Best Obligate Poems
The long, green tail twitching on the kitchen floor
Fills me with disgust, so I throw it outside.
I'm aware that my obligate carnivore
Has a secret that she disdains to confide.
The cat grabbed the lizard while crouched in the shade.
She enjoyed a meal of reptilian feast,
Yet she kept the tail, brought in to be displayed.
My sweet, cuddly cat, my predatory beast.
Morning coffee, read the paper, brush your teeth and make the bed
Start the car up, drive to work with endless chatter in your head.
Rhythm’s just a decoy, really, structure faked for social poise
Must pretend, must feign an interest. Wouldn’t want to lose the toys.
Just ignore the yearning, silly, only fools have dreams these days.
Shoulder to the grindstone, Buster, don’t you know what really pays?
Over obligate yourself then hurry to the next event.
Don’t take time for introspection, musings never paid the rent.
Reinforcing concrete walls with rebar to protect from storms.
Cyclones of emotion dashed to bits before reaction forms.
Hold her steady, make the grade, ignore distractions, toe the line
Numbness is a good sign, keep it up and soon you’ll be just fine.
Can’t afford admission to tonight’s seductive shadow play.
Vulnerability and nakedness too high a price to pay.
Courage is for sissies, only children should be reckoned tears.
Safest bet’s to keep pretending that you’ve conquered all your fears.
Genuinely!
I've not been the most frequent on this pen
But there are men and women, boys and girls
That have used it to walk on the shores of emotions,
Showing conviction to inspire an evolution
Using Compiling lines that demand admiration
Making this art beautiful and thought provoking
Invoking sensations of humor, love, sorrow, inspiration
They have gone the extra mile
Moving people and spreading innovations
Poets are philosophers
Campaigners of a world controlled by the mind
Creators of nations where reasons and feelings are combined
Inventors of spheres where dictions and connotations are aligned
In the only art form that knows how: Poetry
It's a lubrication to our souls
A beeline route to the heart
It's array of imaginations obligate consciousness
With verses of heavenly adoration
Poetry push motivation into dying bodies
Like doctors healing patients on life support
Conveyed through comedy or romance, activism or insight
Just the right words in just the right ways turn poems into vitamins
nourishing our fading bodies with endless possibilities
By connecting ink to paper
Poets through poems
Highlights the most extraordinary factors of life
Into the most ordinary style possible
The raw use of vernacular makes this art spectacular
They're ideas without frontiers
Lines fused to mold our dreams into entities
Verses and imagery construct poems into precisely powerful printings
That have touched so many lives
Having the greatest effect on me
And this is Phenomenal!
When writing righting poetry proceed with the following corporeal caution:
assimilate before u ass assume
build before u buldge
concentrate before u copulate
deride before u dicktate
engulf before u envelop
fantasize before u fragment
grasp before u germinate
hallicunate before u hypocrate
imagine before u initiate
juxtapose before u jauntilate
literate before u luminate
memorate before u mentorate
nuture before u negate
obligate before u obliviate
postulate before u prostitiute
question before u query
resonnate before u recreate
sonitate before u saturate
tintilate before u translate
utililize before
Xpectorate before u Xstinguish
yuletides before u yelltides
zoneify before u zilchify
it's all in the mission of word wise portrayl
of a mindful sour sequence of alphabet
anomalies grammar given and humoheld in
a grand garnered elementary entrailed
existance teacher tilt trended to a
mellow mystic grandeur of let me be me in a time
when I/me was a boring blend of boyish bother
to all around me and time spent was to inculcate
myself into an artsyfartsy minimammal of intertwined
mealymouthed measure of pre white trash tinsure
trying to find the holy grail of boyhood benign banality trying
not to succomb to impregnating my 8th grade girlfriend
with streetsmart gonadial groovy greatness guided by degraded
inacquaricies from a teen trotting hormonal hack brother
who lived his life between the legs of others. (No father included)
I savored the insanctity of him and kept it in my pants until further notice
and then had to be coaxed agressively upon annointment after marriages
annoyed. I then procreated to a purposepoint proper designated to
choicechosing the astrosign compaticosimco with the signs at mind, and
holy fecal matter, it worked wised with wanton willfuness,
thank God for 911 and. Save me Jesus.
I have wandered into a human stew of inopportunity, as my marriage/love/parental life have all come to an abrupt closure, noncompliance and final withdrawal from any real meaning. Am I dead yet? Not necessarily, but it seems that entity is not so remotely absent from my thoughts, as it once was given the supposed social tenure of our powers to control our nature, so now it seems "stupid" to even begin to engage a strategy, plan, answer to reclaim that "Lost Horizon" that will put me, us back into a Nirvanal state of eloquent bliss so aptly stated in the substantive, ****, vows we still take when we engage, marry, obligate, consumate, consecrate, and you know the rest. Grandchildren as quickly as possible. Forget the "Happy Couple" and all of their existance desires/wants/needs. Thank u socialization/domestication for ruining the fertile pastures of real love and affection. Feed the economy, we need workers/bosses, CEO's, sell, buy everything, produce, produce and produce. Keep us ever informed with all the trinkets which keep us isloated, unemotional and spur inhumanity to all that terse that tricky transient torment of T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z bytes, or in whatever compuscale u eat, that only serves to further the noncommunication life of our species. I only exist within myself in this space. Are my thoughts my own or just a reflection of what I receive? Do I exist? When I answer, am I being true or is it a stated recording of past sequences that are familiar in a patterened sense of my former being? My salience, remorse, continued presence upon this Earth is at best questionable? Meaningless? For me, the current standards of being have become to contentious; the stupidity, too overwhelming; the ignorance, too unbearable; the incompetence/divisiveness/poor judgement/antiquated/uneducated thinking/acting/feeling, our illustrious president, his supporters, henchmen, cronies, nepotism, DFA and their anything-but-a proactive approach to problem solving for the benefit of us all, leaves me in a lackluster quandry of whether, "To Be Or Not To Be? Believe me baby, that is MY question! My God, and I am not a religious person, but in the fin al analysis, you will reap what you sow!!!!!!!!! And I will laugh. I like "mushrooms" with my atomic grilled steak. No waiting.
Ah, the middle age where I
Can find excuse. No one now
Will test me to ride the wild horse.
No one will offer the fat udder
For the order of disciples.
No one will expect that I
Should leave my seat and stir
The hissing embers.
Ah, the middle age where I
Can heal from inflicted justice.
No one now will place my weight
On the several social scales.
No one now will sniff my excrement
And be duly appalled,
Nor will they obligate
With tears and flowers.
The ancients honored you in their cultures
Mythology crowned Jataya, King Of Vultures
Obligate scavengers, you conduct your foray
Toward putrid carcass of what will be your prey
Dead bodies, prairie dogs, rodents, wild boars
Insatiable eclectic pallet opens many doors
Vomit, your defense, your uric acid searing
Hunched backbone, broadened wingspan so fearing
Here they soar, the vultures who seldom kill
Just scouting about for their carrion meal
Route of All Evil
Don't like being late
Pay my bills hate to wait
Which they obligate.
Must be better way
For my bills having to pay
I have day by day.
Heard some people shout
What we want is a handout
Will no longer pout.
Now can pay my bills
Even throw in a few thrills
They added welfare.
Was it really fair
No one no longer does care
Hard for them to bare.
Many moan and groan
We want to be left alone
Have job of their own.
To straighten out mess
Relieving all of the stress
Put on a new dress.
Evil has a root
When you will wear a pantsuit
Even if old coot.
She had been hell bent
On being next President
God to us had sent.
Had all of her charms
When welcomed with open arms
We do with school marms.
This whole thing ought to
Prove to be quite interesting
With Bill in the wings.
Ho Ho Jim Horn
Early Morning
I wish to capture in some way,
With words, the ineffable
Images, and sounds of quiet,
In a time without man sounds.
Early morning awakened by
The first glimmer of orange red
As it begins to rise phoenix like
Across the lake.
Incongruous images blended together,
deck railing covered with
beach towels, swim suits, life jackets.
Sandals with the obligate passengers of sand.
Cool, windless, no sound
of noise, except the
Bountiful nature noise
That exists in my silence.
Conversations of squirrels
As they sit sending their messages
From the high floating needle fingers of white pines.
The subtle whir, phantom like,
of ruby breasted humming birds
At the feeder, jockeying for position.
Persistent bird songs,
Celebrating, welcoming,
And then the exploring pileated wood pecker
On pine overgrown, over ripe.
Nothing moves except the cacophony of sounds.
No requirement to categorize each sound,
Only to listen to the sibilant blend,
and record in your mind the palette of colors
That surround you, the palette of sounds.
House quiet within-as is the
Glassy lake with mist rising,
Ephemeral gauzy, translucent.
The orchestral sounds of silence
Play out against the rising orb.
In its rising, the silhouette fills out,
Mists rising within its climb.
Now a brilliant blaze
of focused energy with a yellow shell,
Then a ball of incandescent light, searing to behold,
Incandescent memories.
May 2, 2021
Hand Stand
Thumb Works With Digits to Grasp,
Beholding the Design Makes Me Gasp,
Quite Beholding a Tool Like a Jeweler Hasp.
Each Body Member Complex Beyond,
What We Take for Granted, Look Again, A Second,
All Our Meant Equipment Causes One to Reckon.
How to Best Test Them? What Destiny is Intended?
Fine Embroidery, Often Torn, Neglected & Ended,
But By Threading Our Thoughts, The Tapestry Mended.
"Mens Et Manus", "Mind & Hand" is the Motto,
Raised in Oath, Firm Handshake, Grip is a Mystical Grotto,
Nail Artistry, Knuckle Cracking, Covering Mouth Sotto.
Palm Reading, Dr. Spock "Veeing", "Cabbala-ing",
Counting on 5, Also the Number of Moshiach Meaning,
Clapping, Waving, Fingerprinting, For Wall Leaning.
Weighing, Temperature or Softness Knowing,
Sign Language Sharing, Aiming in Baseball Throwing,
Expressing Warning, Card Dealing, Oar Rowing.
"Handle" Means Your Treatment: Care or Rarely Scare,
Fingers Raised in "Hurrah" or "Get Lost!" A Sure Stare,
"Hi!", "Five High!", "Power!" or Something Rare.
Write!, Play Music!, Hold Hands!, Heal the Sick!,
Juggle!, Amaze With Card Sleight of Hand!, But Be Quick,
"Time's Wasting!" Life's Brief, "In Time of a Finger Lick!"
Such a Purposeful Gift Perhaps Can Obligate,
Not "Hands in Pockets" But Act, Good Works Create,
Fashion One's Term Here on Earth Articulate!
are you afraid of love
or are you just afraid of my love?
please do not be frightened
my love will not choke or bind you in any way
it will bring you warm when you are cold
and companionship when you are lonely
my love will bring smiles to brighten all your days inter and understanding when you are sad inter I will not obligate you to come to see me everyday or to call me every night inter my love will give you all these things asking only that wherever you go and whatever you do you will hold me in your heart knowing that when you return I will be here only to make you happy
I'm not begging you to love me
I'm not really even asking you to
but isn't it alright if I cherish that hope in my heart
if I dream of just holding your hand it will hurt me not you
I will try to keep my eyes from shining when I see you and I promise I will try not to smile a special smile when you say hello
but please don't ask me not to love you for that is something I cannot do
Simple is the crux of good design
Yet complexity is the path
One must follow to start with.
Only then is revealed
How to simplify,
Stripping away
The padding
To gist,
Crux
------------------
21 April 2017
What is a mother? Is it birth?
In a way, for that is the Earth,
the need to seed, to procreate
that is, our natures obligate.
Is that a mother’s duties done;
that’s all. I’m through. I have a son.
It was and is, and was again,
ignorant to the silent pain;
never knew quite how to mother;
left it to a father’s other;
appearing now and then through years,
a hand held out, an eye of tears.
You gave him life; he buried you
It’s what a son and mother do;
and all that lay between those two
are things you missed and never knew.
Mediation
I wish to capture in some way
With words, the ineffable
Images, and sounds of quiet,
In a time without man sounds.
Early morning awakened by
The first glimmer of orange red
As it begins to rise phoenix like
Across the lake.
Incongruous images blended together,
deck railing covered with
beach towels, swim suits, life jackets,
Sandals with the obligate passengers of sand.
Cool, windless, no sound
of noise except the
Bountiful nature noise
That exists in my silence.
Conversations of squirrels
As they sit sending their messages
From the high floating needle fingers
of white pines.
The subtle whir, phantom like,
of ruby breasted humming birds
At the feeder jockeying for position.
Persistent bird songs
Celebrating, welcoming,
And then the exploring pileated wood pecker
On pine overgrown, over ripe.
House quiet within-as is
The glassy lake with mist rising,
Ephemeral gauzy, translucent.
The orchestral sounds of silence
Play out against the rising orb.
In its rising, the silhouette fills out
Mists rising within its climb.
Now a brilliant blaze of
focused energy with a yellow shell,
A ball of incandescent light, searing to behold,
Incandescent memories.
If you don't want a man to lie,
don't obligate him to reply.
Volodymyr Knyr
2014