"serviceable" poems
OOO!
He is worried!
Again!
the Mr. Perfectionist.
It’s almost Carnival but
He hasn't yet got a mask
with specifics
outlining
his ballads
and jests
he
surly lists his bests
in two principle steps
of CAPS :
1)
* Feeds the Bats and
* Tempts the Charms
2)
* Cheap N Handy
* Quixotic but Scary
* Not too Trendy
and he cries
Yuck!
EW!
Husky!
What's worse than
a self-adoring pathetic bat
in my whereabouts!
I can't get the stink and shrill so I help him fast
'Yo what's the worry!'
-I say friendly -
'you need not hurry
cause I think you already are ready!'
-I continue enthusiastically-
'Here! Try this one
My top design
Custom fit chemistry
A truly NO Risk Recipe
and of course
Specially designed for you! '
'for you for youuu
to echolocate
such is an eye-gaze
for the half-blind
such is sound
a vibration that propagates
in ears and brains of pretty gulls
and of course
only for youuu'
- I sing loud a common bat ad just to stimulate
my client and continue- merrily explaining my serviceable recipe
*for 2)
Wear your white shirt just
...as always
the one I know
you know?
the webbed one
weaving grace
and don't forget to
iron it well this time.
*
*for 1)
Put on your true face!
I reckon then
and can guarantee
...as always
no one will ever recognize you .
*
In a flight he disappears glad and I hope he won't show up till next year
What can you do I say to myself and quote a encyclopedic fact about my client.
All things have a place, you don't really need to like them but these ones pollinate flowers and disperse fruit seeds and they are economically important as they consume insect pests reducing need for pesticides.
I say while I ventilate my head with an OM mantra and an incense stick
Bah what a stink what a stink...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Bouncers can only stop and stare, maybe
get involved when their contract states
they've got to care, but up to that line
they wait on doorstops and thresholds,
looking for kisses from the makeup clad gold.
Smokers swell in the sea mist of the
open smoking area, they talk ideas
and travel plans, wave to no one
hoping they'll wave back again.
The bar men, the bar women and the cloakroom
attendants sing along to the songs
under tired, muttered breaths,
hoping the depth of the queue
subsides into something more serviceable.
And after?
Young ones with freshly ironed faces
**** into gutters and speak in
half-rhyme stutters, Morse code flutters that
translate into nothing more than, another beer please.
They yell as if they own the sky,
keep their echoes on rope tied to the
openings of back alleyways,
showing to her and her and her and him, his best friend, that he's
the drunkest of them all.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
*Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...*
There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.
A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.
there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices, and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.
This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,
*“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel ***** one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Tree ,oh heavenly shade .
what a peace i delight within thy shadow.
when my heart runs heavy with hollow .
when i dread in pain and feel sad .
under thee with thy boughs and branches .
you console me in peace and great is my reaches .
upon thy up turn root i set down and dream .
and for real all my world now seems .
tree what a beauty concealed in mighty .
tree what flowered fragrance and pretty .
rises mighty from and up over the ground .
you look heavenly decorum and ever so grand .
useful tree and serviceable natural gift .
house of holly and living worship of angel .
what a murmur of thee when i deem thee clam.
the praise of thy boughs are great charm .
where will i escape from the hellish agony .
if not a drip from thy refreshing and wholly .
with thee stand my shelter and i sink myself in peace.
what a strength from a tiny seed at its self ease .
tree is always nothing but three .
under thee is held much parleys .
mingled with mighty chorus duly .
of splendid birds in crimson hue at peace .
tree, great purveyor of the hole universe .
endless deemed praise of grace .
tree is always nothing but three.
peace maker of all broken sweet siree.
under thee they stand two sweet hearts .
in pain and all but also in waist .
the lyrics deem hard and also practically unheeded.
they struggle for love , they lured for lead .
the love reel and nothing but discord stands .
sudden collapse in lament but consequent wreck.
the love recital seems an old rotten chorus of trumpet.
therein thy breeze whirls but in sweet pace a bet .
never an end_ never an end _ at least not under my care .
you reach forth then thy cheerful fragrance ajar .
you out fine decorum of thy rich stature .
and set forward then a song in winning pleading allure .
through the young man and lady 's heart it settle in and dwell .
both their orbs shine in communal understanding so well .
their faces lighten ,their cheek flush , their heart call .
in unison for life and forever love in peace they fall .
a hug as tight and a kiss as tender as ever feels .
and from above thy boughs rain down is sweet withered .
washed them across and drop down as married flowered.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
where we are now is the causation
of thinking someone gets you
that they understand what you mean
where you're coming from
that they treat you the same way
you treat them
gently
like the world’s most empathetic nurse
despite the blatant risks available
and the *** is
thrilling
because it is like
fighting but
we want to hurt
each other
a dance of
mutual combat
i am your photographer
of war baby
i am
horrified
by your truths and
scars and death
not because of their
imperfections or ability
to stain my mind
with schizophrenic ptsd
riddling
throughout
but because i am a casualty
of your purpose
and much like war
you’ve relentlessly sold me an idea
and shown me how much of myself i have to give up
and to betray
for your manipulative propaganda
in order to soldier on
towards an empty promise
this patriotic love
is a cause that remains lost
like bodies in rubble
a love i have a tendency to incline to
this serviceable love
is scarce amongst rust and ruins
and instead of cultivating it
you rage war
against
me and
force
my
battle
cries.
-melancholicreator
(thanks for the experience…good luck)
Jun 3, 2024
Jun 3, 2024 at 3:20 AM UTC
The Night Table
The night table, the night stand,
Too small for all it must yeoman hold,
Something keeps falling down
Lamp, bottle of water, a single tissue, partially used, a clean corner held in abeyance for future tears when poetry writing, writing tablet for when the impulsion strikes, lamp that goes on n' off when it so chooses, a straw-woven coffee cup thing to keep off the stains of liquid time, a watch that tells you the time only when it is falling over on the way down to hit the ground, a picture frame of mother and child from thirty years ago...
if there was more room,
this list would be longer
but I already told ya,
this night table is just too **** small
which was told to you twenty years
when you bot two of them!
Re-decorate, she replies
A single word
that strikes
terror
In the heart of a
grown man.
Good thing I am still a kid
And don't any need any of those grown-up things
Listed above.
Keep those night tables babe,
Perfectly serviceable and a metaphor
For two kids like us,
Cuddling in the bed those night table stand astride,
Guardians of the place where we tell each other tales
of twenty years ago...
(I told ya they were too small)
June 1
6:54 AM
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away
Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.
It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.
Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.
Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.
But what she writes is this:
Where are all the butterflies
And Humming Birds of my youth.
Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
And the taste of lemonade.
Where has all the music gone
And groups of words that soar.
Where are all the Chickadees
And fleecy clouds at dawn.
She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away
To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
ljm
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 8:45 AM UTC
Suggested by a Thought from Temporal Fugue
Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
And because they respect us, they wrestle back;
We shape them in order serviceable 1
And they refuse to be pinned as cliches’
We fling a needful verb against a noun
To make a thought complete, but then adverbs
And adjectives begin cluttering lines
And then we all must take a coffee break
Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
For every scrap of story, verse, or hymn
1 Cf. John Milton, “Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC