"solicits" poems
Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at ***
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!
6.7k
Tonight’s the night
when your throat swells tight,
your breath falls short,
your costumes don’t fit right.
Tonight’s the night
friends will surely mock,
your hair’s utter chaos,
your knees nervously knock.
Quality is demanded,
perfection from each night;
it’s subtly commanded;
it solicits stage fright.
Hiding from view
behind glamour and grace,
lingers that time-tried spew:
“Get those nerves off your face!”
From backstage, a call:
“Everyone take your place!”
You’re not ready at all!
Just breathe, steady pace.
Silently whispered lines
across a tongue of cotton,
but then the spotlight shines!
And all these worries, forgotten.
Because tonight’s the night
when your smile will glow,
your beauty stun
and passion show.
Tonight’s the night
you’ll become like a star,
Creator-made,
perfect just as you are.
Nothing else compares,
not applause, not stares,
when you dance for your Savior,
who loves you, who cares.
Tonight’s the night
audiences will applaud,
but you know what they don’t:
it’s not you, but God.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
He awakes from deep slumber
to find his beloved missing by his side,
again.
Casting off the shroud of dark, dense clouds
He dons the black cloak of night and begins his frenzied search
for Her - the perpetually elusive one :
He scours the skies, cuts through frosty winds,
roves through the infinity of stars desperately seeking Her,
looks down :
at the lonesome road abandoned by commuters
that treaded upon her all day long
at a dingy alleyway where a girl solicits her new owner
for the night - to be used, abused, misused
at the young woman storming her way back home
distraught from a break-up with her Casanova of a lover -
- all this, while She trails behind him
in his quest for love, silently accompanying him
as he drifts over unknown lands,
hoping his agony abates, wanting to tell him
she is there, he could see her.
She, who lends meaning to his being,
his silvery, mesmerising
Moonlight.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
where? in a land far, far away
suburbia about to crack
every Jim, Joe and Jack
solicits money for dope
with no hope for a future
for his kids cause he’s broke
he hasn’t seen them in a couple of years
there are all
these mannequins
they walk around like they’re people
they got the houses like us
they got their malls and their steeples
imagine
the hand that feeds them buys ammonia
and they give it to the kids
yeah, they put it in the pigs
before they’re porkchops and ribs
they take
a little arsenic
and sprinkle it on carrots
because they heard the brand has merit
it's like
a different planet
once they had orange men and pink
and they didn’t get along
they said the colours were wrong
and they fought,
of course they fought
because that’s in all of nature
but they were given a few thousand years
they never quite figured
it out
it was a failure
and they never found a cure
and they never did mature
til the sky
came falling down
and it’s
a different time a different place
it’s not even the human race
but citizens get robbed by banks
held hostage with a gun in face
so I hope
that though the words I speak
are really just absurd
they’ll send a message that is heard
almost there
be the change
with your
words.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 6:52 AM UTC
Why would I ever venture to guess
That you would be willing to meet me halfway?
My empty attempts are wasted endeavors
I give it my best shot
In pursuit of mutual presence
A hesitant undertaking that
Solicits the same solidarity I strive to stifle
I know I'm a hindering burden that
Overloads you like a snow covered tree
Still clinging on to its leaves
Never letting them go until they're
Weighed down and overloaded
A strain crack break
Brings it down in a thunderous sound
To handshake the ground
I am a huge hassle that hugs his hostile self
Grabbing his own handful heart
Holding it in the air as a sign to declare
Sorry for the inconvenience
I've been rocked goodbye
The wind didn't blow
It was snow that broke me
The bow never budged
It was the entire tree that plummeted
A swift fall to bring my cradle and all
Crashing so you no longer have to sit
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
rough, flush, posthumous lips.
exposed, crisp imperfections.
rough, barbed fingernails.
frost wisps eyelashes into splintered cords.
moist lyrics in the foggy solicits of a conventional partition.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:15 AM UTC
Pieces of shrapnel
It drifts on by,
Invisible to your naked eye.
It solicits no hand,
No beckon to the why.
It offers no reason,
No mark to signify.
Pieces of shrapnel
Just searching
for its place,
Scouring the wide eyes—
The hopeless,
The grace.
To know its name
Is to give it a face.
These pieces of shrapnel
Have found its place.
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 10:58 PM UTC
I.
On the surface easily gliding,
are my hands. I keep on the table
an ajar carton of cigarettes. Then slowly
becoming in my pocket, taking form of a hand,
a crumpled cinema ticket when straightened,
ironed by plainsight, walks with lines, the end credits roll lasciviously like an estranged lover
whose face I can almost touch.
When let go of closure, air thins and I move
secretly with fluency. This is how objects
escape my grip.
II.
In front of the eatery, a transit.
I had a dream once in a depthless sleep,
a figure in stilts studded with guilt.
The face next to me, disquieting the music
of currencies, naked in sound as the truth shaved
like a beast. The nearby tarmac resounds with
another throng of absence. As a substitute
for beings shackled to duty,
the oncoming woman assumes theirs,
borrows their faces of dreariness and ***** a thousand times like white sheets harassed by
the wind through opened windows.
III.
Define space as a venue for collision.
Say when a red-haired woman straddling
a duffel bag and myself confused as a peripatetic.
She ascribes her presence to my footing
and from where she left off, I take form
of her expired movement.
Found strangeness is that space
is what happens when remembered. But hold no
bearing and rear contrivance,
trying to be bold by definition -- space solicits
the in-betweenness and then transmutes
an occurence,
say the volatile shape of a hand when
clutching and releasing, the fugitive manner of
feet when avoiding puddles, the unsolicited
reticence of a troubling question.
IV.
A man carries a take away and is now
amongst the populace, waiting under a shed,
housing a familiar language. Home.
But first, trivialized. Haggles with the cab driver,
trying to transact a being angled towards home.
They agree to a fault, money's perfume clinches the fingers and is given to a calloused hand.
Air once stale, is now succulent with the
resonating memory of a child's excited laughter,
and is now presumably waiting behind a gated
home. Like the palm of the hand, the number
of times the vehicle trundles within
the nearby avenue is the force it enkindles
with rest. He is home,
unloosens his clothing. Like a fine specimen
freed from a vitrine.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
The day is sunny.
The time is a little past noon.
The red door casts a small shadow over the green grass.
If you stand there and close your eyes,
You could swear you hear a river as it dove through the forest.
But the river's not important.
What's important is the door, or rather, what's behind the door.
The door is never locked.
The **** is always loose and fits nicely in the palm of your hand.
You can look around the door.
There's nothing special about it.
It is painted in the most ordinary of red.
The molding on the frame is nothing to admire.
Its importance is almost never recognized at first.
Everyone will see this door in their lifetime, sometimes more than once.
Some even grasp the **** and give an tiny tentative turn.
But many, too many, will turn away.
Fear loves to sit by this door.
He will take the hand of anyone who'll embrace him.
He never solicits his services.
He never advertises.
Yet people flock to him like flies to honey.
Funny how flies also gather around garbage.
But if you ignore him you will find your hand on that doorknob.
Give it a turn and extend your arm.
Close your eyes.
Remember what it took to get here.
The door gives a satisfying creak.
The dour man besides the door gives a barely noticeable frown.
You notice how it almost seems to glide open on its hinges.
A small bead of sweat carves a path down his forehead.
You gently let go and allow the door to open.
Like it was made to do.
He looks ill.
Step on through.
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
to kindle the flame of fear is a most prominent endeavor
one is never ready, never willing but always doing so without regard for the
consequence
what a wondrous weight
an unfathomable burden
a dignity never dignified
at least, to the portrayer
fear
which plunders the familiar darkness
hangs hope from the tallest tree
solicits the soul until suddenly, soddenly it becomes
magnificently maneuvered, a true feat
leaving no time to act
to question what is being done
the fury of such force
inescapable
unable to be transcended by will,
one must endure the totality
until the fire has retreated,
the light extinguished, smoke cleared
and one can breathe easily again
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
*I want to be enveloped by the silence that darkness solicits
For the dimming acts as a finger upon the lips
To quiet and linger in the space
Between what is and what isn't*
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:18 AM UTC
Now the cuttlefish
is a curious little critter,
not above shenanigans
because these naughty little things
indulge in oral ***
What? Well, yes,
the male pops his hectocotylus
into the female’s mouth
and halleluja, does his thing
right there, without shame
or any ignobleness.
And the female?
Well, she doesn’t waste or swallow this
although she goes round other males
and solicits more deposits
for her clutch. Eh?
Such wantonness.
Really. But this precociousness
is just the way they like it
and shows us
there are many different ways
to indulge in coitus.
That's right, just simply
liking lots of hectocotylus
right down to, but properly,
stopping short of her esophagus.
Without any further apophasis,
obviously, nature thinks that this is
efficacious.
Now, I'm not a marine biologist,
but I think
this bodacious little cuttlefish
is amazing and audacious.
Mike T Minehan
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 9:07 PM UTC
Here is the key for room number five. My mother died last year. I'll pay for the tickets. I would like to see the menu, please. What time does the bank open? Is this the first time this has happened? I was feeling tall because I had just swam. Elizabeth wasn't between the two buildings because Deborah's son had swam for three or four weeks. I had been laughing but I was writing. Roy wasn't at school because Cathy had jumped for more than an hour. I had been playing but I was driving.
The cook solicits the mundane protest. When does the pleasant care view the talk? The fall extends the towering grip. An enigma makes people shiver. The sky would scare any linguist away. Significant understanding shot the sheriff. When will the insult warp the union continental? That memory we used to share could please even the most demanding follower of Freud. I realized that in my sleep the night prior. That memory we used to share is still not very coherent. This is who?
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC