"compatriots" poems
Stories browsed by the bedside of budding of children
Told of all the adventure that awaited us
So I ran amok with my compatriots
Every one of us wreathed in youth
Burning with the boundless fuel
Of curiosity
From the streets spilled opportunities
Of Fame, Of Wealth, Of Love
Then eventually the Sun rays Bent
Before bleeding upon the stone
So that we traversed on bricks of yellow
Until sore legs led us
To an enchanted emerald mirror
And as we stared we began to wheeze
Seeing a frail old wizard or witch
Wondering “why” with a whimper
As curtains cradling clocks, crash upon us
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
To you I may just be a grain of sand, caught between your toes
But you will not have my experience, so you cannot know
How it feels to float on a shark fin or rest on a mermaid's breast
Or do a jig with a conga eel, now that really was the best
So before you cast me aside to clean your human foot
Take a super duper microscope and take a closer look
At me and my sparkly sandy compatriots as we glisten in the light
A dazzling array of shell fragments and glass nuggets so bright!
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
grey and worn
the lawn chair has dead leaves stuck to it
its one bent arm an expression of pained indifference
mud clings to its feet
and a single vine like a thin snake
wraps its way across its frame seeking the sun
i pull at it to set the chair right
to seat myself
and **** at the breeze from the open field
marvel that a cow stands not five feet away
silently watching my every move with a wary eye
lunching on the grass and ****
but the chair now uprooted from its long held position
seems more than ever a proclamation
of mans intent to be seated here on heavens lawn
clear illustration of the intent that you are supposed to
take this bent greasy seat
sit at your leasuire
in the bountiful sunshine
it is one of a dozen in the field
in this beautiful slice of heaven
the lawn chairs
litter the field like broken teeth
set in a line that wanders across the wilderness growth
each having suffered from years standing in the open field
two almost completely consumed by bushes
one had been tossed into the tree
where time had swallowed it into the bark
this broken and brutalized fence of chairs
these lawn chairs of heaven's field
sit in this beautiful place some would say eyesore
i say artwork of life's randomness...
what party of fools once sat here
dressed no doubt for the occasion
perhaps celebrating
perhaps mourning
then got up from these plastic seats
and left them behind as testament
to that forgotten day...
so i sit in heavens lawn chair
a mute salutation to my unknown compatriots
who painted this pastoral scene
of plastic in a field
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
GUNS
Tanning
Karate
Outrunning storms on 40
Outlasting my compatriots full of toxins
Yawning after afternoon
Delight and coffees.
I'm going to miss her like hell
When I expatriate,
Her and these simple road signs.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
I look for compatriots
in this callous and cruel
world.
I seek allies who will help
me overcome
the horrors that were done
to everyone.
I long for
the warm storm
to wash away
the wicked muck
of too much
hateful stuff,
deeply paining
dark rhetoric
that wealthy men
generate,
to create
fear and hate.
I wait
subdued
by the desire
to inspire
in contrast
with a need
to find peace
from a
spiteful past,
but even among peers
I am alone.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Bluebell Lucy danced in fantastic flames, taught by shamanic figures
when the winter nights grew tiresome
and lonely boys ran passionately in village streets
She stood on ancient structures and sang her song with uttermost vigor
even after mild paranoia sets in, she stands statuesque
breathing harmonic, listening intently to the cloud's chatter
Her cobalt lashes flickered adroitly when she scanned the sky atop her locks
and let the coming rains wash through that azure mane
until the kiss of eternal gratitude arrived from a stray bird
On cobble stone paving, her heels were worn and dampened, she nimbly strides
how beautiful it is to see a spirit so free
and the obstinate world yields to her alone
Loosely, Lucy with a cerulean aura, gathers the injured and feral in alabaster arms
she is yagé and the world hallucinates because of her
a subtle enlightenment she gives to onlookers and thieves
Camu Camu sprouting from the wells she digs with bare hands in midnight moonlight
her compatriots, the beasts of lost tribes, look onwards
and she wails a verse on hemerocallis singular sensation
The flower that she is, a wild one that grows sporadically to enhance the beauty of existence
and everybody incomprehensible in thoughts when she speaks
because she is love when love had died so many suns ago
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Can you imagine
Sleeping on the street
Going without the daily things
That you take for granted daily
Can you imagine
Working alongside
A person who must live like this
And still can't afford them?
The homeless and the destitute
Don't live in prisons and in workhouses
They live and work amongst us
They are our compatriots, our friends
They have pride, as do you
That's why you don't know
They don't look different
There's no scarlet letter on their clothing
But, the reaction from the masses
Is always negative at best
This is not a life choice
They aren't just the dregs of society
These are people...PEOPLE
They want respect, but it doesn't matter
Not a bit...they have pride, and that's what counts
That 's why you don't know
They are the hidden
The working class of poor
They are the avalanche of humanity
That pour through the mission door
They have spouses, and young children
Using programs and support
But, to most they are invisible
Homelessness is not a sport
It doesn't have a season
You can not turn away from it
Ignorance is not a reason
It's time to make a change of things
Get out and do your part
Smile each time someone talks to you
It's not big, but it's a start
There is no special uniform
There is no way for them to look
You may be sitting next to one
In the library, with that book
Change the worlds perception
Hold the grass down, on the way
Step up, and do the right thing
Help the homeless out today.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
A face that envisages the intensity within
The purity of his soul is visible in those eyes.
His words are a reflection of his honest heart
And his silence says everything he wants to hide.
When he wields the willow, he becomes a warrior
Desperate to give his last ounce for his nation.
He resists all temptation with ****** mindedness
And fights the enemy hard, to protect his team’s bastion.
His passion never lets satisfaction reach his soul.
He’s as harsh on himself as he’s on the opposition
Nothing annoys him more than his own failure
The past struggles have only elevated his ambition.
He’s an epitome of innocence and simplicity
But don’t get fooled by his diminutive looks.
For there’s a reservoir of fire inside his head
Which explodes when he’s provoked by crooks.
He bats for India wearing his tri-coloured gloves
Like his 1 billion compatriots are holding his hands.
Their love strengthens his grip, empowers his bat
And runs flow in abundance as like a rock he stands!
He’s a special cricketer, selfless, gritty and gifted.
But what he is on the field is not really his best part.
The person within is more precious, like a rare gem.
Beneath that stern and strong face, there’s a lovely heart.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
Antagonism
burgeons back bad blood.
Compatriots, courtesy can cool contentions:
doubly, disrespect demands decisive
execution. Early efforts evolved
fatuously, force facilitated farcical fighting.
Gambling gents gleefully gored
hedonistic harlots. Harassing
ignorantly, igniting
jealously,
killings
listlessly- liars lament
momentarily. Meanwhile, monetary
nuances
of opulence obscure
prime problems.
Quarries quake
running red. Remembering
solitarily- stoic steeds stand silent, sending
thoughts,
unbidden, unbeknownst.
Violence:
we were
xanthic,
yellow years yaw…
Zymotic.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
What is the head
a. Ash
What are the eyes
a. The wells have fallen in and have
Inhabitants
What are the feet
a. Thumbs left after the auction
No what are the feet
a. Under them the impossible road is moving
Down which the broken necked mice push
Balls of blood with their noses
What is the tongue
a. The black coat that fell off the wall
With sleeves trying to say something
What are the hands
a. Paid
No what are the hands
a. Climbing back down the museum wall
To their ancestors the extinct shrews that will
Have left a message
What is the silence
a. As though it had a right to more
Who are the compatriots
a. They make the stars of bone
1.9k
I have shut the doors to my mind, I shut myself out
For inside my head there exists
a thick darkness that seeks to engulf me.
Pain – Fear – Rage and Love.
Shapeless monsters hiding – waiting to devour me;
Now to the heavens I look, towards the enchanted skies;
glittering and shimmering with cold- but warm enough
to house my sullen soul.
I will look towards them; and find my solace.
Everlasting and steadfast, I am enthralled by you.
Tales from the surface of my within,
The ones I won't tell no man, I let you hear
In the beauty of the night, you wink and glisten.
I look up at the night sky,
our eyes meet in the appreciation of devotion;
of a love between man and kind.
Enshrouded in the warm embrace of fleecy clouds;
she covers my world with her glorious silver smiles;
Lady Moon, Queen of the nighttime cohort.
I look up at the night sky,
and there he remains like a friendly old man frozen in his seat;
pointing the way to that may need it,
his hand remains steady as he guides.
He is a lone star,
shunning communion with comrades and compatriots;
he shines alone, a jewel in solitude.
I look up at the night sky,
they glide past on the wings of the wind
like gracious phantoms.
They weave and churn showing off their flexibility
and volatile dancing skill;
Teaching me how to survive in a world which loves a few.
The grey clouds flip and flop, they boil and bubble.
Rejoicing in the fellowship of flying embroidery;
they promise the gift of life giving rain.
I look up at the night sky,
my eyes cannot see them, but yes they speak to me.
From places out of the reach of civilization;
intuition and heartwarming reassurance flow;
from matter and energy,
at the bounds of space and time,
from regions further than the confines of the known multiverse;
at the feet of God.
The black of the night and the blue of day – the only barriers shielding them from my sight;
They reignite my spirit and set alight the torches of hope
inside the rooms of my soul;
I know not what they are,
but they watch over me and they watch over you.
Look into the skies
and you too will hear their silent voices.
Stare into the splendor of the night
and commune with your inner beauty.
You will be set ablaze.
WordSmith_Wiz
26/07/2018
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 5:40 PM UTC
The importance of maintaining balance,
in so much as sanity's building blocks.
A personal reflection of your highs and lows, each helpful for creative growth. Some stick around, as others come in flux.
Historically fixed in a similar headspace,
their presence placed for short or long.
We offer grace to those who help us, listen, laugh or object against the angst and tell us to our face.
An overlay in the dreams we hold,
plus those past mistakes which are often made.
These altered goods, associated schoolmates, bands of buddies, compatriots in cousins, a smile from a chum.
All state a claim in the memories of us aiming to belong, like everyone.
Sep 13, 2021
Sep 13, 2021 at 2:28 PM UTC
Open backed pick-up truck, bouncing down a beatnik road, carrying the remnants of Dean Moriarty, as eyes catch hold of the four days growth on the face of Cool Breeze.
One flew well beyond the cuckoo’s nest “transcending the ********
“…The Nowhere Mine…we’ve got bubble-gum wrappers…We’re going to **** it out from under the world…working in the Nowhere Mine…this day, every day…”
Kesey put away on two counts of possession, released on bail at the risk of residences belonging to fellow compatriots.
“LSD-25, IT-290, DMT”
Interrupted the transition through the idle doors of consciousness, requiring the free minded to travel “beyond acid”
“The Nowhere Mine…Nothing felt and screamed and cried and I went back to the Nowhere Mine.”
…
“It’s my idea,” he said, “that it's time to graduate from what has been going on, to something else. The psychedelic wave was happening six or eight months ago when I went to Mexico. Its been growing since then, but it hasn’t been moving. I saw the same stuff when I got back as when I left. It was just bigger, that was all-“
“-there’s been no creativity,” he is saying, “and I think my value has been to help create the next step. I don’t know if there will be any movement off the drug scene until there is something else to move to-“
WHY?
“I’d rather be a lightening rod than a seismograph.” He said.
…
“The Nowhere Mine…”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Her friends made an accord
To bring her cariad
They met
They embraced
with blissful laughter
The day carried on
They went to the portal's entrance
Outside
He was preoccupied
By the device he held
Outside
She met another compatriots
Who played their mischiefs
With slippery liquids
They caused chaos
And an accident happened
With a child
Who fell
The girl came to rescue
And held the kid until
The pain was gone
And
She looked at her cariad
Waiting for something
Something or someone
She looked at her
Parents
And they urged her
To enter the amphitheater
With her platonic frater
So she went
And waited outside
She faced the fragile glass
Facing her own reflection
Tucked her hair
Behind her ear
And called her cariad to go with her
In a place she felt home
And then
Through the looking glass
Waiting for him
She saw
The way he waved
Frantically
Implicating
An urgent
Goodbye
So she went outside
And saw
Her cariad
With a fair woman
She knew
She was the Eros
While she, the frater
Platonic, should be Platonic
But what's with that look?
A look of regret
A look of pity
A look of apology
On her cariad's face
As she approached and saw them
Her heart heavy
Falling in the pitch blackness
Of Oblivion
Where self deprecating
Self loathing
Self pitying
Dwell
So she closed the distance
Greeted the fair woman
Who bothered only with a side glance
At her
And so they went
And she
With them
In a brief walk
Before they went away
Until
They parted ways
Again
With her
Cariad
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC
I tell you, you gloomy ones,
that life is beautiful.
Life is beautiful
in all its depths of
suffering and misery and pain
in all its depths of
striving and joy and pleasure.
I tell you, you nihilists,
one draws breath only once,
passes into and fades out of life only once.
Yet you are to tell us it is worthless,
this gift given to us all by chance?
I tell you, you Christians,
and all your compatriots
who hate the flesh and the earth,
who promise more life through
sons of virgins and husbands of children,
that nothing awaits after death.
"Memento mori!”
Why must you always
chime this in our ears?
Why must you fill
men with such anxious fears?
Many a man rules his life to this,
dreads and gasps and despairs to this,
prays that he may never come to this,
but you delude him on,
promising life after life.
I tell you, that
when we die, we cease ourselves to be.
Our senses stop their feeling,
our hearts stop their beating,
our brains stop their thinking,
and without those functions,
there ends a man.
So there are no souls
to greet gods in heavens,
nor any demons
to meet in hells,
only the ground we stand on,
and the caskets underneath.
Is this frightening?
Maddening, to think we must one day
cease to be and become nothing?
But death is not nothing;
Death is only a new dance of atoms.
When one thing tumbles,
it returns to the earth,
through one step or another,
to waltz and dissemble and collide
to make new things and again asunder.
With death, one only
plays one's part
on the grand stage of things.
Do not be afraid then,
of death;
do not let it frighten you,
that you will be
pointless, forgotten, or condemned.
Do not let it terrify you
into leaving your life unlived.
And so I tell you,
you gloomy ones,
you Christians, you nihilists, you sufferers,
remember that you must live.
Embrace life,
this shortness of time,
love every moment of your being,
in all its depths of
suffering and misery and pain,
in all its depths of
striving and joy and pleasure.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
One morning, when the sun comes up
I will see it shine above the valleys of that city
Upon that city that once rose atop the lake
One fine morning, the people will cease murdering each other
No ammunition sounds will reach the ear, and no more gunpowder in the air
No more tears of blood from open wounds
And no more human puzzles to decipher
One morning, when the sun comes up
It will shine its rays upon the missing
Rays that they will follow home,
Where they’ll be greeted with marigolds
Below the mountains, I will see flower gardens
Full of calla lilies and flower pickers carrying them
That morning, when the sun won’t forget to shine from open skies,
My compatriots will play ‘Pretty Little Sky”
All will sing, and none will cry, because the sun will shine
And bathe away sorrows of the past.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
I was wandering as we do,
looking for my life,
leaving what I once had,
long since paid the price.
I was hoping for an answer
to a question I don't dare ask,
I was searching til I found it,
and there I'd end my task.
I came upon a house,
middle of no-where, circus out back,
no-where too important
just a shelter on my track.
My cell phone bars were empty
but local wifi's open wide,
I made my host hungry
for technology by my side.
Sleep came slowly, lately,
within abandoned tiger-pit
beside my convenient compatriots,
safety in numbers not always a fit.
He drove his car right over me
and pinned me to the ground,
took my magic cell phone
to be the fanciest one around.
What he didn't know: I'm a dreamer,
and I always get my due.
I woke, rewound, and slept again,
and had another chance to choose.
I couldn't run, couldn't fight,
so magic was my key,
I drew a bubble around myself,
my droid close beside me.
He drove his car right over me,
my bubble lifted it from the ground,
I, neither injured nor trapped,
he, not winning what he found.
Morning came and rested
I stood and yawned and stretched.
Restful sleep is hard to have,
when journeying far and westward,
but I did and all my things
still journey by my side.
Life is more than just a dream
when you wander far and wide.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 8:35 AM UTC
compatriots, let your voices sing
like an unchecked choir
let words be the pitfalls
your opposition face
and in their fall from grace
at attempts to smear you
hold to each of them
those things that endear you
for a friend is but a stranger
that met you on a good day
with a bright disposition
and an enemy
is simply
someone you've not really met yet
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
I desire to frolic in land mines
Toxic compatriots desiring little past flesh
I talked like moving my mouth was compulsory
Word *****
Actual *****
Alphabet soup
Teenage mutant ninja hurdles
I think most of us have failed those
Switch my mind from off to on
But you can keep your ***** hose
Destructively productive
In all the things that don't matter
Pope brings glad tidings
Of what the Holy Spirit's after
Let's talk about *** bay-bee
Let's talk about running free
Let's talk about all the mistakes we've made
Let's talk about Sexually transmitted infections
Let's talk about my music collection
20/20, John Stossel
I don't care if I get your name wrong
Justin Timberlake
Dances through your mind in a man-thong
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
This earth is actually 1 nation,
It is 1 complex society.
My compatriots,
They don't desist from being real *****
My countrymen,
They spit phlegm on any public road.
My landsmen,
They bias against the ladies apart from ****** them.
My fellow humans,
They break all of the traffic rules.
My own friends,
They have been so imperfect.
My friends are my world,
And I am not proud of this world.
I am an idealist who never had them,
The mythical permanent friends.
The human society is full of bigotry,
I read about female exploitation.
This awful male-dominated society,
I am amused on its insecurities.
That unlucky unborn female foetus,
I mourn its ****** before its birth.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
there sits Father Time
drinking a 50 year old scotch,
neat.
His compatriots
Sister Life and her Brother Death
sit close by,
the Sister sipping *** on the Beach
while Brother blows bubbles in his Shiraz.
All served at the cosmic bar by The Great Spirit
nursing a big 'ol Long Island Iced Tea.
I'm thinking of creating my next masterpiece,
Brother Death said.
"Maybe this time, don't use a bucket of paint for just one blade of grass,"
Father Time chuckled.
Sister Life spun around
and round on her spinny stool for several decades
until she hopped up atop the bar, proclaiming in French,
I don't make the best hexadecimal frittatas in the seventh dimension for nothing!
Suddenly all brought their glasses together in a supernova clink
as they cheered
"May we continue to move forwards in the trajectory to wherever the hell we're going!"
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
*etymology extract: as was said, they'd read my poetry
on the front, among the billions, a few might tread,
from everyday Monday through to Sabbath,
thus said, archaeologically bound: Egypt, Josephus,
the nativity play, xylophone, and too much
indoctrination acquired to walk like a peacock,
and indeed more strut likening to a crow;
for indeed the waterfall of skulls, the dead sea
which reaches depths higher than peaks of architectural
adventure in man levelling mountains,
exploring sea depths and excavating depths
of the prized orbits: such restlessness never once
but countless times before; so soon forgotten
among the revision of partitioning, that nearer
Israel's resurrection on a foreign continent
than a neighbour's resurrected breath on the continent
concerned... leave unto Persia that book,
and unto Africa the judgement over Egypt...
but so your toying in global affairs is gluttonous in
sugars of hoped for sweeteners in applicability,
paying remnants of the economic enrichment i too remember,
20 to a room... 20 to a room... with baked beans soup
and white bread to send breadcrumbs home...
oh but my scottish compatriots haven't felt the full
**** of immigration, they haven't!*
why not talk of Kazimierz Prószyński
like you do concerning Auguste and Louis Lumière?
oh, i get it, ******* in the hood...
Europe is really foreign accepting the existence
of the once famed commonwealth,
as the present time, with the resurgence of
Israel, which can't be split equally, fathered
and equally brothered among the constituents
from the Baltic to the Black Sea...
from the median to the red...
best keep the sea lions bopping along with dear tourism
in the over-salted sea,
should the dead sea attract more sacrifice than the
touristy hill outside Jerusalem.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
I am an ethical capitalist and
A poor philanthropist-
And as for party,
I reject them.
This system is exactly what the founders warned of.
Parties that pit parties against each other,
Who forget they are comprised of compatriots of the same nation.
Never swear off community
For the sake of security and comfortability,
Because those that tell you that is the bargain we pay
Invest in lies & deceptions.
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 11:21 PM UTC
*she knows. I'm sure she knows.
every day of the week,
I'm there for her, so to speak.
my order consistent, my appearance reliably persistent.
her compatriots behind the counter
even made up a name for me and my order!
"senor dos cubanos, por favor,"
i wait till she is free, always, before ordering.
they all sly smile at the foolish old man,
who requires only a certain young lady from Cuba,
to make his daily shots, just so, so fussy he.
please! no sugar needed,
her demure mouth,
sweet plenty.
they know. i'm sure they all know.
the olive complexion,
the hair pulled back so tight,
beneath a ridiculous uniform hat,
the slender frame radiating pride
all of which she wears so well,
with a modest hint of self made pride.
working her way up in America.
two coffees, extra milk, in a plastic bag
to travel with me, back to my imprisoning day desk.
she hands me the bag oh so carefully.
our fingers touch. our fingers much touch,
with the oft, quick but sensitive precision
of a baton passing
in an Olympic relay race.
she smiles. always.
it's ridiculous. i'm ridiculous. who cares.
that one contactual second is a gift,
the thrill is not gone.*
and that is why he writes
only love poetry
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC
While working my routine at Amazon
picking the same items I always have before
I was trans shipped to trans ship
filling me with anxiety
understanding unfamiliarity
nerve racked novice
sweat trickles down my face
soaking into my PPE.
Two man crew I'm meant to join
black guys wearing reflective vests
"I'm here to help, can you help me?"
blank stare foreground
empty workload background
perplexed aesthetic
French accented walls muffle communication
I form a reluctant alliance with repetition
yet my counterpart understands everything I say.
Their patience eases my troubled mind
when my capability falls short of my enthusiasm
hand gestures guide me free of frustration
I stay silent, only saying
"I'd talk more but I figure it'd be a hassle"
my learning ambassador understands
but his extra steps start a conversation
creating comforting small-talk acclimating aliens.
Sydna and Josue from Ivory Coast and Congo respectively
and respectful was all I wanted to be
yet I got the impression Josue was uncomfortable
after I had brought up gold, diamonds, and oil
but Sydna had taken control of the conversation
telling me all about the lottery he won to be here
I wondered what lottery's prize was living in Cincinnati
to work a factory job in Hebron.
We work bundling totes together
printing confusing and mysterious tags
reading ACY, CMH, SDF, JFK, or CSG
these bundles will be leaving CVG eventually
carried away on skids
to their indifferent destination
of the same capitalist company
just at another fulfillment center.
I guess I should be more grateful
to be in the poor nation of transportation
but I'm not—I'd rather be picking
where I can communicate with compatriots freely
but I'm far away from the south mod now
near the north side red tag area talking to strangers
it's just a shame
because there's plenty of material where I came from
but transitory shipment is where the work is.
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 10:59 PM UTC