"cahoots" poems
It's like the movie
part of me*
It tells me where I should
go and want to be
**Please note that I will say
Not a dark place
inside my suitcase**
"Robin Red Breasted" suit
Peck and nip and tuck in place
The rainbow iridescent
Suiting her taste wet rain tents
Everyone was Green with envy
**Robin/ Rainbow event lets hear
it for our Army so many
troops**
He was sitting politely
Like a salesman of suitcases
on her stoop
She was mesmerized
Living out of a tour suitcase
She wanted daisies she was
ready for fantasies
Of him in her suitcase
Tumbling through
Another time Postman
Singing birds to ring twice
Birds all in groups
Computer laptops she wanted
to be surprised so mysterious
But ready for love ingenious
He laughed not losing sight
Robin eats like a bird
so hilarious
She packed her sunshine
yellow ribbons
she was ready to feed
Those Brooklyn pigeons
Packed suitcase ready for
the love of God
Going frenzy from her fruit loops
Robin Birdie born traveler scoop
Well nested flying South
fully invested
Rocking her flight cradle
Wherever I go or whatever I do
Traveling packs meet
Mr. Ramen noodles
Getting silly splashing puddles
The Spiritual Zen
traveling boots over a shower
He kissed them high up (Eiffel Tower)
Rome Italy wines in love cahoots
The call I'm ready "Amazon" wild
Let us go, child, another story
But the wildcard fresh air
Oh! Dear
The lightness easy does it
feathering wings the clues fit
Packing my suitcase
Love is a drug of "Europe"
Perfectly fine wine
Always hope with cantaloupe
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
* **A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga** *
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC
Now then,(Clicks fingers and stretches out),,,I know you men out there will think i'm all cahoots,But i need to vent my feelings on the, ever, splendid, boot,There,s black boots white boots, really outta sight boots,Baby boots, Mummy boots, ever just so yummy boots,X boots, Y boots, black patent leather thigh boots,(MMMMMM)Flat boots, high boots, heels like a needles eye boots,Work boots, shopping boots, **** , real eye popping boots,Going to visit mum boots, feeling very glum boots,Welly boots, smelly boots," i'm just watching telly" boots,Car boots,"?" truck boots, "come on babe, let's **** boots,All these boots and more would make a woman want to swear,But guys, you haven't heard me go on about our underwear!!!
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 7:21 AM UTC
I am the Lorax, who once spoke for the trees
In the hope of bringing progress to its knees
But now I have grown somewhat older and tired,
My outlook and thought process being rewired
(Sometimes to see forest, you must clear the trees.)
Examine the case of the Brown Bar-ba-loots
Whose interests for so long I worked in cahoots.
Could such timid beasts truly thrive in the wild
So innocent, trusting, submissive, and mild?
(My former assertions I strongly refute.)
Why, see how they frolic and scamper in zoos;
How can one watch them and steadfastly refuse
To see how much better their lot is today
As joy for our children as opposed to prey
(A happy condition where no one can lose.)
Ah, scoff the nihilists, *but Truffula Trees,
Those havens for birds and those homes for the bees.
Why, what do you say now that they are all gone,
Removed to make way for some suburban lawn?*
(These angry young men—O Lord, take them all please!)
I gently remind them it’s just nature’s way,
That some species go while other ones stay,
The carrier pigeon’s no longer alive
Yet somehow we manage to live—indeed, thrive!
(In the face of brute logic, they’ve little to say.)
So don’t be dismayed or frightened or leery
Of doomsday projections outlined by theory
Suggesting that our time on this earth may be done;
Consider the caged Bar-ba-loot having fun
(And we hear fish do quite well in Lake Erie.)
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
My French Gem
The Rose tickler
finely handwritten
The movie part gave
her the sign life
crossed over gem
French kiss the morning
The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun
Double touched but forbidden
On the Cheetah necklace chase
The French Lieutenant
her body and lips moonstruck
On her chaise
To get over it another work of art
that got more attention
To revive her from drowning in
the gem scattered like a
benevolent
blue splat philanthropic
Looking more into his unknown
diving suit mixed
with envy green how she got mixed into
the stranger of Poison Ivy
Her love didn't show all her
attributes God spiritually well
She went to the pastry heart
how it flaked all
over like crystals
He was patiently sitting but got persuaded
That little gem of the lounge
Her firey gem was the canary
that got his tongue
Her gem stands taller
The crafted lines of quality in the
Pillars
"Le Bonheur De Vivre Gem-Art"
French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting
He's transformed.
Shape heart delicate uniform.
"Parisians on a mission
A kiss is a serious manner
LOVE" Gem birth opens her
He modifies her rainbow
Artwork of brush yellow
twinset platter hello fellow
the essence beloved to follow
So worth her wait being watched
By the crystal rock, he loved her
going up in spirit or she falls for him
The gem to be it
Magical modernly gem -fit clock.
See through hands meditation harp.
Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp.
Lips movement beyond hearts.
Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts.
Artesian heels tapping boots.
Fall for Autumn love cahoots.
Beloved, divinely he's the healer.
The picture spoke she's the winner.
Wilderness he glides kisses prints.
Pushing her waves hints.
Everlasting one thought he's guessing?
Art never part beautify stem.
Eyes so genuine he's her gem.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
PLAY it across the table.
What if we steal this city blind?
If they want any thing let 'em nail it down.
Harness bulls, ***** front office men,
And the high goats up on the bench,
Ain't they all in cahoots?
Ain't it fifty-fifty all down the line,
Petemen, dips, boosters, stick-ups and guns-what's to hinder?
Go fifty-fifty.
If they nail you call in a mouthpiece.
Fix it, you gazump, you slant-head, fix it.
Feed 'em ...
Nothin' ever sticks to my fingers, nah, nah, nothin' like that,
But there ain't no law we got to wear mittens-huh-is there?
Mittens, that's a good one-mittens!
There oughta be a law everybody wear mittens.
2.1k
They come in many different sizes
Different colors, different cuts
All purebred from Poodle planet
No mixing of Martian mutts
Innocently enough we let them into our homes
Now with too many it is to little to late
We've been taken captive without even knowing
By Poodles from Outer Space
Soon, very soon to take over it all
Ruling the world of common man
Getting us to do their bidding at every call
Has all along been their dastardly plan
Leading us to believe that we are the Masters
But what is really behind the bark
And what's up with all the tail wagging
Just waiting it out while playing their cards
And the crazed frenzy in all of the yapping
That they do while roaming in packs
Is just giving away their location
So the Mother Ship knows where they are at
As it continues to circle our planet
In the unassuming shape of a Milk-Bone
The Alien Poodles are in cahoots with Purina
Google it, you'll see I'm not wrong
Years ago they first landed in France
Where quickly they blended in
From there is where they ventured out
Into all the major Continents
Now in every corner of the world
In all of its crooks and crannies
Saying hello to those in the know wherever they go
By their Planet's greeting...the sniffing of *****
Yes, they are Poodles from Outer Space
So toss that dog a bone
If you ever wonder who is in charge
And who it is that's owned...
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
They dance tae boots n' cats
like ants being crushed by boots:
Squirming, wriggling, writhing
wae jaws scraping the flare.
They scurry like wee rats
under the ground in cahoots:
snidely sneaking, snitching
under the boots n' cats they blare.
"Boots n cats urr booming doon yer ears.
Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years.
Boots n cats will perforate yer ears.
Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years"
But then sumday changed the beat:
It Came in oan the and.
And everyone forgot how tae dance.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
Monkeys in cars
Strumming guitars
La la la la’s
We ain’t all that
Shaving our faces
Finding new places
Tying our laces
We ain’t all that
Appliance reliance
Making new science
Moral compliance
We ain’t all that
Leaving our instinct
Down at the precinct
Never be distinct
We ain’t all that
Barely evolved
Nothing resolved
Power absolved
We ain’t all that
Opposable thumbs
Beating our drums
Hating our mums
We ain’t all that
Intelligent beings
Believing is seeing
Rather be skiing
We ain’t all that
Monkeys in space
Saving our face
Playing the ace
We ain’t all that
Living the dream
Not what it seems
Chicken Supremes
We ain’t all that
Monkeys in cars
Smoking cigars
Staring at stars
We ain’t all that
Monkeys in cars
Counting their scars
Filling the bars
We ain’t all that
Monkeys in suits
All in cahoots
Playing their flutes
We ain’t all that
Where’s little Bo Peep
Cos we are just sheep
And this poem ain’t deep
I ain’t all that
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 11:09 AM UTC
Pushing breaklights,
before jumping over the crown,
Taking drags,
in italics (makes us look like we down).
Slouching over countertops,
while hard water drops,
dreaming of minerals,
while the Blacksmith takes benedryl.
Receiving kicks,
from the ends of steel-toed boots,
act a champ,
he winks (we're in some sort of cahoots).
Tattooed blackeyes,
(don't wanna **** with these guys),
cool-kid-alert!
snorts lines in the dirt.
Back with a vengeance,
watching Batman and Robin,
breaks dishes,
because his headache is throbbing.
And I look and I see,
and it occurs to me,
and I forget the rest,
because it feels the best.
And, I left my dad's gun under my bed.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.
my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.
my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.
a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,
failing to depart,
as time has requested.
these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.
yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.
nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.
All our hands.
upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.
that date,
initialized,
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.
Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,
on all
our hands,
all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.
So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.
Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
**upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.**
------------------------------------------------------------------
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
What will become will become of this day and I wake up to find this day's been taken away by the thieves of the night,is this right,
does the night carry on even though it has gone,does the day have no say in its dawning?
It is morning in my head ergo,I am not dead or maybe I could be.
If the night doesn't see me does the day really free me,do I carry the can for the sins of mankind?
I find in illusion a great deal of confusion,a smelting of fantasy,a melting of freedom.
This hit and miss in me really disheartens me and although I keep trying there's something inside me that tells me I'm dying,it's a shame.
There is no fortune or fame for the runners up in a game just the harsh feel of failure,but if the day should return and I am still awake,there's a chance of a part,a starring role in the affairs of my own beating heart,
is it here
do you know
did the day really come and the night really go?
In cahoots with the Pole Star, I map out a route that will make me fortune,the moon makes me a beggar man and the beggars just scowl,
I'll be free soon not out of tune with my peers,not retreating from the advancing of legions of years.
It's all relative or so they say,
and what will become will become of this day.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
I am soft-hearted,
And Sapphic.
But she is not a human girl
Anymore.
Every time I lay her to rest,
She rises
Like a phoenix.
Or a zombie.
She is soft-bodied.
Empty-headed.
Empty-hearted.
She is rotten to me.
All memory of her,
Warm woman,
Is gone now.
Her body is a dead thing.
A shell, only good for gutting.
My heart is spilling.
My insides are gooey.
They slip between other girl's hands-
Repulsive.
Hazardous.
A lost cause.
My heart is a terminal case.
Until it's replaced,
I am all robot.
Hard-bodied.
Hard-headed.
Empty-hearted.
Every girl
Who gives me the kiss-of-life
Is cursed.
I search for a shell
To put my dead into.
But she is in cahoots
With the rotted.
All I want
Is a soft-hearted girl
To lay with.
To lay me down
To rest.
To love to death.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
cancel your plans, darling -
we're feignin' tonight.
i ain't tasted your fancy brow
since i last ran up trees.
i know you miss
the way my tossing hair
always filled the air with
moonlit berries and
wild
wild
grapes,
so thick
your mouth
gave way to
tsunamis.
i've got cold noodles sittin'
in my bowl somewhere
because i forgot to remind myself that
that ain't food that's
fillin' my belly -
channelin' me your orange hues
dipped in frustrations so subtle,
but
not
subtle
enough.
your frisky hot hemp dance
is flingin' itself
all over my inside stuff -
curbin' my appetite
for just about
anything else.
i'll climb your tree anyday
sweet baby,
kissin' greens
in your sleeves
on that minxy leaf trip.
carry me to your sneaky cove
and share your spices
and wanton skin graces.
i'll trade you my
fingertips
and diamond
extravaganzas,
then we can take turns
dippin' our tongues
into the blend.
'cause
i've blotted out my agenda
to savour the splendour
so i can remember to
spit it back into
the faces of
the dark
cloaked ones.
this is my defiant-nosed
iron song,
in my steel-toed boots.
see, i'm feelin' mahself
and the randy white cub
ticklin' my sides
in our crazy cahoots,
with our incense and spirits
from the worshipers of
sane things -
who fill our airs
with a long overdue
white haze.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:04 PM UTC
You Can’t Get Me To Lick Your Bones If You’re Never Going To Eat My Phone
I don’t need for the reading of your head
sideways. There’s no book of your gazes in
drugs I fluff myself in front of mirrors to the heavens and become elated, transfixed; I never become ‘indisposed’
you may shift your skin in those clothes I
would never spell nor the words I would never wear across the neck
I will never throw your prose across this
lubricious pottery wheel that governs the
awesome succubus’ coffin of Publisher
Clearing House dactylic feet, I have
a licentious groove and yet I never am
wont for those syllabic toes you push into
the mouth of me. Slippery soot-covered balms of the dancers jocular knot, so I say:
See Spot Run
away from that face of your clock
the beats of your Machiavellian speech
I am understudy to none
In cahoots with only the **** of my soup
kitchen, my idyllic sous chef he takes paradise and irrumates these
suture-battered stars covered in
elementary window wish dust
to poke your fingers with kisses
and undo your shoelaces even
while you you’re weary of becoming
the flat-footed ballerina. There it is
I’ve said it. Beware beware beware beware
when taunting me in your under wares
For I eat lines rare
Petite writhings of flair
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
wonder if it's real
this place I call home
where the cosmos create
the tides turn and
the moon is in cahoots
with the cat population
wild wolf howl roars
composure unwraps
conscious our conversation
crawlin' round my belly
a quiet coat of fur
heart warming homecoming
the ease of revolution
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Bell bottom hip huggers
And my Frankenstein shoes
That had stack soles and heels
That I could only barely use.
A crop-top sleeveless tee shirt
With a superman emblem on it
And diamond ring on my hand.
In case I might have to pawn it.
Because we were picketing
Downtown at the City Hall
And at some police stations.
It was the seventies after all.
Our parents raised us to acquiesce
It was their America they protected.
And it was just exactly this blindness
That we, en masse, all rejected.
We failed to understand them
The generations that came before
That prized prejudice and bias
And celebrated sending us to war.
We felt there was another way
To go about sweeping social change.
We saw beating and fire hosing
As nefarious and more than strange.
We got beaten ourselves and jailed
For just pointing injustice out to them
And watched our sit-ins and love-ins
Turned into scenes of ****** mayhem.
We heard them call us all criminals,
Long haired ******* was a favored taunt.
It seems we were entitled to our opinions
As long as we didn’t chose to flaunt.
It felt so very much like **** Germany
Including storm troopers and jack boots
And the local politicians were obviously
At least agreeing if not in cahoots
With the police in their fear of rebellion
And protecting their good paying jobs.
So, they beat us and vilified the students
Calling them ***** communists, and slobs.
And, yes, some of us were getting high
Back in our homes and apartments.
Sometimes it seemed the only way
We could deal with the estrangement
Between what our country said it was
And what it turned out it really was.
It was hard to realize our land wasn’t free
And there was no social Santa Claus.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
Red tights,
Flowing cape,
The city is calling,
It's not too late.
Spandex briefs,
Form fitting suit,
Humans are appalling,
**** **** Loot.
Well defined muscles,
Girly boots,
The Joker and Penguin
Are in cahoots.
Carefully coiffed hair,
Gigantic chin,
Perched about the town,
Waiting for crime to begin.
Invisible car,
Cool technical gadgets,
Oh! He got away!
Curses! Almost had him.
A steel man,
The speeding bullet,
My weakness is this string...
Please don't pull it....
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
When I was younger in a different time
I had a habit on a special date,
Or on an occasion, to write a rhyme,
Often enough, because I'm a cheapskate.
So as Christmas swiftly soon descends,
And I've but my heart to claim as loot,
I write this story for a special friend
About a Giant and his Little Boots.
You see, these two made quite an awesome pair -
A lanky lad with lanky giant feet,
He'd often smile as people'd often stare
As he'd walk with Little Boots about the street.
A friendship in college they did form.
The Giant couldn't have asked for more.
His Little Boots could help weather a storm
Or bust a move on the Workman's floor.
Those Little Boots helped through thick and thin.
When he was in his darkest places,
They'd help him smile and let light back in
Or send him gifs or silly faces.
He knew they could take different paths -
Boots, like friends, can tread through the rough,
But nothing could silence the joy or laughs -
The friendship was made of stronger stuff.
And so they lived, as friends, forever,
The Giant and his Little Boots,
Strolling down life's roads together
Making it big time, in cahoots.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Another head hangs low,
Open up your eyes,
Nothing left to show,
In for a surprise.
Brainwash subliminal,
Far too criminal,
What to do when it all goes bang?
Safe to say the fat lady sang.
Free peoples unite,
The time has come to fight,
World leaders in cahoots,
Lost meanings of salutes.
Boiling in to a revolution,
Seems to me the only solution.
Creative arts lost their purpose,
Look far beneath the surface.
People flocking to normality,
What happened to individuality?
Freedom to think doth still remain,
Ability to question we must retain.
Lessons of the past slowly erased,
Rights and freedoms slowly defaced.
Today is only the past of tomorrow,
Don't let our futures turn to sorrow.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
We gaze at the transcendental in disgust for our inspiration is weary.
We feast upon the weak in attempt to gain egotism.
We discourage and destroy beautiful flowers in the hopes to protect the sun from wasting it’s warmth on the worthless.
We then gasp for air and question why we struggle for every breath.
We are naïve, for naivety is in cahoots with arrogance
We have no excuse for no excuse will suffice.
We are granted our last words and we say “We are human” for there is nothing else that needed to be said.
We are our greatest enemy.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 5:13 AM UTC
do you know island, that you
are and have always been thriving
on the life that you give yourself?
unmoored you are not.
you are about as adrift
as the coral reefs
that ring your most sun drenched
shorelines
your history
shouldered with love -
you are rife with a certain heaviness
that weighs in a fastening
balance, a brilliant strategy
in cahoots with
all the others
it is true, of course
that we commune with the same sun
the waters drift between us and our neighbors
many of the same clouds are found
sauntering amongst our respective mountains
but you - you are filled with your own stories
they are still echoing,
incantations deeply canonized
from within those temples you call
forests
your very own cosmology that
you yourself
are only beginning to discover
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
When I gave up, I pretty much just stopped, like two feet firmly planted into quicksand. I just stopped.
When I could no longer take a step, I just let my arms fall down to my side, fingers spread and just sighed.
Chin tucked to my chest, an even breath, then a scream that only echoed on the inside.
When I stopped screaming, I was still sinking and the crushing absence of movement made me bold. I struggled and I flailed but to no avail did I become free from the quicksands hold.
Within reach of my fingertips was a ghostly branch, from a tree that had weathered sicknesses untold. But still that tree reached out for me and as I took hold of it's ghastly brittle fingers, and even now in my mind it lingers, I took that tree out by the roots to sink in cahoots beside me, lingering in this quicksand.
I immediately apologised profusely to the tree that now sinks beside me.
The tree answered back, no, please it was I that lacked the fortitude to save thee.
Oh no! I thought, it was my troubled mind that led me to sink so deep, it was me who should weep quicksand tears for the tree who fell for me so blindly!
So me, and the tree, used each other, you see, one to stay afloat and the other to lay down finally,
to hold another up kindly.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC