Commissions Poems | Examples

Felix Culpa

Yahweh’s image! The crown of creation!
Got lured by the snake's words of elation
Did Adam and Eve wish to test their might?
Who deprived them of the angelic light?

Soon, omissions and commissions juggled.
To earn their living, each being struggled.
Friends became foes. Siblings became strangers.
Each day dawned with life-threatening dangers.

The prophets, saints, and martyrs came to save
And lead them far from the brinks of the grave.
Weren't these ways paved for the incarnation?
To cause, here on earth, true transformation?

not really a poem more like commissions

so like i make any poems if you pay enough $10 for a short poem  $15 for a normal poem $20 for a long poem all usd if you cant make the usd we can negotiate a price it may seem expensive but i assure you if you dont like it you get your money back but you must tell me within 5 days i am a student published poet in the book rambunctious press twice my cashapp is $KrinArtComs1 if you have any questions comment dm me or reach me through my gmail which  is robert12345me@gmail.com

Sipping Tea at a Brothel

He pays.
He leaves.

And she bleeds quietly.



Some come for release,

others for control.

Some come to forget.

Some to remember.

Some to be punished.

Some just come because it’s cheap.



It's sin.

It’s not sin.

It’s survival.

It’s escape.

It’s addiction.

It’s barter.

It's bargain.

It's need.

It’s ritual.



Here, bodies are commodities.

Sold by the hour.

Measured by the weight, age and colour of the skin,

freshness of smile,

limpness of resistance.



It is commercialisation of desire

wrapped in lace,

sold in whispers,

shared in commissions, 

paid in bribes,

cashed in tips.



She lets strangers 

from the corridor of silence 

enter in the dark...

Screeching beds, 

sweat,

blood and tears - at times

between pain, pleasure and numbness... 

He comes. He goes.

But the scent lingers around like emptiness. 

The curtain falls, when the last man zips,

And I lay my teacup after that last sip...

Divine Madness

Euphoric, I rush to you, Lord, unaware I'm naked.
In your presence, my physique and psyche are elated
On my way, I trampled them—thus my kith and kin complained.
In my mad, single-minded pursuit, had I gone harebrained?

Am I a rebel that I've given up all social norms?
Drunk with your thoughts, have I forgotten all gregarious forms?
My home and all within it, seem to me nonexistent.
In my sleeping and waking I've become inconsistent.

I'm filled with hallucinations of heaven day and night.
With devils and furnaces, in my nightmares, I often fight.
I feel your Spirit flowing like a stream and washing me.
From my sins of commissions and omissions, I rise free

Transcending each mundane infinitesimal dharma
That fetters me in a birth-rebirth cycle of Karma.
Like a mad mullah or like a crazy priest of Allah
In each drama, am I not seeking you, the Param Brahma?

Sins

~ ‘Tis through God’s grace we're able to withstand
inane commissions of the human mind. 
We question why, but never understand,
then search for answers that we’ll never find.
  We scan our thoughts where evil bides within
and wonder where inside our goodness dwells.
We search in vain for causes of our sin
and pray to God divinity prevails.
  To reason why is but a conscious fault
that binds our scruples to a moral heart.
Though questions why forever will be sought
thus, never letting clarity impart.
   Be not dismayed, the answer is at hand,
     as innocence receives the mark of man.

Commissioners

Nigh fusions are a happenance
I prefer the stalks shadows of the day
Infinity has a way of peering
tomorrows living for a  thrill

Who light the leitmotif
and bonfire my words
Or should I search for an island
to gaze at a cave?

Wherewithals all lustre
scratch holes in my words
A house without a dream
ran naked through the plains

Romeo is lost
Juliet leans closer
Spinoza doffs another theorem
Nature plays trumps
commissions bleed into tweed

Margin of Error

Margin of Error

By Mark D. Stucky
If, statistically, Adam and Eve
hadn’t exceeded Eden’s margin of error,
would lambs now be lounging with lions?
Would toothy T-Rexes have been vegan?
Would we love our neighbors and enemies
as we love our less-than-perfect selves?
Would we make war no more
and have peace on earth?

But, certainly, mistakes were made!
And now, we should wherever possible
correct for past and future errors,
across centuries of commissions and omissions.
Like the trembling woman sprawled in the dust,
“go and sin no more” is also meant for us.


(First published in Agape Review, 29 May 2022. See also my poems “Words in the Wind” and “Hate Vacuuming?”)

(Image by Engin_Akyurt on Pixabay.com.)

Boss Called Me Dumb In 1984

I could not resist screaming and yelling at my highest level.
I have never been this out of control.
My husband heard about it at lunch.
And he works in another department
I was shrieking so loudly, and yelling the F word all over the place.
The other stockbrokers looks scared
As if they had never heard or used that word.
I was throwing things into my briefcase as I screeched.
The head of the department did not know that calling me dumb
Is something that I do not tolerate.
Especially since he was getting commissions off my commissions.
This was 1984, and I have never forgotten it.
I have tried to forget my behavior,
but that is something I may never forget.
I do not believe you will ever come back, my husband said.
Bingo.

Wind Up Humanism

Realm of humankind wheedled in reset,
Homeland beray, lull to beset, 

Scrawling the parchment to a keyset,
Xenophobia in callousness, 
Dearth to darn the clout concord. 

Orness synergy alliance the terrene.
Berth errand the rassle office,
Commissions detach the hassle orifice... 

Pensile the ensile spirits,
Circumscissile recoiled resiliency, 
Nuanced tensile expansionism... 

Normalise a new normal,
Order the prime heart to bloom,
Taper our united dreg to blossom... 

Blight in frights, 
Dight the twinight against any affright,
Infinity within.

The Story of a Private Teacher

A teacher is a creature
Whose life a miniature
Those who follows the management culture
At last the management becomes a vulture

Teacher have to do the job 
It's as a sales executive bob
To make students to buy the books
Else their salaries will be tied to hooks

Teacher have to do admissions
To get the commissions
Teachers who gets more admissions
Will get more promotions

Teacher have to do their jobs other than to educate
Which will make the private schools to inculcate
To make huge profits they slaughter the teachers
But they will provide slighter salaries to the teachers

This is what happens to a teacher tobe degrade
That makes the schools profits to an upgrade
That's the reason a teacher is a scapegoat
Where he cannot effort a goat.

Admirable a B Owl

That is Admirable A.B. Owl to you the man said.
Buckets of medals must have gone straight to his head.
The rest of us rolled our eyes behind his arrogant back.
We were privates and sergeants, his experience we lack.

However, we know that the little guy is an owl too.
We are kind and respectful. Our commissions long overdue.
The witches are coming to inspect us in a minute for their force.
We are trying to look grown, but we are only eighteen of course.

On Halloween night I expect you to all to snap to attention,
Admirable A.B. Owl said, without a second of dissention.
We all knew the rules, but we kept our beaks shut.
We did not want to get relegated to the solitary hut.

The goblins may come with an owl – one or two.
They like to play tricks but here’s what we’ll do.
We’ll ignore their antics, and not act like we care.
Hey! They are coming right now, flying into our air.

We were gob smacked at how fast these entities flew in.
One of the witch grazed me hard on the ear and the chin.
I let out a wail that was loud as all sin.
That will be a thousand pushups the Admiral said without grin.

Comparisons

People aren't perfect, for sure this is true.
They don't always do what they say they will do.

By the same token they often aren't guilty,
Of commissions, omissions that some will deem filthy.

Nefarious crimes, using darkness for cover,
Lest someone find out and all is discovered.

While often it's true not all are trustworthy,
It just isn't fair to be in a hurry,

To lump all in together and say there you are,
One's as bad as another, the fruit don't fall far.

Common sense tells us in some situations,
Most mistakes are made with the bet of intentions.

Don't be too quick to be judging your neighbor,
For sure some day you may need his favor.

Decide for yourself what works for you,
And don't criticize what your neighbor will do.

No one does anything the same way as you,
And the truth to be told you don't want them to.

It's rare that you'll find one exactly like you.
A soul mate, a brother, the same through and through.

Most people are different, not exactly the same,
'Cause individuality is the name of the game.

The Zen Sprit of True Love Or What Is Love Part Two

the one walks out 
of your dreams
and into your life
becoming your wife
my wife one day
was berating me 
for all my myriad faults
all my sins against her
my omissions and commissions
malfeasance and misfeasance 
things I had done
and things i had failed to do
all of which I acknowledge
and apologized for

and apologized for
but finally I had enough
I said 
well if I am so bad
so horrible
so evil a creature
and a person you hate 
so much 
why the hell did you marry me
she laughed 
temporarly insanity
and I am still insane
twenty five years later
we both laughed

we both laughed 
and fell in love 
again
as always 
we fall in love
with each other 
every day
every moment
every second
it dawned on me
I had the answer to the question
and that my friends 
is the true unknowable madness 
the true zen spirit of love

see part one for Author note

Freudiana

Freudiana

Famous poet Barclay Cruse
curent toast of New York salons
wears tinted glasses and Italian shoes
and composes doggerel for subway johns.

Acclaimed a purist by his colleagues
hard-edge painter Geoffrey Pyle
earned during Summers spent at Antibes
covert commissions from Armstrong Tile.

Junk sculptor Cranston Bold
collects mufflers and I'm told
often edits his creations
to fix his Chevy station wagon.

Cordell composes way-out music
quartets for flute and flushing toilets.
His father was a music critic
and caned him with his clarinet.

Shepherds of Words

The poet enjoys driving words...
like shepherds move sheep in their herds.
Directs here or there,
but always with flair,
rounds up with long chases, then girds,

those words that are well-chosen ones.
With pen, like a staff, commissions
the best of the best
to pass judgment test...
and turn out a poem that stuns.


Sandra M. Haight

~3rd Place~
For Contest, "Limericks," sponsored by Joseph May
Judged: 01/06/2019

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