,
let's make that milksop burn."
“Mrs. Darlene, I must decline.
I’m a lawyer; that's a crime.”
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
Decorum is corrupt, decorum is dead, the books we told were good
have all been read.
Fitzgerald has been bled dry by institutions, teachers and those guys in
red chrome cardigans.
Those Pennine walks have turned to drunken talks in the eaves of the night,
high above conscious thought and the cold glow candle light
The long haul flights back to the heavenly sight of tyre black
tarmac have become tedious meditations;
though those lamentations still exist within my wrists,
a yearning for your riverside kiss.
Bus journeys along roads and routes I already knew are
changing without consultation,
it’s temporary probation, an experimentation, a test
of time well spent.
Time well spent in ground floor, high rent, properties,
fading away into a slack attitude disease.
Needles and fluid, *** and Cupid won’t lift you from this
perpetual stall,
nor will anything at all; though maybe plans scribbled down on
napkin edge corners will.
With thought, white paper vertices can quickly become
mountain range peaks.
Throw politeness out of your transport’s window
and become a widow to the road,
black veil eyes, cold and grainy, lost in your endeavour
to find somewhere new to feel safe and clever.
Take those books that you thought were good to tear
into the new prose of the year.
Rip title pages and dedication pages and index pages
from the spine
and throw them in the air
to make a new line of literature and pain.
Take also your pencils and strip them of
their back bone lead
and shave them into clean kindling for fire start
shavings for a warmer lonely camp bed.
It’s there and then, in your fake polyester,
four season sleeping bag womb
that’ll you’ll experience the darkened tomb
of unbound freedom.
But like paragraphs of small print found in the back of the squint-again-magazines,
freedom comes at a price, as if long hair and lice or poverty and bedroom escapade vice.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
called me in for a consultation,
“*lean in,” he suggested, with nearly closed eyes,
“see the youthful optimistic predecessor,
the conqueror, who could not be defeated,
his thin images within still resides
the man of firm voice who when he spoke
above the rabble, all fell silent, and when he looked,
all could share his visionary insights and did not hesitate,
saying, we will do and we will listen,
but to follow, just did, wrapped
in your confidence
I want that boy back, smooth skinned, fearless,
do not return him till the shadows have dissipated,
the bruised lines of worry have evaporated,
the hands look unscathed, then raise them in
self-supplication, demanding satisfaction,
then in success, born overhead, marking appreciation,
let us adventure forth, straightening tilting windmills,
punishing renegades and dragons fearful,
saving damsels who waited just for our arrival,
shedding courage upon those who watch us,
cheering and being cheerful
here is your mighty pen,
cut sharp the poems out from the within,
read them slow, winding to now crooked old friends,
who remember everything dear, their youth of no fear,
the best of past, dreaming poems, mist born, fog vapor gone,
of black and waiting white, worthy words all revived
return to me in blazes,
sumptuous colors of derring-do,
I need that child brave, for perhaps
you have not noticed my flaking slivering skin,
the expanding cracks that cross my images,
just like you!
I need you to rebirth you,
I need you to rebirth me!*”
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC
“Yo con stik yer O.T. Gaffa
Weer the monkey stiks his nuts.
Dost think I’ll fall fer that agin
No questions ifs or buts?
Fer fore ‘ears now I’ve werked me roe
Thru blood and sweat and tears
And all fer such a measly dough
Werk overtime no fears.”
The Gaffa looked me in the eye
And stood his graernd real firm.
“Wust be better on the dole
With missis on the gurm?”
Cust see he wart in mood fer messin,
He wus beetroot red in ferse.
An I war gunna mess abaert
So I gor on his curse.
“Yo con insult me till cows come um
But yoh wow insult mar *****
Gaffa or no Gaffa mate
Yo’ll end up in six-foot trench!”
He must a thought it tad absurd,
It war achieving any gud.
So, he said, “Time an a third?”
To this I said I would.
He ay bad Gaffa after all
It jus needed consultation.
We both walked off I dun confess
With mutual admiration.
“Oh, wenst yo wont us in?” I asked,
Cust I didna ear ya say.”
“I’m sorry I fergor ah kid,
Yome in on Christmas Day.”
Dec 4, 2009
Dec 4, 2009 at 9:12 AM UTC
I Loved The Thought Of Being A Father,
I Wasn't Sure If I Was Ready To Make That Step But My Name Was Called,
I Felt Sure I Was Ready Then,
Cherishing The Thought.
Now I've Been Told,
Been Told That We Had A Abortion.
I Was So Confused,
How Could She Do This To Me Without Consultation.
That's When The Doctor Told Me,
Your Baby Is Dead.
I Swear In That Fraction Of A Second My World Crashed Down,
My Heart Withered And All Signs Of Hope Had Wilted.
I Didn't Realise That It's Not A Miscarriage Any More,
"We Changed The Name".
Could Have Fooled Me.
Now I'm Left,
Left Here On My Own,
She's Gone,
My Child Gone,
Love, Hope, Gone.
What Am I Left With Now.
I Feel Empty And Incomplete,
What Is This Feeling.
I Never Knew My Child,
So Why Do I Feel This Way,
I've Been Told I Would Make A Great Father And I Thought That Now Was My Chance.
How Wrong I Was.
I Want My Chance,
It's Not Fair.
All You Ever Hear Of Is Drugged Up Teen's Getting Pregnant,
And Here I Am Working,
Paying My Taxes,
Doing My Bit For The Community And Trying To Help.
But I Am The One Who Has My Child Taken Away,
In What World Does That Make Sense,
How Is This Fair.
That Child Would Have Been Loved And Cared For,
I Would Have Done Everything Possible To Provide What That Child Wanted And Needed,
Now They Have Taken Him Away.
I Hope That Wherever That Sweet Little Soul has Gone Is Better Than This Place,
No Worry Of Money,
Politic's,
War.
I Pray To The Heaven's To Look After My Child,
If Not There Shall Be No Hell That You Could Imagine Worse Than The One I Will Make You Experience.
So On This Sombre Note,
I Leave You,
Knowing,
Hoping,
That Out There Is My Child,
Most Likely Living A Better Life Than I Could Have Provided.
Now I Know What Pain Mean's.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
Wading through the mire and sinkholes of contingencies
I move gingerly, quietly, gasps merely whispered
upholding propriety and pragmatics of
housing association bylaws
enough to make me consider mowing my own lawn
but humans are human, co-exist as they say
And although I detest your husband's cigarettes
I am quite sure blowing smoke back
down the air vent would not be as effective
as your decibel oblivious obnoxious self, imitating my lustful voice
I am a reasonable woman, truly a lady, preferring mature consultation
But the fact is, honey, if you imitate me again
when summer air re-invents lingerie season
the two of you might want to go outside for that smoke
because you haven’t heard anything yet
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
They sent an ambulance
to our location.
The sirens could be heard
even under sedation.
The drugs that flow through my veins
I got without consultation.
I'm floating over broken glass
to my salvation.
I'm screaming for you from the crowd.
I hear you screaming from the crowd.
Don't suffocate on the clouds!
But I like the feel of these clouds.
Why can't you take my hand this time?
I don't want to take your hand in mine.
I'd cushion the crash of your high
Driving like this is a crime.
So I called an ambulance for you,
because that's what I needed to do
And you
Tried to take me out of this mindset
That I did not want to leave yet.
But you drove without a seat belt on
and crashed through the windshield of your car
And I
Wanted just to take a drive
I didn't know it'd threaten my life.
I'm going crazy
You're going crazy
Because I can hear the sirens,
but they sound slowed down.
I'm just under
the surface of consciousness
and I think I can hear that the sirens
are
not
so
loud.
So stay with me
I open my eyes and look to my right
to see broken glass sparkle like
diamonds in the one streetlight.
The ground is vibrating
as I'm shivering in shock.
The ambulance rumbles
the loose pieces of rock.
That rattle against the concrete
on this disaster of a street.
So broken bones and broken souls,
I'm hurting all over this ****** street.
Fill up the street that's full of holes.
Flashing lights make me close my eyes.
They push at your chest, so unkind
I'm floating again there are no ties.
In the ambulance you flatlined
Life is full of stupid lies!
Don't let your heart burst
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
Twisting painlessly, yet uncomfortable under these wings
of angels and Mary, Him and His cross
No feeling of love, no feeling of help
No relief from the tormenting thoughts
twirling under the duress of nothing
Words waning into the void in the back of my mind
and in time, singing empty silence of the devoid
Lost, staring at the ceiling as one would read a book
tuning out the world and focused on symbols written on parchment
Turning pages with my eyes, reading each line
Each chapter different
Learning, speaking to you with ears open, seeking your words out of the sky
Yearning, burning desire that leaks into my pores, causing motionless sweat
Hurting, the chapter that is reread with despair
and I read with emotions splayed for those to see
who would dare look into my eyes in my moment of private consultation?
For if you so choose to look without breaking my silence, you would see
the strings attached to my chest, playing my mind like a puppet
tugging my heart with each excruciating word that runs through my mind
a pain like a scar; too much to bare but you press it anyway
And as I sit in this room, thinking such things
near tears and ready to disappear
I realize that these spread angel wings are not for me
and the ****** is ****** no longer
His son is the one that loved us
as proof that he hangs no longer
But He doesn't cry for me, and these prayers go unanswered
These screams of love have yet to cease, and we aren't any closer
Half a country away from your touch and your love
seems much farther away to me
then the touch of angels on a endless sea
where the Holy child sleeps in Heaven above
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
Love is the investment, without a guaranteed return. So check the markets, and seek consultation; lest your capital gets burn.
And your love... unrequited and unheard.
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 3:14 PM UTC