"obligingly" poems
At the risk of sounding sexist
I’d like to pay my highest respects today
to the girl at my accountant’s
with the beautiful *******
Usually the only things that jiggle there
are the numbers on the ledger,
but today a couple of numbers
stuck out for me to admire.
She knew it all added up spectacularly well
as she bent down obligingly
and pointed out where I should sign
and showed me what I needed to see.
She knew and I knew that
capital gains and expenses
were comparatively insignificant here.
Saucy insouciance was the obvious upside.
Of course, I shouldn’t have noticed,
but then I'm afraid that's what happens
when you’re more
of a ******
than an entrepreneur.
Mike T Minehan
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
the air seized it’s chance today screaming
**** me!”
and every seed burst
obligingly in a torrent of stars and silken hope
yet a mere quarter hence
the deciduous mantle will slip, dowager dry and lentigo browned,
to dance tiny pirouettes with devils of dust & grit
amongst a litter of sepia confetti as summer’s rusted brides fall
their contract fulfilled
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.
Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ****** the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.
We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.
We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.
We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.
We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept
our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
I often have conversations
With objects around me -
From
Mindless banter *********** into
Heart-to-heart conversations,
To
Waking up in the middle of the night,
Fumbling for the right switch in the darkness
To put the lights on so I can see
For a split second,
Things obligingly lying still in their place,
As they stagger through burdened time
To lull myself into sleep
With an assurance of familiarity.
On days I enter my room
With bottled thoughts, when these things,
With all their weathered, withered strength
Spur me on to etch out utterances at length
Knowing as they do,
You don't always seek
A response, reaction, remark, judgment,
To something you nevertheless feel the need to speak,
Which at times starts to turn incomprehensible
To yourself and to the other,
As your tongue rolls them out
In the gibberish of vowels and consonants.
So I start off on a mindless rhyme
At times confessing my mind's crimes,
Scraping out fears rusty with neglect
Pulling out halted thoughts from a staggering stack,
Laughing as I admit to myself that joke was funny.
Crying with relish for I won't be accused of being weak.
Stretching out a tune I'd only ventured to hum [in public],
Into a song, hearing my voice sing & strum,
In a long time.
[Hitting the table with a pen
To make up for the beats.]
Dancing with awkward steps on my two left feet,
But dancing nevertheless.
[Thank goodness I have feet to dance.)
P.S At times, when the familiarity
Of my own presence poses a threat,
I need their company, these non-living things,
The only solace sensitive to my minds' mutterings.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
“You can turn away”, he says
as he sets the bowl and scalpel
on the tray next to my bed.
I wince, obligingly
lower my head,
but as the blade digs in
I watch him work,
painstaking.
Extracting one shard
at a time from my arm:
pincering it out, spluttered with blood
catching a glimpse of the glint, like a flash,
before glass hits tin.
No tears then, only after,
when he stares and says:
“You won't do that in a hurry again.”
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
The virtuosity of the words you spun
lead me directly to the *****
and as I looked at its blade
so shiny and big
I thought it rude not to obligingly dig
so I dug and dug
and dug dug
until my hands were blackened and cold
and then I lay down in the pit
and waited
to wither
and old.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
“Don’t worry because
I will make time
to stare at you;
tracing your collarbones
like constellations and;
watch your eyes
obligingly flutter close
and darling, I’ll kiss each eyelid
hoping you'll taste my love,
turn your eyes into the colors
of someone you loved
and in time, they’ll turn into mine
and you will dedicate your time,
staring at me
as much as I did to you
when he didn’t.”
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
At the foothills of vintage age
you feel perceptibly less somber
for there are only meager remains
of mostly forgotten days -
little to smile, rue or cry for
and an amorphous
yet obligingly finite future -
trifling to put together or fight for.
So dear Chandra:
here is a congratulation:
It must be awesome -
this imminent privilege of geriatrics
and this stolen bit of transient freedom;
the real laissez-faire to yearn
and to die for.
timorously cajoled
from time’s exacting, puritan dictum.
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 8:38 AM UTC
for Richard Shepherd who wrote to tell me
one of my babies, (1) made him:
“Oh my, speechless”
my stated aim, my purposed gain,
is to write of only love poetry,
oh too human am I, going astray
the most human contributory trick,
is when “she,” temptation,
oft cajoles,
“this way please” and I easygoing
and submit obligingly
your words spontaneous, mark &
make me, likewise spit out gratitude
of words simple, informing you that
you are too, too kind, then pause reflective
does such a thing even exist?
bemusedly, smiling silent at my silliness,
as I debate~contemplate, the potent notion if kindness can ever be measured as in excess, by what measuring cup system could we
contrive to ascertain if there be lines drawn,
for the most best of human attributes?
it is Monday Morning and such silly peculiarities have no busily business populating my gray matter, but compulsory
demands state forthright you cannot retreat
from this windrowed wonderland hedgerow,
for when seeing these deep waters,
can easy sink a poet
for a funking, dunking, nay, a drowning!
but I am only dancing around the edges
of a fire upon the beach, and gingerly admit
that there is no limitation to this conceptual,
can we be too human, could one ever not say
your loving, your essences~senses fragrant,
are airborne and therefore unlimited,
beneath this shared sky~sphere.
yet never my intent
to rob a human of
the power of speech
*but this statement of de~unlimited awe
too much,
and therefore my understanding deepens,
when and what a heart feels
is without definition,
without lineage,
every time reborn,
and my loving of your kind words,
overflowing will be my
principled purpose
this day
that every person whose path
intersects mine,
shall be greeted with
the tools in my possession,
which thanks to you,
are identified as an undefined
unlimited
too, too much
kindness
and my one job is to
be a proof
of this
raison d'être
for all ofour
existences*
this hen issue
now resolved,
be a lovely
au naturel love poem
and obedient
to my
only truest mission
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 10:55 AM UTC