Best Cockiness Poems
It either kills the person or gives them glory.
It has it’s own life and demands territory.
It is one of the seven most deadly sins.
Be very careful because it could make your life end.
It is the contrast of real inner strength.
It has a unforgettable smell with a stench.
Pride generates vanity and humility.
It reminds me of a Greek tragedy.
With that in mind I remain humble and meek.
But are proud men considered weak?
In a lot of religions pride is definitely forbidden.
It is a mask behind which low self-esteem are hidden.
Pride makes you unable to listen to others or to God's messages.
Some people have cockiness with smuggness as their self-righteousness.
They soon deny about having problems.
But by being so hardheaded and stubborn they can never solve them.
They need to shed their masks, which covers low self-esteem, a lack of self-
confidence, and a sense of insecurity.
Seek God and keep Jesus in your life to make you happy.
"Blessed is that man that makes the Lord his trust, and looks not to the proud,
nor to those that turn aside to lies." (Psalm 40:4)
she’s a faithful friend
a mentor, a confidant
a trusted teacher
of poetry forms
loyal, loving me for me
with no conditions...
on one occasion
she set aside precious time
to study ALL of my work
yes, from first to last
offering kind opinions
on what she thought were my best...
she loathes the lazy
practice of copy/pasting
bland, boring comments
or: ‘Nice work! Love it! Congrats!’
(short but not so very sweet)
enough already!
she’s funny and fun
honorable and honest
sometimes brutally...
(she knows I need it)
confidence sans cockiness
now THAT’S a lady...
8/14/2014
What did you do to be so tired,
You are to young, why aren't you awake all wired?
Is it because you weren't good at your job, and got fired?
So sad, here's something that will leave you inspired.
Get some sleep and wake up real early,
Especially if you were out last night all surly.
You don't want your brain to become all curly
Hibernation in fact too becoming all burly.
Laziness isn't the factor right here
It's cockiness and attitude adjustments, no fear.
Be sincere with all that you do,
Consider the other option of darkness subdued.
Through Their Eyes (originally "Just Desserts for Rats")
Still touching the hilt of the sword, she declares,
“No fencing for HIM at the end of the month. His pastime is so bloody boring!”
The mouse in her house regards her with cockiness from underneath a chair.
“Yeah, BEN, my FRIEND, I’m talking to YOU.” She returns the mouse's stare.
“And you sure do make a racket at night down here on this kitchen flooring!”
The ashes she flicks from her cigarette fall soundlessly to the tiles.
She casually leafs through a travel brochure, then looks over at “Ben.”
“Yeah, that husband of mine sure thought he could fool me,
but he’ll never try that again.”
She fixes her gaze on Ben’s beady eyes; then back on the pages and smiles.
The names of rendezvous spots of her husband she’d got
from a slime ball she’d hired to sleuth.
“He did a good job, that big tub of lard. Yes, I do have to give him that,
but he sure knew how to give me the creeps with his body all sweaty and fat.”
She puts some milk on sweet rice in a bowl. “I only wanted the truth.
Cat got your tongue? Too bad there’s no cat. I’d love to see you swallowed.”
The mouse doesn’t flinch.
Now she looks down at a pile of the sleuth’s photographs.
“This first batch of photos wasn’t so hot.” She turns to the rodent and laughs.
“But this second group. . . .Every cent was well-spent
to have that bastard followed!”
She puts the rice pudding with milk on the floor near a form centered there
and stoops as she pours from a bottle marked “poison”
its contents into the bowl. Leaning down by the shape on the floor,
she says, “Soon you‘ll have Ben‘s company.”
And then to the mouse: “ Come here, little rat, come eat till you’re full.”
Then grabbing her bags pre-packed for Australia,
she kicks at the corpse on the floor so carefully centered -
kicks right at the spot where, by her hand, the sword so easily entered.
Written 8/18/2012
Peter Pan? He is nothing but a tale drawn out,
a hero of half-truths, drowned in fairy dust,
the dullest side of a double-edged sword.
Before my time lost its salt,
before the boards of this ship were
chapped, split with oceans breath,
before my features grew distinct with age,
a treasure map, carved and creased,
I found myself in Neverland,
as the first dear friend of Peter Pan.
His mind, repressed by the adventures of youth,
has forgotten how young I once was.
Even wiser pirates such as myself
must work to picture a single moment.
Its the sea that causes it,
as time curls and crashes like waves
against toothy rocks,
small histories are bound to vanish.
Yet, in my steely snare, just one memory remains:
When Peter called me James.
The roads we drew in play led us to water,
and how empty we found it!
A voyage was our grandest idea.
In agreement we labored,
drew up clean sails, lacquered lumber.
Christened with a sailors poison,
the Jolly Roger in its finest form!
We followed the arms and legs of rivers,
watching as they became larger bodies,
waters unconquered, unkinged.
My calloused hand brushed the helm,
Peter drew his sword,
mortally pressing its edge to my throat.
You or me, James, he said,
to be a captain or a codfish!
With a smug grin he pounced,
cleaving the air with great circles,
the sharp clanging of metal rang in the mist like bells.
My brow so pinched in focus, first wrinkles formed,
til at last, my blade struck his side.
Peter fell, outdone.
Your cockiness has left you bleeding.
With my hand held out,
his eyes grew bright and bursting like broken stars.
With a smile wild and white, he let out a powerful crow:
Aye, but I’m a clever doodle-doo!
Another crow, he dove at the hand that bested him.
A pain, a demon, a hell!
Honest blood from my moral flesh.
A black pain shook my blackening soul,
As I watched a crocodile feast on the gift
God had meant for my own purposes.
Peter crowed once more.
I watched as he flew on,
his blood dripping into my ocean,
my kingdom!
May this Jolly Roger forever tread
upon the waves of a crowing cowards blood.
I accept the role of villain,
the rival of the wondrous, flying boy,
but may you never forget who won the sea,
and who it is the codfish, be.
Recently, I thought upon the story of Jesus and his disciples having their Last Supper together. I considered the fact that there were few food items with which to part take. Or were there? For example, just to name a few, there was the bread, the water, and the wine; there seems to be no record of any other foods present. Or were there? There were other types of non physical food items present; the kind that does not enter via the mouth. For example, love, tenderness, and compassion were very present. Should I even mention that there was The Presence of The Almighty God wrapped in human flesh and speaking of how much he appreciated having a meal with his disciples?
Moreover, there was also selfishness with a topping of desires to be the greatest. There was a 'power struggle' between his disciples at the divine table of God. There was the 'love of money' saturated with greed; and so obvious to everyone, there was an overflowing of over confidence and down right cockiness.
'Servant hood', although not a very desirable and tasty item, was also a highly present entree. It moves me to tears to think upon the vast menu and entree at God's table. However, I am forced to choose only one entree for this Divine purpose. My taste buds gravitate toward 'the entree of service'. I must confess that this taste bud is not a 'natural one', but one obtained by observing the "Master Server" who said, "I am among you as one who serves". Lk. 22:7
We are programed by nature with a desire to be served. A baby is born with an attitude that does not ask, "May I help you please?" On the contrary, it seems to come with a list of demands like, "I want food, and I want it now!" Nothing is wrong with the baby. It's just the way we are born into this world.
Let me suggest that when we gather as family and friends for dinner this Easter, let there be something on the table more than ham and roast and a host of other delicious foods. let's open our spiritual eyes a little bit wider. I think that we will notice the Christ, not only serving up the 'Bread of Life" and saying, "Let Me Serve You", but He would be inviting us to join him in 'serving one another'.
04152017 cj PS
New England's post election trees
shed a few teary waving leaves.
Morning sky tries to shine resilience
yet lingers in ominous grey overcast
of silent waiting through despair.
In Michigan and Wisconsin and Pennsylvania
tens of thousands of mothers
who cherish their daughters
are beating themselves up about yesterday;
longing for a do-over
to avoid confidence in false predictions
of safely voting their libertarian ecoconsciousness,
or too quietly staying home
to rake falling fertile leaves.
Failing leaves feel their personal mortality,
too old, over-extended, to survive another bitter winter
of expatriation
while maternal nurturing root systems survive through hibernation,
deeply embedding in Earth's nutritional compost
of yeasty faith,
waiting for another Advent ecopolitical Season.
Not a branch,
not even a twig stirs from frosty lethargy
wondering Why?
Why would we decide slavery must be illegal
because immoral
yet sexual and capital and incorporated predation
remains legally and morally ambiguous,
as if wealth of male supremacist nobility
were God's full harvest of regenerative moral gifts,
excusing by betraying grace
this fortunate entitlement
of LeftBrain enduring cockiness
to welcome winter's misery,
Earth's hiatus from integrally nurturing ecology.
Hiding even the sun's radiant morning glory
from disunited piles of leaving ballots
already preparing to fertilize richer soils
in four more autumnal climate years.
All today I had the blues
Because I listened to the news,
Learning Iowans did choose
Not Trump or Rubio, but Cruz.
This candidate does not amuse.
His cockiness just seems to ooze
From all his pores and in reviews,
His own Grand Party can’t enthuse.
It seems he likes to put the screws
On fellow pols, who can’t excuse
The vitriol he likes to use
When his agenda he pursues.
In the end, I must effuse –
Oh, Mr. Cruz, I hope you lose!
Fellow African-Americans Please Don't Get Offended...This Is Purely Fictional
...Sitting comfortably in the shade, I'm trying to relax
Muscles aching from whipping 20 blacks on their backs
Teach them White Power
For the last 2 hours
Had to get some air because the stench of them is sour
I could offer them a bath, but they don't deserve one
They disobey, get bathed with bullets from a shot-gun
Exactly how the world should be, the Colored are slaves
They won't dare run away, who's that brave
This world ran by Whites
Other races have no rights
No disputes, disagreements, arguments, no fights
We spit on them for slacking on the job
Teasing them with a fishing hook in hand, on the end is a corn on the cob
We should start a revolution, the KKK
Is the force necessary, we have control of the blacks anyway
The Ku Klux Klan, yea, the name sounds good to me
Told mother the Lord put slaves on this Earth for you and me
Hear their screeches in the air
I don't even care
Killing their families because of complexion, is that fair?
Of course it is, because we thrive in segregation
Kill em without hesitation
Raping the pretty black girls so I don't need masturbation
The ones that dare be rebellious, we lynch them, hang them from trees
We are the Masters we love to be pleased
Like bringing the colored on ships from across the waters
The joy and pleasure of seperating mothers, fathers, and daughters
If we have a bad day, we can just line their tails up for slaughter
Give them food, why even bother?
Nickname them raccoons
It gives me giggles to know some will die from starvation soon
Ruthless brutality
Make them feel reality
Cold-hearted and merciless
For these raccons we are love-less
Helter Skelter is what I follow
Which is more than our motto
It's a way of life
So I grab my knife
Cockiness engulfs me as I approach a coon's wife
To me she kinda purty
My wife is gonna hurt me
I touch her left arm, she swung the shovel
I got a scrape
Should I rape her, I have a better idea instead...
(Rip) Off with her head
From the traces of Amelia Earhart
Her roots We could be tying
Considering how she had
Mastered "the Art of Flying"
So naturally doing her Snap rolls
The way a Computer geek
On the Internet, does his scrolls
Soaring through thin air
About the Earth's equator
Using her woman's intuition
To be her navigator
Knowing by heart, all the dangers
Of taking such a risk
Believing, solely, within herself
That "People are only killed by Cockiness"
Despite, how Our courageous Amelia
Had cold disappeared
Was Nancy still fascinated
Feeling worse things to have feared
Like being made to stay from
The one thing she did desire
Recalling how Confidants
Tried to convince her to retire
Although, She would Never give up
The freedom of flying her XL 300 Plane
Pressing on, with A sunny disposition
Ignoring the possiblities of there being rain
Because she had a "rep to protect"
Being a Stunt Pilot, Nationally known
Becoming right before Our very eyes
A legend to her death tragically flown
Upon "staying the course"
Like the crew of Colmbia Seven
Looking to defeat all odds
Getting lost between earth and heaven
Putting a damper on her plans
For futhering her flight thru the friendly skies
Except in the Spirit, appearing as a Cloud of Smoke
From which We choke in between the Cries
Time: the biggest landlord
At whose feet kings and queens bow
Cockiness and stubborn they can ill afford
When time wipes vanity and sagacity from their brow
In consonance with the mandate
Bestowed on time from on high
As no other candidate
Dares to ply
The trade in enthralling beauty
That leaves onlookers out of breath
The next moment, time being naughty
Crumples a hexing face implanting dearth
Of supple skin, agile gait
While time grows on a souse a protruding paunch
Signaling the haste
Time employs to launch
An assault on the juvenile
Appearance time lends to youth
Only to metamorphose a once sprightly body into a senile
Bundle of misshapen blob sometimes polite, sometimes uncouth
As time mounts a punishing foray
To age cells, weaken tissues, disorganize organs
Derange systems and diminish the ray
Hope plants as a hurdle to purloin guns
Time deploys in its onslaught
Against lifecycles
Although believers plot
To summon miracles
To plead with time
Begging time to slow down ravages
Inflicted on the lime
Souls scramble to sneak into garages
Where time assembles its tanks
Armoured vehicles, jeeps
To devastate life in all its flanks
Despite pusillanimous whips
Life gathers
In the face of superior savvy and guile
Time employs as it smothers
Life’s feeble riposte through its rank and file.
glancing at thee beautiful doll female human,
an aggregate of positivity arose. That four
tut hood toward slender youthful looking chica
figuratively took my breath away. She galore
re: us lee ranked topnotch on my register
of aesthetic delight. Thus, while this jackfrosted hoar
frosted flake ambled up and down aisles,
an aim sought to relay pleasant physiology while Igor
Stravinsky – Flight of the Bumblebee buzz
within every square inch of my anatomy bon jour
quivered with cockiness, covetousness,
and craveness without resorting to Dumble Da lore
for guidance, hence indecorous, impetuous,
or idolatrousness loosed rampant as more
consideration asper jimmying bold, daring do
hounded (Lo and Behold) luck did not ig nor.
A nod in answer to prayer ready set terrific
wonderful chance arose pondering how to mine ore
and coax a major outcome addressing this ambition,
which unceasingly pecked, piqued, dirt poor
piss lee pricked thy noggin about sudden revelation
presence pretty lady Upon quor
tar number of minutes passed,
whereat her increasing proximity, an unflagging score
begging akin to patriotic duty and appeasement
sans uttering a compliment recognized roar
ring optimal (once in a solar eclipse) chance
to corral, field, and invoke latent obligation that tore
per regaling unknown xwoman a dollop gratutity.
Whether embarassment ensued possibly war
temporarily shunted aside, cuz if no propensity
to risk testing cab age comfort zones of yore
if awesome stroke ignored, a disappointment
toward self would manifest irking conscience.
For the rest of eternity. So without missing
a beat (and reckoning with nary a spare off fence
guess not to turnip ma nose), a apple lick able amicus
brief pickle this complimentary gents
dare devilishly egged, finessed, gambit regarding
how gorgeous (a veritable stranger) kents
humed and appealed to me, whence squashing
regret at a costly emotional ex pence.
WHOOF!
We are not all chasing our tails in the very same way
We are not all praying for the same thing every day
We are all just hopeful that he or she will come along
And we will find the embrace in which we belong
She’s chasing her tail with cockiness and guile
He’s using his witticisms and cogent smile
Other people use some subliminal style
While that one over there uses her tail to defile
There are people chasing their tails all around
And it’s discouraging not being aware to where you are bound
So we spin in circles getting to a place called “nowhere” with speed
All trying to get the satisfaction from someone else to fill our need
Our needs are invisible inside us but you can still see our tails
And some even resort to lies and deception when all else fails
As for me I’ve stopped chasing my tail and now simply chase peace
and if you ask me the cyber-deception should be sequestered and cease
(c) 2011....~free cee!~
A dysfunctional family
Always yelling
Fights breaking out
But there can be no telling
The mother sits
Acts as if nothing is going on
Watches blood spilt on the carpet
But the marriage goes on
The father is in it
Finds a reason to investigate
Shots questions off
And looks like an ape
The eldest has had his turn
Beating upon his brothers
Turned against him and gets into the brawl
Watching his blood spilt on the carpet
The step has his freedom
No blood, groubeatings
Watches from the sidelines
Glad to have his cockiness without anything
The next one down
Has seen his share of fights
No blood for him either
But some unnerving nights
The smallest has understood
But cannot decide what he should do
Does he go with standing up
Or go with the cockiness too
While the three yearn to yell
They cannot fore he is the only one they have
The mom is so happy and they will not yell
Secrets will come one day to tell the fights they gave
did you know that the first food & drink ever consumed on the moon was
the “communal wafer” & the prospective wine that goes with it?
did you know that buzz aldrin actually asked
NASA
control
if he could have a moment’s silence in order to take his
prepared “communion wafer & wine” before neil armstrong made his
first step out onto the surface of the moon?
please, take a moment,
all rational individuals in the room,
to have a seat---
for the stupidity may overwhelm even the strongest amongst us,
sending us hurling
into the walls,
head first.
let us offer up that
this was not
“one small step for man &
one giant leap for mankind,”
but rather one small step for one man
in a sequence of narrow-minded
itty-bitty steps,
which offered nothing but the assurance to him that
he was closer to the fictional creation
conjured up by delusional men in a desert
thousands of years ago
with nothing but time on their hands
and the sheer cockiness to assert
a way of life for
the rest of humanity
on the basis of one
poorly-written
book
which was edited & re-edited a million times over
to suit whatever maniac
acted as if this fictional character was behind themselves
100%
at any given time in history.
had buzz been a non-believer in anything but the
progress of humanity & the amazing
possibilities that came with such positive hopes for
our own betterment in the
NOW---
without tying all of his dreams to ulterior motive
through obligation to a book &
a cult of murderous, self-righteous, psychotics,
then perhaps our first steps might not have been
tainted
by the same disease that presently continues to
plague our species &
stand in the way of any real future
which we may have.