"condor" poems
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.
A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
**** EVEN Tacit Rainbow.
What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.
Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist
Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
Hound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petrel
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Maverick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw
Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now——
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits
The birthmarks that are his trademark——
The scald scar of water,
The ****
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that
His hair long and plausive
*******
************ a glitter
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
6.2k
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings—
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
6.1k
*Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.*
Depression of Science
Believe in possible
achieve the probable
accept the inevitable
laws are boundaries..
*Oh, those sprinkle's shards
they hug the lamplight so?*
Possible, they believe me
Laws, condor, deceiving...
Fate enviable acceptance
-evening
Akha, Okto, Echo, Eight-
*Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.*
Was it one or eight?
I
ate
One
then
Eight?
118
1118
1118
11118
111118
8
**Shhhh...you hear that?
...there's something in the closet...**
it's like a
ant on crack
a ant on
Crack
it's like a
ant on crack
a ant on
ANT ON CRACK
nano,
-Crack
it's like a
ant on crack
ANT ON CRACK
ant on
Crack
ant on
Crack
ant on
Crack
ant on
Crack
it's like a
ANT ON CRACK
..fingertips in heaven
Heaven's a construct,
by a carpenter and a drywaller....
and a painter...
Controlled by
Home's Despotism
*Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.*
*Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.*
*Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.
Bouncy, swirly, colors see me.*
it's like a
* ANT ON CRACK *
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
4.3k
The owl
owns silence,
it dawns;
movements
are arrested,
as stillness
comes alive
as owl moments.
The condor,
gravitas,
incarnated,
in relentless search,
circling around
the sky's navel,
in a mystical quest,
a motif that arrests
motions of mind.
An owl sits and sees,
a visible presence
of an invisible absence,
on the cosy notch
hid by foliage
on the tree of loneliness.
Perking up ears
inner silence,
the faithful watch dog,
listens owl's unuttered words,
ever echoing,
deep within the walls
of mind's corridor.
The owl and the condor,
the eloquence of silence,
has two voices speaking
in unison.In the secret center
they reveal the forbidden,
silence rules, the dawn of wisdom
bright and spectacular, awaken
the fog filled landscape.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Bigger things are easier to see. You might miss a humming bird or bee. You won't miss a condor or eagle. The opposite is true for people.
How can that be? If there's more of me, why am I impossible to see?
Invisibility isn't a cloak or spell. It's your fat pants stretched thin and worn as hell. It's the T-shirt you never thought you'd fit now threadbare and torn in the armpit.
There's just more of you to love, I thought the saying went. Well there I was feeling only torment. Faces fell when I said no, I'm not pregnant.
Does love bloat like this body of mine? Does it get watered down like cheap wine?
My back, my legs, everything hurt. My body just didn't work. If not by plane, by train, or car, I wasn't getting very far.
I longed for someone to scoop me up, to cradle me and gently rock.
I didn't fit in anyone's arms and briefly flirted with self harm.
Twice at work I took to crying. It went unnoticed without my trying.
The wrong solution looked too friendly and as of late, far too trendy.
Left alone I pondered fate. If I died, I'd be dead weight.
I felt stuck forever like dried cement. Sinking too low even to lament.
I watched my waist size raise and fall with the tides. If the full moon swells with admiration, why was round me full of desperation?
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
In parlance of the street he's a dumpster-diver,
scavenger of non-losing wager or proposition tickets.
You'd see his fragile frame each night
walking the isles of the race and sports books,
a condor's aerial eye trained on the floor,
back visible only to casino surveillance cameras.
Seated atop a barstool at the back,
I watch him bend, examine and discard,
through the prism of my scotch glass.
Every food chain has its bottom-feeders,
he brings efficiency to the gambling ecosystem.
Likely not the life that you or I would chose,
but then he has no monthly credit card to pay.
Just now, I saw him straighten and smile,
a parlay ticket will pay for tonight's meal
with just enough left for a brown-bag.
He does not go uninvited to misfortune,
the streets tonight are lined with chance's down.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
By Simon & Garfunkel
I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail
Yes, I would
If I could
I surely would
I’d rather be a hammer than a nail
Yes, I would
If I only could
I surely would
Away, I’d rather sail away
Like a swan that’s here and gone
A man gets tied up to the ground
He gives the world its saddest sound
Its saddest sound
I’d rather be a forest than a street
Yes, I would
If I could
I surely would
I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet
Yes, I would
If I only could
I surely would
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Mending my leather mittens
for the third time this winter,
I sew them with waxed string
made to repair fishing nets,
hoping they’ll last
until the splitting maul rests
against the shrunken woodpile
and the *** and ***** come out of the shed.
I find myself praying.
Blessed be those who have laced together
the splits at the seams of this world,
repair its threads of twisted waters.
Blessed be those who stitch together
the animals and the land,
repair the rends in the fabric
of wolf and forest,
of whale and ocean,
of condor and sky.
Blessed be those who are forever fixing
the tear between people and the rest of life.
May we all have enough thread,
may our needles be sharp,
may our fingers not throb or go numb.
May each of us find an apprentice,
someone who will take the needle from our hands,
continue all the mending that needs to be done.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
Arooooooooooooo
The wolf howls
The hawk circles
The elephant trumpets
The badger … lurches
The turkey … vultures
The Ram …
The Bull …
And the eagle and condor live happily ever after
And always built on the framework … on the architecture of the dream … thanks Raven …
Always and in all ways love You
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
.
Bleeding ripe woman,
wet naked stone;
honey rock dries--
fast star bone.
Dead memories change
just like laid,
wants fly open--
soul sky parade.
Sea moon dreams,
daddy heard stars--
known little face;
death drives cars.
________*________
Rainy days wash--
brick looking mud,
blank reality strings
dry midsummer blood.
Dog's child minds--
revolution spreads wings,
***** molten other
fraught angel sings.
Corner ocean waves--
milk sounds morbid,
freeing minnow slaves
gritty condor kid.
________*__________
Catch passing eclipse--
my suicidal dream!
Kissing dying lips,
conscience eagles' scream.
Roots stop barely--
silver burdened rhyme;
river's metal tracks
help God remind.
Lofty smokeless breeze--
bird's echo box.
Ice burg floating,
saturates frozen socks.
__________*___________
Rings pulled strangers
silk blossoms singing--
remembering ancient maps
deep words bringing.
Canon pirates' soup
dreamer's record stalkin',
river's whole amount--
dead man walkin'.
Instant scattered corona
clenching eagle drowning;
rubber slamming secrets--
reading Robert Browning.
.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:11 AM UTC
Love is like oxygenated blood which pumps through vascular decades of sensual experience.
Soaring upon the thermals of the Andes, the flight of the Condor reveals perspective of the land, where events are perceived in their complex entirety.
I am fully aware that music can be hypnotic in its ever-flowing stream of rhythmic nourishment. So, there are many parts which make the whole.
Therefore, in the height of our carnivorous quest for survival and intermittent gratification, let us bow in reverence to the many elements of vaginal rituals. It’s a rhythm and blues encore with wings which are not comparable to those of Icarus.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
*CHALLENGES
This spirit journey, dream walk starts with a single step taken while standing on the very edge of the precipice, over looking the path of truth far below. Not the abstraction of a never reaching truth, or the truth of some idealist, subjective plane of reality, but a reality that serves humanity, its desires to dream and make real an earth of no pain.
For too long we have only blindly followed the world, known only its suffering and seen its vast oceans of tears shed for many millennia. We have felt the wounds festering in our souls, tasted the salty bitterness of broken promises and wasted lives, even as we have worked and toiled with all our might.
So much is yet to be done though this dream journey has already begun. Soaring along the condor’s wind, breathing in the crisp snowy air as it washes us clean, savoring each crystalline speck, we follow the gathering avalanche as it cleanses the earth in newness along with our ability to know how to fulfill our collectivity, our humanity.
In tomorrow’s land, where wolves have learned to whisper to elk and bear; where our journey’s dream continues, I will still step off the precipice edge seeking truth as it knows and changes the world. Perhaps you too will walk and stare with me at the night’s sky and hear the songs our ancient ancestors sang to the galactic winds.
~~Aztec Warrior/redzone 5.5.04~~*
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
and the hyenas said what the condor
would have, said,
that the sea lion and the lion
kept the knowledge of the world
uptight - for the latter gave way
to a new measurement of harem
instead of metre - and the latter delved
in brotherly alms - to the kept
loss of prey - as condor, as hyena, as wolf...
a woo! he he ha ha ha ha ha (hyena,
fox of Europe)...
cackled the crow in imitation -
cra cra cra! kenaz ᚱᚨ kenaz ᚱᚨ kenaz ᚱᚨ!
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
Above cliffs a condor soars.
Through its eyes I scan the world
My inner being in flight.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC
f I could fly
Ascendent circling thermals
Spattered ash on God's blue palette
Perhaps you'd shudder
As my shadow passes
Spectred tingles scurrying beneath your skin
Like mice before the combine
My soaring sight unfocused on the chaff
Or the burning curve of the earth
I'm only fashioned for the passing
Gliding in on the last breath
Life ebbs
And I'm scrabbling for sustenance
In the dirt
A mongrel bird
Insatiable for the taste of decay
Raucous opportunist
Crack the bones of broken dreams
The marrow of life a dry memory
I am built to consume
Your castaway flesh
As you slip from death to life
I begin and end with eyes wide open
Transient purpose served
This side of Heaven
You won't find me aloft
In empty skies
When death passes
Into life
TL Boehm
031809
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
air pours alive in stringencies,
fall of tor and expanse.
mazy-eyed,
casts a syncopated hook
amongst tulips beheaded
by the toppling of a leaf
bracing for departures,
something else holds back,
furrow—
the thatched morning's serious mien,
the arrow, whirling in trajectories
one with the dive into red cauldron
of infinite scar of water,
Śiva, sighted footfall of the condor's
verdigris, this simple rustle
of your scourge-gowns
insists cadence of flutings;
i am one with beginnings.
swarming poultice of the inflamed grass,
obscene lines of shore in twilight
unfazed virulence spreads
like an epidemic of kisses against the
pulsing loam, cries like breakwater
lorn the fault of men, death at one's
trembling hand — sound the tribulation
of slender bells to a gather of pallors.
it is a stopping in-placeness
like crests of ******* a beautiful woman,
shiftless weight of light on glazed collarbone, Śiva, the enigmatical paradox
beleaguers a concatenation of
unloose chandeliers of appurtenances,
the unblinking aperture, widening in sky.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
We woke one morn
To the song of storms
And the iron grip of fever.
Torn between the call of war
Fleeting dreams of Patagonia.
The afterglow of horror shows
Shadows left upon the mountain.
Nightmares rise from water falls
Sanguine spectres in the fountain.
Preachers drink long, far, and deep
While prophets speak of profits reaped
And treasures yet to be found.
Among andean condor calls
Those who seek live weak to greed
Forever bound enthralled.
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 12:41 PM UTC
When i was little i remember things that no longer are,
Like seeing the sky full of endless stars.
I remember watching the giant birds flying free,
Their home no more was the river of Sespe.
My mind goes back to when the waters ran wild,
Pushing and pulling me when i was a child.
I saw clouds puffier than a giants cottontail,
The fillmore train riding its rail.
I rode without seat belts and ate all on my plate,
Life when i was a little was nothing but great.
My toys made of matel and i played in the dirt,
I made mud pies and stained my shirt.
Telivision was black and white
and there was no remote control,
Back when the firplace had to be cleaned of its coal.
There was no internet, cellphones or xbox,
We had a desease called chickenpox.
I remember fruit trees for miles i would see,
Everything when i was little is worth remembering.
Now that im all grown nothing is the same,
Its scares me to think what the world has became.
Surrounded by lights now the stars cant shine through,
And the California Condor is gone now too.
The rivers once full are now dessert dry,
The clouds are man made and i ask why?
The train still on track it drives the same rail,
Seat belts a must or you go to jail.
Electronics are what kids play these days,
In fact kids are impossible to raise.
I remember when i was little and wishing to be just that,
No other place in life i would rather be at.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
I saw my future in the ravines
of his leathery face,
smiling toothless
with spilled bones all around,
he chanted & pointed skyward,
mumbling in ancient tongue.
It seemed the world stopped,
like we were both
waiting for a sign.
And we got one,
it was in the form
of a scarfed condor,
which flew above us
on mammoth
outstretched wings.
Some people don't believe
in such portals,
but I do,
I walked through one.
I licked the sun that day
with my own tongue
& tasted god flying.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
Happy or sad?
Simultaneous Feeling within me.
Good or bad?
The skies are falling but I've been set free.
Full or empty?
In the brink of having my palms touch yours.
Beautiful or unsightly?
Giving in but ended up craving for more.
Condor or hypocrisy?
I said to myself I won't think of you again.
Innocent or guilty?
As I think of you while holding my pen.
Too early or too late?
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 4:56 AM UTC
and i waited.
ever present sound, ringing my mind
killing me with hot things
that are just sudden impulse
tried to bring my knife today
found out this was not a fight at all
cringing ,still in your wake
your moves of a condor
slowly unfolding for me to find the fatal flaw
in your speech
and the things you had planned to say
they are not one in the same
i will never respect to see it that way.
i will respect to see straight energy
blinding the constant blare of a ripened stare
loaded with probably
killed with a maybe
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
the Mothman Cometh in dead of night
who knows his pain
who knows his plight
left unchecked in their faulty haste
born in pools of chemicals and waste
a slip of nature
he roams the skies
with wings of a condor
and red blazing eyes
it is said he had vanished
when the bridge came down
but I believe he remains
at the outskirts of town
I have been to Point Pleasant
and his presence I feel
on the river
on the streets
in the steps of John Keel
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 9:29 AM UTC
A sip of wine,
I question my fate as do I the heavens,
A sip of wine,
Must a carp forever stay a carp never to ascend,
A sip of wine,
Must a tiger's soul be born as a cat,
A sip of wine,
Must a baby chick never take off into a condor,
A sip of wine,
Is the cup not but empty.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 1:21 PM UTC