"courier" poems
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
_Marge_ retrogrades lazily towards the hills;
Her name, printed the width of her cab-over dinette
In crinkled cobalt cursive,
Totters eccentrically as her handbrake fails.
SNAP-AP
Oblivious to errant camper vans (and centripetal forces in general),
Barney speeds maniacally along a deserted city street;
Golden coated and joyously poochie,
His tongue flabbers as fast as his bicycle courier dad can pedal.
SNAP-AP-AP
Mr Blue buys buckets at Bunnings
To match his cerulean suit and shinier-than-shiney satin shirt;
Periwinkle rhinestone shoes carry him unabashedly passed the second glances and sideways looks;
There goes the best dressed DIY-er in town…don’t ya know.
SNAP-AP-AP-AP
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 7:01 PM UTC
There is a cat at my window
I am still
ragdoll in its flooded mouth
arsonist in one sulfur eye
night in a silhouette
shadow without philosophy
syllable of jungle chill
be it alms seeker
spy
or courier
or smoke as a pirouette
all icicle and satin
black iris I see
blood beating its binary
pulsating lodestone
hanging from its ley line
like the lamp of an angler
when the sun is furthermost
and all gods are unbeknown
I am still
still
the cat sits at my window sill
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:58 PM UTC
Traditionalism is what they follow,
Prehistoric is how they live,
Caring none about real human beings!
They depend on human protection,
Yet they pray the lifeless idols & establishments,
Statues & religion they call them and waste money on them.
They would do their own important work,
Tell me to better stop writing these blasphemous poems,
Praying, remembering the lord & idol-worshiping is all they care about.
People like them won't donate directly to the poor,
They say that they put some money in the places of worship,
Idols - their idols is who they live for and survive by.
My telling this to my countrymen or anybody in the world is vain,
They would still go to on or more places of worships,
Think that it is not idol worshiping and again not serve the needy directly.
They can only criticize me for writing blasphemous words of pain,
They would even fight with or **** me if they got hold of me,
But they won't stop idol-worshiping and start serving the poor directly themselves.
A Messiah calls the idol-worshipers,
To avoid going to places of worship,
To come and serve the real world,
To realize that what you are losing,
To help you realize the value of humanity,
To make you realize the value of the real world.
If you're not scared of change then join me in this new religion,
Here we don't worry about God/Ishwar/Bhagwan/Rabb,
But we do things that make The Power Happy,
Do social service and cleaning their houses,
Help the needy monetarily/practically,
Instead of just donating somewhere,
Shun donations to the places of worship,
Go to the needy personally or parcel them happiness,
Make sure that the courier service/other establishment you use is 100% genuine.
Avoid those agencies who are supposedly in one of the common names of The Power,
Hire a company/firm to actually make your donations reach the needy,
It'll be very helpful for the humanity which is prime & real,
Try this by whatever methods you find genuine,
You'll feel yourself elated & calm,
Take my word,
Seriously.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
the world is a machine built of scorpions and wolves, praying for sleep and
soft lullabies. the wheels and knobs turn endlessly, recklessly howling at the
stars for it's desirable solace, like ghosts stuck on earth preying on others for
revenge for being sentient puppets tangled in the strings, thrashing in their
thoughts, stuck in a everlasting cycle carrying around burdens like a courier
through dense forests and vast wastelands, burning bridges and bibles and
throwing gasoline upon the architectures built up and setting them on fire
but i feel hands of fear at my ankles, pulling me into the restless ocean
with a pulsating ache, wolves howl from the insides of my barren stomach
and making them be quiet is difficult, if duct tape worked, it would help
these knives for fingers cut through anything, but it can't cut through you
- kra
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
I've been looking at the world from a different perspective
IG filters and Snapchat interceptions
I was off the grid, I am now in inception
Social media dance floors
no escape or exceptions
what do you stand for?
put your hands in the septic
so your arms can take all the **** that
Your legs normally dealt with
Apartment, complex complicated life consequences
Brothers life deciphered
into the trenches
Despite all of the help we lent him
Life can be a loan when you are alone
It can get expensive
Don't own a home,
but I could show you what rent is
I could show you what hustle is,
I'm that relentless
Slick mouth, silver tounge...this is manifested
Bike peddling, rebelling Ambidextrous
Quiet devilish, my medicine makes most hella lit
I speak in crooked tongues like most nuns who settle with
Being Singular minded there Vibes are so celibate
A courier in this Corredor settlement
How do I, in these times, stay not high but relevant
I'm confined in thin lines, tell them **** time,
if the sunshine, makes us dumb blind
Like retail and it's details with the big signs
See this conclusion is just a visual illusion
A cesspool in the mainstream visual pollution
This vortex is just a digital confusion
Digits to acidic, hash tags for the lab rats to abuse them
watch me slipstream into a hazmat suit and snap back to an audience all the toxics that I'm using
my minds a clock incapsulated in the bottom of a backpack but only in math class, I state facts for your amusement
How can you do this?! Who the **** are you kid?!
I'm Duke Nukem with a scorpion fist ready to hiduken!
I'm Isaac Newton with a paint brush when I do this
Painting photosynthesis with my sentences, I conclude with...
Nothing but a chronological order I cause a cascade of disorder
I'm on the edge don't **** with me and my border...can't **** with me I'm the best this visual mess is what your ordered
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC
Microsoft "WURD"
slang font.
i know your type.
you like Arial.
you dig Arial Black cause there's no Arial White.
she wears a size 0.
invisible to the eye.
she's from Georgia.
print her out on white paper.
she'll be prettier than Courier New Times New Roman.
her Impact on Felix Titling will be extravagant.
she'll put him under a spell with her Book Antiqua.
you'll give up on her and take a train through the Terminal towards Tahoma in the "Golden State"
you'll come across Verdana who is a size 12.
bold as you are, you'll ask why she tries to underline her beauty by showing off her colon(:) .
and you ask her why women are always cranky before they get their period (.) ?
[arial, arial black, georgia, courier new, times new roman, impact, felix tilting, book antiqua, terminal, tahoma, verdana=different fonts]
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
Mickey was a murderer
Malevolent and heartless
Likely killed a courier
Tempted by his progress
Made to feel inferior
Delivering the knowledge
His emptied eyed exterior
Empowering the bosses
Always had an an opened ear
Could reinact the process
Always tried to keep it clear
He filtered out the nonsense
Always had a deagle near
Mickeys thoughts were loss less
Always ordered steak and beer
As he slithered from the charges
Always knew the ends as cure
But begginings were the hardest
The waters ever murkier
And fogging up his goggles
Never feared what's lurking there
The details were his doctorate
He knew who was what
And what was where
The devils were his hostages
Only hostile to his care
As he spelled it out with markers
Only rich to others fare
He was cleaning out their closets
As only those who know who dared
Know how they finally lost him
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World
By Sy Roth
In the silence of my Pickwickian world,
A transcendent quiet stands vigil.
Left to its own devices it rattles around, a
lonely brown-suited courier,
Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next.
Seeks tranquility in a world where,
Fettered by golden reins
Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail
Lanced by coronets of thorns,
Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed
Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills,
A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest.
And they still come--
Tidal waves of disturbances,
Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away
Into a loathsome pile,
Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy.
A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters
Where sages once stood
Hanging like KKK castoffs
In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad.
A quiescent quiet demands quiet.
Nestles behind muffled screams
Of ages of piles of rotting flesh.
Dolorous vision of a peaceful world
Where peace packed for a long vacation
To Edens that exist only in fairy tales.
Bring with them untruths of understanding
Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes.
Leave me to my silence,
Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge
Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners
Where the highwaymen have no access.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
you think yourself
Karma's vessel
her honored servant
her right hand
you think yourself
righteous
but you come off
entitled
your pillars
soon will
crumble
into sand
misplaced malice
misguided mind
miscreant mentality
delusional eyes
looking in a fogged mirror
seeing what you
so strongly believe is there
you think yourself
Karma's courier
swift deliverance
but your tongue stings
and your cold stares
freeze without reason
but you are
merely the jester
your only real service
being that of entertainment
you think yourself
righteous
but you are nothing
more than a fool
with a world of growing up left to do
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
I've resolved to hold out hope
Some offering resilient
Passed down, an heirloom
From day to day to day
Through this damning night courier
I sell this trinket for a pittance of sleep
Please, just ten more minutes of pittance
And so hopelessly I'm found
Face first in down, safe swaddled dreams
Abound to excavate another vein
And so hopefully I'm found
Panning for dreams for passing tomorrow
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
A cape on my back
And a trigger next to my index finger
I look around at the world
It is a hell on Earth
The trees in bloom, the water azure
The sky cloudless, orange and purple
I look like I'm from the future
Maybe I'm from the future
Or maybe I really did come from Saturn
Since this is all so alien to me
Take me back to where we were
Take me, Ra. Take me, Jhonn.
But I'm here. I see the world
The old building blocks
The ferris wheel moved by radiation
I look at the gun in my hands
It's matte black. Brand new, like me.
Brand new, like the blood from the body on the ground.
Maybe this never happened,
I say to myself questioning the audience.
I look at the cubes. They are all different colors.
Some explode. Some expand.
Some implode. I feel at home with those.
This feels safe.
The world I came to is different.
This world is not a rhapsody.
This world is made of skin.
There's another body inside.
Like mine, but pitch black.
It is my shadow.
Suddenly I am at home again.
I feel the shadow pulling the Earth apart.
I feel my face. I'm dusty.
I report to the Mars of the World.
They tell me to head back in.
I resign myself to fate.
I look in the mirror one last time.
I see a woman.
I'm content.
I get in my bed, as I did yesterday.
The night shortly falls over me.
I crawl into the void, as I live and breathe.
I wake up in the different place again.
I look in the mirror.
It's a dusty, white face of no expression.
I put the cape back on and leave.
As I leave the zone beyond time, I remember again.
It is time to find something of value.
**** the objective.
I hear knocking on the door.
I open it. It's the courier.
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
"Are you ready?"
We leave for the yellow zones.
But I'm tired of the courier.
As the bullet exits his brain, I feel free.
So does his blood.
The desert around us stares at me.
The cubes cry out.
I'm in the green zone. I'm looking for the child.
He greets me with a smile.
"You have realized!"
"I am finally back.
I have killed the ones holding me back."
"Welcome back to reality. I love you, Mother."
The industrial zone around us starts feeling distorted.
The cubes lose their shapes and scream.
My son grabs my legs tight.
The trees are all dead. The sky is gray.
The water runs green, with purple bubbles.
I missed Saturn.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
i.
Buoyant, as bubbly toddler's, giggly as drunkard's on a midnight
Swoon. Though sober, ourn limb's limber, high as we osculate;
Her countenance is seductive, her saliva reproductive, none to crosseth ourn citadel; a playground carousel, ourn kid's to relate.
ii.
O' crème de la crème, the kalinaw that thou hast brought
The solace that I hath sought, awaiteth in thine intellect of light;
Beyond the grave's of death and fright, on a train, or just one
Flight, I shalt meeteth thee mine amare, between the bijou veil.
iii.
In novel's, In tale's, on bookshelves, in robust detail, when the fall
Arriveth, and the winter enter's, when Hades breaketh loose;
As the universe loses it's center, and the Cosmos goes to blood, as the planetoid's faileth, a letter in the mail, mine heart sail's.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry founder.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
I hold my heart when thunder claps,
I hold it when the courier raps
Upon my door—to feel the beat
It often hides—it drums so sweet
And then subsides to tender taps.
My heart is shy when only maps
Can dare expound what hungry gaps
Consume the ground between our feet.
I hold my heart
And tear the envelope that wraps
The lifeblood printed on your scraps
And feed my veins like summer heat
Is supped by rains. Until we meet
At last again when storms collapse,
I hold my heart.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
*I was born in the waves of music
so long ago now
when the music was faint.
barely audible almost silent.
I was a accident a beautiful one
but still an accident.
She was a concert pianist
he was a guitar player in a rock band.
they should have hated each other
but that's where I came in
they didn't.
her father was a control freak
all he could see was her career.
after my parents met
it was something at first sight.
They slept together
on a bench on a new York rooftop.
I guess you could say
that's where I came in.
Her father took her away
to her recital in California.
she did not even know his name.
but I found out later
she never married
nor did he.
When Mom found she was pregnant
her father said it must be adopted.
I became an it instead the baby
or my grandson or even the boy.
Mom had an accident
after the news she was
to put me up for adoption.
She ran into the street
and a bike courier hit her hard.
I was born
but her father
I still cannot call him gandfather.
forged her name on adoption papers.
when she woke up in hospital
he said the baby was lost.
that I did not make it.
I was put into the orphanage.
I never got adopted
I guess I was bit weird.
I listened to music everywhere
in the grass the street the wind.
and I knew somehow
She was out there.
I could feel it.
I became a musical prodigy at seven
I could write music without lessons.
I could play any instrument
you threw at me.
the nuns at the orphanage
sent me to juliard.
I was their youngest student at nine.
Then her father confessed
what he had done on his deathbed.
Mom searched and searched
until she released the adoption papers
with the forged signature.
she saw my photo for the first time.
she said that's him.
at juliard I wrote a symphony.
it was put forward to play
in central park for best new composers.
The moon played
its music loud that night
The park was full
and she was playing
the concert piano.
when my music played
it awakened in her heart
I could see her feeling it
she felt me.
She felt my music.
She felt her son.
The concert finished
they called me to the stage
to take a bow.
but she came to me
in her beautiful gown.
she was so pretty.
she held me in her arms
I felt for the first time
the softness of my mother.
her eye makeup
was running down
her beautiful face.
is it ..is it you she asked.
I kissed her cheek
and whispered yes mom.
thank you for the music.*
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
She let the wave come around her legs.
… A soft, and welcoming trail.
What wonderful murmurs the sun had spoke!
The spirits, who carried them over the neon haze,
made his eyes become pale.
He let his hand press against her own.
… But sadly, he felt no affection.
His nerves began to cringe at the beauty.
Severed, he trudged with the smells of sweat and spray.
Drenched in a pensive reflection.
He dropped to the sand and screamed in mute.
… I was adrift, abandoned, coy.
We dreamed of picking the broken glass from the swell, for you.
Doused, and wistfully crawling through the foam -
Never assuming her guilt, sat the clueless boy.
Torn between child, and God’s own courier.
… I began to surface, floating aimlessly.
The man in the sand, and the boy lost at sea -
Are one in the same.
Just like him.
Just like me.
We laughed.
She smiled.
But the sea wept -
For what could never be.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
The wind is ripping
From the sound of oscillating
Overhead 'copters
Splitting my vision.
In the peripherals;
A polyester carpet—sleeping bags—breaks the dry monotony of summer grass;
The bicycle courier awakes from said floor, listless;
Important man, suited, takes calls from other men, suited — octopus arms scattering papers, receipts, coffee cups and tie;
Two hard hat builders chain cigarettes and fight visible hangovers, droopy eyes staring down some impending scaffold.
And I almost miss it all,
For the passing,
Of oscillating 'copters.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
The white flowers
will not arrive
by stallion, nor
by lightning.
The stolid courier
will knock, a door
swinging; a suitable
place prepared.
In the cold district,
the exploded heads
of trees look back at me:
why didn't I save them?
Even the sun seems lopped.
But in the face of it
I will stand, have coffee,
& be reminded of you.
It's 6:30, and the sky
turns a spoiled milk shade
before tripping
in its hurry to arrive.
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 7:27 AM UTC
Life and death, ardent lovers since the dawn of time
Separated by the world like an autumn twig snapped by a ruthless child
Still Life sent heavenly presents to death, by creating the living
Their love conquers, for they never stopped searching
Time adored the pair of lovers,
And became their courier
Delivering life’s gifts to death
Turning the living into ash
“How much do you love me?” she asks
“So much it outshines life and death” he answers
With youthful love and blooming passion he whispers
“Time is on our side, love. We shall last forever”
“Forever is a long time dear”
“We have all the time in the world”
Or at least that’s what he thought
As he picked her up and twirled
But time hurried to bring life’s next gift to death
And so
Cars collided like stars
She falls into an eternal slumber
And he forsaken
With abiding scars
They thought time adored them
But she only admired something purer.
By parting mortal lovers
She brought life and death together.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
City cops, either
all pigs or all fathers,
break cement curbs with rubber
as the shin of a warm body
brushes a front bumper;
warning sign clearer than headlights.
I stand arrested across the highway.
An idle ghost, mouth agape, eyeballing
the Record Courier parking lot,
officers breaking cement
breaking kneecaps of a civilian.
Where he kisses the ground
I once analyzed the black of the sun,
diseasing slowly from time and the light.
I soaked the now with a present mind
and active heart, living for life
defined by want.
I recall Impressionist interpretations
of Carson Valley sitting on
the windowsill of the Courier,
a hand wrapped around my wrist
using its nails to pick off my skin
naively, so I’ll bleed out
through my scabs and my corpse
will be captured in that moment.
Handcuffed, legs pressed
between my shoulder blades,
but seconds still pass.
Divorced from a faded past,
I wait until three uniforms
shove a man into the backseat
and drive to the station.
We’re now shadows of
our former selves in
the lights of a cop car,
separated from when
our heartbeats were the loudest.
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
a small man dies somewhere
he doesn't make news
they are no news
herds of small men dying everyday.
big men only capture the headlines
big politicians big deceivers
no petty thieves or pickpockets
but swindlers of nations
you are awed by the headlines
the big bold letters
big disasters mishaps
genocide mass extinction
and may miss in one corner
a news of a man of no imprint
a small man's death in small print
*an ill-paid half starved courier
his head crushed by a brick somewhere
not a thief nor a beggar
but looking forever
an address to deliver
going from door to door
with his back breaking loads
on alien bylanes and roads
where someone suspecting him a thief
broke his head with a brick*
the small man in his death
made it to the news
only if you noticed it
from under big prints.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
I am no more than an Courier
A wanderer through life
Words are what I choose to cling to
Purveyor of the times
Spending forbidding moments in the desert
Just to watch it bloom at night
The chilling winds that blow the stinging sands
Help create that which I write
I look for answers in the greyest of skies
Where there's no limit to the powers that be
The howling wind changes the shape I'm in
That only the darkness it can see
The river that flows freely from my soul
Starts out where this life fails to end
And when it reaches its destination
The tide will rise again...
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
I trust my smile
My only courier
Let not pain deprive me
At park chairs
I pick up leftovers of cordiality
***
Does the world ever suffer?
Or the individual
never learned to write
my soul….
Nor does anyone, I suppose
The jingle bells ring always
they write love letters
of true spirit
***
I pick up the remnants
from leftovers of lovers
They talk sincerely, I think
wait for love to cure these
let it cure. We will wait
wait a life time!!
Life is the most beautiful accident!!
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC