"consulting" poems
Folds, fur, creases and greases on your clothes
Have you had a nice breakfast?
No, no, it doesn't seem so.
You've had a bad day since you've risen from your bed.
Your hands are shaking and don't even notice it,
Probably because of the nicotine hidden in the left pocket of your jacket.
Ahh! Shut up! You were thinking! It's annoying!
Get out! Get out! I need to go to my mind palace!
Also, if you think that I'm a psychopath,
I'm just a high-functioning sociopath.
With your number! -smiles-
Oh, John Watson? You've got a limp from your last war from Afghanistan.
Your hand stays steady when you're suspicious or feel like you're being threatened.
Hmm, you like the battlefield, don't you, John?
Ahh, you can be my colleague! Come on, John!
Wait, what? Who are you?
The name's Sherlock Holmes and I live on 221B Baker Street.
And, I'm a consulting detective who uses,
The Science of Deductions
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Refreshment, in form king size bed
Big fluffy pillows, sink disheveled head
Silken other body touching beside
Night's dreamless comfort, into it did glide
How exist delusion, tranquil pie in sky
Consulting limbs, spooning of thighs
Imprecise discoveries, feeling more at ease
Theories both wound in bed, confidently pleased
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Look around,
You will find all eyes down;
some expressionless,
some desperate,
and few smiling!
Both tiny and fatty thumbs
yearning for a rest,
after typing those texts.
Some consulting the Doc
for having a smartphone thumb
and some for lacking vitamin D!
Posts wanting more and more likes.
Kilograms of followers on Instagram!
Swapping stories on Whatsapp!
Unopened notebooks
when you have a Facebook!
Television screens consigned to oblivion
when you have a Youtube!
Discovering the veiled world,
missing the real scenes around.
Emoticons spreading fake feelings,
Stupefying infants swiping through the screens,
Kids imploring to their parents-
To drag out the patterns.
What is more satisfying?
Hitting play button on the screen or
Hitting a six on the field?
Carting products online or
Shopping on a girls day out?
Dribbling a basket ball or
Dragging down the newsfeed?
Watching daily soaps without a dish or
Helping your mother out to wash the dish?
Sharing the snaps of poverty and hunger or
Reaching out to them with eager?
A game of candy crush or
Gifting a candy to your crush?
I feel like whooping out to myself
and to people around;
To raise their heads and
Look around!
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
1715
Consulting summer’s clock,
But half the hours remain.
I ascertain it with a shock—
I shall not look again.
The second half of joy
Is shorter than the first.
The truth I do not dare to know
I muffle with a jest.
3.5k
She leaves a trail of broken heart
in her wake.
Like the River Styx, but
very much alive.
On the outside,
one would look at her and say
she's a faerie nymph
flighty, giddy and naive.
She treats boys like playthings-
they would say,
draw them to her and spit them out
her pixie pranks bereft of benevolence.
They are Theseus and Leucippus
heroes victimized by false love
they say,
the underdogs.
She is to blame.
On the inside, however,
it's a different story.
They fixate on her,
fall in love without consulting her first.
To them,
consent is an idea
and an abstract any-thing.
Something to be taken lightly or disregarded
You see,
consent is more than a verbal yes
and consent is more than ****** thing.
Consent is communicating your intent
before acting on it
and getting permission.
So it should be the same with falling in love.
No one owes anyone anything.
Best friend, dark loner type, new boy/girl in your life,
consider this before you vilify someone
for what they don't feel.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
I know I was never there to begin with, but will you still accept me into your heart?
I know its messed up, and everyday I wish I took those seven steps needed to confront.
You're all I ever wanted, but without the permanent affiliation.
I just wanted you to call every now and then,
Tell me that you're okay and you don't need the extra five or ten.
I'm emptying out and keeping the lies on my lips.
Inches away from you, holding tears back from my eyelids.
I wonder what kind of life I'd have lived if I would've tapped your shoulder,
Or what kind of regrets I'd have had if I would've pulled that trigger.
That's all behind me, but I always end up facing the other way.
But who's to say it's the wrong way?
For all I know, this is the world telling me to end my day.
But every time I open my eyes and wake up,
You're still on my mind, but without the make up.
You're scars are showing,
And your tears are flowing.
You're eyes are holding and you'll never understand how much you mean to me, theres no way of knowing!
You cut to conclusions and split the wrist!
I'm crazy just as much and you never ask me why I close my fists.
We're not the same yet we're making the same mistakes.
If I tried to end my life would you hold it onto me?
Tell me it's against my religion and culture and never look at me?
Without feeling ashamed, this life is so young but the time is so old,
And I might be freezing but thats because I'm so cold.
My heart is so overwhelmed and It's basically sold to the man in the black suit and a red tie.
You taught me well,
But the bad habbits are the ones that stay and dwell.
It's not your fault but I'm still blaming you.
I'm a mistake.
The small skid on the side of the paper.
The piece of dough that fell on the floor, stepped on by it's own cater.
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but I'm infested by worms and caterpillars,
And I might like it,
Because I'm independent and someone still wants me.
Consulting myself because I'm all that I have,
Masking my feelings because my psycologist laughed!
I'm done asking because I'm all that I have,
Don't tell me that you're there for me, just stop lying.
I'm and unwanted **** and I'm tragically dying.
I'm not a wilting rose, so there's nothing that you can say about me or boast.
Just forget about me, I'm not all that you know.
It's over, so let my memories go.
I don't want you frowning or crying,
This is how I am.
I'm an unwanted ****
And I'm tragically dying.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
Boredom #2
I’ve never seen so many synonyms for one small noun,
Blocking maturation and enjoy-dom:
Boredom.
“Weariness, ennui: frustration;
Restlessness, dissatisfaction, unconcern: frustration;
Lethargy, lassitude, flatness and frustration;
Dreariness, repetitiveness, apathy: frustration;
Tedium, monotony, dullness. yes, frustration.”
Can it be overcome, this boredom?
No more war - the boredom won,
Exchanged for something more like fun?
It can.
A friend who, when we speak, says,
“It’s a part of nature…has no answer...”
Reasoning fallacious,
She is wrong as wrong can be
And her reasoning a fallacy.
Awake at night: hormones, full moons;
The glut of light: electric gadgets and devices,
Radios that play a song too strong, too long..
A trick I’ve learned that’s brought results;
A knack, a shortcut worth consulting
Is to train the brain to focus on/in/with the brain;
Travel round in, sense and feel…
Make it real – as if you really feel
The part you aim at, frame then tame.
In seconds you’ve an object that’s becomes a subject.
Boredom fled, you freed,
You and your mood well pleased, released
And taken places least expected,
Un-objected to by you,
The burden boredom’s through.
And doomed!
Boredom 11.24.2016/ #2 revised 2..16.2017
Revelations Big & Small; Definitely Didactic;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
Measure my love in starlight
And set the sky ablaze
Measure my love in words
And eternal speak my beloved’s praise
Measure my love in raindrops
And overflow the seas
Measure my love in sighing
And make storms from a summer breeze
Measure my love in music
And hear all the world’s choirs sing
Measure my love in riches
And make every pauper a king
Measure my love in heartbeats
And deafen every ear
Measure my love in laughter
And banish every tear
Seek to measure my love as some might wish
By consulting the learned or wise
But each effort will fail, because such a scale
No mortal thought can devise
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the
exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!”
Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types!
They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time?
How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones?
>
<
>
time is over
time is up
time is running
time flies
>
<
>
Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up?
I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum?
>...O darlings...<
…motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around,
>.. not stars..<
>...O… no..<
Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind.
O…no…
Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever…
they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure.
<
<
<
The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise!
they laugh
and
laugh and
laugh
since
>
<
I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height. shout, scream and cry, they were innocent, don' t want to die. I can hear them.
>
<
They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
Here.you can have this one easy, I wont struggle i wont even look.Here you can sharpen your pencil and jot me down in the book.Here....... cant spell CAT less I give C and T to U. And you think creation bubbles and boils in you. Sad sack of !!!. .....When I wanted my turn? oh no, you were way to busy reading tea leaves, mumbling mantras,consulting the zodiac Now you want me to rub your head and tuck you in bed,pull your blanky chin high and then tuck it, Hmm, too easy.
Verses with curses, you call that a poem ?
Here. right here between the C and the T. good boy. Now. Shall we begin the beguine.
There once was a man from Belize
Who was stung by the poetry bees.
He read books to distraction
But couldn't get traction
less I pushed for action
To clear up his those from his these..Duh
So Here. go visit Nantucket. Dont forget to take a bucket !!!.
Next stop Limerick. Here we go again. Next time I crawl back
try to at least offer me chair. A " hey dude it's
good to see you" or I swear I'm off again like a
***** shirt. Just you and that keyboard and
blinky the cursor.Blink, blink, blink................
There.I finally got that unchested.
Feel so much better now, so Here take a letter now.
Here you can have this one easy.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
I
The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave
Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing
Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful
No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.
II
Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished
Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary
Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page
(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Astutely speaking, we all at some point
Ponder on matters spiritual, the kind
In the realms outside observable phenomena.
Even to some extent, we can’t help
Consulting various spiritual practitioners to
Extrapolate circumstances prevalent in the future.
Otherworldly beauty is not only a matter of
Fascination it’s an obsession too.
Hallowed space in today’s world is
Exceedingly limited, an abundant scarcity
A paucity of meaning attached to it.
Various denominations exist to
Entrench a semblance of piety to counter
A rather stack waywardness.
Neverland, is it real?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
Sorting Goods and Materials
Counselling and Nurturing
Protecting and Enforcing
Serving Others
Liasing and Networking
Teaching and Training
Professional Communicating
Advising and Consulting
Promoting and Selling
Interviewing
Designing
Writing
Performing and Entertainging
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Peace got clothes to wear
that are called democracy
and are also worn by others
doppelgangers on the stage
of the power that they serve
as an extra or a puppet
It's an easy role
but in real life it is great
self-control and a matter
of patience to understand others
and to convince each other
of a public interest
This is how the Great Law
of Peace works along the Panther Lake
and the Sparkling Water
listening and consulting
without ventriloquism
or indelicate word
Jun 2, 2022
Jun 2, 2022 at 3:53 AM UTC
[A child of indeterminate sex--either a delicate-featured boy or a tomboy-ish girl--, 9 or 10 years old, enters the chamber where the United States Council of Artists is meeting.]
"Is this the United States Council of Artists?"
[The Chairman of the Council responds:] "Yes. Who are you?"
"That doesn't matter. Are all the high arts present? Poetry, Music, the Visual Arts?"
"Yes. . . . There are people from all the various arts here. . . ."
"The Hour of your Doom is upon you."
"What do you mean?"
"You've failed to create with feeling.
Nuclear angst no longer excuses you.
Moral uncertainty, the dissolution of society,
no longer excuses you.
The 'Death of God' no longer excuses you.
Human beings have not changed.
We are not the hollow men.
Great art
comes from the heart;
your superfluities will now depart.
"Painter! Isn't it true that the same day you started work on this [holding up a reproduction of the painting "Incongruities: White Lines, Pink Lines"] you visited a hardware store with a middle-aged clerk whose face was wonderfully sad and quizzical? That as you walked home the pattern of the sun shining through the trees onto the sidewalk was marvelously variegated?
"Composer! Tell me honestly [playing a cassette recording of "Duet in F-Minor for Flute and Woodblock"] that these rhythmless sounds move you. . . . It's made with the head, completely with the head.
"Poet! Isn't it true that you've never written any poems expressing your deepest feelings: your love of your older sister; the painful growing-apart of you and your wife leading up to your divorce; your hatred of the stuffy academics who denied you tenure; the passion you felt for that Australian girl on Corfu last summer. . . . Instead you've written these [holding up a book entitled Root Crops, No Metaphors and reading from it:]
translucent, magenta-veined root-tips
push, cell by cell, into humid grit;
dark green, dark-red-veined crowns
expand profligately sunward. . . .
"Great art
speaks to the heart;
your superfluities will now depart."
[Another Council member:] "Mr. Chairman, with all due respect to this --surprisingly eloquent-- young person, I suggest that we return to the business at hand which is" [consulting his agenda] "the allocation this fiscal year for haiku in South Dakota."
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
I sold my engagement ring to a gold peddler for $995.
I paid off my consulting lawyer.
I purchsed a bottle of 15 year single malt.
I bought gasoline and drove 336 miles.
I threw your wedding band, the one you left me to dispose of, into the shallowest and widest river I could find.
You're welcome.
**** off.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Thirty-four teeth scattered on the concrete
Surrounding me with hair clippings and black coffee
A pile of nail-trimmings and counting
My bones fuse without consulting me.
Countless forced entries into a dry mouth
Kicking out food I should have kept down,
Brittle bones broken around the cold ground
Skin soothed in the snow through a night-gown.
Justified refusal to let go of the past,
I'll allow the abuse if I can buy my own cast.
I wipe away my eyes as the cameras flash
And voices reassure you that you made a big splash.
Trust in the bottles, they were blown in mass production
"Self-improvement's ************ Now, self-destruction..."
You are not unique or beautiful, you're genetic instructions
Apart of the collective in which we all have a function
And the artist is a slave to the consumption fixation
He or she belongs to those who consider vibrations
And remind themselves how to best serve the nation,
Concerned with their technological fascination
Lying naked on a cobblestone street like ***** clothes,
Can't see your face from the last thirty cloves.
They drag me by the arms on the way to the show
And give me a little something to make me go.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC
The envoys of Athens
in their comfortable carriages
democratically stripped of finery
are dignified by the inability
to make a decision, divided
by all the nuances of reason
They'll have to wait
because we don't have any news
from our informants yet
We sprinkle the goat
with lukewarm water, it does not shiver
so the god will not speak
until the stars are right again
and we are informed
about the politics of the monarchs
We save expenses nor pains
We are the dedicated priests
of a notable consulting business
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 5:01 AM UTC
It started entirely in the womb ... Wen ur mom first knew tht she was carrying the other half of her world within ....
When u were in ur mum's womb she nurtured u wid luv ..Nd u thanked her by kicking her inside .
When u were a few months old she kept u warm always.. and u thanked her by wetting the bed .
When u were 2 yrs old she managed to feed u wid all the chores piled on her .. Nd u thanked her by making a mess of the house .
When u were 6 yrs old she took pains wid u doing ur homework .. Nd u thanked her by hiding all school homework.
When u were 9 yrs old she bought a new hockey stick for u ... Nd u thanked her by losing it in the playground.
When u were 12 yrs old she bought u a pen wid a floral design .. Nd u thanked her by saying u liked the one wid the cartoon design on it .
When u were 15 yrs she bought u a new bag ..Nd u thanked her by saying u dint like the color .
When u were 18 yrs she gifted u a bicycle .. Nd u thanked her by demanding for a bike.
When u were 21 yrs she warned u against the world's evil .. Nd u thanked her by having accounts on several social networking sites.
When u were 23 yrs she bought u a new dress.. Nd u thanked her by saying tht it was out of trend .
When u were 25 yrs old she asked u not to work in a night shift .. Nd u thanked her by saying tht you were an adult .
When u were 27 she was seeing a boy for ur marriage ... Nd u thanked her by asking her not to interfere in ur life .
When u were 30 yrs old she asked u to eat well nd healthy during pregnancy .. u thanked her by saying u were consulting a dietician .
When u were 32 yrs she offered to take care of ur kid .. Nd u thanked her saying tht the day care was better .
When u were 35 yrs nd ur mum was 60 she wanted u to get her some medcines .. Nd u said u were busy in office.
When u were 38 nd she was 63 ... U thanked by not caring enough for her in her sickness.
When u were 40 and ur mum was 65 u were trying to thank her by asking the doctor to do his best to save her .
When u were 40 ... U cudin thank her now tht u knew Hw important she was .. Coz she wasn't breathing for u to do so ....
I love you mommy ....
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
The ice drew lace on the window panes
We couldn’t see out for a week,
The air had frozen and blocked the drains
And my tears were ice on my cheek.
‘Come back to bed and forget her now
She’s been gone since the crescent Moon,
Her passing has freed you from your vow
Yet your grief’s pervading the room.’
‘I need to know what was in her mind
On the day that she passed away,
She left no message of any kind
Why she swallowed the draught that day.
But you were there when she combed her hair,
You were there for the last words said,
She must have told of her deep despair
Or she wouldn’t have ended dead.’
‘You knew my sister had many moods,
You knew, before you were wed,
She’d lie, consulting the ancient runes
While hiding deep in her bed.
Her superstitions were known, it seems
Her hold on the world was loose,
She drifted half in and out of dreams
But death was what she would choose.’
I shook my head and I walked away,
And ploughed through the drifted snow,
Crunched a trail through the empty streets
To the cemetery gates at Stowe,
The clouds were grey in the sky above
And the snow built up in the trees,
While headstones peered from their icy tombs
Like sinners, down on their knees.
I scraped the ice from the headstone face
That said ‘Elizabeth Jane,’
‘An Angel fallen to earth,’ it said
‘While her heart was wracked with pain.’
A shadow fell on the marble face
As I turned, but no-one was there,
Then words appeared like an act of grace,
‘My sister killed me - Beware!’
The horror showed on my face, I rose
To follow the tracks I’d made,
But somebody else had left their prints
Leading away from the grave,
The tracks were made at a frantic pace
And they forged on way ahead,
Leading me through the cemetery gates
But Elizabeth Jane was dead!
A storm blew up on the way back home
And had turned the house to ice,
I forced my way up the frozen stairs
To confront Margot Desize.
But she lay frozen with eyes a-stare
And a glance said she was dead,
The horror fixed in her final glare
As a shadow stood by the bed!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
Consulting with my Sculptor
I critiqued His use of clay
To create my well carved features
In such a careful way:
My eyes are held in hollowed
Holes of hardened clay
Though the hue be not hallowed
They’re heavenly all the same.
This nose be a beautiful bridge
Baked by bronze- brown clay
Unbroken by blows for blood
Breeze brings sweet bouquets
Mighty words are measured
From a mouth made of clay
I mix at my leisure
My mouth is untamed
While my hips are not the widest
Of Wonders won with clay
While my waist is not the finest
Wand whittled for display
My frame is flawless and free
Formed by flowing clay
Flimsy words find their way to me
And fall on futile way
As I am an amazing art piece
And I am allowed to say
I acknowledge that my Artist
Has a way with clay
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
Pushing and pulling.
We push and pull at each other
like two magnets,
opposing and attracting
with every twist.
You push me away
and I pull you back.
I push you in return,
you pull me further into the dark.
We’re no good for one another.
We knew this wouldn’t last.
What did you expect,
when all the lies piled up.
Did you think you could hide them forever?
Lies never stay hidden.
The truth reveals itself in the end,
and often not in the ways we want it to.
Your lies were the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.
You were supposed to be my new beginning ,
my happy ever after
my knight coming to rescue me.
I realized too late that I dont need to be rescued.
I needed an equal.
Someone to pull me up when I fell,
not pull me down and drown me.
I needed someone to push me to be my best,
not push me towards darkness and deceit.
You think that you haven’t done anything wrong.
You love me, so how could you ever hurt me?
The ones who love us tend to hurt us the most.
You wanted me kept tightly in your firm grip.
You always “knew what was best for me”,
without consulting me.
I thought I was the one that didn’t deserve you.
You were sunshine and warmth wrapped in a human body.
I didn’t realize you’d leave me burnt and scarred skin.
I’m choosing to move on.
I’m choosing to forget.
You never deserved my devotion and defense.
Everyone warned me about you, they told me you were dangerous.
I didn’t believe them, I couldn’t see.
You’ve opened my eyes, for the last time.
So goodbye, my love.
Goodbye, my friend.
You won’t be invited into my life again.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
Never forget
There will never ever be regret
Apart from your shame
Your mind focusing on blame
Situation with a problem
A solution in consulting becoming an emblem
Words that inspired you
Eye of precision ahead being your clue
Sentences that make your statement
Your personality verse being the element
Your stance being a reminder
Your persuasion being an angle in response
Words to live by
Illustration in giving a try
The vote in striving
Words to mount is what I am talking about.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC