"correspondent" poems
STATE SHUT DOWN BY IDIOCY
"This is correspondent, uh, burp...
wait, winds r, yeah, okay go
back on live camera..."
pretend the wind
is
blowing you back
"This is the most major storm in recorded history of this network!"
"My God,
I could die in this sh..stuff."
"Five star hotel what the ****
"Okay, okay, live we are,
look here, pan closer, these leafs on this Raleigh plant here,
see how violently they are moving?"
LEAVES ARE FALLING!
"That is the fear one feels knowing that a category two,
at any moment, could become a category five."
"This Dave Mowers live from Hawaii,
checking in before I possibly die.
Mom I love you, Dad, well,
look how brave I am!"
"Is that an Asian girl?"
"What an a..cute *** that,
cut to...
to the violent leaves again you ****
"I'll fire you cameraman!"
*Four large oak trees have fallen.
HAWAII HAS ENORMOUS SURF!.
Four large oak trees have fallen.**
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)
and (begin again) move
we move
moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
10.3k
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
Isolationist theories
of my brutal development
A mask
In the world of passengers
Regretting every slight disruption
Making icy chatters of teeth
As we wonder
How will these small altercations
Affect the grand course
of my surreptitious collapse?
Just a violent object on an axis
A washer head
thrown into a tumultuous ocean of visions
A flickering correspondent
Lying on an abolition
The worst things happening to the best people
It spins and breaths and *****
This molested scared demon
Anally penetrating all that I believe is genuine
Reels of my childhood development
Played on repeat to search for ammunition
The tunneling rib cages of my insanity
The forest nymph of all that is good
The one who created me
Locked away in a windowless world
Analyzed as if lockness was one of them
I always thought it would be me
Falling to where I could not be found
How am I still standing?
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
Darling, your eyes on me
send my heart to a place of passion,
a place of intensity.
The eyes that belong to my captor,
the ones that captivate me,
enthrall me to extents unknown to others.
Love, your arms around me
secure the love I have for you
to it's correspondent place,
right to you, where I want it,
where you want it.
Those adoring arms,
caramel, caressing, caring,
tell me that no place other than there
is where I should be.
Dear, those pressing lips
that when first mingled with mine
the universe painted my life
with colors unseen to those without love.
Oh, those tender lips!
How understanding
How mature
How amorous
How passionate
I know from the language they speak,
the language mine speak,
that other lips upon mine
would be lost in translation.
Most handsome, your love is
a taste
a glimpse
a gentle touch
of the universe around us.
Your love fulfills me.
It's worth fighting for.
Its value is greater than that
of the many treasures of the world.
It's mine now.
And, I swear,
I will hold it close.
I will hold it as if
the wind could carry it away,
even though the winds
could never steal that from me.
Your love instilled passion into my life.
Your love has set my soul on fire.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 8:03 PM UTC
Pages that will be full of ideas
Yet also included will be some fears
A writer jolting down his life in what took place
There was a time in the Writer’s near Death
But time was on the Writer’s side
He can continue to write and reside
However, it will be the thoughts he will provide
Life is worth living
It’s the revolving time being the recordkeeping
A writer who was inspired by the night
It was also the moon and stars in plain sight
Now the Writer’s ideas that will shed some light
The time when the writer was attacked by a Bear
The attack wasn’t your average compare
The Writer who was caught by surprise, but didn’t even realize
The writer was attacked all covered in blood
The blood was pouring as if it was a flood
The writer was walking on the trail of the forest
Scare as the writer was, he managed to survive
The writer was so wounded to retreat
Medical attention is what got him on his feet
Thank God I am alive
The situation I will never forget
The writer’s notebook full of details, but being a full correspondent in giving what happened on the trail.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
1459
Belshazzar had a Letter—
He never had but one—
Belshazzar’s Correspondent
Concluded and begun
In that immortal Copy
The Conscience of us all
Can read without its Glasses
On Revelation’s Wall—
2.1k
For Steve Yocum
~~~
an old marine called me the other night
a poet from the left coast,
a correspondent and a first responder
to my messy essays
we both, vintners of men,
compared notes on our progeny's
full bodied temperament,
and our own full body's aches and miscreants
bemoaning our losses,
of earnest poets,
of friends, even foes,
and favored football teams,
and ne'er forgetting to tally up
our occasional victories
he authors books,
he authors life,
with grainy portraits,
that try to be peepholes
to clarity
me, a periodic poetist,
more confessional blogger shootist,
than artful-words-to-please dodger,
in a vainglorious futile insanely repeating attempts
to better separate
life's wheat from the chafe of its chaff
perhaps,
we shall someday meet,
a twosome of codgers,
walk the saddened-today, blood-reddened Oregon soil,
armed with each other's comforting wisdom,
tasting grapes,
acknowledging
but for the grace of god,
we go
*together, to gather,
each other closer,
walk the vineyards and the cellars
to clarify
the wine from the sediment,
getting uproariously drunk
on friendship*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
*** isn't the only thing that sells
death sells too
think about it a minute
and admit that its true
war correspondent reporting live
from the middle of the war zone
another thousand people die
from the hole in the ozone
ebola outbreaks are trending
getting millions of views
while little girl abductions
top the evening news
we demonize *** on t.v.
like were ashamed of creation
while at least one prime time show
will feature de-capitation
the next time you buy a ticket
to the mass media fair
just stop and think a minute
buyer beware
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
The War Correspondent
A helicopter skeetered bravely in
And pitched and yawed against the enemy fire
That wasn’t there. The manliest of men
Descended unto us in flawless attire
His tailored khaki suit was starched and pressed
Its creases as sharp as a Ka-bar knife
Never was a reporter more perfectly dressed
For getting the news while risking his life
The C.O. sped him past our positions
And hustled him into the T.O.C.1
To ensure each noun and preposition
Would be written for the greater good, you see
Much ink and Scotch were undoubtedly spilled
In air-conditioned comfort, no heat or mud;
With scripted heroics his notebook was filled
No need to stain his suit with his precious blood
After an hour he was hustled back
To Saigon for an evening reception
After he wrote of a great attack
And wired New York his immaculate deception
A helicopter skeetered bravely out
And yawed and pitched against a sniper’s shot
That wasn’t there. A great Communist rout?
There’s more than one kind of jungle rot
1Tactical Operations Center - command bunker, often air-conditioned.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Two Ones two O's
two infinity symbols/
beyond that
never is forever
a perpetual discontinue/
a critical crescendo
Can it be that it was
all so simple/
A difficult indefinite
A decadent individual/
More to lessen
when the lessons
Goes spherical/
What comes must go
Disregard the scenario/
In spite of facing the
Ever so unbearable/
Imperial
Regardless/
I un expected the unexpected/
I was endowed with/
this meticulous weapon/
the correspondent/
It came in a different direction
Not Money
Diamonds, jewelry and necklaces/
As you would expect it/
Rather verbs, nouns,
adverbs and ad-ject-ives/
My ob-jectives are selective
For I now know what my quest is/
I'm just the messenger
Please don't **** the message/
To your respective
Much time invested/
If I just reach one
That's a considered successes.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
Well I tried to make it sunday, but I got so **** depressed
That I set my sights on monday and I got myself undressed
I ain't ready for the altar but I do agree there's times
When a woman sure can be a friend of mine
Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, sister golden hair surprise
And I just can't live without you, can't you see it in my eyes?
I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind
Will you meet me in the middle, will you meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?
Well I tried to fake it, I don't mind sayin', I just can't make it
Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, sister golden hair surprise
And I just can't live without you, can't you see it in my eyes?
Now I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind
Will you meet me in the middle, will you meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?
Well I tried to fake it, I don't mind sayin', I just can't make it
Doo *** doo ***
Written by Gerry Beckley • Copyright © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
My body washes on the shore,
so battered and forgotten.
Run along, don't see me there?
I am your lost correspondent.
Chimes!
They ring!
As warm, strong hands,
pull me from the water...
"Are you alright!?"
A soft voice sings,
shaking me from seaweed and sulfur.
I cough up blood,
I'm not okay,
I'm dragged back to the sea.
"Why!" I ask,
I've done no wrong,
You'll just have to believe...
I've barely come to life you see,
I've been lost in frigid waters,
snarled starfish in my curls,
as I in the ocean's daughter.
"Come along let's rinse you off.
For you have done no harm;
I will be here to protect,
For not will I, your prince, neglect your love..."
And as the waves crashed on my shore,
I have a helping hand,
to hold... to be the better man.
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
Three Germany Eyes,
Tears Both Essential,
Effect Of fashion accessories,
Civilians.
What's Love Led Crystals,
field Cobbles Releases Blood,
Determination.
Tears of bitter Media,
CORRESPONDENT.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
*strained and molded midnight brain
encounter unknown cell tower overwatch
spill water catch twenty two revolver tribute
merganser interceptor ravenous soul sport
epic fail condominium
Brick island overlook star gazer Kansas revolt
lear jet appetite ebony sincere lambasted trivial
revolution
correspondent irregular depth californian intrinsic
substitution despondent calibrated ocean going
counter measure*
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
'
*Once, so many years ago,
now a distant place and clime;
moments of thought and life shared,
each moved in perfect time.
Words in unison, hearts pulsed;
so intimate, each gesture,
each expression fears repulsed;
companions of great measure.
Now it seems we're worlds apart;
nothing more in common share.
The last desired thing to start,
fray last threads beyond repair.
Tomorrow bears no sunrise
with correspondent promise;
about oneself realise
quite the monster: surmise.
To let bygones be bygone,
this callow heart has not learnt;
perhaps hope had wily drawn
from past flames this quill has burnt.*
_ __ __ ✒
●○
°
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
The softest voice dripped on me tonight
having noticed I always seem to be
heavy, alone, sopping wet, and alright
The nearest place to where I could flee
was the putrid crab shack of insight
where I insist nothing has happened to me
The cool tidal depth of twilight
tows me up a mulberry tree
it strings my spine quite upright
The silent correspondent lost somewhere at sea
I'm still waiting, rapt, for her postcard, despite
knowing we'll never again be three
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
Every atom corresponds
to bring our ideal into being.
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 2:21 AM UTC
Il en passait des nuits à écrir’ des poèmes,
Des mots pleins de ratures, sa vie à la bohème,
Regardant dehors, il voyait la lune-pleine,
Les étoiles du ciel sombre, éclairaient sa peine.
Il se voyait déjà, volant ‘delà les cimes,
Courant maladroit’ment, il était bellissime.
La tête lui tourne, il semble qu’il hallucine,
Il hallucine, il hurle et même, il s’enracine !
Peu import’ le chemin, il se guide avec l’âme,
Et s’il croise quelqu’un, son récit il lui clame.
Il n’y comprenait rien, peut-être était-ce un âne.
Tristement à ses mots, toutes les fleurs se fanent.
Il aimait observer les gens. Étonnamment,
Leurs chants lui inspiraient de sa vie le roman.
Et même seul, il veut les mots qui correspondent,
Il en accoucherait comme les poules pondent,
Dans tous textes, il en voulait un qui soit l’œuf d’or.
Mais les passions, les accidents, il les ignore.
Son imagination était en plein essor,
Écrivant poèmes et poèmes, encore, encore,
Ici, là bas, où qu’il soit il y vagabonde.
Ça y est, il repose calmement sa blonde,
Regarde autour de lui, il n’est pas seul pourtant.
Toujours le pir’ moment pour ses etourdiss’ments.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 5:19 PM UTC
Sometime, astronomically soon,
our dying sun will swallow up this planet
and along with all that matter
will go all that mattered. . .
And scientists from a distant star
will probably observe our ending
and, if there isn’t too much news that day,
we'll get a casual mention on some sort of radio station,
after all the politics and just before the sport and weather,
from our science correspondent.
And some distant-star commuter,
stuck in inter-stellar traffic,
hearing of our final curtain,
may just look in our direction;
no, correction: ex-direction
and wonder if our lives were any better.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 6:25 AM UTC