"capers" poems
This poem is by Norman Stevens in response to MY poem about HIM. Have made some minor changes.
In Willy’s Bar on High,
Sheltered from Cleethorpes sea and sky,
Paul Butters utters words of cheer,
While quaffing his pint of Willy’s beer.
He sets about his spicy meal,
Loading up for his evening’s sport,
When he’ll aim to be the real deal.
Owner Bill’s Angels prepare another stew,
To help down another “home –made” brew.
They nip outside for another “staff meeting”,
Paul says they’ve gone for a ***
But THAT I’m not repeating.
Throughout these capers,
Norman reads his informative papers.
Sipping his Nectar Beer,
He’ll leave in good cheer.
Norman Stevens
Assisted by Paul Butters
(C) PB\NS 17\11\2015.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Hold my heart for ransom
In exchange for your sweet whispers
Kisses and sighs in tandem
Along with moonlit midnight capers
Take my heart as hostage
A willing one it would be
Deep within its bony cage
Working up into a frenzy
Hold my heart at knifepoint
Incised upon I've already bled
Over cracked notions and disjoints
Chasing after hope that hasn't fled
Brand my heart with your seal
Press into and make your mark
Folded within is all I feel
Behind your insignia so stark
Choose my heart for blackmail
Ask of me whatever
Hope to accomplish without fail
Hopes of us do not sever
Play my heart like a toy
Adore me and hold me tight
Handle me with child-like joy
Share with me, squeals of delight
Mould my heart of clay
Wrap your fingers, twirl me round
Make me worthy of another day
To celebrate your sight and sound
Lace my heart and tug at it
Pull me closer so I could be near
Bind me tight so I would fit
Coveted spot beside you, dear
Enslave my heart on all fours
Lead me through your universe
Close behind us, lock all doors
Subject me to love's greatest murmurs
Place my heart next to yours
Let me be enamoured to the brink
In due time, and on laboured course
Perhaps we would finally beat in sync
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
owners love them to bits, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun
**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
what a show he puts on, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, their capers never fail to get a laugh
behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, behind the air filter goldfish dart
such a jovial spectacle, they're natural born entertainers
they're natural born entertainers, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, **** playing with a skein of wool
behind the air filter goldfish dart, Rufus chasing his tail
such a jovial spectacle, what a show they put on
their antics never fail to get a laugh, owners love them to bits
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Houses sitting condemned, taking up the view
while the old guys sit sipping forties in forty degree
temperatures facing the wall so the wind doesn't burn
their faces too much in what could be called a modest December.
They turn their back to the guy hiding bags of rock
in his lips to avoid detection from the cameras posted
on both street corners. This place is set to a constant sneaking
violin pluck. We are all capers in a burgle commune.
I hung up a tarp today so the stray cats can hide from the wind.
In one stanza, January has set in and it is bitter to the bone.
We summoned the name of old man winter from repetition and
no one man may hold that burden. The ***** only warms their blood.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
I.
Sunday mornings in Vancouver
even pigeons sleep in till 10 A.M.
Undaunted, I walk down Granville shortly before 8
seeking lox bagels with capers, red onions and cream cheese,
two breve lattes, and a newspaper. In truth,
panhandlers on the corner of Robson
have far greater chance of scoring.
An unexpectedly sunny February morn
suffices to spur me on. I am attuned to all vibration.
Breath of the awakening city
exhales manna upon the shop awnings.
Bagels rendered superfluous,
I scarf images instead ---
trolley buses, an umbrella shop, falafel stands ---
delicious Canadian visual cuisine.
II.
Vancouver is a nymph. Of that I'm sure.
I hear flirtatious giggles trill
from darkened alleys between hotels.
Spotted her once across the street on Dunsmuir,
seated on a walk bench reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Bus passed between us and she vanished.
Caught a later glimpse through the window
of a walk-up dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.
Flew the stairs, only to find an empty table and
discarded napkin smudged with candy pink lipstick.
She watches me.
III.
Turns out there are no Sunday morning papers in Vancouver,
but I locate the bagels and espresso backtracking on Helmcken.
The barista smiles as I approach, sets down her Atwood novel.
I leave a Toonie in gratuity.
B.C. wind pushes hard on my turned back,
as I rush our breakfast back to the Executive.
A nymph goes roller-blading by toward False Creek.
The Gastown Steam Clock whistles that it's 10 A.M.
A flock of pigeons lifts in flight.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
Black bombs fly
religious people lie
sky scrapers cleric capers
THOSE!!!! archaic papers rise
here human dwelling must crumble
and masses must die.
WHERE ARE THEY GOING TO???????
in this barren space of Arabic land
feet aimlessly plod
the elderly pray
widows wail
orphans weep
and babies cry
on the order 1947
sacked from a place called heaven
waves in a sandstorm
40 nights and 40 more....
THOSE!!!! ghouls are rotten to the core
killing innocence
and much, much more....
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 3:15 PM UTC
I feel half drunk half Punk and intimidated in this place,
toga alley show me your ramshackle best,
you also ran,
cracked capers
has been tested,
is no reason to desist
ultimate humility.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.
It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.
where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
LIFE IS SHORT
AND WE'RE A LONG TIME DEAD
Whether we are riding a unicorn
Across a rainbow
While the wind blows majestically
Our lustrous eye haloed by seagulls
We may act and act
Like we are tall
And our finger nails have
A big heart of their own
We may play kittens or puppies
And get excited about plastic bones
We may get lost in the grammar constructions and commas of sunset
In and out of our comfort zone
We may want to belong to two life clubs
And finish a movie every seven ten days
Always up for subtitles
Be it old sci fi 30's 40's 50's 60's noir war
We may try with a pair of scissors or a broom
To put death sleeping in socks and plan ahead endless possibilities of karma
If we're wildly in love with life
And understand that life isn't a pie
That being in life isn't a sport
And that faith on life is a little like a full time job
But that death is like a hook living just around the corner whom we share
With the same post code.
Life is short, life is petite
Life is a ****** a dwarf, a suckling
Life is fast as a snap of our fingers
Life is a bait, a worm
Life is sparks
And we're a long time dead
So let's fish capers and mangoes
In and out the apparences
In and out the distance
While the harvest season is booming
Up there in the blooming volcanoes of sunset.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 2:43 PM UTC
Ooze be reality upon the page
Betwixt the courtship of pen and paper
Reveries aid in sustaining spare sage
Refrain he must from such foolish capers
As cyclical evidence he distributes
Yearning to establish a solid voice
Such fervent vocals shan't be silenced mute
Quite a conscious, yet such a wise choice
Devil's dearest a portrayal inclined
Gambling upon his impending death wish
Deeming his existence as asinine
Within spooky graveyards he shall relish
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
The fearful varmint that claws at your callous origin
Caused a ceaseless chain of nightmares
A simple faux pas contrives a generation of idiocy
The toes of a screaming infant dwindling in our wake
Loyalty had not yet bared a face of existence
Atonement was never a question but a riddle
Heed your forthcoming capers
For they just may deface you
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
I've been trying to be good.
Doing what I should.
Assessing the patients,
Listening to the cadence.
Typing up the charts,
Listening to the hearts.
Filing up the papers,
Avoiding potential capers.
Not running my mouth,
Or fleeing to the south.
And yet, here I am again,
Called in, actions to defend.
Don't they know,
It's how I run my show.
Patients always come first,
I'd just as soon the paper be cursed.
But, there's the crux,
Bottomline money always sux.
Now, for daring to care,
My sins I must bare.
Will I be fired, retired,
Or just jaded to the point of uninspired.
** Possible followup, pending results, of meeting with boss.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 1:23 AM UTC
The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.
I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.
I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;
Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.
I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.
That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.
I count these covets no sins.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
No social ***********
no discourse on current affairs,
on who's doing what or where or to whom
and that's why you will always be
the silence in the silent room.
In aluminium doorways where the sun's rays reflect
I have always suspected a hoax,
japery that capers about my head,
is it me or the sun that is dead?
Victorian cobblestone paths made from grandad's dry bones
and shells off the front line on the Somme
meandering,
Picardy's never that far from me and
Tipperary just goes on and on.
I sit here in reverie and the world
pebbledashes me
I am becoming a scroll lost to history
a paint *** full of scenery
the brush with the bristles
all gone.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
an inquiry has been called
into the Mungindi Cup
the horse that won it
had his galloping speed hurried up
evidently the horse had been administered
some sort of enhancement
which assured that he ran
with better advancement
the stewards of the racing club
were rather suspicious
as the horse's racing ability
was far too auspicious
the police are looking into
this strange state of affairs
it wasn't possible for the old nag
to run with such dashing flair
in our region horse racing
has been dealt a shocking blow
and it's fine reputation
has sunken very low
once the inquiries findings
are published in the newspapers
we'll all be informed
of the race horse owner's capers
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
Nobody really knows
Which, if any, way the wind blows.
Drifting by on fading dreams,
All for one, no time for teams.
Days gone by when we flew high on vapors not of rolling papers but of our playful youthful capers, daring mates as daylight tapers.
Now the times have changed for ill,
When all we praise is Dollar Bill.
Robots set on cruise control,
But what's the purpose, what's the goal?
When the dam will burst at last, cleansing all that was our past,
We'll have the life and riches, too,
But what's the point when you're not you?
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
Super chill and relaxed near to hitting the sack I sit back and let it flow, the magical melodies to cure your maladies, warp your reality, the goal is to enhance your day with what I say. They slip and slide, the way my thoughts glide, making me sit back and sigh, with content that another day has gone by and I’m glad of this gift sent, an angel from heaven lent. The source of my smile, she’s got my heart on dial, lock stock and like two smoking barrels this is hot, and my soul she’s got.
I’m glad of this mental exercise that deposits my truths never lies, I feel sorry for the other people that don’t surrender to their creative sides to follow their own artistic guides that free them from their mortal reality, a shackled prison that drains the brain and makes you grow old and before you know it your soul is sold for gold, and you just do what your told, another man made from the mold, is your life cold?
Poetry takes you away, freedom to say what you may any day more than ok, where your brain floats your heart lays. Imagination is the truest form of creation, and you break your own limitation with this sensation. If it floats to the top it I just let it drop to the paper and it becomes another one of my capers, I invent, never repent, take these words my brain sent, inspiration lent, let them all know what my heart meant, and its all to prevent the stagnation of my imagination.
The day the child dies is when the light goes out behind his eyes, and becomes another one of the guys and that’s the start of the demise. Falling under the standard “Whats normal?” guise, this is the **** I despise and when I see it my heart dies. We all need to step back take off the disguise, stop, think, reach for the skies, and take the prize.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 12:38 AM UTC
I'm MEGALADON
Megatrons decepticon
On a upper echelon
THE allsparks electrons
Sparks the neurons
In the mind of the shark
The.volts in.his heart
Embark
On a mission
The autobots builds Robocops
With unlimited ammunition
The ambition
Envisions terminators
Exterminators
Germinators
Cause these perpetrators
Try to invade us
Capers of these crusaders
Is devastating cause its thousands of devastators
Awaiting us
Is the.Originator
The creator
The savior already saved us
But brothers an sisters betrayed us
They face us
Ever seen
Wings
On a transformer
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
There is no silence in the night, darkness breaths, it grows unbound,
It is filled with shadows shifting, whispering, waiting to be found,
Silhouettes block out electric's shine, darkness creeping through the door,
Together searching, trying to, find out what they are looking for,
Frigid breath capers coldly, shoulders crack with goosebump-scars,
Her porcelain skin glows brightly, in the broken light of scattered stars,
Staining black like flecks of paint, a shining blur of cut glass shards,
Sweet scent is lost, we are found, my burning cheeks, she disregards,
Singing breaths whisper love, wishing the night will never end,
The empty night is beautiful as she, we now no longer have to pretend.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
No one dies twice, keep living each momement, making love and money, heel to toe, step by step, always ahead, stopping only for poached eggs, buttered toast, and grits, reading the Times, sipping coffee black, a cab to the Park Avenue office, calls to Lisbon, meetings with subordinates throughout the day, sometimes laughter, sorrow lurking bemeath smiles, all the while pretending, Central Park filled with joggers, solitude in the sky, a bagel with cream chesse, capers, and lox, a new tie at Brooks Brothers, memories of Andover, sun-bleached benches, Columbia beating Princetion, Harlem hidden, a chapter or two of Dostoyevsky, daydreams of ecstasy, a hotel room at the Pierre in mid-afternoon, her golden hair brighter than the sun, covering her shoulders and one of her young ******* the rest for loving, an endless stream of searching souls, thousands making millions on Wall Street, vapid, vacuous, empty endeavors, dinner at 21, a long stroll up 5th Avenue to 63rd, back home that had never had been a home, a kiss on his wife's cheek, she always meek, no one dies twice.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 1:26 PM UTC
*My brothers were remarking I've had more beaus than most...
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVIII)
La, how Vivaldi trills and capers thence
When I am on the run, like to avail
Me is a chancy thing for all he'd hail
In, erm, my absence. And oh! these skies wear hence
Long faces since rain swore off dawn, a sense
Of sheer foreboding in racks' blue detail,
The scanner crackling with a weary tale
My brother knew would be, and "jail" fr'intents.
Dad swears I am "subjective" as it were,
That list of boyfriends I once tripped on through
(Whereof I say "I don't know how to stir
Aught man, but I kin sure ditch lovers") to
A fault against my dearest hopes, a poor
Reminder of I can't say what. Why, too?
10Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
When our battle comes from within,
How will it be possible to win?
Our left is tearing away from our right-
How can we win? How do we fight?
We try clawing our way out of this hole,
But only effortlessly, losing our soul.
Lets fight to be heard, let's all scream-
"We need to wake up from this dream"!
Nothing makes sense anymore,
And we are left empty to the core.
Let's rise up from this pit
And tell the masses as we see fit
So all can become aware of the lies being told
To trick you into the mold.
They turn us into sheep
So we can make comfortable the elite.
There is no life in being a slave-
They want us to keep digging our grave!
And there is no heaven or hell,
That a big fat lie as well!
Money and religion go hand in hand
Making sheeple of every man.
Controlling you, and certainly not caring
If your life is worth sparing.
We have to wake up and realize
That our ship is being captized!
Teamwork will be the only way to save it,
That is, if you even give a ****
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
Try along these sacks for proof of feral merriment,
in stilled eyes and on carnal graves. All whose rotting
limbs are well studied in 'ologies of human squander-
Red with laughter, plucked with all caving souls and
anger. Gasping, so, with lewd amusement of the dead
in jest.
Muspelhiem froths forth with cold hearts, lusting of
mortal slaughter. I've seen the men whose vial looks a
barrel‒ whose foaming mouths, birthed-stillborn of
Sheol and all it's unebbing horrors, can't restrain the
joy of culling. Hate creation‒ worship crude insemination,
ravished toward the making of wilful immolation.
But what casket of pleasant delirium, brings deaths to
child's eyes‒ no wars of misfortune must be ******
of a playful kind. Hecatombs, artistic as day‒ homes
like Tophet for children to play. But whose poison
to **** me sooner, under Black Suns and darkened
hearts, as Lucifer capers down the burrow.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC