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Best Poems Written by Roderick Molasar

Below are the all-time best Roderick Molasar poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

What Makes a Warrior

I cannot presume
To tell anyone
What a warrior is.

Nor do I claim
To embody any
Of his qualities.

All I offer here
Is a collection
Of impressions
Or meditations.

A warrior is
A state of being;
Armaments
Are mere props.

The only weapon
He might possess
Is implacable resolve
In the face of
Extreme adversity.

A warrior's language
Or internal dialogue
Has no allowance
For the phrase,
"I can't."

All the same,
He discriminates
Between causes 
That are just and
Those that are not.

He determines the
Character, as well as
The time and place
Of his battles, 
Investing himself utterly.

And he remains
Ever prepared
For those who would
Bring their battles 
To him.

Yet a warrior meets life
On its own terms
With no delusions
Of bending it
To his own will.

Self-pity is a 
Useless indulgence,
Yet he has compassion
For the weak; he never
Places himself above
Others, for how can he?

All this being said,
And human nature
Being what it is,
His greatest enemy
May yet be none other
Than himself.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

See Spot Run

Oh, a mangy little doggie went galumphing down the street
And as his luck would have it he just happened there to meet
A warden with a wagon and a heavy-duty net
And he nabbed the rabid mongrel and he took him to the vet.

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I Wish I Were Nicolas Cage

Well, he's goofy and gangly and thin up on top
And his real last name once began with a "Cop"
But I don't give a hoot about all of that
'Cause his box office draw's made his wallet grow fat.

If you listen quite closely to how this bloke talks
And you then watch how oddly he lists when he walks
Why, you'd think to yourself he'd be good as a clown
But I'm not trying here to just put the man down.

He's admitted that comics were where he got "Cage"
And his movies have made that fake name all the rage.
I've not kept a close count on how many there are,
But I tell you, my brothers, his fame extends far.

See, he's got this charisma that can't be denied
Plus a talent for acting that's as high as it's wide.
And he likes to take risks, gotta respect him for that,
Using methods that sometimes will end up falling flat.

One is called, NOUVEAU SHAMANIC, a phrase all his own,
And, then, WESTERN KABUKI, at which you might groan.
So his style's informed by the books that he reads
And he'll work it to death, or until it just bleeds.

It's a high wire act but with no safety net;
His unwavering panache makes me jealous, you bet.
Though I've tried my damned best to perform like this jock
On the set I'm as lame as a bump on a rock.

See, I've wanted to act since I was in 5th Grade
But allowed time to pass, maybe one whole decade
Before trodding the boards once again on the stage
So far back in the days when there was no Nick Cage.

I was hamming it up before Nick changed his name
Unsuccessfully striving to get in the game.
But to date Central Casting is as far as I've gone;
About all I've done there is to camp out on their lawn.

So I've hatched me a plan, will you please hear me out?
Take the shillings you're saving for Nick's latest flick
And, instead of enriching that overgrown lout
Send them here to yours truly, and best make it quick.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

Oh, What Am I Going To Do , Today

Oh, what am I going to do, today?
I've got so much time on my hands that I
Will simply go mad if I don't find a way
To fill it all up with some stuff to get by.

I try to stay busy with this and with that
And sometimes it works but at others falls flat
I think at such length that my head starts to hurt
And then I relax with a cup of yogurt.

I once had a job where they worked me to death
I grunted and groaned 'til I gave my last breath
The medics restarted my heart with a jolt
I thanked them, then, wisely, decided to bolt.

I could someday make a good living at rhymes
But all I might do is to fall on hard times
I'm cracking my skull like a ripe coconut
To pull myself up and well out of this rut.

A jack of all trades but sad master of none
Among all that's not new now under the sun
I can't just go out there and find a nice niche
It makes me so crazy I want to yell, "SHEESH!"

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

I'M Selling My Body To Science

My warm body's on permanent loan to Big Pharma;
I am chancing my health but could care less for karma.
All that money they pay is too good to refuse;
So with minimal risk I have little to lose.

Man, I shovel their food and I watch lots of cable;
And I gain as much weight as I'm possibly able.
I will sleep like Prince Charming awaiting a kiss
From young nurses so sweet their mere presence is bliss.

I can do what I want from pre-dawn to late night
Just as long as I don't give the staffers a fright.
I take nice, long hot showers until I'm beet red;
Some warm milk with six cookies, and then on to bed.

It's pure Heaven, I tell you, it's every man's dream;
You relax all the time, eat desserts with whipped cream,
Then you mark off each day as it languidly fades,
Blithely block out the world by extending the shades.

So work smarter, not harder, all you Type-A's out there;
And let stress be a kind of a fast fading nightmare
Out of which you've been wakened by a woman's soft voice
As she calls you to breakfast, and makes note of your choice.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

Kids Get My Goat

I recently visited an animal farm
Accompanied by my favorite school marm.
She said that the antics were fun to behold
Of creatures that acted outrageous and bold.

Well, I didn't believe her when first we arrived
'Cause all that I saw were empty beehives.
But then as our journey progressed up the path
What should I see but a pig in a bath.

But after an oink and a grunt and a squeal
I saw something yonder with yet more appeal.
There in the enclosure, as small as could be
A cute baby goat was looking at me.

I fed him some hay and patted his head
While Mother sat watching from her cozy bed.
But then he did something decidedly queer
By making some noises so eerie to hear.

He did it by using his mouth and his tongue
And also employing a throat and a lung.
He switched back and forth from the 1st to the 2nd
Attempting, you see, the white nanny to beckon.
The she-goat, however, was happy to stay
Right there where she so very languidly lay.

The baby persisted in making a razz
And then a "baa-baa", and all of that jazz.
No human could spit out a better Bronx Cheer,
No child cry "bottle" as to so endear.

I split my side laughing so hard at this act
It felt like a hernia, and that is a fact.
I've been back there often, but alas I have never
Been able to see something nearly as clever.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

Fahrenheit 452

Now, books made of pulp are amusing antiques;
We people who buy them are all hopeless geeks.
We don't need to waste any wood when instead
We can access the Web whilst we lie there in bed.

So, why are we still killing trees without end
When all that a writer must do is press "send"?
I don't understand lumber mills of destruction
For products that could go instead for construction. 

Just why do we keep subsidizing those crooks
By shelling out money for overpriced books?
They know very well that they're robbing us blind,
But the joke is on us 'cause we don't seem to mind.

And we ruin our vision by squinting so much
To the point where we might have to live just by touch.
So why don't we just look for an alternate way
To enjoy all those novels and not have to pay?

A much better approach, if the truth's to be told,
Is to listen to stories as in Days of Old.
In our modern parlance it is called, "Audio",
But don't ask how it works, 'cause I surely don't know.

The lyeberry's a place where you borrow for free
The recordings on tape, not to mention C.D.
Their collections grow huge as the years roll on by,
So you'll never run out 'til the day that you die.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

The Way of the Wood Pusher

There's a game known as Chess that I learned as a lad
But in spite of the passage of time I'm still bad.
I can not see ahead seven moves like some do;
If you say, "Bobby Fischer" I'll just come back with, "Who?"

I speak French when I must, as in terms like, "J'adoube,"
But it's all a charade, for I think like a boob.
I don't know who invented this mind-wasting sport,
But I'm sure many law books would deem it a tort.

You can find "Chess For Dummies" on shelves in bookstores,
And I once tried to read it, eliciting snores.
See, I'm trapped in the middle, 'twixt Firsties and Plebes;
It is called Mediocre, and it ranks me with Dweebs.

But this thing's got me hooked; I just can't walk away;
It's a weird fascination that's always in play.
I don't care if you trounce me in ten moves or less
When I trot out my Queen in a desperate press.

My intent is to smash you like ANVIL on bone,
But it's not very often that I'm in the zone.
And I have other schemes that I'm willing to try;
GARIBALDI's the Gambit that might make you cry.

When I'm lazy I mimic your opening game;
MIRROR MOVES, my descriptive, alliterative name.
Metaphors just delight me as labels for ploys
To deprive my opponents of all of their joys.

If I were only equally good with my men
I could teach all of you a sore lesson, and then
I would not have to channel my fear of defeat
Into tirades like these that sound like a goat's bleat.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

Bedding Down With Bigfoot

Hey, I've got me a plan to survive World War Three
And it doesn't involve living deep in the sea
With a mermaid named Maddy from that '80s movie
Or a grey-skinned E.T. hoping to crossbreed with me.

There's a bunch of big blokes known as Bigfoot to some
And they live in the woods where most humans won't come
Though they've entered our culture as the years have gone by
They are still seen as legends and old myths, that's no lie.

See, in spite of their fur and their size they're quite smart
For their fondest desire is to live well apart
From us primates who ravage the Earth without pause
Like the virus that spreads through its host - just because.

Called by Yeti and Sasquatch and still other things
They refer to themselves as "Jemah" and are beings
Who, unlike the poor bipeds that include me and you,
Can converse without speech, like our pets often do.

Though the tallest are known to have grown to nine feet
And they stink like old garbage, not to mention dead meat
I shall fashion my life on this heavenly lathe;
I'll make Sweet Thing my wife, and I won't have to bathe.

Details | Roderick Molasar Poem

Ricky Did a Bad, Bad Thing

Well, they said it's illegal, immoral and sick
But I couldn't resist attempting the trick
So I found me a monkey, a snake and a duck
And I hoped it would work, with a wee bit of luck.

I decided the music of Franz Ferdinand
Was exactly the way I could take them in hand
His one song I liked best had the name, "Take Me Out"
And I played it so loud that I oft had to shout.

I had doubts this would fly but I gave it my best
They were trained dawn to dusk before taking a rest
By and by they showed signs of acquiring a skill
I was able to share by sheer force of my will.

After seven long years of refining our act
I was ready to prove that my mind hadn't cracked
And we sold out the halls where we put on the show
The details of which none of you'll ever know.