Long Henpecked Poems
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If there’s no god, why show respect
for pain that’s felt by an insect,
for doesn’t that in part deflect
from order’s natural select
which did from soup somehow infect,
cajole or otherwise confect
life as we know it, and inject
complexity, until bedecked,
upon the scene comes Man, erect?
A pain-free god’s what you expect?
It seems creation's architect
is oft accused by means direct
(an argument they resurrect),
of child abuse, pain and neglect,
a charge to which I must object.
Though I'm not needed to protect,
still neither shall this go unchecked.
Although I mean no disrespect,
I think when one is circumspect,
allows not logic to defect,
to fancy, does not genuflect,
and stops carefully to reflect,
they, too, will see the disconnect.
For when they do, I do suspect,
unwittingly, Godhead bisect
(it's rare, if I may interject,
that they might attempt to trisect),
considering not, in effect,
that though there are three intellects,
their wills, communal, intersect,
their overlap complete, correct.
Now you may ask what this affects,
but what it means is all aspects
of common will and dialect,
are locked in a direct connect,
such that when one of them elects
to carry out a plan perfect,
none are diminished, none henpecked,
nor subject to a misdirect,
nor actions that might disaffect,
nor any sovereign state rejects
(hence child abuse notions are wrecked).
I have the scriptures to inspect;
in these I cannot recollect
attempts from truth to redirect,
so I eject as incorrect
the notion that God did elect
to avoid pain, to disinfect,
but rather, chose pain to connect
with life, with us, and with respect,
through Christ, and not in retrospect.
Being a man, and not only a man but a married man, I cannot deny that there are women who could appropriately be called nags. This should not be confused with the right of the wife to have her voice in the marriage. The husband cannot forget that she has the right and the freedom to express herself too, or else the marriage would be under the rule of a tyrant.
One day I was out with my father, we stopped for vegetables at an open air market in town. The bearded vendor saw me sending a text to my wife asking her if we needed anything from the stand.
Then the man said to my Dad something I can no longer quote word for word. But felt the air of judgement about my decision to text my wife before the purchase.
To the bearded vendor it was not manly of me to consult my wife, it seemed to him I had been possessed or fallen under the spell of feminine power.
He was probably unaware of his comment about me to my father, the effect it would have afterwards on my mind, but still I never forgot it.
It was just as bad as all the nagging to be made to feel
like I had been emasculated by my wife or henpecked.
What an imprisoning mold gender roles are on men and women, something to be done away with
HENPECKED
She’s written all over his back:
“Kick me” “loser”
She holds the reigns.
“Whoa… where do you think your going?!”
His children walk over his cobblestone back
With their ten pound clown shoes
Those aching feet whine endlessly:
“Father, I need more money!”
He gallops to the pub
And drinks the dregs of sin.
Spends his own hammer and nails,
They shake in his brown ale.
He returns home when he’s nowhere
Near sober, says his prayers whilst in his coma.
The bed squeaks with all his flaws,
His wife doesn’t feel him at all.
She nails herself to a 10 foot cross
Though she keeps sliding down.
Neither nails nor ropes will keep her.
The children burn the wood in effigy.
“Ring-a-round the roses,” they sing
Trying to fit into each little chair.
The psychiatrist just scratches his chin.
And ka-ching, the sound of alms for him.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
(particularly when nursed at room temperature)
I learned that Kombucha
best be kept refrigerated lest
said probiotic drink
served at room temperature
(incorporating live bacteria) erupts
chia seeds flying everywhere
potentially causing
serious damage to consumer
as nearly happened to yours truly,
nonetheless patronizes company(ies),
who manufacture
aforementioned healthy beverage.
Analogous to other fermented brews,
one must cultivate an acquired taste
regarding delicately sipping Kombucha
now if you will kindly excuse
wordsmith henpecked and
away from Macbook Pro
fortunately satisfied with poem thus far.
Hello, I got back to laptop
today - December fourth 2021
after few hours elapsed
got hunger pangs
during brief hiatus
experienced relapse concerning
craving vegetarian hypocrite's delight
meat product constituted chicken sausage,
which greasy entree
invariably caused cholesterol to spike.
The missus (a plump carnivore
to the bone with plucky constitution)
vowed never to purchase
named poultry appurtenance ever again
so help me dog, cuz she
(connoisseur of gluten free foods)
attempts to promote healthy eating.
Indeed buzzfeeding body, mind and spirit
courtesy fruits and vegetables
ideally, preferably, and undeniably organic
helps me feel emotionally,
mentally and spiritually fit
able, eager and willing
to staunch the flow,
whereby yours truly
would become deceased,
thus imperative to jot obit
before that instant I exit
stage door left,
the only occasion witnessing
ala bumbling and fumbling performance
(despite unalterable fact that
life haint no dress rehearsal)
courtesy painless suicide
exhibiting true grit
regarding one generic long haired
pencil necked geek,
whose demise undermined,
when his lovely bones
deteriorated analogous to
rotted fascia and soffit.
Black crime, Justice prevails
Lilly White Crime, no justice hailed
When the crimes of a man weigh more than the crimes of a man,
Justice has failed
We are all doomed to the broken edge of the gavel when clouds of white nights gale
Forces of guilt driven findings drawn in black man’s plight hammering down excessively to tightly embed black headed nails
Boxes of henpecked shrugging shoulders deliberating measures of one sided balances as a sleeveless gown displays two arms of justice as black and white
A white right arm defended by a two edge sword
A broken black left arm that once kept, law, piece, and order in one accord
Kept the trains of justice from being derailed
And
Upheld the balances of truth on an evenly weighed scale
AC4realpoetry
Up, up, up you go. Shake a leg. Out you go, lazybones
-- Aw, come on. Linger a bit longer. It's so comfy under the covers...
No! Don't listen to him! You've got places to go, people to meet. Get a move on!
-- Relax! What's the rush? When you're 97, what will five more minutes matter?
It matters now. And it'll matter then too! You've already scheduled some appointments. Your word is on the line here, you know...
-- Hey, don't panic! Anyone who won't grant you five more measly minutes
is no friend of yours!
You've really got a choice here: You can be your own boss, or you can be
forever henpecked
-- Yeah, yeah, yeah: Your enemies always trot out the same old tired canards
*******************
You're not hyper, naive, foolish or just plain 'chicken'
-- Don't ever let the devil's false, phony narrative kick in
October seventeenth ninety sixty one ...
Born sixty one years ago,
the follow poem from your bro
transmitted courtesy flagship
named Jacques-Yves Cousteau
constituting countless ones and zeroes
instantaneously traversing cyberspace
as packeted, framed dataflow
binary digits bit of information
to acknowledge when
thee transitioned being an embryo
(approximately the second
to eighth week after fertilization)
approximately nine months prior,
whose birth marked debut
of bouncing daddy's little girl,
whose inquisitiveness nourished
birthed perception buzzfeeding
capital one earthlinked baby
fostering, kickstarting, and
orchestrating cognitive aptitude,
who throughout storied existence,
which kudos ye
proudly promulgate to and fro
hither and yon across
social media platforms
understandably, opportunistically, and
humbly letting family and friends
across the webbed wide world
know amazing accomplishments,
when ye did initially grow
from being precocious genetic pedigree
into a whip smart self confident
globe trotter, whose curriculum vitae
dwarfs (by powers of seven)
feeble accomplishments of mine,
went thee invested with a heigh-ho
positive state of mind
every endeavor undertaken
(in one physically gruelling instance)
biking, hiking, riding
to your private Idaho
(fast as a B-52)
versus humdrum life of one common Joe,
whose heightened perception
aside from singing the praises
of admiration toward youngest sister
after countless years, he failed to know
about her trials and tribulations
exercising your potential to the maximum
invariably feeling dog tired
with a dose of lumbago
thrown in for good measure
nevertheless adept as bilingual person
quite helpful travelling
to Spanish speaking countries
during your roaring twenties off to Mexico,
and just recently taking a jaunt
to Portugal donned accruing
vibrant sense and sensibility
treasuring richly pocketing nouveau
memories attracting natural outgrow
of ardent followers, whether online
or in flesh, who clamor for selfie photo
with thee and steadfast husband
unlike henpecked wife of mine
enjoyable as pesky miss Quito
who pesters me to get off computer
so she can binge watch Netflix
hence adieu as I hop on my cubii
off to complete
another stationary roadshow.
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
Doreen acted like the brain of Britain
Answering questions on the TV quiz show
She would sit and shout out the answers
Her face would have a smug rosy glow
Her poor husband Harold could do nothing right
She would moan at him all night and day
Belittling him with her intelligent quips
‘Yes you’re right dear ‘was all Harold could say
Doreen decided she had such a high IQ
That she should get it tested
So she applied to join Mensa
So her intelligence could be attested
She told all her neighbours of her plans
They secretly stifled their yawn
For Doreen was always quoting new facts
She bored them from dusk until dawn
Harold drove her to where the test was being held
But five minutes later she suddenly appeared
Her face was like thunder, she screamed and she yelled
Had her results been worse than she’d feared
Sadly Doreen had not even got through the door
To her chagrin she’d gone on the wrong day
For someone so intelligent… she now looked a fool
You stupid cow was all that Harold could say.
Harold drove home and quickly packed his bags
He said he was going to stay with his mother
For he knew if he’d stayed in the house that night
His overbearing wife he’d be tempted to smother!
05~27~17
Was round about the 60's
And I a budding teen
Was influenced and touched
By a program I had seen
Rod Sterling was the narrator
Of a series quite well known
With weekly visits to a world
Named the "Twilight Zone"
And to this day one episode
The best without debate
Has taught me 'bout the frailty
Of Man against his fate
A short meek man from Queens, New York
Henpecked by his wife
Found his joy in reading books
To assuage a bit his strife
Voracious was his appetite for
Tomes and all that's written
Yet blind without his glasses
He's as docile as a kitten
In the vault under his bank one day
While making a transaction
The world above was subject to
A nuclear reaction!
When he surfaced to the top
To view the mass destruction
He found that only he'd survived
And came to this deduction
No wife! No rules! No one to shriek
Or tell him what to do!
Only stacks and shelves of books
To read, peruse and view
Paperbacks and hardcover
Pamphlets, primers, scrolls
The whole damn New York Library
With him at the controls!
Then as he pictured life
In a world with voices hushed
He bent his head to grab a book
His glasses broke..........................
All crushed.............