Long Cajoled Poems
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I began as a blue-eyed baby boy.
Taught to play with certain toys.
Through childhood my thoughts were formed.
My thinking was cajoled to be informed.
The thinking was that the box was safe.
Outside this box was an undiscovered dark cave.
Still I question and question. who am I?
Then they instilled fear about this thought, why?
Answers to questions came in like a flood.
I question anything and everything as I should.
The proverbial thinking box was just an illusion.
Suddenly, I become who I am through this confusion.
I respect others who have different perspectives.
Yet I see their fear and they could not be objective.
Over and over they tried to make me heel.
I turned from them and told them I will not kneel.
All false ideas and knowledge I know, begin to topple.
Now my pursuit of all knowledge and life is unstoppable.
Monseigneur Reygus Hameltus—defrocked priest and sorcerer of the black
arts; epiphany of evil and master of debauchery.
He looks among his minions with a grim bearded countenance
and piercing beady eyes with a distinct grimace of utter revulsion.
As the full moon rises and arches in the evening sky . . .
Reygus Hameltus menacingly stands by.
Once a famous devout and humble priest of medieval times,
he was a biblical scholar and factotum of great intellectuality.
His walk and conversion to the dark side
mirrored his frustration with God himself;
Reygus Hameltus felt that God had deserted him
and no longer cared to listen to him.
With this . . . and losing faith
he turned to the Devil, the ultimate corrupter of the human soul.
As the full moon rises and arches in the evening sky . . .
Reygus Hameltus menacingly stands by.
As Reygus Hameltus assumed his apostleship in evil,
every ounce of goodness and spiritual greatness
left his body and soul in good measure.
He murdered and raped, cajoled and lied,
and brought deception and reeked destruction
on all who crossed his path and his disciples no less.
As the full moon rises and arches in the evening sky . . .
Reygus Hameltus menacingly stands by.
But it should be said that all evil one day runs its course.
And when the good people of Montserrat fought back and answered in kind . . .
Monseigneur Reygus Hameltus — black arts sorcerer and his witches’ coven
suffered the eternal vengeance and wrath of God
and were banished to the Devil’s Kingdom forever—faraway from mankind!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved - August 13, 2014
(Free Verse)
Too much of badness..Like we know the drill.' It was rife in 2020, and applied by
Morons. To dil's.' Over-speak was full volume.' By media machines all lip gloss
And salad-tossed words; so serene.' You
Were coaxed and encouraged, and most
Un-dernourished' cajoled with free snacks
To sell out each other, the classic Jacob
And Esau brother act.' Scene of false narration; still
Are deep scars on our Nations.' Deception of the
Tounge, is how the rotten play was begun'
No free thought; or speech.? Its mal-direction, its the beginning of infections it
Will create sickeness and division, so make
The best decesion, choose clarity by intuition.' ben shapirio its so; no no..
As once any fourth grader..Would have made you know.' I thank God for mental
Immunity, for by His teachings I reject your
Nudge with unfiltered impunity.' No third way
No compliance; or fudge.)
My pet duck Stanley, boy what a pet is he
They say in a cave his echo, won’t come back to me
Now Stanley is not just a duck, he is special through and through
I am sure he could raise an echo not just for me, but you too…
The thing about ducks is, there is a myth
That in an echo chambers there not a whiff
Not a sight or sound of a duck's quack
When it quacks its loudest one, it doesn’t echo back…
Stanley, we taught him from a duckling how to swim,
He had a yellow string tied on to him
There were Pikes with big teeth in the place where he swam
We wanted to make him as safe as we can.
He learnt to quack whenever he was afraid
Because that’s what ducks do, that’s how they’re made
He is such a clever duck I can assure you of that
And I am sure if he quacks in a cave, his echo will come back.
Off to Wookey cave one day went we
Stanley sat quietly upon my knee
Into the dark and cavernous cave
Stanley waddled in, oh so clever, oh so brave…
To test the myth of a ducks quack having no echo
We needed Stanley to quack, and quack just so…
He turned and looked when I made the request
As if to say you are nuts - and that is at best…
Stanley would not, now, quack for me
He waddled on in and sat down so comfortably
I cajoled, I pleaded, I begged on my knees
Just one quack for me Stanley only one… please.
He tucked his head under his wing oh so white
I thought perhaps if I gave him a fright
I started to talk of duck fried and crispy
Or orange sauce pouring and lips smacking quickly…
Stanley turned and looked at me with disgust
He got up and waddled off, shaking the dust
I have never seen Stanley from that day to this
He never returned like the echoing myth…
If you see a white duck with a yellow string on his leg
Tell him to return home, unlike his echo… I said
I promise I will never try to test the quacking myth any more
I just want to see Stanley walk back through my door.
© ~GG~30/10/2102
"The Stories that Flow when Not Thinking"
Collaboration
in the corner
with poets
and lovers
well hidden
in the noise
of words
not said
mouths are
moving
not
speaking
minds
watch on
watching
stories
unravel
at the party
lines are drawn
the watcher
watches on
reads
between choices,
flowers
plucked from walls
freshly bending
inwards
where mouths
don’t speak at all
minds
plant another
language hypnotic
in bodies moving
Munch music
magnetised
the stories
that flow
when open
and not thinking
gardens tenderley
cajoled, tendered,
their Picasso Blues
heard
the gardener
like a
Chatterley
lover,
with no tongue
watches on
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
He wrote words that enticed her.
Whispered musings to seduce her.
Induced her body tingle without touch.
Cajoled her heart with sensual ink
He was half the world away, yet she felt him so close as
he connected with every part of her body, soul, heart and mind.
Every word was woven on her heart.
His elegant voice enchanted her,
vibrating every beat of her life.
Distance frustrated her soul,
as tears cleansed her pain each night.
He heard a knock on the door, there she was dressed in black.
Her aroma grabbed his senses, her secret smile left him helpless.
Eyes locked in serene silence,
he could hear her heart pulsating.
As he placed his palm on her cheek,
her whole body felt paralysed.
Heart shivered, body trembled as
he smoothly stroked her silky hair.
Tentitively his finger explored
her tender lucious virgin skin.
As their lips engaged, he inhaled
her fire, breathing her oxygen.
Finally tasting his beloved’s nectar,
Their eyes shut with ecstatic delirium.
Caressing every part of her body,
she no longer had any control,
as his passion cultivated her body.
Planting his seeds deep inside,
passionately she whispered his name,
as their bodies harvested,
merging deeper and faster,
with his tongue carving every inch
of her body like a chisel until
their volcanic desires erupted.
His words were now her reality, his embrace her sanctuary.
He held her tight, whispering promises to never let her go.
Silent One
Written 15 January 2016
Posted 9 February 2018
Pensively promended I, as impetuous as a poet
To accumulate few jocund inkling on dusk
For sure, not as a bard
But,as a novice to nature
Stalked I, bare-footed anigh lake
Jabbed some spines beneath my foot
Yon reconnoitred I, do any luminuous light clandestined in water?
Else, any celestial gem floats in lake?
Nay! it's the waxing moon in the sky
That seemed to tread on water.
Paddled I into the lake
To grab some pallied lillies
Hardly perceived I any bloomed one!
Had the lillies been sailed under false colour by moon?
I knew not their intrigue
Nor had I, prescient criteria
Chillness of water benumbed me
Retrieved I, as cool as a cucumber to the bank
Is this terra God's palette?
Obviously! nature is the art of God.
Dark grey was lake's scenario
Stood reeds augustly amidst the lake.
Casuarina broke into tumult
When the west wind passed adriftting it
Glow worms scattered round the bushes
Heard I, croaking of frogs.
I felt languished by chillness
That pierced my chest and nostrils
Homeward bound,strolled I
For I had been there behind my father's back.
As being benumbed by drastic cold
I was at the end of my tether.
Soon felt I, in the arms of Morpheus
On the grass, supine anigh lake
By morning, I began to fly off at a tangents
When an highland lass harped on my shoulder
I began to know the ropes of that wintry night
For it cajoled me to sleep resembling lullaby
No human hardly be preponderate
Than a mother and nature.
The milky morning’s Saturn haze
Haloed the sun’s neonate phase
Seize the warmth, Hail to The Light!
No waspish thoughts to sting nor bite
this soft and cheerful face.
Shades to shadows stir and shift
saddened loss is set adrift
Kissed by the morn, cajoled, embraced
To block the sun is vacuumed waste
over sad umbrella-ed minds.
Must feel the breeze, cherish the day
Won’t do to crawl an endless maze
Confined or caged by bars of love
clips wings from angels and doves
Freed, they find their way back Home to God.
Make no routine of daily blight
Self inflicted sores or tearing bites
We must assist the ones who’ve gone
and love by prayer is never wrong
A sacred sharing with The Lord.
The wordsmith toils over hot metal fonts in wellsprings
Struggling like a blacksmith to hone and shape
thoughts and images into typeface words and poems.
To conjure up meanings from thoughts twisted, prodded,
cajoled and prised to render mindful hot gems of expression.
Squeezing letters from tubes onto a pallet,
the smithy shovels the alphabet mix into blobs of words and
babbles with peaks, on bench.
Words of many colors gleaned and arrayed for careful collation.
Shuffling through the verbal menagerie,
words are carefully selected
for their sound, voice, look and meaning.
Memorable and meaningful words,
that prompt feelings way beyond what the words just say,
Words that bind the fabric of emotional phrases in layer on layer,
and in the honey, binding the words together,
Words provoking deep blue feeling
when words read between the lines,
Words that reach out well beyond the intended,
to the unintended feelings and emotions in readers.
Word plays, games and devices crafted
to perfection by wordsmith magicians.
For the wordsmith loves words
with sheer, utter and blatant devotion.
The words themselves,
not just their power, magic and what they mean.
Like charms and spells,
such bewitched words only work
if the readers and hearers believe in them.
Such evocative words inspire
feelings and emotions in readers
primed to be receptive to their charms.
Musical evocative words,
that resonate and echo deep within.
Poets are wordsmiths, artists, musicians,
performers, sages and soothsayers,
driven by the love of words, to create masterpieces
in artful word craft:
It is the color of saying.
When we were kids no one got paid to go to summer school.
The A plus kids did not vie to get their applications in first.
They did not go.
Times have changed.
The A and B students are the first ones to sign up.
Some C’s get cajoled into summer school by their parents.
Other C’s stand their ground, refusing to go. They are in charge.
The D and F students are required to go.
Their parents do not make them.
Mandatory needs nothing to them.
A result of hating school themselves and not learning that word.
Besides, school has no value.
Their students will be NFL quarterbacks and stadium-filling singers.
Just like they were.