"objected" poems
My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.
Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.
You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.
Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.
But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.
Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Out of sight out of mind,
A saying that seems to be underrated,
Thought mostly about objects of disgust or stress,
And since I've objected to being anything more than an object,
This categories fits my life,
Even when acting like a faulty car part; the check engine light remains being of little concern,
"I'll just drive till it dies"
It's just the cost isn't worth it,
with all the time we spend in it,
Eventually the light turns off,
No rhyme or reason just the decision to love unconditionally...
Or the
The car dies used
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 9:12 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
you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say
on the court he'd remonstrate
about the call
he objected to the linesman's
placement of the ball
you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say
in tennis circles he had
a no good reputation
for engaging in
all manner of disputation
you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that was what the brat
was heard to say
unsporting behaviour
he'd frequently show
other competitors didn't much
like the tenor of his bow
you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say
another of his ilk presently
applies the same guttersnipe stuff
he's a right royal smarty-pants
with his racquet's guff
you cannot be serious man
in what you say
that is what the brat
was heard to say
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
.
I'm so proud !
::::
Now here's how it came down
//
A whole lotta girls at our high school
Come up with a new *** craze
Literally
Getting ****** up the *** by a billy goat !
In and of itself
This is hardly noteworthy
But (!)
They took it too a new level by filming themselves
Doing it
While also ************ with one hand
And jiggling their **** with the other
And basically turning it into
A sort of ***** dance competition.
//
Now this caught on real big
And the high schools in the area each got
Together competitive teams
And then a city wide league
Where the teams are judged on form
And
Creativity
And synchronization of *******
And mutuality of masturbatory modalities
( like oral *** )
//
It is a huge money maker for the schools //
Drawing 1000 of fans
Who basically
**** and **** off all night
In the stands !
//
At first the Christians of the town
Objected
But
Eventually it proved to be that
Not having to pay taxes is a higher CHRISTIAN precept
Than ****** purity !
//
Everyone here is having a good time
and maybe some of your towns
Might get something going
//
Some schools I know of
Are trying to include
Cutting oneself and menstrual blood
Into the completion
Hopefully new ideas will occur
And the sport will grow
.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
I was driving to work tonight and I almost swerved off the road because I was staring at Orion's Belt as it hung near the horizon of the sky.
Please study the following photo and connect the dots on Orion, his belt, and his arrow:
(A detailed answer will be on the back for comparison)
I do not pretend to understand astrology nor astronomy.
Orion’s arrow always points north. You can use it as a compass if you are traveling somewhere where there are not many signs of light. In October, if you crane your neck and squint your eyes and maybe pray to God, Orion will shoot arrow after arrow off into the sky and you will be able to make your first wish upon a shooting star. (If you are in a desert, and that is why you are navigating by constellations, pray for help.)
His belt is made up of three sisters and I wonder if they talk to him in the night and keep him company?
(Is it possible to be up in the Heavens, overlooking the world, while still feeling lonely and insignificant?)
Constellations move minutely every year. In this way, they are similar to humans. Always roaming. Always looking for change.
When Orion boasted that he could **** any living animal on the planet, Gaia, the Earth Goddess, objected and sent a scorpion after him. After his death, Zeus flung his body into the stars; fractured to pieces, glowing softly in the night sky, Orion continues to hunt his prey into the dark, cold depths of the Milky Way.
Maybe, if you prayed to the Greek Gods, you could find yourself breathing in the stars, too.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
Albums, collections of songs,
A collection of words
brought together
to right, wrongs
or just to hurt
they're there forever.
Somewhere.
Old recordings
on vinyl
or hand written on papers.
New recordings
still on vinyl
but more objected to haters.
To be
easily accessed
and heard by everyone
fans or not,
torn to shreds
when criticised, a song
is unappreciated for what
amount of effort
the artist went through
to create something new
and original
just for you,
for your ears. To view,
to be a signal.
That originality
isn't dead
or dying
or even injured
but instead
living
to be heard
by millions around the world.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
A harbinger at a red light
Her opulent glance was evocative
At first forbearance, yet she was
fetching
One glance imbued a labyrinth
Of emotion
I felt
effervescent
The traitorous light objected to bliss
Flashed GREEN
The magical scintilla betwixt us
Evanescent
For that one fleeting moment
Dalliance
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.
Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.
And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;
And some objected: "Well, I'm jiggered!"
What price Picasso and Matisse?
The artist sensitively quivered,
And stifled many a bitter sigh,
But day by day his hopes were shivered
For no one ever sought to buy.
And then he had a brilliant notion:
Half of his daubs he labeled: SOLD.
And lo! he viewed with queer emotion
A public keen and far from cold.
Then (strange it is beyond the telling),
He saw the people round him press:
His paintings went - they still are selling...
Well, nothing succeeds like success.
1.4k
Lazer strike me in euphoria
You love me from the first
As my pressure dropped
Unfit recollection pump
It's as if I lost my place
The very earth I stand on
Out of touch and out of line
Alien make me crazy
As you do when I slumber
As I lie, you ****** my own
My breath fades and I co-exist
On the remote control I respond
Through these veins I shall live
Out of touch and out of line
In the shell of hell and fire
Whom can believe this my alien?
You tainted me from proper love
The thoughts that trap and own me
more than these words on a script
Objected to your subjective film
Out of touch and out of line
Blurred unpleasant satins encase
My feet fail to ground on this life
Your volcano erupts me in trips
Grant me time to think twice
As I remember when you forced
that very filth indifferent to mine
Out of touch and out of line
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
The whistler was a policeman
He whistled when he wrote a ticket
One citizen was so incensed
He told the officer to stick it.
But the officer understood.
He had heard complaints before.
They seemed to miss the point
As what this whistling was for.
They didn’t realize that he
Whistled as well when nervous.
He monitored himself carefully
When he was in the service.
War is often no kind of place
To be making unwitting noise.
He was reprimanded by
The officer and the boys.
But Sam, the whistling cop
Had done so all his life
He whistled different ways
Even like a sailor’s fife.
He could trill like a bird
And do the best of all;
That kind of whistle
That wonderful taxi call.
It was an amazing to hear;
He could whistle too
From the side of his face
So you had no idea who
Was making that music
As his lips were not pursed.
That made it more maddening
To a few people that cursed.
As part of his job, one day,
A hotelier called him in
To deal with the issue
Of a dead resident within.
Sam hated blood and death.
It made him quite queasy.
So, he went about this task
But for him, it was not easy.
With a dead body in his arms
Quaking with internal fear
The hotelier objected to his song
Sam asked what he wanted to hear.
He was whistling The Blue Waltz’
In his pitch perfect rendition
To keep his mind off of the corpse
And off of his own condition.
But, oh boy, could he whistle
Making music in every day.
Creating lasting memories
I recall up until this day.
That officer, Sam, you see
Too often in a spot of bother
Was known as Whistling Sam
And was also my father.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
as The Act
is but an act.
Intangible at that.
She may be silent,
but She is strident
in action.
Later,
She is given a voice.
But,
The Lady thespian,
assaulted by
The Gaze,
is subjected
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.
Greta Garbo dominates
the Pre-Codes.
Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.
Miss Monroe,
the ideal ***
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one:
"Look and touch
as you please,
Mr. President."
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
salutes you.
Look Lady,
shoot to 'Kill Bill'
for a manly thrill
to be
remembered
still...
Still waiting for change...
Legally,
a Blonde has brains, too.
But who knew
that twists
and turns
and changes
can happen
to you?
All from Her:
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
on the big screen.
You
just
can't
touch
Her.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Eros walked into the chamber, garnering all eyes
Lust and Limerence walked by her side
They stopped before a panel where Venus did preside
And Cupid next to Venus, gripped his arrows like a prize
And the Muses made up the rest
And all muscles in the chamber braced for unrest
Glances and gazes did continuously dart
As all sported lockets of fire by their hearts
Venus declared mankind must suffer in pain
For all efforts to show the world love have been in vain
And to continue gifting love would be insanity, a chore
Cause they’d take their piece of it and still declare war,
On themselves and on one another
Slaughtering their self-esteems, siblings, fathers, mothers
Yet Eros objected, keeping her eyes peeled
Declaring love has always been a battlefield
And Cupid fired an arrow at Ero’s way
And Lust led the limp arrow astray
Then those enlightened ones lit fuses that day
And the shrapnel from that fight still makes it way
Through hearts of men and women with feelings at play
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
There was an Old Person of Rhodes,
Who strongly objected to toads;
He paid several cousins,
To catch them by the dozens,
That futile Old Person of Rhodes.
1.1k
if I am objective
I have dodged a bullet
and somebody else
can be chained to a liar
if I am objective
this was a step forward
but it was a step
into torture and fire
if I were objective
then I could look further
and see possibilities
come into view
you objectified me
and if I'd been objective
I would have objected
and said no to you
May 20, 2023
May 20, 2023 at 5:54 AM UTC
Listen intently now, if you will,
To the sorrowful story of Emmett Till--
A black fourteen-year-old lad
Who hadn't done what they said he had
In August of 1955.
It's possible he could still be alive
If only he…if only…well,
Listen to what I have to tell.
Caught in one of those circumstances
Of having made ****** advances,
Till, whose actions were taken for granted--
Note: his accuser later recanted--
Was brutally tortured, lynched, and shot.
His body was left in the river to rot
Not very far from Glendora, Miss.
How shocking to hear stories like this!
Two white men, in a great hurry,
Were later acquitted by an all-white jury.
Such incidents are a wound indeed
On the soul of America. Watch it bleed!
In 2007 a sign was erected
At the site of the ****** but someone objected,
And suddenly the sign disappeared,
Just as many people had feared.
A second sign replaced number one,
But thugs seeking perverse fun
Destroyed the sign with bullets, and so
Sign number two had to go.
Officials did what they had to do,
And sign number three replaced number two.
Within a few weeks, it, too, was marred
With bullet holes leaving it scarred.
The bullet-riddled sign demonstrates
There's work left to do in all fifty states.
Prejudice and hatred are blinding;
The road to justice is long and winding.
-by Bob B (8-21-18)
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
I was fire when you were ice,
Yet we went through everything nice!
You were teaching me what cold was!
As I taught you,how burns mould us !
Balanced as you were,as flakes on soils
Unbalanced as I was, when born are boils!
You were from the melts,
Where I belonged to flames!
Yet we're Best friends is what,
The whole world names!
Wrong was what I did!
When I came into you,
Just like what fire does to ice,
Is what I did to you !
Your existence,was objected
Since you made me your mate!
But that's what happens,
When fire and Ice sit in a plate!
But when I ask myself
Can I not meet you ever ?
That is when my heart negates,
Fire and ice are not meant forever!
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
Maya, little beauty, just turned five -
her joy lights off like sparks through emerald eyes -
all mirth and shyness, from a heart of gold,
flutters to me like a monarch flies
and says in gleeful tones, "Grandpa, you're old."
And I, of course, might quickly melt away
at every word this child cares to say,
if she should babble nonsense all day through,
and so I smile at the game we play,
"Yes! In fact, I'm twice as old as you!"
"No, Grandpa, I'm small. You're way more old,"
she objected, daring to be bold;
but even so, her words dared to be sung.
I asked her as her gentle laughter rolled,
"You mean to say that all things small are young!?"
"Yep," she simply said and skipped away,
then, dancing back again, began to say,
"But not an elephant, they're always big.
Even when they're babies. And they play
around in mud sometimes, and so do pigs."
"Hey there birdie, I see what you did -
You changed the subject! What do muddy pigs
have to do with young and old," I smiled.
"Is it true that all things old are big?"
I asked, in playful tones, the beaming child.
Step in, stage left, my own sweet little girl,
her mother, Mary Lee, my very world.
I remember her in younger years,
innocent with joy, a soul unfurled,
always smiles, rarely any tears.
But now she's grown, and grownup thoughts abound
inside her pretty head, and hold her down.
Where there was happiness, now worry grows...
Her eyes find Maya monkeying around
on my old lap and poking at my nose.
"Maya, dear, you'd better come inside,"
and stop climbing on grandpa!" Mary sighed,
"He's getting old. Besides, it's time for bed."
"It isn't even dark yet," I replied,
"and I won't be too old until I'm dead."
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
Long were pen and pad,
neglected.
When sprang a muse!
Most unexpected.
A shock to find our thoughts connected,
myself I thought alone,
dejected.
Soon my hand,
was strong affected,
to see my aimless thoughts directed.
Despite the fact, I oft objected,
She's seen my words and prose projected.
So to a muse, one most respected.
I thank you Arlo!
For inspiration,
Resurrected.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
Permanence
Of all things that humans hold most dear it has to be that great priceless yearned for truth it lasts
One lone western star was framed through my window my question what did it say nothing but this
The stars are Gods fixed cosmic markers he has each named he creates as he is all hold fasts
Find it not remarkable you are eternal flowering in his garden the blessed that sleep marble shows them
Movies at one time played up the theme so richly the only goal leave a mark don’t be forgotten
Capture this image God says I have engraved you in my palms know if your parents forget I won’t
Next time the enemy says your nobody your finished just picture God’s open hands you are begotten
I see his folded hands I see him doing a childrens check on them let see the Midwest the I’s the R’s the D’s
The star prompted thinking of home the San Gabriel’s that shield Los Angeles these mighty peaks
The L.A. basin as you sweep in on a plane the lights of homes are endless spiritual darkness pervades
Asuzu Street 06 from Wales to Topeka then southern C burst into holy flame the God of Acts speaks
Stirred shaking greater than San Andreas ever could a holy ghost Tsunami brought life everlasting
My prayer my dream is to return even on Pico Ave hold street meetings with bullets flying if necessary
I slept in a field with the cows when I got out of the service at Ill camp, district superintendent objected
God homered it the man of God said words to one whose father is a drunkard mother a harlot emissary
Was his prophecy a great one for God Forty years I waited God spoke six years ago you haven’t done
Life’s work yet another preacher said you can change the hands on the clock but not the time you don’t
Know only Joseph speaks from his great dream to my smaller but still a dream I will with God be one
In purpose and duty and in victory I will overcome not alone but this country will burn with holy fire
Soon it is in the word that endures is pure perfect and permanent even more than the firmament
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 4:09 PM UTC
My heart trembled immorally as she undressed.
While slowly removing her stockings she smiled,
and foxily met my haunted, bewitched gaze.
"Isn't this your dream?", she seductively inquired.
Reckoning with my wicked sin I unwillingly yielded.
Lust had consumed us both, corrupting us.
Entranced she fell into my arms, moaning.
"I can't", teary-eyed I objected to no avail.
Stunned and dismayed she gathered her resentful self.
"I thought you wanted me", she objected.
I can't, couldn't, and wouldn't.
Could you?
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC
I never suspected my cooking class would trigger my bulimia.
I guess maybe I should have, but it was never at the forefront of my mind when I was signing up for classes in the January of this past year. Currently, I am using that class as a GPA booster because I have an A everybody gets an A. But life still stares me in the face and says **** you" everyday my teacher who is crazy brings up food that sparks a memory. When we learned how to read food labels, I remembered how my parents drilled them into my six year-old brain. If sugar was listed in the first four ingredients, we could not eat the item. When we made Big Macs yes, we actually made them in class I always thought about how my sister and I were never allowed to eat McDonalds unless it was on my mom's schedule, and even then we were forced to get the smallest thing on the menu with the least amount of calories. Should we have objected to any of these strict dietary rules, we would be ridiculed on the spot. My dad made it a point to embarrass us and point out our food flaws in restaurants or, what I found to be even more humiliating, in front of my grandparents. I guess he thought shaming us out of our already established eating habits would work. News flash: it didn't. It won't. All it did was force me into a corner in which an eating disorder was the only option I saw fit. Once he found out? He got angry but did nothing to stop it. And I hadn't thought about my childhood in a good deal of time until this cooking class reminded me of it. Trying to enjoy any food at all now and have eating be a pleasant experience is difficult, but you can be **** sure I'll keep trying, regardless of my father's tirades.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
A poignant question rooted in rhetoric.
How do I define myself when there are so many images of me,
Through the eyes of many I’m many things,
Through the echoes of history I’m liked to nothingness,
The essence of misfortunes my forefathers bore.
How I define myself? An enigma wrapped in an mystery.
Through time I held this truth to be self-evident,
To defy history, to condemn the distorted truth about me,
To nullify the justification of my existence, I objected to the
Classification of race perpetuated to the minds of those who cannot reason,
To those with misguided arguments at best and irrelevant at worst,
How do I define myself? Colour has nothing to do with it.
Looking to define myself, I met myself.
A pervasive, facile definition I was fed since infancy was to be questioned,
As I looked deeply into myself, disregarding the Eurocentric ideologies of my
Existence. I came to define myself by not subjecting myself to any definition.
How do I define myself? I Stay undefined like God in who’s image I was created.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
We are going outside
And I wanted to wear my flannel
But they objected, they told me
I needed to feel the pain
But I wanted to wear my flannel
I wanted to wear it so much
That if I wear it, I won't be able to take it off
I really want to wear my flannel
To hide those scars and wounds
To protect myself from agony
Have to defend myself constantly
And so I wore my flannel
But everything just got worse
I tried to protect, to defend
The thing is, the flannel ripped off
Thought that flannel would help
Instead, it made things worse for me
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC