"prodded" poems
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
29.3k
6:30 PM 15/10/18 slam poem
"What's her name?" An excited voice whispered.
My benchmate asked me,
Just as the new girl entered,
With all her glowing ebony beauty.
I thought about something,
Ignored him and simply so,
Continuing my reading of the drama.
He prodded on like a nagging child,
*"Tell me, Atul, what's her name?
Who's that **** girl?"*
His whisper was loud enough now,
The girl heard it as she climbed,
Climbed higher on the back seats and how.
I glared at my benchmate,
In disappointment & disgust,
It was him who I had befriended.
'Him! I befriended him!! Out of them all!!!'
I thought about my vulnerability in our society,
But I did not react to him out of that anger.
I just said, "What's in a name?"
He raised his eyebrows and moaned, "Huh?"
I said with mirth, "Yes! Someone like you will get her renamed!"
7:00 PM
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
She is, quite thoroughly, a mess.
You knew this, you know this.
And she comes back now
Like a drowned rat.
All maybes and I dunnos
And not a hint of why.
She’s just a disaster.
You were ten, just a child
In the scouts, newly moved.
You’d no one
No one save her, the wild child
Always causing a fuss,
Always making a row,
But you had her.
Even if she was a disaster.
There was a fight,
You were poked fun at by…
What was her name?
Sally? Sally, yes.
That Sally Walkens poked and prodded.
She laughed and pushed you.
You fell, fell right over
Off that rock, and you cried
Because you were fighting about…
What was the fight about?
And there she was
Your knight in shining armor, the disaster.
Sally went off the rock
Right into the river, not the floor.
Screaming, pleading, shouting,
Floating and drifting by so fast,
And she stood triumphant
Arms raised, howling “Justice! Justice!”
And for that moment she was so cool.
Even if it was all a disaster.
You laughed at it,
Standing up and feeling safe,
Feeling wanted. Here was a friend.
Here was a good person,
Even when she was scolded,
Held inside by the mother,
Badges stripped away,
There was a good person.
But now you know it.
Know that Sally could’ve died
And that’d be a disaster.
Now she is back and you know
Still know as you did,
Know so much more now,
Just what a mess she is.
What a mess she was, always.
But for one moment
Back when you were a child
Standing on that rock, shouting
Shouting for you
She was a hero,
She was your disaster.
And she still is.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
TRIGGER WARNING
They met at a dance recital.
His eerie blue eyes watched her, stalked her,
riveted by sinewy skin and the way her legs stretched and parted
skillfully, seductively: she knew how to captivate her audience.
They had mutual friends.
Her curiosity thirsted for more, for she had been taken
over by an empty lust, broken by another, but the way he spoke:
she felt as pretty as his charms sounded.
They went on a date.
He kissed her, pinched her, and spread those legs
that comprised his fantasies, not caring about the bruises he left
when he took off her lacey coverings, pinning her to the floor.
They learned more about each other.
She saw the empty, carnal look in his eyes, but her pleas
and shoves were not enough to lessen the weight of him, to push
his hands or his hips away, as he broke her over and over again.
They ended the night with a kiss.
He grabbed her face like a starving man grabs his first meal,
forcing an intimacy she could never get back, but he said,
“You liked it, didn’t you.”
They kept in touch.
She tried blocking his calls, his messages, asking her if she’d
come over to his place. Like the continuous force he prodded her with,
the pounding in her head beat out a thumping heart-line of no’s.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
“Angelica arguta”,
He shows her his wildflowers
“Angelica Susannah”, he says.
And prodded further by her
His heart.
Lingers briefly with the night;
Her affection has power,
But not enough
To keep him
From marching off to fight.
Tristan, son of One Stab,
Brings wildness from the mountains.
Lovely woman from the East,
Fascinated by her,
His passion.
Revels in her bridal bower,
And stops her
Loving any other.
Alfred, eldest son of his father,
Full of rectitude and romance.
Angelica abandoned,
Adrift between the mountains
Becalmed far from the sea.
He takes advantage,
Snatches her soul with riches,
But never captures
Her longing heart.
Years pass and one son gone,
The other lost and mad.
Year of the red grass and
Happiness found
Is felt too soon.
Tristan loves young Isabel,
But Angelica is his doom.
Yet only he survives
The waves that lash her shore,
“Like water in the ice,
She breaks them.”
And in the Spring,
Is gone once more.
Angelica Susannah is buried
Above the box canyon in the meadow
Among the many dead.
Near Samuel’s heart,
The executed Isabel,
And others who follow soon.
Until only Tristan remains,
Left to hunt his nemesis,
The bear inside him.
And dream of one wife lost,
And a lover left behind:
Angelica Susannah
Beside whom he should lie.
He is slain by the bear in Sixty-three,
After forty years of solitude.
And laid to rest in the plot
Between two women he loved,
Isabel, his ingenuous wife
And Susannah, his tragic love.
Do their spirits meet at last
And wander the golden fields,
Or ride out to bathe in the hot springs,
Under the moon of the falling leaves?
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
She was stunning, gorgeous
Everywhere she went she turned heads
The boys whistled, the girls muttered their jealousy
They poked and prodded her until she was reduced to nothing more than a hopeless nobody
She stopped trying, she stopped looking for the compliments and the easy smiles that seemed to spring up when she came around
She didn't know what had turned the opinions of so many,
Maybe it was a nasty rumor made by a popular girl
It could have been anything really
But all that tearing down allowed her to build back up
She realized that she didn't need the makeup and the dresses and the fancy shoes to be beautiful
What really mattered was her heart, her soul
And so she found beauty inside
Her new found shining grace shone from deep beneath her skin
And although there was still muttering when she walked in the room,
She had learned to push it all aside
And see the true beauty of the world around her
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
i will lay back and look up to see rock bottom
i will pretend it doesn't hurt to stay alive
i will be on time
i will not return myself to sender no matter how many times i address the envelope
i can't
i won't
i will pretend i feel the things i should
happiness to see my favorite heart
anger at the news
joy to eat what used to taste like anything
anxiety to look him in the eyes
and imagine the future i used to think id have
disgust at my dissection specimen
i will not wish to be lying there in its place
prodded
looking up to see rock bottom
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 11:42 PM UTC
But you're untouchable,
and though your eyes speak differently;
the invitation is imagined,
the closeness; mere proximity.
I had no instruction,
and no intention to adhere.
You prodded, pulled and pushed
my precautions aside,
passively dealing every blow.
But I couldn't even wound your pride;
You are untouchable.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon ****** They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
3.6k
Blueberry you sit
heavy on my mind
met you at a party
of a friend of mine
So free a soul
I've scarcely met
with your multi- colored dreadlocks
and presence so fresh
Colorful outfit
like I've never seen
flowing so graceful
as you wander near me
Rainbow scarf
of fabric so fine
green khaki jacket
and a gleam in your eye
You struck me at once
unlike many before
as someone who knows
the trips gift for the soul
The freedom you showed
was clear to see
the joy in your eyes
as you prodded playfully
My soul it did sing
with joy this day
at seeing you Blueberry
lighting the way
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
Poked & prodded at
Everyday Everyday Everyday
I walk outside naked regularly
(The only one, too)
A shady pornstar they've
Made me out to be
Every corner of flesh, Every corner of flesh
It's indecent to be clothed.
Spread open my legs to
A gaggle of flashing camera bulbs.
Express critique
Save a pic
Jot down notes
'Move it, kid.'
Spread open my legs to
A pod of alien queens
Scalpel wrenches, protozoan logs
I'm the life of the party
As their oval heads crowd around
My *** things
Experimented-on weird-o's meander
The halls of this wherever-I-am
Free to leave at last
I sometimes go home after
A day of that
And do an odd thing:
I cocoon myself in blankets
And sleep for long stretches of time.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
It was almost like you were ripping my heart out for your own pleasure.
You easily reached inside of my chest,
through skin and muscle,
snaking my hand through the cracks in my rib cage
and tested the strong muscle.
You held on and help it beat.
But then you got bored with going with the flow of my heart.
You poked and prodded
to see how much damage you could do.
I let you.
You took the muscle out of my chest
and then went wild to ruin my heart.
You returned it back in pieces.
Carefully,
you set it in my chest.
Now,
I lay in the corner.
Tears stained my soul
but a smile appears on my face
and the words "I'm fine" tumble out of my mouth.
I'm not okay.
I need help.
I don't want to be here.
I want to be in your arms again.
I was fine then.
Scars line my thighs and wrists.
Pill bottles lay inside my sock drawer hiding.
Sleep never comes.
Tears start to stain my face.
"I'm fine"
It's too late now.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
As I watch the people scurry around me
Like ants in a maze
Living the lives they believe are their own,
I wonder if they can even fathom
All the lies and secrets that surround them?
Our world has turned into a place
That feeds on lies
And treats honesty like a crime,
A crime deserving of immense punishment.
Lies end in reward.
Honesty in scorn.
I loathe the liars,
For they are cowards.
While honesty may hurt now,
A lie will grow and spread like a wildfire,
Like a disease,
Lethal to all those who come in contact with it.
I am not immune to this disease.
On the contrary,
I am a carrier of it.
I’ve always been told
My honesty and abruptness get me into trouble,
But I would rather be openly criticized
To my face for my honesty
Then have people feed and thrive on my lies.
They say “revenge is a dish best served cold.”
Lucky for me, my emotions can never just go into hiding.
They are always front and center
Just waiting to be poked and prodded,
A fire ready to ignite and consume.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 3:32 AM UTC
“Get ‘em up, Teacher.”
I felt the gun at my back and had no choice but to raise fingers, and said, “Got the drop on me, eh, Judas? Why don’t you pull the trigger?”
“Forget it. We’re going to Jerusalem where I’m going to turn you over to Herod. Pilate’s holding my gang and God knows what he’s doing to make them talk—only they don’t know anything, so they can’t talk. He’s torturing them for nothing but everybody knows the only thing he wants is to get his hands on you.
I’m going to see that he does. That will get him to cut loose my boys and take the heat off me too, see? It’ll be all over the papers when they crucify you.”
“And what will the papers say about you? You don’t know what you’re doing, Judas. Do you think the Romans will let your outfit run the territory?”
“Sure they will.”
“You’ll run it all right—run it right into the ground. You’re not ready for the big dominion, Judas. You’d be getting in over your head.”
“Quiet.”
“You know Herod gets his marching orders from Pilate and Pilate takes his orders from Caesar. Where do you fit in? You’re high and mighty now but those boys will wipe their boots on you and keep right on going. I didn’t come back to get served up on a silver platter. I came to dish it out. Nobody’s going to step on me and get away with it.”
“Quiet, I said. Now move,” he prodded with his pistol.
I walked a little but stayed close to the walls and he shoved me from behind to make me go faster, but he didn’t want me going too fast because that would attract attention.
He called out to the shadows, “Simon!”
There was no answer and he got nervous. “Simon,” he repeated, not wanting to yell out loud. He looked back and forth, taking his eyes off me for a second. I dropped, and swiping a foot beneath his legs toppled him to the ground. The pistol went off and ricocheted off the wall and I kicked the gun from his hand. Simon appeared with his hands held high, the Baptist behind him pushing him along with the business end of his rod.
“What do you want to do with them, Teacher?”
I felt sorry for the saps. They weren’t any better off than when they’d started.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
My chest caves in
As I choke on my throat
Sitting in the side of a grin
No care for a note
My original sin
My passion probed till void
My ire prodded to its prime
My pride stolen from a lion
Fallen from number one
Show me gates up high
Cause im done
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
The law said her body was made for love
The kind of love that wants to show you
just how much it loves you
by sticking things inside of you
hard
fast
Then slower
The kind of love that wanted to make the bible blush
make you quiver; the
kind of love when you put a female and male hamster together.
The kind of love that wanted to make music out of your ******
Love said "This is what happens
when you use
Needles to ingrain the words love
on peoples skin"
It feels a lot like pain did
Like when the first boy you ever loved
said I love you back
And proved it because he held you after
sticking sticky things inside of you
Like how he said hed wait untill you were ready
then said "You're gonna make me wait forever.."
How that guy on the third date said
"Come back to my apartament
So I can put what I want into you
Until you are empty
Because we might call it love"
Until you met a boy
who untaught what the word love meant
never asked you when you wanted to have ***
whose hands never roamed as greedily
searching for places to settle on your body
who didnt wish to make a home out of you by filling you senseless
and calling it his furniture
art
who traced outlines of constellations on the palms of your hands
and played
"Guess the Nebula"
Whose hardness never prodded you in the back
like a protest
in the early morning
whose breath always came easy
never hard
or fast
It was just holding you with no intention to
**** you
He said
"Love isnt what you put inside a person
In hopes of making it stick;and naming it after something beautiful
I can pin my thoughts on you but
you are not my canvas. That wouldnt be fair.
I respect your property."
There was nothing broken when he left.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Picasso reported a theft
By art thieves who barely had left.
"Did you see them?" cops prodded.
"I think so." He nodded.
"Perhaps you could sketch them
To help us to ketch them."
So he sat down to draw
And they watched him with awe.
After they knew
What Pablo drew,
Arrests swiftly came.
I cite them by name:
Mandolin, guitar, and horse.
But do I jest? Of course.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
And I’ll swear by forty swords
If a sword is what will appease you
“SWORDS!” I’ll shout with mock obscenity, “Oh, swords!”
And you’ll wordlessly curse me through pinched eyes
And you’ll inform me that I am not a jester
And that you are not my mother, nor my caretaker.
But I swear, (swords!)
I swear that my mother has never hatefully condemned me for making light of a situation
Never folded her face into contorted revolt at my weak attempts to mend a fractured conversation.
And yet it seems as though I’ve prodded you with too many swords
You’ve plastered your negligible scars with bandages irrelevant–
Trivial, for though once wounds, they’ve since been healed.
Like a puppet master, like a ventriloquist
You’ve got me speaking in idioms
A foster home, I’ve adopted your character
And, doing so, determined your actions foolish
And you the fool and jester.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:29 AM UTC
Society tells me my size 22 hips
Are disgusting
That the hole in my lip
Is atrocious
My pointed nails, my blue hair, my black clothes
Are products of the devil
I am given freedom of religion yet, I am condemned because my Goddess is not
your God
I am poked and prodded at because my sexuality goes beyond laying with a man
In my state, I cannot marry a women because society is so entrapped in their perfect religion
How is this a fair world if I cannot be me?
As a woman, I am expected to keep my opinion to myself, bear children, and serve a husband
Yet, I am independent and creative
I thrive to make my own path
To be successful in myself and those closest to me
To be unique and to question everything I will not conform to a society in which I cannot think for myself
I believe in what cannot be seen
Therefore, I am crazy
I work better alone; think better on my own
I keep my words in my brain because they aren't the same as everyone's
So, I am depressed
My body composition is curvaceous and *****
So I starve myself to get the body society has entitled as perfection
But, what of my body?
Do I live how I see fit?
Hiding from mirrors and cameras, covered up by the baggy clothes boys wear on a day to day basis
Or do I entomb myself in a decaying corpse to live a short life of perfection
No.
I will walk with my head held high and my skirt blowing in the wind
Because I will not conform to society's definition of perfection
I crave affection in the physical form
Therefore, I am a ****
But you don't know my back story
You do not know how my entire life I was deprived of the emotions I so desperately craved
I don't know how to feel when a feeling is all that is offered to me
So, I remain alone
Because I am not beauty in society's eye
Therefore, I am not your first choice
Even though everyone says 'do not judge a book by it's cover'
I am cast away before you get to know me
Before you know my talents, my hobbies, my aspirations in life, my goals, my struggles, the reasons behind my words
Because society has been taught to love with the eyes and not the heart
What about the pigmentation of my skin complexion?
Society automatically disregards me as a troubled teen
That I will just become another statistic of the African-American populace
But I say I won't
Because my ancestors fought and died for their freedom, therefore I should fight for my say in my life
I will not be fat-shamed
I will not be slut-shamed
I will not be black-shamed
Because I cannot and will not conform to a society in which I cannot be me
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
I’m trapped
Like the caged tweety bird singing a happy song while everyone watches in amazement
She does her flips and tricks stringing them along for as long as she can
Then they become bored, then angry
They didn’t like her anymore
Truth is she wasn’t all she was cracked up to be
She began to question herself, the others, everything
Trying to make the right decisions for everyone
When all the bird wants to be is free
Why cant she be?
She starts to sing her sad song and for a moment they actually listen
People actually listen to this misfit unimportant simple bird
This simple bird who wished she was so much more
And still so much less
She tried so hard to not be perfect, but to be happy
And only in her unrealistic dreams would she truly be happy
This poor bird was stuck being poked and prodded and watched everyday
Herself watching the rest of the world around her
Caged between life and death
Caged between beauty and disgust
Caged in a world of incompetence and love
Caged in her cell, landing perch and water bowl sitting there were they always were
Waiting for the door to open
Still caged
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
I say we bill em, thousands
or maybe even more
dumb ***** and dumb *****
abiding on the shores
Warned and even prodded
time to leave my friend
yes, it's a hurricane
and it may be
your end
Don't stay here and wonder
the winds and all the waves
the water it is rising
no idiocy, is brave
So when the rescue workers
hold out their proffered hand
be sure to write the check
to be payed upon
demand
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
First period is always the worst.
After hours of perfect, statuesque silence
I am poked, prodded, abused
Why is he always so angry
So hateful
His fingers claw at me
His feet collide into my legs
And sometimes,
He loses his temper all together
And in a furious rage
He hurtles me against the wall
As if destroying a mere chair
Will solve all problems
Finally he leaves as second period begins
And I am filled with blandness
A person trying to blend
Never lifting a finger or muttering a word
It suffocates me with its nothingness
I force myself to get lost in time
But it always seems like eternity
It's not at all like when she sits in me
Sixth hour is always the best
She comes in with a soft step
Quietly settling herself in
She seems solemn most days
As if filled with disappointment
I wish I could embrace her
Let her know she is loved
But I can't
No chair can
It's a shame,
Next year, she'll be gone
And all be left with pokes, prods, and unhappiness.
I am just a chair after all.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC