"milksop" poems - Hello Poetry

You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be. For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.

0

Sep 7, 2012

Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC

matt-jones

self portrait

You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be. For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.

2

“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.”

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Nov 13, 2018

Nov 13, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC

croob

Consultation

“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.”

14

Sanmati, my messenger, is no more a milksop. Ardent though is she never will yawp. Nagging sometimes though in some shop. Merrily walks in crowd alone till atop. Amends her needs; tackles one with strop- Till he agrees with her, else does lop. In always high spirits, ready to swop Joy or sorrow equally treats like gumdrop. Angry if treats us like a bellhop In our home or out, but never plop Nor cry in public to show us flop.

0

Aug 13, 2017

Aug 13, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC

ksjpari

Sanmati – My Inspiration

Sanmati, my messenger, is no more a milksop. Ardent though is she never will yawp. Nagging sometimes though in some shop. Merrily walks in crowd alone till atop. Amends her needs; tackles one with strop- Till he agrees with her, else does lop. In always high spirits, ready to swop Joy or sorrow equally treats like gumdrop. Angry if treats us like a bellhop In our home or out, but never plop Nor cry in public to show us flop.

11

toward thee spunky gal, whose impregnation and debut appearance way to brief a tale for Aesop cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted), out the birth canal aye did bop analogously compared to a mealy mouthed measly crop a spindly tangle of arms and legs radiated (starfish like) dangled and would uselessly drop like a raggedy ann male counterpart (raggedy andy - how original) with limbs that didst flop and tis no small wonder, thyself as one newborn baby body electric easily confused with bony glop, which skimpy weight leant convenience as sigh grew older to alternate jumping (ala pogo stick mode) and hop from one skinny spindle shank leg to another, and manifold orbitz whip sawing round the sun bore witness to puny laughable specimen of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight) grew long straggly hair, which NO ONE (except me) could touch, nor most definitely NOT lop off (this fetish) compensation for very slight physique in dewed time begot pencil necked geek milksop, now at an age prowl lix sing viz dragging, crawling, battling... slight abdominal bulge unlike widower octogenarian biological pop whose once strapping superman like build atrophying (sad sight) since grim reaper put objectionable stop upon head of harriet harris, whereat two and a half score years her longevity did top. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * now, comb may tooth how zen, sans eight plus ten 'twill be thirteen yars when me late mum agonizingly relinquished an indomitable loo ving life, which strong fighting spirit (spittle and vinegar) yen reached a juncture, (sans metastasized ovarian cancer) forewent heroic measures, which ken not avail bottled anger within this sole son telling thee, he didst love ye never communicating NOR often!

0

Apr 20, 2018

Apr 20, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

a stray tear doth adieu occasionally shed...

toward thee spunky gal, whose impregnation and debut appearance way to brief a tale for Aesop cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted), out the birth canal aye did bop analogously compared to a mealy mouthed measly crop a spindly tangle of arms and legs radiated (starfish like) dangled and would uselessly drop like a raggedy ann male counterpart (raggedy andy - how original) with limbs that didst flop and tis no small wonder, thyself as one newborn baby body electric easily confused with bony glop, which skimpy weight leant convenience as sigh grew older to alternate jumping (ala pogo stick mode) and hop from one skinny spindle shank leg to another, and manifold orbitz whip sawing round the sun bore witness to puny laughable specimen of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight) grew long straggly hair, which NO ONE (except me) could touch, nor most definitely NOT lop off (this fetish) compensation for very slight physique in dewed time begot pencil necked geek milksop, now at an age prowl lix sing viz dragging, crawling, battling... slight abdominal bulge unlike widower octogenarian biological pop whose once strapping superman like build atrophying (sad sight) since grim reaper put objectionable stop upon head of harriet harris, whereat two and a half score years her longevity did top. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * now, comb may tooth how zen, sans eight plus ten 'twill be thirteen yars when me late mum agonizingly relinquished an indomitable loo ving life, which strong fighting spirit (spittle and vinegar) yen reached a juncture, (sans metastasized ovarian cancer) forewent heroic measures, which ken not avail bottled anger within this sole son telling thee, he didst love ye never communicating NOR often!

56

you see me imagining you imagining you believing a lie I told, a lie about knowing good and evil and that I can imagine William Blake's little lamb was once me, in thee I am yet, not a jot or tittle of child like fool-ibility, I am a thought you caught in your default mode me-andering mode, a modality oft left idle. A rest for weary idle words bouncing in browns from amber to ochre, dry light leaking from piles of idle thought meandering thoughts piling up behind goddamliarcheatertheiftake take take take, rewind and replay, keep the takes ignor the sequence... Margaret Atwood knows how to build worlds of words. I blow bubbles. kiss em a will in a whisp per haps a single one, becomes this one we hide in, not from evil, for goodness sakes, we be peace making, hidden, safe as any ancient sapient's sacred secret knowledge, hidden, useless. -ah, no. right use of peace is the rest, after the heroes and wizards and witches and priests and humble teachers, after the recognition of old ideas, tics the talking point and we, once more, see our selves, selves, we see ourselves as the passengers on the autopiloted biosphere, terraforming itself for us, since the first idea you knew was from beyond you, began to bubble in your soul... -- rest my soul in the bosum of abraham, whoa ain't woe, but no is no. be wise or wish you was. An old man's wisdom hides here in stasis. Horded as weal and woe, and debts owed to a foe xtatic urgent voice stages a starting boom, in the empty room, our exspansive space where peace is made in wisdom used for knowing, wisdom, a place, a quest ion launched, aimless yet now, we be, and we do not comprehend gripping being life for any preconceived gnotion so I asked for the living water, I was the receptor, the door to within me, where the kingdom of marybabydaddy lay. wait. "within you", ever'body say Jesus said... some heavyshit, maiden formed milksop grown to full warrior maturity, empowered (laid, by god, can you imagine that feeling? Wow, right?} basic a gift so basic a power to employ at will catch oops.

0

Aug 29, 2021

Aug 29, 2021 at 2:53 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Dropped line, regripped (c.2019)

you see me imagining you imagining you believing a lie I told, a lie about knowing good and evil and that I can imagine William Blake's little lamb was once me, in thee I am yet, not a jot or tittle of child like fool-ibility, I am a thought you caught in your default mode me-andering mode, a modality oft left idle. A rest for weary idle words bouncing in browns from amber to ochre, dry light leaking from piles of idle thought meandering thoughts piling up behind goddamliarcheatertheiftake take take take, rewind and replay, keep the takes ignor the sequence... Margaret Atwood knows how to build worlds of words. I blow bubbles. kiss em a will in a whisp per haps a single one, becomes this one we hide in, not from evil, for goodness sakes, we be peace making, hidden, safe as any ancient sapient's sacred secret knowledge, hidden, useless. -ah, no. right use of peace is the rest, after the heroes and wizards and witches and priests and humble teachers, after the recognition of old ideas, tics the talking point and we, once more, see our selves, selves, we see ourselves as the passengers on the autopiloted biosphere, terraforming itself for us, since the first idea you knew was from beyond you, began to bubble in your soul... -- rest my soul in the bosum of abraham, whoa ain't woe, but no is no. be wise or wish you was. An old man's wisdom hides here in stasis. Horded as weal and woe, and debts owed to a foe xtatic urgent voice stages a starting boom, in the empty room, our exspansive space where peace is made in wisdom used for knowing, wisdom, a place, a quest ion launched, aimless yet now, we be, and we do not comprehend gripping being life for any preconceived gnotion so I asked for the living water, I was the receptor, the door to within me, where the kingdom of marybabydaddy lay. wait. "within you", ever'body say Jesus said... some heavyshit, maiden formed milksop grown to full warrior maturity, empowered (laid, by god, can you imagine that feeling? Wow, right?} basic a gift so basic a power to employ at will catch oops.

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