"eavesdropped" poems
Peter Pan said Wendy -
There's something I want to tell you.
I am neither straight nor bent
But what you might call bendy
Captain Hook stopped reading his e-book and eavesdropped more intently.
Peter knew what his flexible friend meant and spoke to her quite innocently.
Wendy - I am as vanilla as Manilla envelopes in a creamery with whitewashed walls
And identical twin albino Godzillas fighting snow leopards with cue *****
No gimp suit in fifty shades of grey for me.
I am pretty much hormone-free,
More than happy with asexuality,
Playing pirated computer games on one hand
And others' loves that dare not speak their names which fewer understand.
In my world of dreamery certain flights of fancy pass me by.
I love to fly and you Wendy.
And I love you too Peter - Not Everygirl's Ideal of A Real Man.
But I can understand the attraction of Lost Boys and their toys in Neverland.
We've known each other for all these years,
Shared too many troubles, thoughts and fears
To be anything other than in each other's hearts.
If I never visit Neverland again
I know you will always be my closest friend,
What, where, whenever happens
To the bittersweet end.
May we both be dying for an Excellent Adventure,
If not together then separately.
There is nothing better than to know
That you will always be there for me
No matter how we might grow
Into this 21st century.
And one day I may straighten out
But
That's
Not
What
Life's
About.
Captain Hook put down his e-book and Facebooked a friend...............
And that is where our story will end.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
I sat in the shadows
as the sun went down,
eavesdropped
on my passing neighbors.
The lady couple went by first,
holding hands
& kissing,
whispering about the rising moon.
Then came the hetero-couple.
He walked in front,
leaving her behind
as if leading her
on a primrose path.
He was laughing,
spewing words
about
******* lezbos.
She was still in tow
when she spotted me
& flipped me off.
I thought, what a lovely couple.
Not.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
It was late
And the night was beginning in earnest
When I learned about love.
I sat one night
And eavesdropped without intention
Into the intricate lives of a pair
Creatives, artists doomed to a life of non-satisfaction
Yet they are humans too
They may conjure out (in this case) music out of thin air
Melodic moments and sensuous sing-songs
But they feel pain too
And try to lose it in viscous, pungent, happy-making liquid.
This fellow, bearded and thick spectacles atop his nose
(Is there a more stereotypical artist?)
Would lose his father soon
Intuition and expensive healthcare told him so
What to do?
Well take a sip and another and another
Because drunken words are sober thoughts.
A dog he suggests, so that his mother will not be lonely
Who will care for it? We will of course he says,
And she is lost at 'we', a confirmation of their union
To take over the world, together.
Is this not love?
I sat another night
Encountering two whose sips became gulps
And gulps become swallows
Diving into the pool of intoxication
Rid of all senses they walked, together
Up and Down carriages,
Stumbling in unison
Destination unknown, they would find it together
Matching trench coats flapping in rhythm
Giggles as they rocked to the swaying melody of the train
They may have appeared as two nuisances, inconveniencing others
But they were two foolish lovers,
Holding on for the moment in a night they would forget
Is this not love?
The last night on the last train
A soft pitter-patter of midnight rain
An arctic breeze had blown in
Across me a couple huddled
Touching
Not groping and wandering with perverse hands
Subtle sensual caressing
Involving no movement
Just the pair joined in body and soul
Tucked into each others arms
Clicking together as two jigsaw pieces
Slowly slipping into splendid slumber
I wondered
Is this not love?
And when will I find it?
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
you are the very same delight
of the fading dreams sobering perfume.
like the cover of cloud against unyielding starlight,
you are. the very same delight
known when, asleep beneath a cypress,
heavens whispers did gossip about a beloved sagacious tigress
and I eavesdropped too her scent and knew
you were the very same. delight
be your gift this year and all to be.
like ecstasies of joyous reverie, to me
you are the very same delight.
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 1:12 PM UTC
I can scream too
I can shout
I can kick up the dust
And threaten to **** myself
I can raise my fist
And rage and scream at the world
Take the car and run
And splurge
Take no concern for my actions
No need for consequences
Because **** the world
I can go depressed too
I can sulk too
I worked to get what I wanted
And when I spend
Not with my money
I feel sorry
Because there is guilt
I did not have anyone
I was locked up
I was expected to stay home
Do the chores
As my mother expects me to
Wait for the weekend
Wait for my siblings
Only to see the beam on my mother's face
When her son comes home
It ebbed me to see that
When I felt like I couldn't bring joy to her
And I bite my tongue
Fight myself to think it's satan's lie
Home alone
Stuck in a small house
No privacy
Because I can't even have a decent conversation
With my best friend
Without having eavesdropped
I can't cry out loud too
Because they might hear
My room door is spoiled
It can't be locked
No privacy
No escape
Stay home
There is so much to do
Clean the windows
Cut the grass
Have you swept the floor?
What have you done the whole day?
That strain in her voice
Now I can't do that
Because I am miles away
But the anger is still in me
I didn't know it was
Until someone else throws a tantrum
That is just selfish
That is very selfish
I suffered too
And I did not have anyone to rely on
Though I did have my books
My old canine friend
The internet that sometimes harmed
And my dreams
This is my dream
Then why this,
Why this?
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Careful to make respectful steps, she padded lightly through
The grass a weaving wanderer
Investigating the stone garden with
The ashen faced man calling her name
He was perverted, but insightful
And he shared the roots of the stone trees
A wealthy merchant lay with
A poor laborer
Side by side and synchronized demise-wise
Death, the pale guide said, is the great equalizer
Life is not fair; Death is.
Pictures marked the grander tombs and one caught
Her searching eyes, reptile
Slither serpent slinks and eats circular self loop
Symbolizing eternal, consume-die resume
The local ghost noted vert reaching rest stones
******* competition in the inadequate hereafter
A corvidae watched, perched: “wait your turn”, then fly sky
The cold wind eavesdropped on
Her chestbeat, early cycle thumps (time) to spare
Knowing her fear
The winded skeletons of the stone garden howled like wicked tuning forks
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
Tales of coming and going, movement on the insides
and the outsides
of the bodies.
The amateur beauty of the harmonica child,
Harmonies, surprisingly crafty,
polk along with the crack-pop of chicken being tendered
and fries not too salty at-all.
The line for New York City, Zanesville, and Philly;
a young man softly sifting through lady hair.
And the shoes on this bunch all surprisingly thrifty.
Do not stare, echo mothers of the past.
All pragmatics aside, I eavesdropped intently
to earnest voices of men, touch on topics of race.
Gruff solitude, paired with fluorescent hung-lights
and a retrospective friend pacing endlessly.
Only the words that flow out seamlessly now,
can tell toward which mood I'll be leaning.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
Joseph Kern had never seen The Starry Night,
Had he been there, the parsonage across
Van Gogh’s memory, leading to Arles or somewhere else,
Had he been there, he could have thrown the pebbles he
Collected that flew through his window
In the afternoons he eavesdropped.
I like to think that Joseph Kern has seen The Starry Night
While somebody played the
Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Major, BWV 1042: II. Adagio
I like to imagine him amongst the thickly applied whorls of paint,
I like him across the English Channel, waiting with one of
Rita’s puppies, echoing the sky-
Not as it looks but how as it feels.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
THE KIND OF THINGS POETS THINK/DO
all its little life
the triangle longed to be
a circle
"I want to get around!"
it piped up
in its little Isosceles voice
"It's...it's preposterous!"
screamed his mother Scalenely
"...whoever heard of such a thing!"
"You should be proud of your lines!"
scolded its grandpa
Equilaterally
"A triangle can not be..."
said his Papa in a right angled kind of way
"...anything other than a triangle!"
"I always felt I was a circle
trapped inside
a triangle's body!"
one day a passing poet
eavesdropped in an idle moment
on what the lines were saying
"Why ever not...why
ever not" said the poet
poet chaps tend to think like that
so he erased the brave
little Isosceles
drew him again as a circle
"Wheee!"
laughed the former Isosceles triangle
delighting in its circle-ness
this is the kind of things
poets think of...
. . .poets do.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC
Those lovely folks at N.S.A. love reading your e-mails.
They parse each line in search of crime; the devil’s in the details.
Those Patriots at A T & T are equal to the task
of providing them with access; they’ll do anything they’re asked.
They spy upon the great and small, the poets and the dreamers,
to catch a whiff of nasty plots now being hatched by schemers.
They’ve spied upon Sarkozy and they’ve eavesdropped in on Merkel.
They tapped lines in the U.N. and other diplomatic circles.
Their corporation cronies provide them with full access for no fee;
This makes our spies the envy of the Russian KGB
So when you reach out and touch someone, don’t assume you are alone.
I’m pretty sure big brother is there listening on the phone.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
Neon green sparkled through his orbs
like the hope residing in his soul
he stretched his arm
made to grasp it with his hand
but it had vanished like a passing wind
in a desert day of forsaken sand.
Neon green felt the desire
like his heart in deep dire
when the dashing star teased his being
he smiled as if he could finally mean it
didn't feel the light dying through his fingers
leisurely as the clock never stopped ticking.
Neon green extinguished in the blink of an eye
the hours mingled like melting ice
as his ear eavesdropped for the ring of a breath
when yearning hit it's final note
the sound of the end already approached
and it captured him tightly in a net of gold
as it vanished him vehemently from the appalling storm
and left the pieces that nobody saw.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 8:38 AM UTC
THE KIND OF THINGS POETS THINK/DO
all its little life
the triangle longed to be
a circle
"I want to get around!"
it piped up
in its little Isosceles voice
"It's...it's preposterous!"
screamed his mother Scalenely
"...whoever heard of such a thing!"
"You should be proud of your lines!"
scolded its grandpa
Equilaterally
"A triangle can not be..."
said his Papa in a right angled kind of way
"...anything other than a triangle!"
"I always felt I was a circle
trapped inside
a triangle's body!"
one day a passing poet
eavesdropped in an idle moment
on what the lines were saying
"Why ever not...why
ever not" said the poet
poet chaps tend to think like that
so he erased the brave
little Isosceles
drew him again as a circle
"Wheee!"
laughed the former Isosceles triangle
delighting in its circle-ness
this is the kind of things
poets think of
poets do
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
They only talk at night
all else is quiet
facing each other
at more than two sword lengths.
Opposite sides of the House
on opposite walls they parley.
Seeing them during the day
you'd swear they smiled above you.
Wishing you cou could have eavesdropped
learned more of what they think.
They stand aside from you in that gallery.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
I have never been one of the slacker drones
I have never been one of the sheep-y clones
I have never eavesdropped on lovers’ moans
I have never seen Jesus in traffic cones
and
I have never watched The Game of Thrones*
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
*Voices in the 'Cranberry Dusk' , artistic imaginations found on watercolor
to tablet paper mediums , God has eavesdropped
on a child's prowess once again this evening* ...
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
Today I went to Coffee Rush.
I got my usual caramel nut latte and sat outside.
I lit a cigarette and eavesdropped on
all the people there with their friends.
I left a while later and headed to the salt river.
I stayed there for several hours
listening to the wind in the trees and the
trout jumping to catch their next meal.
I felt at peace.
The sun was shining on my skin and warming
my heart up.
I was fine
but then you showed up.
I pushed you out of my head as soon as you popped in.
And what do you know?
I felt free.
On my way home, I stopped back at Coffee Rush.
Sat outside, lit my smoke, eavesdropped.
My phone buzzed, and
it surprised me a little bit.
I was fine
until you showed up.
I left the coffee shop in a hurry and sped home.
I felt angry, and then nothing.
Angry.
Nothing.
Angry
Nothing.
Back and forth until it exhausted me.
Now I lay in my bed
feeling nothing
except tired, but not tired enough to sleep.
I was fine until you showed up.
.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 1:10 AM UTC
I whispered a secret
to the senescent trees
while flowers breathe through
and as toadstools eavesdropped.
Within the wintry treeshades
I peeked through
the misty oceans above
upon where stealthy Mr.Thunder
has kept on skipping and hopping
and leaping from one silver cloud
over another, where for
every leap was a growling cloud
and for each brave growl
was a silver rainfall,
but poor Mr.Thunder
still couldn't give a good chase
to his fleeing rainbow chariot,
till it had sunken deep
skyrimming in the underclouds
to the mauvy meadows where
it had always frolicked through,
and me, in the underwoods
where we had always built
wreaths of purple memories
before soaking ourselves long
in the silvery mud,
bethinking in sunken moments
to just become ghosts
with only memories
because even rainbows leave.
Thursday with blue spirits
waiting for when would
this dreamy mind alight
from looking for
where my heart has crestfallen
deep at, how I had lost it.
So I bite into the mist
of the peeking dusk.
My bluest spirit has taken it,
a secret the sleepy woods know.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 4:40 PM UTC
Mr Oji looks disturbed yet at the wheel,
Now that the month is dying for real, He manoeuvres around with bills,
Bold as he demands the arrears of the deal
Emmanuel come see him,
Come along with the entire team,
You will be sceptic about the scheme,
Scheme to make our eyes deem,
See Oji cleans the compound,
So satirical how he hoovers around,
Don't you think he Is broke and no more pound,
That he badly misses the coins sound?
I just eavesdropped,
Heard him tell Kevo that he once knocked,
His tenant to death as others watched,
His tact to fast track payments is surely crooked.
No alcohol in his breath for sure,
The atmosphere is so pure,
His usually fierce tone seems to have got a cure,
And this are signs that his coins are now fewer.
We better call at his door ,
All of us at once especially at four,
We precipitate our challenges to this bro,
No pay unless he improves we vow.
Let's remind this drunkard,
That His days are numbered,
That the narrative have been pondered,
And the hare this time is not to be spared.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 2:20 PM UTC
i am trying so hard to fall in love with life.
with dewdrops and frost on trees. wild little animals living their wild little lives. i want to accept its imperfections. to reach the point where i can accept that world is unimaginably large, and we are all individuals with our own lives, thoughts, and actions. we all breathe. we all sleep. we post on social media, look at others, and wonder how accurate it is to them and their lives. i want to accept that i will never be in someone else's mind, listening in on every fleeting thought. i want to accept that some people are just mean. they exist on this earth full of misery & dissatisfaction with their own lives. reckless. maybe they're just bored. lonely. who knows? who cares? i want to be able to think "who cares?" and truly believe it.
i want to fall in love with the soft light of the evening, spilling lazily across counters and walls. i want to enjoy early mornings and explore abandoned buildings, making up scenarios that could have taken place there years before. i want to find happiness in the tiniest things. old bookstores, pharmacies in the late hours, hints of smiles on the subway from a collectively eavesdropped joke.
we may all be specks compared to the universe, but i want to believe that i can create my own meaning to life. work, bills, politics. they are so minuscule when it comes down to it all. life isn't just some aesthetic, i know. there will be days that make it seem not worth living the rest of mine, but i want to want to push through it. if i decide to grow old, i don't want any regrets. only nostalgia. not what could have been, but what was.
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 9:38 PM UTC