"catapults" poems
Some are born balanced
On a precipice and remain
Tethered for the rest of their days
Overlooking barely there
Mental images
Fragments of a lucid dream
Of a conjured up past life
Once etched on skin
But no longer there
They speak of
Violent reinvention
And escape
While the hollow speaks
And catapults into spaces
Better left unknown
Psyches wrapped in denial
Running the gamut of habitual sins
Perpetuating legacies of pain
With hands that carry
The burdens of forefathers
Tiptoeing
In the twilight of dreams
Willing for the heavens
To send a spring that blooms
Hearts whose pounding
Reverberates endlessly
inside of ears
Eyes that get darker as they close
Meet with ours
A look
A sigh
Ascertaining a mutual recognition
Of the familiar
Shadows that plague.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
7.8k
The impatient soul awaits.
As crowds push towards the train.
He rushes to pass, can’t be late.
He looked at others, the insane.
He squeezed against and did shove.
They looked at him, silent grunts.
His angry mood, bared no love.
He was used to his way and wants.
One more push and catapults.
Into the air and did not fall.
He laughs at them, at their faults.
As he flies pass human walls.
Surprised, he got no attention.
He roared at them, till the last door.
His super power, that strengthened.
No longer waiting, he could soar.
Everyone looked to the left.
Train now expected delays.
Some tears were dropped as they wept.
A red end to someone’s day.
He flew back in that direction.
A sudden feeling, temptation.
There caught in the intersection.
His body, the impatient.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC
...And then I claimed hell and embedded my soul in mercury
Spun in cotton candy.
Sweet and dandy.
Honey of kindness is what I usually am.
Glazed with a temper of redness and lust
With reckless catapults of whimsical feathered *****
In carefully-woven baskets
Bombarding blanks with loud bangs.
And an identity which took years to make,
I'm a bi-tempered soul of icy / lava flow.
Wanting, needing, consuming life...
Give me flattery and attention!
I was exempt from life's detention!
I was spoiled by the caring hearts of my DNA angels!
Rage first, I protest.
Regrets later, I detest.
I'm a clusterfuck of mixed intentions.
Real words don't spill much beyond fire lake.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
i
I kind of knew
in the back
of my mind
that there was more
to come
ii
An urgent message
rings through the streets
"The Romans are at the gates!"
As soon as the news
reaches the house
giant catapults
start to pound the roofs
with rocks.
iii
Hoovering out
the cat hairs
scrubbing out
the loo
iv
The woman put her sad moon-face in
at the window of the car.
"You be good," she said.
"Yes, Momma," they said.
She slung her purse over her shoulder
and walked away.
v
Being James Bond
in miniature
is way cooler
than being a wizard.
vi
The park grew wild
and where we played football
the grass was torn
by the bombs
vii
At the time
everyone thought
that Elizabeth planned
to capture Mary.
viii
I'm so excited
I could burst
It's this cracking idea I've had
It's been worrying me away for weeks
It all started,
you see,
When I was showing some of my students
Where Greenland was on a map.
iix
Unbelievably,
the brown square
is identical
to the yellow square
ix
All us friends and relatives
are told to sit at the back
mind coats and bags
knowing our way
in the dark
x
Mum glared at Dad.
How many times
do I have to tell you
that the twins are called
James and Rebecca;
not Cheese and Tomato?
Granny shook
her head.
xi
The hard work
hopefully won't end
and we will stick together
no matter what
xii
Experimental
native style
knows
no boundaries
xiii
The fire detectors
are fitted
at regular intervals
along the tunnel
xiv
As an adult
Tarzan is once again
faced with the question of belonging
when he first meets humans
and discovers creatures
who look like himself.
xv
My heart misses a beat.
The girls have seen me
in my bikini.
They all gather around
looking and laughing at the sight.
How embarrassing!
It is a long way down.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
Walking, always walking,
Puzzled youth being funneled like cattle,
Seek shelter from the sun,
Jeer and poke at each other,
All from the safety of their cell phones.
Constantly seeking that one undesired retention
Of jukebox explosion catapults.
Thrusting us deeper into the mind/brain paradox
What is this?
What are these strange mutterings in the dark?
Babysitting wasp nests by electro shock railroads,
Disgust in the face of the many.
Where is this golden eclipse we’re all waiting for?
How can I not see the spiders on my windowsill?
Are these anguished, infantile youth truly desired?
Aggravated Neanderthal men
Try to impress pulsating goddesses of Light,
All to no prevail.
Sickening feeling in the gut,
Why aren’t you here?
Well I suppose,
Things have changed.
The Empress of the tunnel
Seeks out the empire halls
Of the tunnel-bound angst,
Musicians in the hall strumming
There thoughtless musings,
While the the debutantes watch and listen.
The intensity is unbearable to them,
They must seek shelter in their ipods.
Milk, must have it.
Watching them creep through the cafe,
May they one day find what they’re seeking.
Where are they?
Sitting here by myself,
Look at them jeering at each other
In their own jargons.
Have they seeked out the pleasure of life?
Dream-like meditations,
Well-rounded views of life,
Happiness within.
Dumbly smile at each other,
Seeking closeness,
Mind/body consciousness
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,
I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.
You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.
I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.
I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.
You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.
Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.
You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries
and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
*Curb your tremble
Lest the sea catapults you
Into it's bluest of depths
Again.*
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Your intrusion
Is conducive
To my city burning down
So I defend from inside my castle
Civilian hordes
Wield swords
And I've gotta flail
In my chain mail
My city walls have been manned
So use your battering ram
And intrude on me
Muscle into my muscles
And burrow into my bones
By disarming my mob
While catapults lob
Incendiary boulders
That protect me from
Temporary shoulders
That have exploited my nation before
Mining the resources from it's core
Avoid all the blasts
So we can clash
In the arena of my mind
Where steel strikes time
And my defenses
Defend me from my life
So intrude on me
And shatter my protections
And shatter my conceptions
So intrude on me
And break my perceptions
But be careful
Intrusions have reflections
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
Sitting upon this old stump
the middle of a forest
dampened with secrets
with actions
with words
with promises
A quiet place with such loud screaming.
At the end of every journey
I always end up here
Left in wonder
an itch inside my skull
a droning hum
a beating drum
hearken to the horrors
suffocate in bliss
ask yourself why
Flying voids and crescent catapults
slither up above.
This quiet place
so empty yet so full.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
** I wrote this long ago for a friend with cancer - a small malignancy the size of a pearl in her lung. The hateful thing metastasised to her pancreas after two years in the shadows - she lost her battle last week. She was 73. She was firm friends with my mother my entire life, and her own children Isobel and Craig are like my own flesh and blood. I was unable to attend the funeral due to ill health, but she requested this poem be read out at her funeral - I'm sharing it here as a tribute to her, and I've changed names to preserve her privacy and dignity. **
This kingdom's hewn of time and words
And glances flashing over
Shadows, shapes and silhouettes
And pearls of smoke and ochre.
Rude invaders! Generals!
Who dares encroach our borders?
"Naught but pearls my princess, so
We strike! At dawn! No quarter!".
Set shoulders low and feet aplant
And curl your fingers slowly.
Your enemy is swift and lean,
Ten thousand times below you.
No mercy from a princess who
Instilled in fresh disciples
Wisdom, courage, whimsy, love and
When it's called for... rifles.
Gather muskets! Catapults!
Oh marshalls! Summon nurses!
The game's afoot and outcomes?
Well, who dwells on whom we versus?
For masses swell behind you and your
Gleaming armour guides us.
Swords aflame! We saw! We came!
Wakes of pearls behind us!
Ten years hence, one hundred, more
Louises, Davids, Andrews,
Will sing with you your victory,
Sandy Alexandrou.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
A lot of time spent
having miscellaneous conversations with the air.
Even stupid questions like "how's your day" acting as if it'd give an answer, or, even more,
a whisper of inspiration
It's an obligation, or, maybe a delegation, or, a confirmation?
that we will create a masterpiece before insane peace
With a piece of our minds becoming a little less peaceful by the day.
Soon our minds will turn into violent catapults hurling out sentence after sentence making our paper bleed
Black, Blue, Red, Gray
Joining a cult created by the letters we created ourselves
falling into the abyss these stanzas and paragraphs invite us into
And don't get me wrong, it sounds terrible, but it's home.
There's no place like it.
Where these words are so much more than words,
they're family.
But frequently, we get into arguments that erupt into something sinister
and our desks become littered with papers that wilt and wither into nothing more than liters upon liters
of a type of alcoholic beverage that'll tempt us into becoming outspoken drunkards
But that's the goal:
to be outspoken.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
It starts
deep within
just flames
licking fire
tripping up
my spine
in crackling desire
spreads through my pores
in heated, close beats
releases its high
from my brain
to my feet
The slow burn
in my solar plexus
spreads in hot surges
waves of wildfire
pulsing in white-hot urges
right down
to where
it really takes off
rushing through my
my cells
never pausing to stop
One can go mad
from that torrid,
thick heat
every day
so I will trill
into my music
rocking my chair
as I play
feeling the vibes
within the rush and the beats
from the top of my head
to where these velvet
thighs meet
like the blazing
mirage of a summer
heat wave
releasing
the flow
of all that I crave
close-channeled
energy siphoned
into other spheres
so much like heaven
it squeezes out
tears
late desert
summer nights
naked under
plush covers
my tunes and my pen
are my only lovers
it burns for a while
slides into
ecstatic bloom
and then catapults
back up
in a frantic
heart boom
this is my world
when I am
in charge of my own
rhythm and tunes
playing them out
like mysterious flumes
this is how my passion
unfolds
when I choose music for a set
I start off contemplative
and end up wet
So I will take this ink
let it spill upon the page
wield the sword of my
slick waters
free my soul
from her cage
like a silky animal
running to cool, shaded brush
I will save up this
passion
so endlessly
lush
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
I learned to hold my breath
the way leaves hold out for seasons change; continuously
relentlessly
bracingly -
both in anticipation of the storm
and caught beneath its savage gaze.
The piercing ditty,
melodious cries that uncoil us
springs forth like flashes of lightning -
fear that catapults towards another painful promise of sleepless nights and hope deferred yet held fast still.
Still
Still
I need only be still.
And I exhale
Your name on my breath
as I realise I’ve been holding air in my lungs, tighter than anxiety and fear clasped my heart causing the beats to come like torrential rain,
like tears of release, relief, remorse that fall, surrendering to the One who sees me.
I feel the load lift from my shoulders
boulder by boulder
9.12, 9.57, 11.26, 13.50, 16.10, 18.12
every confidence, horrifying utterance
weighed so heavy on my heart
absorbed into yours
piece for peace
Yahweh Yireh.
Still.
Still.
I need only be still.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 5:46 PM UTC
Three days ago I found my sunlight peeking through a crack on the back of a rusted dumpster. My body, forced into it by people unwilling to give me a second chance.
It was blistering cold and the wind cut like snowflake diamonds zipping all around. I remember I was walking home thinking “maybe this is all I have left to give”
So two days ago I decided I'd let that dumpster bright ray of sunshine go. If my only good moments were covered in filth, I'd rather just let them go.
My thoughts raced on what was ahead of me. A millennia of starscreams opening across the galaxy as my silhouette becomes the shadow of a dwarf.
I know I'll miss the sunlight though...and even through cracks in rust I think my sunlight might someday become platinum.
Yesterday I met a face that felt like hot shadows. She sung catapults of fire in my mind. I saw her on the stage at a local cafe, strumming demons away from my side. Her fingers bleeding sunshine through her fingertips. Dipped in ridges and vibration.
I found a fool's worth of hope in the skyline and lost a lifetimes worth on wishing.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Come with me into the woods
Let's jump on leaves
unleash our catapults of feathers
Swing on vines and climb on tree tops
run around nature's maze
and live our youth
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Naaman met Amana
as she was on her way
to the shop for her mother.
He was counting out change
in the palm of his hand.
The morning sun
was coming over
the fishmonger shop,
the sky was grey blue.
She spoke
of her parents rowing,
how she never slept
until late,
a series of slaps,
then silence,
she said.
Naaman put the change
in the pocket
of his school trousers;
he saw how tired she looked,
even though her fair hair
was well brushed,
there was a haunted
look about her.
He knew of rows,
slammed doors
at night,
weeping into
the small hours
from his mother’s room.
Amana showed him
the list of shopping
she had to get.
He showed her his.
Doughnuts are warm
from the shop,
we can share one,
he said.
Won’t your mother mind?
she asked.
You can only eat them
once she’ll say,
Naaman replied.
They walked to the shop
across Rockingham Street
and entered in.
The smell of warm bread
and rolls and coffee
being made.
He stood behind her
as she showed
the woman her list.
Amana had on
her school uniform,
the dress well pressed;
the white socks contrasted
with the well blacked shoes.
Her hands were at her sides.
Thumbs down,
soldier like.
He had held that hand
home from school once,
warm, tingling
with the pulse of her.
That time on the bombsite,
collecting chickweed
for the caged bird
his mother kept,
she had kissed
his cheek.
Never washed for a week
(least not that part).
He could smell
the freshness of soap
about her
as he neared to her.
The woman handed
the shopping over
the counter
and Amana paid in coins
which the woman counted.
Naaman handed
the woman his own list.
Rattled the coins
in his pocket.
Amana waited;
the bag by her feet.
She spoke
of the Annunciation
being taught at school,
the Visitation of an angel.
All beyond Naaman’s grasp
at that time.
He knew of catapults
and swords ,
of old battles in fields,
and the Wild West
where he rode
his imaginary horse.
He wanted to kiss
her cheek as she
had kissed his.
Shyness prevented.
She spoke
of the ****** birth
the nun’s spoke of,
the wise men coming
from afar
following a star.
Naaman liked the stars,
the brightness of them,
the faraway wonder
in a dark sky.
After he had received
his shopping and paid
they walked back out
into the street
and crossed to the slope
that led to the Square.
Then beneath
the morning sun,
bag in hand,
she leaned close,
pressed her lips
to his cheek
and kissed him there.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
I am Marhteena
I come from a small village in southern Cameroon where people use kerosene lamps at night and store drinking water in large aluminium pots.
where neighbors share kitchen utensils on a daily basis and eat from the same bowls of soup with one another.
where children go to the streams in the morning to fetch some water for cooking and rake the woods for some firewood.
where women go to their farms to plant corn, yams and vegetables while the men tap fresh palm wine and tend the goats and pigs.
where children play under the scorching sun and eat roasted grasshoppers for lunch.
where children make their own toys from rafiagrass and abandoned wires
where children climb trees and hunt birds with their catapults
where children go fishing with small bowls and learn how to swim by themselves
where children sat around fireplaces at night to tell folktales and ancient stories
I am Marhteena, i come from a very small clan but these experiences have shaped me into who i am today
I AM PROUDLY AFRICAN!!!
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
can you just simply forget
How to do the things that made you live
you let all fall that are gifted in grace, let them hesitate with an insecure skip
dismay catapults while grey shadows
your previously bubbling take
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Do you know the reason behind these conflicts?
As we see the results of these evil tactics!
War had begun,even the sun got no clue,
Mind produced inventions, weapons making a breakthrough!
Catapults and ammunition scattered everywhere
as this century comes into fatal despair.
Nation's blame pointing through east and west,
Lies, false accusations and boundless protests.
Foreseeing the future, knowing the end is near,
Soldiers and tanks in full combat gear!
Millions of civilians, Innocent lives damaged,
as the battle of faith continues its rampage!
So called Leaders and kings pin pointing,
Naming names, questions the Endless blaming!
they all stood up, with a huge Pride in their heads,
as if there is no tomorrow, the way they slide their sleds!
Moving forward, as we trace the root cause,
what could be the weapon of the Big Boss?
is it the bombs, that could erase the whole city,
or the technology that was forsaken by your brother country?
Looking over, I realized something,
that it is not the suing of your Governments crying!
the root is in the word of your leader's direction,
who would have knew it could give massive destruction!
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 2:27 AM UTC
It's catapults and expulsion liquid, your familiar with it on your cheeks and I'm showing you buttercups because my feet are stuck on pollen.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
Imaginative energy flows in, around, then out of me and I can see in it the key that opens up the world for me.
Clouds of pirates floating by are dressed as clouds up in the sky, firing catapults of fun filled with laughter at the sun.
Daisies growing in the field for bumble bees to land and steal, then take their ***** home to be, made into honey cakes for me.
Imaginative energy the magic all around with me and if your eyes are open wide, come in and join me on the ride.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
A knee length scream rebounds down the empty hall,
The walls as bear as her legs, which bear her away from the roar.
Not far behind, another set of legs, another set of pleats,
This time the floor reflects polished black and matt twill
And a slippery set of sneaky misogynies disguised as paternal concern.
But a good father does not stare at his daughter's legs.
He worries, as does his running child, about the man who's gaze is perpetually set a foot or two below eye level.
But when it wanders, as it "always must," our daughter rebukes his lust,
And her first and last words muster the might of all daughters and sons.
And she stands on her chair, so that this time his eyes are looking level,
And bellows from the fog of anger that had been slowly settling about her uncovered ankles.
You can imagine how that went down.
So sprinting, whooping, echoing across the school,
Her cries of exhileration tug spirits out of rooms.
The path of the pin-straight Man is blocked by the faces of his children,
He trips on their blue hair, their white shoelaces, and their black denim hems,
And as he falls she rises, out of her skirt and above the regime,
For neither define her as a separate being,
Nor as a string in the weave that catches that pastoral shin
And catapults the shepherd into the stampede of the sheep.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC