"ambushed" poems
Is there a difference,
give us a reference,
between a stalker,
and a pokemon.
The monger hits news,
game spots and toss,
time lost and chaos,
with a pokemon.
In Canada......
The rule breakers,
cross the borders,
an inadvertently walk,
for a pokemon.
In Guatemala city .......
The teenage boy,
under the wizard,
die in the cause,
for a pokemon.
In London.......
The go players,
ambushed in public,
and robbed by trees,
all for pokemon.
In Africa.....
The rumble,
then scrambles,
to get the last,
the dusts of pokeman.
In Asia...........
No signs too,
they tire and wait,
for the nostalgia,
all for pokeman.
In New York.....
It's a no, no,
for *** offenders,
or become criminals,
All for pokeman.
Poke me man,
NO SOD OFF!
It's all crazy,
the apocalypse,
of freaks and creatures!
Poke me man!
I DARE YOU NOT!
Go find old cards,
a bank of more funds,
all for pokemon.
Poke me man!
I POCKET YOU!
As phones hide,
their lunch hunt,
the herd of pokemon.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
I made my own stop.
I made my own end of the line.
I made my own terminal.
I end here.
Someone died here today;
the start of their journey,
and the end of my own.
oil blood urine
fluids of mechanic and natural origins.
I peddle my wares;
I sell my sweat;
I am an energy salesman.
I ride this rail on rubber, not steel.
I do not intend to steer clear
but still be clear when the front-end is near.
Electric elephants bound to acrobat playgrounds.
Painted Tusks as valuable as my soul.
I do not meddle with my pedal:
joules of life grow more valuable.
energy exchanged
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
I am not just a person in
a uniform, I am a Soldier.
Every time I arise, I obey;
Each time she calls, I step up
To defend her freedom,
To restore her home of peace
I arise, I obey, I soldier on.
Into the forest of her terrors
I charge, not without fear for that
which is mine but with love and strength
and faith, I March. Defending the labour
of heroes past, I march; fighting
for dreams of her children bright-
the future she deserves.
I arise, I obey, I soldier on.
In the army I serve Nigeria, my
Country with heart, might and spine.
Though a thousand times I have fallen,
bits and pieces of me, lost to her darkness,
still I obey, knowing it may be my last. I arise,
leaving my family and friends behind.
I obey your call of duty. My service and loyalty
I pack on with my combat gear, that you may live
to see yet another day, to feel yet another ray of
light on your face. I am not just a person in a uniform.
I am your Soldier, the Nigerian Soldier,
Ambushed and slaughtered in 40s, 70s and 100
for lack of resources.
Bless me O Nigeria as I arise and obey
Send me to your enemies with arsenals
and might to match the fire in my eyes.
As opposed to the massacres of me, let
the headlines read of our gallant victory
For my victory is yours over those who
threaten our unity.
I am not just a person in a uniform.
I am your Soldier
Do not let my bravery dissipate to stupidity
For I rise, I obey, I soldier on
still.
©Belema .S. Ekine
©belemascribbles
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Trees in dark tunics
leaves reflect the pale moonlight.
The silver fur of the moon
extended claws gripping the dark
veins are stretched to a chilled red wine.
Its taste tingles on the tip of my tongue
to lick the white stains of the ambushed sky
to pluck the emblems with my teeth
and howl silently with the moon
nudging the dark space to a blushing white.
©Malintha Perera 2015
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Pray so that you could never be hurt again
Speak so that you could never be debated again
Listen so that you could never be ambushed again
and if you will, friend
Die so that you could never be killed again
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
I
Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.
In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,
Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,
She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,
Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.
II
I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate
The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,
Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.
III
Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names
Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,
Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.
Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.
4.5k
Snow plows beeping
Reverse whine and scrape
Swirling blizzard of waking—Strange
in this place where
boredom banks both snow and cold
Are my eyes running?
After all
there's a stiff wind, and it’s 18 below....
Pictures and phone calls make up my family
Stray cats eat suet I leave for the birds
who make names for themselves in sunlit bushes
Love these more than...
my hearse of a job
where that ice cream vat—slipped
smashed
my sodden dish-doin’
fingers against sink
Pain mounts its insurrection!
Ambushed!
from every direction
Fainting in steam
Squeezing my eyes
till the blood shuts my brain-failing
Down my wrist
all over
the front of this rubber apron....
Someone hates me somewhere
Someone found me more tenacious
than a road-kill skunk!
I eat I drink I work I sleep
between these vicious icicles
-18F = -28 C
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
What is the thing in us who love to pluck the strings of our imaginations
and try to create resonance with the words that float to the page. To create something from the
nothingness .
We paint our pictures in tortured hues or opaque clutters of expression. At times the palate will surprise even we who mix and stir and strive to find a unique shade or texture. We trawl and dredge and send up pretty balloons in hopes they will return with answers. Well I do
I am odd in that regard. I think all who strive to express , to be heard, to hear to see to grasp and
be ambushed by sudden revaluation. To make sense of it all. to look deep within and waft on the wind at once are kin.
What is it for you?
To wash away pain.
To turn your face to the pelting rain and feel the value of your existence.
What is it for you?
To say the things your mouth cannot express, untie your fettered tongue.
Do you dream in color.
Does your poets voice speak to you in hushed tranquil tones
or rumble and stutter or whisper softly from dank and dusty places.
What is it for You.
A way out of your suppression if not expression.
The rubbing of a soothing salve over the aches and pains endured.
The betrayal acknowledged. The Key finding purchase in the rusted lock. The key falling from your hands in the pitch dark once again as you wake up and find yet another door to open.
What is it for you. For me it is validation that my mind is unique as the neurons fire and
speak a language spoken not by many. We are seekers. You and I.
I do not fit the profile. I am rough and hard my facade has bonded with my skin. But look within. I am bookish and brutal.Loving and glacial. Witty but slow. Volatile but pensive . A walking talking conundrum. I do it just to **** withum.
Why do you love poetry.
What leaks out of you mind.
What goes in.
What is it ?
.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry
Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.
The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.
Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.
Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.
God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,
While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.
2.6k
Ready my therapist, ready the tissues
Suicidal jargon and self harm, tenth issue
My tears, the alien plants to my fragile
sanctuary, ******* all the water and smiles,
Are changing to healthy oak trees,
Odd, in Blue Season, trees shrink to weeds,
The rain queen has become a frivolous giver,
And I remember how the cactus use to quiver
because Blue Season meant the Sun’s burning rays,
Well, the cactus isn’t **** anymore! Back to wearing his spiky clothes always.
Industrial air to countryside,
My fauna and flora haven’t died,
Actually they have multiplied,
The poachers, the self harm, hasn’t ambushed,
No, no! They have been seen about
But they’re less and success is a doubt.
Momentary depression, the lethal poison to
my sanctuary, wreckage seems to be subdued.
Jun 11, 2022
Jun 11, 2022 at 6:36 PM UTC
Twice lost, one soul appeared, unbidden,
Ambushed, in plain sight.
Results? All hidden.
As I walked, I thought of this,
Imagined as I sought,
A sign of full surrender,
In the battles that we fought.
I threw what always seemed, to you,
The ordnance of the soul,
Words on leaves and tissue tigers,
Weak and boring, far from whole.
My engine had an inner working, impossible to see.
My feet still carry me to you,
And you just stare at me.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
My temples pummel out
A throbbing skull
Drumming on my edges
Cracked bruises
Hidden underneath my hair
No one sees my pain
Feeling dismissed by perceived delusions
Neglect brings forth intensified loneliness
A mystery unable to solve
Potential brain damage
Resting in purgatory
Along the coastline of denial
Where I appear all right
Until another concussion
Drags me to this tide
Wanting to end my life
As I drown to the chilly depth
Wondering why my husband
Hasn't thrown me a life jacket
He tires of my imperfections
As do I….
Severity thrown under
The boat of exaggeration
No one understands my head's sensitivity
Not even me
The judgements of being weak
Of not being careful
Arguments against enjoying life
I am brought to a surplus of cries
Aching sobs swim
In my damaged head
I'm confused and lines are blurred
I'm scared and can't remember
Noises storm
Inside my ears transmitting corruption
Comatose movements
Ambushed by swelling spastic vibrations
Blinding light
Striking serrated razors between my eyes
Weighted head
Seeks detachment from its guardian
How I wish people saw this concussion for what it is
© Jl 2016
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
determinate.
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
boring.
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
help.
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
riposte.
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 6:40 AM UTC
~
Restless shield,
disassembled by the Serpentine's endearment...
Dormant Garden,
ambushed to bloom alluring hues...
Hummingbird,
flying overseas, painting a veiled sky...
Enigmatic rehearsal,
*yearning for what? The sweetest ****
~
© Christina Philipe
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
Our empty syncopation's are patiently ambushed
By restless margins of undeclared territory;
Shivering cymbals, entraining cloistered memories,
A nimbus inclining toward unredeemable quarries:
Refrains unimagined, of star-tipped dawns
Upon certain days of ritual, unbelievably worn.
Breathing dragons of fire-squandering meridians
Pour round water upon semblance's drowned emotion;
Cleave then to me, who cleaves to the last vestige
Of rarefied air, breathed by bellows-smothered centuries
When your foot trod the newly opened ****** earth,
And your hand hinged loves diagonal, even unto death.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
Like all victims of success,
when she eats hers, it's a rotten fruit,
disgusted, the happiness she yearns for now, is defeat,
life, takes quirky turns, becomes a strange sad tale!
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
i hear your cries
your desire of forgetting our past
or at least moving on
but we had gotten so used to eachother's presence
then easy absence
to start missing it would be crazy
but real
and true
so true
like love
was it love
you called it love
i thought it love
pouring out of us
both our writings
telling each other
unaddressed but publicized
i do think of you
sometimes running away
at the first sign of reminiscence
other times
falling into the arms of memories
but always
always
helplessly ambushed
by glimpses of you
laying about
seeing me
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 3:00 AM UTC
They protested war in the sixties
Today we occupy the 1% and their wealth
Times haven’t changed in accordance with public opinion
But the police state has grown more authoritative
Media output is under corporate thumbs
Social media is a lie proportioned from mass de-intellect
Intellectualize the comeback of systematic rational thought
Distraction of disaster is distasteful destruction
Defined, refined, combined, combed in
A darkened bomb shelter to hide in
The enemy ambushed in guerrilla warfare
Has the benefit of never seeing the enemy coming
Taken to the streets in prolific protest
Condemning the condemnation of a capitalist nation
It’s party time to destroy the two-party system
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
Stiff-spined pigs clawing at shins,
thighs, torso; arms and head.
Effervescent atoms spit
from pressurised cans
to clouded, burning eyes.
Batons drop, judging
my ever rolling sins;
breaking bland sheet
of skin into blue, black,
red, swelling purple canvas:
mounds of flesh,
batted time and time again.
Arm twisted, mud faced being, sinking.
Face first dirt. Cuffed, bony wrists
annoy broken-back shoulders:
unforeseen angles.
Frustrated muscles stretch
bemused tendons.
Freedom demolished,
kicking screams provoke
further chest knocks,
ambushed four to one
your body flops;
sagging over tight-gripped,
blue and black jackets,
helmets, batons, badges.
Tossed to the backseat;
prisoner of the siren.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
In the last year of Trujillo’s reign, the Dictator decided
to eliminate three sisters and then plausibly deny it.
Patria, Maria and Minerva were the victims of the plot.
Once the three were dead and gone, He‘d make sure folks forgot.
On a lonely country road, they were ambushed by his men.
They forced the sisters off the road. That’s how it began.
The girls must not seem martyrs; Trujillo had made it plain-
nothing quick and merciful, like a bullet to the brain.
The men used bats to knock them down and smashed their faces in
so they could not be recognized by their own next of kin.
They placed the bodies in the car and pushed it off the road.
“The butterflies are free!” they mocked; “Those girls reaped what they sowed.”
In the Dominican Republic, the wheel, if slowly, turned.
Trujillo met a ****** end and freedom was regained.
The truth was slowly brought to light, the murderers were named.
The Maribels were honored and their martyrdom proclaimed.
h
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
My sanity flies out the open window
My courage spills out of me
To dissipate under the seats
Music my true hope
Bus' full of people who care
No one cares where you're from
No one cares of your past
All that matters is that you're there
Wake up before the dawn
Crowd on to the yellow sardine can
Find that one you want to sleep on
More hours than you care to count
Crushed spaces
With old crushes
Realizations of truths
You love them all and they love you
Hard work in the sun's heat
First time of many
You mess up completely
Even though
Applause surrounds you
And all of you feel invincible
Drama can't **** the happiness
You walk away
Find others to accept you
Three is better than one
More work but it's fun
Now watching you see things
Things that amaze
You learn so much
The heat goes out
Now you are freezing
There is a smile frozen on your face though
Smushed between great people
Watching through new eyes
You're nervous now
Going up with the other two
You stand tall and prepare
How unprepared you were
So much acceleration runs through you
Shoulder to shoulder
You place
You knew this
He accepts and you salute
Later you are ambushed
You feel such a sense of belonging
You all swarm out
Back to the buses you go
Changing in front of them all
You don't care
Neither do they
You once again find the one to sleep on
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
~~~~
Chill electronics
Fervours me forth
From the frost mornings
Over crushed relations
Over the lost margins
Across the horisons
Ending heated desserts
Alienated from lonsome cries
We travel on the cloud called ninth
Of a everydays man turmoils
Turning into naught
Becoming a hoop
Around allured
Swell membrane
Top to bottom
Willing to
Play
Anatomy
Works with
the lucrative
Vibrations
My elation
Our abdomination
Each pace on the drum
Is a hollow awareness
Is a primal bite
Into a predestined
Prerogative ~ the
Love's ethnicity
Till ambushed silk
cotton
Tambourines
Start to jingle
Floral essences
Burst
Into
Dark curls
Azam Magnetic Magma
Charming one thousand
And one
Free from misery
Mystery Nights
Equanimity
Oriental
Ambiental Ali
Opened space
Spell~bounded
Sounds Alluring Affirmity
The woman's
Darkling alto
Swims into me
Dear saphir's lean
voice
Permeates into me
~~~~
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
soft seas of white
unbearable to the warmhearted
for crystal chalices are containers
frozen and unfeeling to the bitterness
numbed by this climate
and all wounds that freeze over
are lethal to **** in your heat
and for each spring that passes
i await my demise
but the winter before keeps me intact
i dare not walk in your summer
for surely that would be my end
so if you reach out to me, love
do not be crestfallen when i do not respond
for i poured my nature into your hollow
and was ambushed by your vacancy
i have been collapsed and discharged by your fears
for they mimic my own
and though i have cultivated my courage
you are still held back at the precipice of your qualms
to you i must seem manic
for i believe in love
i follow my heart
though it may lead to dark edges
but you, forlorn by your vigilance
stagger in your struggle to remain conscious
unaware that your wick has been cut loose
and failed to ignite the once blazing sparks of your brilliance
i pity your heat
for it has no place to burn
and soon, it too will wither into ash
and be set upon a pedestal that will restrain you there
in the glaciers that have become your keep
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC