"dismissives" poems
A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa
Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery
Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements
Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations
CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
Having never sought fulfilment
in the pursuit of being mother
my body is my temple
for use of no-one other
than my own indulged desires
of aesthetics, pleasure, fun,
so, yes, I fret the stretch marks,
the odd pimple on my ***
I obsess, in terms of thread veins,
for they make me feel unpretty,
so vain, if that doth make me,
I accept in all its gritty,
ugly notions – for us gals are meant to be
vessels of life-giving, all procreation’ry.
“Oh! I know my body’s purpose”!
the new mother’s apt to cry.
I shall not regret my choices
biologics tick… ticking by.
Does that mean our sad mechanics
are bereft of serving purpose?
It is no hard done-by chore,
our childlessness not cursed us.
When I stand, unclothed and natural
my body has a story
I don’t need the marks of childbirth
to feel a sense of glory.
All this talk of ‘battle scars’
babies sure sound painful,
but, forgive me, all you mothers
should I dare to sound disdainful.
It’s just I feel no less a woman
for not having given birth,
and there is no singular purpose
for this body on this earth.
Like living in a desert
enduring shifting sands,
the bits I’ve never really liked
I cover up with clothes and hands.
I’ve no need to ‘love my body’, thanks
I’m just fine with friendly banter.
Angles, poise and lighting
three small words – a mighty mantra.
Self-love is overrated
when costume is the thing,
and my body wears it well, you see,
and the pleasure that it brings
is proof enough that any scars
may be healed to nothing
without the need for motherhood
and its pushy, panting, puffing.
So curse my sour dismissives!
I’m all said and done,
the female form has every purpose
babies ain’t the only one.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Posting once meant sending a letter
Written in cursive, observing good form;
Decency good - politeness much better
Both mindful and kind, was most people’s norm
The internet came with lightning bolt speed
And missives, then dismissives sped about
The craft of writing, soon began to bleed
And Johnson’s words* became a lost redoubt
Soon all could chat alone, with ‘friends’ worldwide
A foamy blather, that soon turned cruel
As politics dilated our divide
And set us, verbal swords in hand, to duel
We fight and hate for ‘likes’ - and our pretenses
We **** our souls with “panem et circenses”**
©2018 C. Green
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
The way his fingers traversed my spine
How his hand sidled into mine
He gently tugged (pulled) at my skin
Urgently trying to get it
His gentle but firm embrace
And light caressing of my face
His loving touch traveled
From lip to hip he unraveled
Me into ribbons, tightly bound round his ribs and
Arms seeking his neck
Bound tightly like an anchored wreck
As I was held he swelled
With pride and his touch
Kept me giddy inside
Such powerful emotion
Provoked in
Such an innocent way
No hand went astray
No wandering lips or kisses
No disgusted dismissives
In a silent seat
An unspoken treat unf kded in me, his love so pure and so clean
How he secured me by his side
So loving I could have died
An overreaction- perhaps
But I've felt no greater satisfaction
Than resting in the arms
Of my lover who will never read these yarns
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC