"suitability" poems
The Highest Excellence
The highest excellence is like (that of) water.
The excellence of water appears in its benefiting all things,
And in its occupying,
Without striving (to the contrary),
The low place which all men dislike.
Hence (its way) is near to (that of) the Tao.
The excellence of a residence is in (the suitability of) the place;
That of the mind is in abysmal stillness;
that of associations is in
Their being with the virtuous;
That of government is in its securing
Good order;
That of (the conduct of) affairs is in its ability; and
That of (the initiation of) any movement is in its timeliness.
And when (one with the highest excellence) does not wrangle (about
His low position), no one finds fault with him.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Defying the consensus of complacency,
And the enantiomorphic political practicality,
Candidates embrace their vacillating indexicality.
Spouting thrift store self reliance sapientiality,
Telling lores of cultural compatibility.
Hope filled promises of economic suitability,
Aligned with institutional feasibility.
Packaged in over-inclusive catchall empty signifiers
Strewn across all media screens, communal utilitarian plan flyers.
Requesting no need for responsiveness,
For a vote no longer dictates precedence,
In the age of social media endemic presence relevance.
PFL
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it ********
the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it ********
the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it ********
© Glenn L. Sentes
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
I sit here quietly enraged same like the calm front that has hit on the western range of my property. I am a story teller who has no stories and a ear filled with melody for the summer rains. The greens will need trimming and sculpting soon. The pigeons will arrive to the corners of the property to breed and propagate the flock. Sometimes it's full of **** and sometimes it's not. Mostly after the squall procedes over from the lake is the promanant time of the winter cleaning over that portion of the foothills.
Now here where I live, in the adequate and humble living quarters of mine, there is voices that travel on wind breezes that wander through my jealousies. They bring the news like airmail every so often. But mostly news of bills collectors spinning in their office chairs furiously at the amount of **** that is nessecary for this part time profession.
Sometimes during the night my eyes go bad and I often wonder when they will get suitable for work again. I've been slacking a bit on the work and more on the suitability of my mind for processes like building a fireplace. You know, the theory of it all.
Hmmm....
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
The song played-- muffled, hesitant,
As if the tabletop jukebox
Seemed unsure of the tune’s suitability,
As out of place and time as ourselves,
It being Wednesday morning three A.M.
At the all-night diner on the Klondike Road
(The mills, going full-bore down the road in Montmorenci Falls
Making such a place viable, indeed necessary),
But we laughed loudly and nonchalantly
Between bites of nearly adequate cheeseburger,
Ostensibly unaware of all those inevitabilities
Which were tangible but unspoken, indeed unspeakable,
This being the last of the last summer not careworn,
Textbooks to be exchanged for neckties,
Plastic sandals swapped for sensible flats,
Other lives to take flight in other places,
A mere handful of evenings remaining
Before the clumsy process of untying
All that which had been loose ends from the beginning.
Would I go back? In a sense, it does not matter.
There was always a laundry list of reasons
That it could not be, cannot be, will not be:
Irreparably meshed gears of relocations and reconciliations,
Gordian knots of logic and desire.
Still, in my dreams, I often run like a madman,
Chest burning as my sneakers slap the pavement in the darkness,
Back toward the diner, but it has been razed to the ground
(Likely the case, for all I know,
What with the mills silent and padlocked all these years)
And I paw madly, feverishly through the rubble
In search of some remains of those vinyl chanteuses of love songs,
Those epitaphs of our failures,
Those three-minute odes
To our compromised and conditional successes.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
He came and rested
like a bird on my shoulder
Cautiously testing the suitability
and equilibrium of his perch
After a few inquisitive glances,
he seemed to ease.
I let out a slow careful breath...
Then another...
and rather gently built up a rhythm
so as not to startle him
lest he fly away.
And seemingly resolved,
he inched closer
till I could feel the flutter of his breast
and the gentle nuzzling of his head on my ear
My conciousness bade him welcome
such beautiful iridescent blues
straddled his white breast
and piercing blue eyes peered through
a velveteen mask
nestled upon a darkened beak
A striking fellow.
his weary feet belied his beautiful veneer
upon closer inspection,
I notice a small part of him missing,
maybe caught in some fierce struggle for life,
I had enjoyed him fluttering and flitting about weaving such wonderful things with trinkets collected from his travels
There was something ethereal,
yet lonesome in his posture
like that of a wise man
whose trials had marked
the strength of the lines
in his weary well travelled face
but a youthfulness glowed beneath
that smiling eyes could betray in an instant.
It felt like he knew me.
An old friend of the cosmos
that I'd crossed by and by.
And when I dared
and he dared,
our eyes met
and instantly our souls
recognised some ancient promise.
After an endless moment of acquiescence
He began to whisper his mystical wanderings chasing the astral turning of tides.
He whispered ancient mysteries in my ear,
of being lost in endless Odyssey's
revealing our secret truths laid amongst the stars waiting to transform
and reunite in some spectacular way,
some new creation
to flush away the yearning of brighter ways.
I pointed them out to him on the horizon
and I did my best to assure him they were there,
it was then that I spotted that low bow that
broke bare and it hung there
In front of him like a stalking giant,
oh well I whispered
"what's the meaning of existence,
if at least we don't try?"
And off we flew in a different direction
searching for some metaphorical chainsaw
to make for a clearer view.
We couldn't help but feel we were missing something...
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 8:04 AM UTC
I Like Looking Like A Boy
I like looking like a boy.
Those massive locks
That locked in looks
From boys and men –
Well, that was then
And now is now.
I’ve thrown out needs
And taken in
Convenience, suitability
Which looks as nice - e’en twice as nice
To those bystanders’ gawking shoulders
(Appeal’s molder in the eyes
Of the beholder),
Now it’s time for short and neat,
Just as cute
When coexisting with a sweet,
Kind, loving nature;
Character,
Persona’s self charisma
Which as hypnotic, gives off honey’s own melisma,*
Charm’s attraction which,
If used correctly
Does more good
Than all the ringlets ever could.
*a group of notes sung to one syllable of text.
I Like Looking Like A Boy 11.24.2016
Circling Round Aging; Circling Round Wrinkles; Circling Round Vanities II;Circling Round Woman II;
Arlene Corwin
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
be destined learn
not from elaborate
or inconceivable past
hence with haste renounce
its obscurity and suitability
how else does one truly
embrace its fated amenity
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 10:45 PM UTC
It has been stamped with dispassionate blue ink,
Signifying its future lack of suitability to sit on the shelves,
Having been elbowed aside by this and that year’s thing
(And the book had not been checked out since the mid-seventies,
Perhaps some young man all but short-circuited
By the prospect of a bathing Julie Christie,
Or some female counterpart shedding bell-bottomed tears
Over doomed love, which, in her cosmology,
All such things were fated to be)
Placed in some temporary cardboard casket
Which once held bananas or copier paper or ancient time cards,
Sitting cheek to elbow with cookbooks, breathless biorhythm tomes,
Buffeted about forces unseen and beyond its control
As it faces the uncertain and uneasy prospect of possible reclamation.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Purveyors say they may return
but have I turned my back on caution
as my star dims
commencement ends in pyres ,
the flames speaks from within this indelible truth,
a manifest has not been written
ill suitability steals around.
Whatever I sought
was the applause from tired hands
as my pen is often too.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Oftentimes, sometimes, many times
I search through
all the words I know
And there are many a few.
I rift, I raft
I sift, and cart
I search, and submerge
Pondering over each one’s usability and suitability.
Trying to find one,
the right one,
the tight one,
the oh so alight one.
Terse, specific, concise and precise,
perfect, quintessential, robust,
mellow, complete, that cuts through the ice.
Not squandered or meandered,
Jaywalking through,
lost or philandered.
That’s so true a vision,
captures my emotion,
Visions an illumination
Offers description
Catalyses reflection
Provides perspective,
Inspires action,
Or are just so perfect in their conception.
Then some are there, a little broken, sound woebegone and weatherbeaten
Through a life well lived, they are rooted if slightly moth eaten.
They wear history and tell many a tale,
Just their espousal sets you to sail.
My favourite ones are a beacon of hope, encouragement, love and touch you to the core,
A ****** of laughter, a pirouette of flirtation, a wordful gaze, touching the heart, stimulating the mind, soul searching, words words words, those ones I love so.
Then some scare me to fumble, tumble and kazoomble freakishly so,
My pupils dilated, my breathing short, dark, dismal and morbid, less of them is more.
Some are just there, need to be,
alone they are nothing, combined they provide the key,
They coexist happy in their role in the larger plan.
Is it you, or is it me,
Ah those words...
but sometimes, just sometimes
Words just are not enough,
They are just not enough to get anything said,
Then all I can say is
Nothing!
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
Finished my work day
Kicked ***
Smoked a big cigar at lunch
Now waiting for a friend
To come for dinner
I think we'll open
That Japanese whiskey
I've been holding onto
I don't look the part
But business suits me
I'm ruthlessly practical
I deliver results
I studied to be a minister
Suiting me less
Suitability being appropriate; fitting; proper, befitting, seemly, apt
I thought myself a proper minister
As thinking
Is my favorite past time
But patrons of such groups
Don't love thinking too much
Left that path
Called ******** at the temple
And didn't look back
I'm not much of a poet
It suits me least
But I write
write
write
write
And I'm allowing this path
To take me downstream
To larger, slower, quieter waters
Where souls rest
Until then
I'll enjoy the feel of
the cool current best I can
How 'bout you?
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
It's like I never learned about humility
Like I didn't know tranquility.
or like my mindset is to spawn hostility.
Maybe because I was never taught responsibility.
I have less appeal to you than a book that lacks readability.
and you refuse to acknowledge our lack of compatibility.
We're trying to build on the epitome of instability
and we wonder why we have the inability
to make something with any sort of durability.
It'd be easier if I wasn't such a liability,
or if there was any probability
that I could understand accountability.
I'm sorry for the times I lacked the sensibility
to become a better person, or improve my suitability.
I'm sorry for my actions and my incivility
There were times you couldn't count on me for dependability
and for that I'd like to say if there is any plausibility
or some kind of magic ability
that would allow me the chance to see you again I'd beg and crawl to the ends of space and time on only the basis of possibility.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC