Coachwork [poem]
Is there anyone left upon this global
outreach screwed-up new age dive
who isn’t called a “coach” — someone you pay
to orchestrate your life, your mind to probe?
(And all because you had a bad hair day!)
It seems to be the job of choice for those
who — having gone to a workshop or two —
decide that they are fit to run the lives
of those who are confused and misconstrue
just how a human being here survives.
In yesteryear a friend came to your aid,
or kindly uncle, cousin or your dad.
Reciprocity was the order of the day
but that was when communities gave shade
and long before “life coach” became a fad.
The perfect role for control-freaky nerds
(the industry of happy-clappy clowns)
is neuro-programming the minds of those
whose openness to strong suggestive turds
will have them let some other then impose
the way they judge that everyone should think
ignoring all that in this world does stink.
For thoughts — according to these coachy kinds —
must always dwell on only things sublime.
Positivity should always flood the mind
never concerned for suffering old mankind
which to them is just illusive slime
who failed to concentrate their thoughts
enough to stave off poverty and crime.
I’ve noticed that these coaches always smile.
No wonder! For they bank a tidy pile!
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 