"couriers" poems
298
Alone, I cannot be—
For Hosts—do visit me—
Recordless Company—
Who baffle Key—
They have no Robes, nor Names—
No Almanacs—nor Climes—
But general Homes
Like Gnomes—
Their Coming, may be known
By Couriers within—
Their going—is not—
For they’ve never gone—
22.1k
The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one ----
Love, love, my season.
6.9k
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
It is known through the eyes.
Not from voice
designated instrument of the thymus
but the eyes.
Portals of silent universes.
The expression of the gaze
sometimes sings and dances.
Distracting eyes
couriers and trunks
sometimes they blink but aren't liars.
It could be the same wicked look
kinda lost,
kinda absorbed,
but never turbid.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
The rooster swivels on its axis returning
coarse wind into the pyre of mad, mad tongues
raving alongside charred ivory. Lifted by sorry hands
from dying embers’ embrace and eased with foreign pity,
ceremoniously, into a cardboard crate wheeled against
the traffic, stumbling backwards through yellow canvases,
between my family dressed in black, to dress the void (deck),
mourners spitting soda into their cups, as word paddle upstream,
onto a thin futon within four walls stained with unfinished ghosts.
The doctor removes the white shroud like God coaxing pink light
on the first day and wine oozes through elastic veins to the far corners of my skin thin ventricular walls. One crack, in the doors and in my chest, paramedics in white blur in, heel first,
Pan-island couriers on reverse gear to the corner
of a numbered street, where I am delivered like a gladiator
thrown into the arena of nosy gazes, with the urgency of
hens clucking away from premeditated slaughter:
deep Christmas red on the tessellated parking lot.
Clumsy thumbs dialing 599, I moan inwardly
to the concentric circles of strangers retreating, erasing
me from cell-phone cameras. Then like a flip animation I
snap backwards, up 21 floors,
pause for about an hour on the ledge before smashing
backwards, back down, past kids scratching graffiti off the cement
and growing cigarettes in their mouths. The rain ascends and I take
wet cash from the driver while I fidget on the leather and throw up
mediocre coffee into my cup. I dig into my throat and return the bread
to its plastic bag and when the cab stops I fall left out onto another parking lot,
moonwalk up the stairs to where I unwrite my name in the
annals of failure and
shove the Fs of my past back
then
I take the bus instead.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Today though everything at phone call away
But the hackers are few steps away.
Whom to rely whom to not
Even if the call is just for confirmation or not.
How to rely on the calls I know not.
Written documents are the best.
I think postal services or couriers are the best.
I cannot narrate any hackers story
Chances are there they may hack my story.
I have kept everything tight lipped.
Forgive me my dear friend;
if I don't treat you well online
I know not which all phones got hacked
As someone may be calling from your voice or not.
A day will come where even dust may be hacked.
Be careful to dust out the mites that stays in your rack!
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
Today
for the first time
I felt my own mortality.
Before, I went through life
deliberately ignoring death and its couriers
absently aware but blind
to the dangers of life.
Today
I realized that life
is nothing but a quest
to escape death
neverending, never ending
until that day
when everything stops.
Before today
I never had to evaluate my life
in a split second
but today I had to remember anything and decide
(not like I had a choice)
if I was ready or not.
Twelve more inches and
who knows what I would be
saying now.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
Long I followed happy guides,—
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and, ere the day,
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right goodwill my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I meet many travellers
Who the road had surely kept,—
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken:
In sleep, their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,
It may be in wood or waste,—
At unawares 'tis come and passed.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harplike laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.—
2.2k
To all officers: 504 ERROR
Two German couriers DIAGNOSED WITH AFIB
THIS HAND LOTION IS carrying official documents
murdered on train from LIKE US FOLLOW US
Screen freeze: restart
Oran. AN ERROR OCCURRED IN THE SCRIPT
Murderer ELIMINATES LAUNDRY ODORS
and possible JAW DROPPING accomplices
headed for NOT RESPONDING Casablanca.
Screen freeze: restart
WE’VE GOT AN UPGRADE FOR YOU round up all
suspicious characters TRY IT YOURSELF
Screen freeze: restart
Thanks to:
https://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/movie_script.php?movie=casablanca
for access to the script of Casablanca.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
The frequent phenomenon of this empty place,
Gathering energy it cannot replace,
Submerged in darkness, foreshadowing night,
Paroxysm shook, stirring up light,
Out from the chaos four beings stood,
Together infused, singular brotherhood,
Light blends them all mistaken into one,
Thirty-five times stronger, than the power of our sun,
Welcome to the dream; a death omen quartet,
Witness the rider, perceive his regret,
With a single companion, and a crown forged in death,
Perpetually doomed to a violent last breath,
Pioneering our concept of constellations,
Bent at the handle, insidious oscillations,
Corruption was constant, like a plagued medallion,
When he collared his confederate, a maniacal stallion,
Couriers of desecration, colonial devastation,
Oxidizing nations, burning depredation,
Lord and auxiliary, imperial arrogation,
And with a single voice, they declared themselves king,
Welcome to the dream; a death omen quartet,
Witness the rider, perceive his regret,
With a single companion, and a crown forged in death,
Perpetually doomed to a violent last breath.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
Love is and was my Lord and King,
And in his presence I attend
To hear the tidings of my friend,
Which every hour his couriers bring.
Love is and was my King and Lord,
And will be, tho' as yet I keep
Within his court on earth, and sleep
Encompass'd by his faithful guard,
And hear at times a sentinel
Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well.
1.3k
Love is and was my Lord and King,
And in his presence I attend
To hear the tidings of my friend,
Which every hour his couriers bring.
Love is and was my King and Lord,
And will be, tho' as yet I keep
Within his court on earth, and sleep
Encompass'd by his faithful guard,
And hear at times a sentinel
Who moves about from place to place,
And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well.
1.2k
*oi! Bronson! **** ya matey! i'm a sardine oiled up! that paddy is gonna hang like a dog on a serpentine of a leash's worth of walkies... that paddy's gonna hang and ask for the relay gun at the Olympics going off... paddy was never the bricklayer... paddy always gangrene flex, got lucky in Arizona and New York, forked St. Petersburg and only forked a steak nibble... Bronson settled into retirement just fine, came out a ******* act-tor! pepper the bobby with parking meter fines for his bureaucratic funfair study... sooner or later Jimmy the literate will turn up, and replace Bob the illiterate swine cuffing someone ******* in an alley.*
oh, i'd probably become
an english teacher
and sing fuck-yeah
when the drone army of
Amazon couriers fed us
the next 21 hour trip in
defence against the Koran...
so i guess ha ha is in order.
and with every mythical Mrs.,
you tell 'em about the castration
in the synagogue, and never about the
baritone in the morgue.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
I would see him in the mornings
He
Like me liked to get to work early
gently puffing away on his cigarette
The Man in the building who smokes
I thought he was a little scary
at first
seemed grumpy and aloof
gray and wrinkled
lines forming around his mouth
like bowing natives around a fire
The Man in the building who smokes
was actually kind of funny
when I (you?) got to know him
Standing outside
rain - sleet - snow
more dependable than the mail
or our couriers
He didn't take anyone's guff
and could tell you a million jokes
if you had a bad day
He even figured out where the buildings property stopped
so he could continue being
The Man in the building who smokes
I took some days off
and then it got busy
days turning into weeks
I asked my co worker if he has seen
The Man in the building who smokes.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Let’s scrabble to rouse the rabble,
The massive blithering and blathering,
Make protests ring above the babble
And set foaming mouths lathering,
When our country and its youth,
Newly awakened and newly wise,
Stand up and demand the truth
Instead of the usual pack of lies.
The rich get the wheat
And we get the chaff
Then the rich sit back
In their palaces and laugh.
What has served as intelligence
Has put this country in a bind
By people with no common sense.
Supposed adults just voting blind
Based on ideas without merit.
Those with money get a pass
And let the taxpayers bear it.
Then the rest take it in the ***
The ‘haves” drink wine
And we drink water
Maybe sometime soon
They’ll come for your daughter.
The people we have elected
Saw a shaky foundation laid
Have left us mostly unprotected
And massive bribes were paid.
The wealthy among us got a pass
So now just the rich have a voice
And the poor and working class
Have no effective voice.
The wealthy get shoes
And we get bare feet.
We learn to live our lives
In postures of defeat.
This is the age of communication;
We have to look at what we are doing.
We still can save our weakened nation.
And maybe start some careful suing.
Let’s vote out the Couriers of Hate;
Hold these ******** to their vows.
To stand up to their inequities
We need to start right now.
The rich get the wheat
And we get the chaff
Then the rich sit back
In their palaces and laugh.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
How could we explain our plight
to someone who's a stranger
when they can see so clearly
how we put ourselves in danger.
Of course we feel anxiety
and struggle with the doubt,
for we could die on this journey
but at least we're getting out.
And out, is our priority,
out, is what we strive.
Getting out is probably
what keeps us all alive.
Because if this was not an option
and we could not at least try
we might as well just dig a grave
and lie down and wait to die.
So we pay malignant couriers
to float us out to sea,
we take this dangerous consequence
and what will be, will be.
Our journey is horrific
and many of us die,
but the alternative to staying here
is the reason that we try.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Pakistan.
A moonless night in May.
Inside the compound,
everything appears to be
almost pitch black.
Night vision goggles lift
the veil of darkness.
With the goggles, everything inside...
all the details of the home,
become startlingly visible,
revealing all in this surreal setting
- suffused as it is with
a dreamlike green hue.
And then there are the eyes
of those looking on...
Osama Bin Laden's wives, children, couriers
peeking out from doorways,
huddled in rooms and hallways,
their voices whispering in Arabic;
those large curious eyes incredulous
as they study these invaders
with their goggles, their strange gear,
their weapons drawn as they methodically
carry out their mission.
This night so far four people have been silenced by gunfire.
The raiders are certain Bin Laden
is up ahead on the third floor.
They climb slowly up the
dangerously slick steps wet with
blood, moving with deliberation
toward their target's bedroom.
They hear suppressed shots fired
by their point man
and see a tall figure flee
back into a room.
He's been shot.
The men in pursuit enter the room and
more gunfire ensues.
A small cluster of people are also
there in the room - two women, three children -
eyewitnesses to history...
They are confused, dazed, shocked.
They see this wild man,
this phantom of our most torturous dreams,
writhing on the floor,
desperate, struggling,
about to take his final breath.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
A multitude of fortnights passed us by,
We passents of time, our sorrow, we tried.
A spell of brief written touches.
Time and space were arranged.
The earth turned and turned.
Time and space were burned.
The wind ceased carrying sound.
Passing time, the end inbound.
Pigeons carried the desire.
Hearts in smoldering fire.
Speed takes breath aback.
A journey, lips on your neck.
The movement, speed squared.
Our shadow never cared.
Risen to the peak of feel.
I peek and never conceal.
You and I, both sore.
The loss a shared core
The night brought silence.
Menacing unspoken words.
King and queen, both know.
The kingdom fades slow.
The sun dawns, all rays travel.
Light reveals and starts to unravel.
Secrets that we knew.
Far from too few.
All the birds fly and sing.
A message for the king.
Couriers travel back and forth.
The only direction is north.
When then the sun sleeps.
and the night creaks.
Feel what she seeks.
And speak from their beaks.
Undrape the play.
Hear what I say.
Mind tries to reason.
Such a blue season.
A wordsmith works his furnace.
The wood is scarce - he burns his.
Labouring day and night,
Keep that flame alight.
Hammer and anvil entwined.
All my words are kind.
Walk the rope, you won't fall.
If you're scared, I'll take it all.
When a chapter ends so low.
We only reap what we sow.
Cast the light, we will make it right.
The beauteous fields are in sight.
My love is free.
Come write with me.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 5:42 PM UTC
NOTE:We are all so consumed with becoming well off or rich, or with accumulating enough power in combination with the riches. And when we make it, we will call it comfort. Not so for the three wise men.
Wise?
Beyond words.
Rich?
Beyond imagination.
Humble?
They must have been,
To follow the star
That took them to Bethlehem.
Awestruck!
In the presence of the Baby,
Their gifts seeming small,
These couriers of us all.
“Praise God!
“Praise God!
“We have seen Him.”
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
A Poets quest.
An ABCDERIAN poetry form.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Avant couriers of final solutions
Battalions left fighting by the way
Condescending world powers twittering
Deeming all they say as gospel of the day
Everything under the sun or darkest shadows
Foolishly not admitting their own failings ever
Gathering hatred at each turn of every corner
Happy that their heads were in the sand.
Indiscriminating constant betwixt good n evil
Janissary exterminates all cause or principal
Knowing nothing of the true skill of judgement
Lasciviously take good from good for no good
Microlithic walls of stones to cover errors
Navigatiors using ancient charts for guidance
Outrageously heralding credit for the route
Perchance they knew no natural pathway
Quadrature at ninety between the sun n moon
Revived old Christian scruples long forgotten
Saviours ? Save all states from self destruction
Tablature of a tragic outcome hard to face.
Unequivocally tough on any creed or religion
Vededictory taken two thousand years to build
Wrapped indiscriminately up in just one missile
Xenelas now mankind from each world corner
Yea from peaceful pastures grazed for years
Zion heaping up evangelical dogma.
Pray to God and let us learn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
December. 11th . 2018.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
Enemies, couriers, city-slickers avert your eyes
Heed this warning, I am troubled
I will leave you with more questions than answers
You'd be making time to take time only to waste time
I'm two bottles of wine in and I'm just getting stared
I'm down with going up against someone
I can't clarify if I am friend or foe
I can't ratify fight or flight
It is what it is
Because I said so
Sons and daughters
Keep your eye on the birdie
Time will always show you how much of an idiot you were
Being parsimonious is permissible and bereavement is a give in
I'm three bottles of wine in and I'm just getting started
I'm up for going down on someone
You'll be used, abused and misconstrued
But it will bring out your dexterity
Along with your innate abilities
You do you
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
I think about the words that have been moving with the time
Directly intersecting at the center of our minds
To know that we as people will be couriers for life
Could have us feel a burden we would rather not invite
And that's when something happens to the rest of all the world
When sleep becomes elusive in the eyes of boys and girls
And just because they're open and the pupils are intact
Does not mean they are learning how to properly react
The fight to have a voice should not put blood upon our hands
And if you stop to listen you'll begin to understand
The universe's song does not belong to anyone
But if we sing together then our work here will be done
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Words
often leave
us hypnotized
their grouped
truth,.
validity
or relevance
to selfishness
words are... ..
couriers of
seduction or
couriers of
war
words describe
seasons they,
they describe
uniquity
words descibe
actions that
have been
left seasons
ago for
dead
words are
unnecessary
as we
plunge into
darkness on
the frills
and lace
of your
bed
"I am just writing....
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC