"accosting" poems
So he threw all his chips on red
Thought only of what was in his head
Which turned out to be shots of dread
For his seeds planted in young women's garden bed
Without nary water or breaking bread
Or nary knowing the breaches of his and her homestead
So he rushed down stranger's alley shed
On a runaway, wrongheaded cocky sled
Through her banks, he crashed her spread
Like a raging, raging thoroughbred
Nary was a thought of a rubber glove on his dragonhead
For the buried absence of love was in his heart of lead
There's his wife at home tucking their kids in their bunkbed
While he flirted with the forbidden apple instead
It was this night that lives in infamy for others to read this dread
For the news broke of a married man impregnating a young coed
Accosting such teen to what now proves to be his deathbed
Yet if he unwinds his c(l)ock and placed his chips on black he wouldn't have bled
Petering out the ills in his marriage he would have been freed
Now he shrivels in a shameful battle of what went through his head
Logan Robertson
10/05/2018
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
You're not a necessity,
You’re an accessory.
Stop trying to own me, talk at, and stand next to me.
Stop playing the role of the leader- you’re less than me.
I am the boss here you have nothing to offer- see?
I am stronger, smarter, brighter, bolder-
and all you have to say is what?
“If I can’t have her I’ll hurt her.”
You think because you’re man and I’m women I’m yours,
but when it comes to offers I haven’t see anything worse.
You call at me,
Stare at me,
Swear at me,
Slimy and gross like a leach.
You taunt me and smirk at me as if I’m in your reach.
So I’ve talked to you once,
We’ve made eye contact- your point?
You’re a cog in a machine line,
a small piece,
an ordinary joint.
You’re unoriginal with your words,
even less with your actions.
I’m beautiful and talented,
So when it comes to you there’s no attraction.
You have nothing to offer me,
let me be-stop accosting me.
You’re taking up my time and it’s costing me.
Because unlike you I’m not worthless,
I’ve got ambition and drive.
I’ve got brains-not just an ***
You’re not the reason I’m alive.
You’re nothing,
You’re worthless.
And if I wanted you, you’d know.
I’ve been trying to tell you repeatedly just where you can go.
Your offers?
Not catchy,
not tempting,
I don’t want anything less.
So sad to know when it comes to relationships-
this is as close as you ever get.
You’re ****
You’re trash.
You confuse me when you talk.
Since when does a women sleep with someone when they gawk, or when they stalk?
You’re a coward,
You’re a loser,
Your creation was a glitch.
And though yes, I am rejecting you,
No, boy-you are the little *****
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
The circumambient wings of a seraph
Obstrepously monastic within
Dereliction contemning the
Mendaciously obsequious;
The bathos of ablution grittily
Jejune fulgerating the engrossed.
The chaldean lachrymatory
The ligature of the darklings rheum,
Volently acclaimed
The paladin necromancers
Circumfluous wintry orbs
Ardently accosting the chasm
Lasping tarnation fructifying
Acedias roborant,
Heavens ignoble lassitude
The boreal scope of causality-
Hells predacious moil.
ELEETE J MUIR..
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
All I really want is to talk to you rather than distract myself with the petty things I do.
I'm almost gone.
A deep hollow in my chest leaches at my sanity leaving me bereft of a connection that could seal up the cracks in my heart from which leak my wounded humanity.
Scrolling through my Facebook feed leaves my hungering for what I really need.
The stupid games and apps light up my phone and make me forget that I'm alone.
Tomorrow creeps into each patchwork day. You can't hold time it slips away.
Each hour is fractured by distraction the sun is sinking before I gain traction.
While I'm not looking I miss the sunset. Time to cushion my head with this night's fret.
I won't sleep tonight, like most. My place is haunted. I'm the ghost.
I drift the twilight between realms with clipped wings and overwhelmed.
Sun and moon chase round about; light blinded eyes, thick-dark-muffled-shout.
That's the way it is at night things look different by starlight.
But which am I the sun or moon; do I give chase or am I pursued?
I won't find the things I seek. I'm stuck like this from week to week.
To be needed is exhausting, but to be not needed is accosting.
I need to hear you hearing me and be realified in that harmony.
Instead of trapped between death and life, I'll be free when I see you seeing that I'm Being. Existence could suffice, yet personhood is reciprocally conferred. Make me a Being like you then you'll be a christ.
What is my name?
You say that you can't read my mind as if I haven't put it down line by line.
I want to know I'm more than heat rising from the pavement to dissipate in the sky. Or else call me Mirage--If you can't see me, feel me, hear me.
I'm already gone.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
*Grey billow of clouds
So hopeful these are
Filled with watery pearls
Guaranteeing remedial shower
Flashes of light
Sounds of accosting thunder
Declares to the dead world
Charging to live the real wonder
Season's first kiss
Between rain and earth
Leaves indelible petrichor
Uplifting spirits for all its worth*
Bharti
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
Where God passes
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self
as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper
your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a
foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the
sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the
so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all
men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character
his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through
the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your
core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:44 AM UTC
I awoke to that **** ebony canvas of the early hours
Vomiting clichés
Your scent still lingers on the indent you left upon the pillow case
Sweetheart, keep you ******* flowers
The past was pancakes and melodies in the brighter days of adoration
Screaming lullabies
Your syllables echo restlessly in my reckless hours
The future is lonely brunch tables and bar stool exchanges of love’s nuances
Delegating responsibilities
I wandered the avenues we used to adore honoring myself a ghostly power
Our shadows shiver in the abandonment of promises
Slashing daisies
We would chain smoke at a bus stop adorned in designer winter coats
We were above the concept of invocations and starlight
*********** wisdom
Tired feet never reached the peaceful landing of the eastern coast
Letters splitting and spilling over supplication and maybes
Accosting rivers
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
The way that winter comes at me,
as if a stranger from a side street
cold and dark accosting me. I turn
my collar up. He hollers, "You, there!"
Faster I walk, fear chilling me,
a lamp post but a grey ghost in the fog.
This **** winter, mugs me. He hits me
in the face with frozen fists. He grabs me,
stabs me in the side with knives
of ice, slices at my heart, the home
of hope. Supine, frost forming on
my brow, I pray to boughs of willow
trees; pines will sing my elegy. My mind
drifts like snowdrifts: a mitten lost...
fingers, nose, toes frostbitten...
a lake of isolation...a sleigh with no
horse...a blizzard of insanity.
My blood thaws the frozen ground,
then freezes.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 10:34 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in
cantankerous philosophy!
Of these lying liabilities,
what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than
named quite unfortunate atrocity!
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility
such that satiated curiosity
be evermore abashed in me?
“. . . but I have admonished thee,”
said he,
this subtle, blackened tenant
with a tin man's tonality.
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then
upends the pores relentlessly.
*“These words will compel a poor
foresight to bleed in the fray
as cascading tears cast their weight
upon cheek in dismay . . .”*
. . . to quash the cypress toxin
of a caustic potpourri—
a dissembling toupee
to one's balding reality.
O lasting opacity
of such poignant translucency,
this flagrant serendipity,
once spawned, must always be?
Possibly; though, I cannot count
how many sets see dawns at sea.
“. . . but I have astonished thee,”
said he
through this Möbius rebuttal
like some soap on TV,
though, it’s ne'er some rerun
what’s cliché wants creativity.
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation
of one bless'ed unanimity.
*“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
one sin was mine to portray.
‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
curs’ed common naïveté . . .”*
. . . and yet, that's cause to bend
reverent knee, not to thee,
but to that which mine
eye's sole endeavor is to see.
“So, leave me be!”
I lament, ostensibly,
“Lest that passage fall paved
by none other than me.”
Perhaps the Second World war
is just my cup of tea.
“. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
Becoming Bald
Light shines off my scalp.
It glows off my forehead.
The hairs of my head
are thinning out,
like
a pioneer forest being cleared
patiently by the foreign farmer,
who came to the woods
to carve a plot
from what once was a forest,
rich with dense undergrowth.
In former times,
the thicket would break the wailing winds,
accosting the house and barn.
Now the gales flow freely
throughout the rifled trees.
Peace shone through the branches.
Calm, as the roaring gusts
burst upon the stripped land
and coursed across the barren plain.
As the stiff breeze blew endless,
shingles tumbled off,
siding was lifted and bantered away,
studs creaked and collapsed,
drywall rolled off,
everything scattered,
like all the forest critters
running from a smoky fire.
When the ashes settled,
I saw the whole curve of the earth,
the land shimmering
like
a lake of glass with driven snow,
skating along the frozen pond.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
There is this fly in my house right now,
Daring flights of fancy brave aerial acrobatics,
As if sent from reincarnation of a past pest,
Someone who turned into a fly,
And accosting me in my bed-sheeted existence,
The dreary light of early day pouring in the room,
Late night pondering turning to late afternoon,
Awakening, to what?
To the fly that made me lose my pen,
To the simple, all powerful,
The fly laughed, rubbing his hands on the door frame,
mocking me,
making me lose my place,
on the depths of the reality,
Flying across my mind,
I tried to smash the ******* with my volumes,
Barbarous and cruel dives of absolute madness,
Obnoxious in the face hand waves,
dive bombs on the room,
slow enough to see, quick enough to flee,
"You only live one day, and this is how you spend it?"
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
Autumn's light leaves me
Wanting,
Seeming
Wrong.
Summer's light raided me,
Burning,
Yearning
Strong.
Spring's light lilted me,
Promising,
Blossoming
Songs.
Winter's cold glow chilled me,
Accosting,
Frosting
Long.
But, dismal Autumnal light,
Warns me,
Scorns me...
Go!
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 11:21 AM UTC
I know you have kids to feed,
But I must say what I need,
I am no thief,
I did not steal from you,
And our boss already finished the deal,
I owned what I worked for,
You don't get to carry the sins of the father,
unto the son. Because it suits you.
You curse the dealership for approving deals,
That make you lose money in peels,
But you want my losers,
You have to ask everyone for yours,
I earn mine, and never have to ask anyone.
Please stop accosting me.
Do not tell me, that my father thinks I am Greedy,
Do not tell me that I don't know anything,
That what comes around goes around,
Do not call me, The kinkiest ************ you know,
And say you wont do buisness with me,
Any more,
And then keep coming to me,
And lecturing me,
And riling me up,
And stressing me,
And making my heart burst up,
Leave me alone.
Fight someone else,
To get what you think is yours,
While I'll sleep soundly,
Maybe tomorrow,
Knowing I did what was right.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
you're so brittle
sometimes I feel stronger than that
but you make me seem like some
stained glass window in the belltower
of a church, you don't want to touch me
for the sake of a metaphor you heard once--
but I won't collect dust on your mantle
to satisfy your mirror tropes and sweet,
sweet, nothings.
that's exactly what they are, right? more than
once i've peeled back the ***** of a wound just
to make a point, to emphasize a passion, only to be met
with is that any way to live? As if you were accosting me
in the street for the birds in the trees or dirt in the cracks
as if you were saying is that any way to be you?
I don't know, is it? Bare your heart! you tell me,
and I do, I bear it.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
The tears come today
A dam opened
Unable to stop their accosting ways
The day approaches closer
With it seems this line
The one we erased
Drawn again
I don't know why
Painful it is to see
This white chalk line
Drawn so between
As my day approaches closer
Further away
You seem to be
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
Every day on the thruways you can see the surprise
in dozens of bundles, of differing size
some thin and narrow, or thick and piled high
doggy deposits from owners despised
Big logs, big logs, big bad logs
Nobody could tell whose woofer's it was
the smell was horrific, dog food the cause
ya couldn't say much as master offend
It wasn't their dog, they all like to pretend
Somebody said "I'd like to catch one
leaving the loafs on the turf in the sun"
accosting the ******* with chastising care
"pick up the crap your dog just left there"
Big logs, big logs, big bad logs
Big logs, big logs
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Father is dead
Father is dead
He put a gun
Up to his head
He took some pills
And went to bed
He slit his wrists
dropped as if lead
He jumped off
hung by his neck
These images
of fear and dread
Accosting me
as I slept
Exhausting me
they fill my head
Won't leave me be
Why would you want to leave?
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 9:09 AM UTC
From atop lofty thoughts,
dropped off softly;
so often, I lay awake
turning and tossing,
internal monologue talking,
masochistic sophistry blossoming
as it ought not to be.
A colossal cloth,
silken plume,
ink blot shades of grey
spread, peacocking;
this offering of pebbles brought
a monument
to all of the impossible
rocking before toppling-
comatose and claustrophobic,
I can exert no reverse inertia
to stop this cacophony.
Anxious, fraught,
my worries stalking me;
distraught
and tense posturing;
I fought to hold,
my fingers taut;
knuckles knotting,
vices tightly throttling.
Locked between
clock's tick and tock,
every second,
hands painstakingly wrought-
caught up,
sudden and shockingly.
Crawling awkwardly,
clawing at the walls,
coughing from the noxious oxygen
of my own rotting sarcophagus.
Insomnia fostering this paradox,
mocking me;
sleep deprivation walking,
no elysian veil to cross for me;
my own exhaustion
the coffin accosting me;
awful volume of this noise
ultimately just grains of static
all for naught,
frothing
and washed to sea.
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 6:32 PM UTC
I knew it wasn't you that passed me
On a bike this morning, but oh,
It looked like you. God,
He looked like you.
And I'm glad he was on a bike,
Somewhat because he wasn't you and
That meant I could let my head
Turn, let myself watch him pass by
With open hunger the way
I could never watch you,
But mostly because on foot I would have
Pulled him close by the coat that
Looked like one you wear and
Whisper in his ear,
"You look like the boy I want to ****
And I didn't want to get arrested,
And I didn't want him to take me up
On my offer
(But part of me wanted him to take me
Up on my offer
Because you never would)
Because I didn't know this was
Anything more than hero worship,
I thought this was little love,
Hearts in margins and
Poems in black ink,
I didn't know this was the kind of
Feeling that had people accosting
Delivery boys for wearing dark jackets
And I think I need to give up quick
Before you, me, or the delivery boy
Gets hurt.
'Q
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
warm colors light my way
as I walk around town
looking for something
to do with my day.
There's not many people out
cause it is beginning to rain
and this street's dangerous
there's people outside looking in.
I don't know how they
can see us or what they think
they see anyway, but
their eyes keep accosting us.
Some of wonder and delight
others cold and dark as night,
there's chatter coming through
the frame like an open window too.
warm colors light my way
as I scratch my head and
think of something good to say,
who are these people?
Why do some laugh, like they
want to take my place while
others cry as if seeing this way
reminds them of their own pain?
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
The weather is foggy
because the bog bleeds
like my problems lofty
making things foggy.
These problems haunt me
when the forecast is foggy.
I start to become not me
after my reflection lost me
in this hellish hot spring
where the fog is accosting
my vision’s focus and locking
until I absolutely cannot see
through this mist so foggy
my brain gets groggy
with the pain I’m dodging
blasting through the fog feed
making this innocent dog bleed
under the leaves of God’s tree
the same tree that made God leave
where an apple made things foggy.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 6:20 PM UTC
Encorporations, Liebling --
Weforms, y bubbles in being buvvles.
Ancient knowing, long sacred, hidden,
as with the legend of confused names,
Epimythiums accosting promethean bets,
day and night, eat your heart out, free
from regrets, satisfied mind, okeh, free
to act as agent
for lady liberty, here post feudal self,
as discovered in a canyon, much the same
as Sha'gri La from story, Havasu Canyon,
as home of a boy I knew, whose grandfather
had made peace, with good intention,
to remain in Supai until the end of time,
then, there come the missionaries, guessing
Victory in Jesus would rouse the innocents
to repent for never having imagined Hell,
as sure as can be made believe,
by **** sapien innocents,
never led by setters free,
into known uses
of old Eber clan ever words,
otherwise, still, small, breather thinking ideas,
whims like what if this is that, and we ready,
readers like think as fast as we can write,
as if we have been taught to dance
as when we drum along and dance
in mindful memorizational motivational wills,
to live the story we form as our weform agrees,
these are the realms of spirits, these are words
enough for the wise in any situation, sent, willing
to breathe, and feel, the whole wind working bit,
the smoke you may use, indeed, see believing
work out a salve for that itching ear, feeling
we form on-demand, at hand, at touche', indeed,
doing done, done did get done, this away from that,
back to the future,
through common senses used,
globally translatable
with Google Translate, using
copy and paste
of encoded letting out of dogmen,
from another mindform mingled
with mine, shall we
imagine Ancestory.com as a technology needing a lie,
to make believers
in what DNA can prove today,
if we go back far enough,
we were masters or slaves, and masters knew,
what slaves were not at liberty
to know,
without former knowers telling, so
dystopia ontological negative hope,
the princess and the pea, and me,
the wildass idea,
in the vineyard,
as the a sunbeam purpled
in a cluster
carried me
in a reverie
of poetic grandeur
indeed, into the afterward, ward after last.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 5:07 PM UTC