"goaded" poems
She walked through the streets in her shimmering
dress that hugged her skin as if part of her being.
Speaking in tongue misunderstood by thought she
stared not at you but within you as if she was gauging
the purity of your inner grace.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing alone?
"Where did you fall from,
One goaded, smiling she replied,
"I fell a long way down,
"Dii me ridere, [loosely translated]
"The gods are laughing at me?
She smirks at those in plentiful urgency to expel
what time they have on tribal necessities.
Wondering into a alleyway she had a few to choose
from but this one barely lit.
The spider and the fly came to mind, but who
was in the web and who was but a husk waiting to decay?
"Lady you going to have a bad night,
"Bad night, try bad millennium you apes make me laugh,
"Who you calling ape woman?
*"Lets see your hairy, you smell, and you scrape your
hand on the ground, no sorry ape is to good for you organisms,*
Her dress seems to separate and he hair lengthens to hide modest
of a body of perfection. before there eyes is an angel but her
feathers are as onyx as coal. "See my true from, As screams
bathe the walls and wisps of smoke ascend not to heaven
but fade in the wind. Eyes are charred echoes of where sight
Was blessed now eroded into husks of nothingness.
*"Silly little things, when will they learn that there are things
in the night you shouldn't play with,*
Walking out of the alley a smile on her face, she hadn't
had that much fun in a while. Scorching a soul wasn't
fun but they weren't worthy of it any way. Now she
was off to see what this nice little black number
would help to get a free drink or two.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
Forevermore!
Revile him not, the Tempter hath
A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!
Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of him
Insult him now,
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naught
Save power remains;
A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!
5.4k
Trickling tingles bubble, goaded from the verdant body
As a butterfly’s flutterings coax the flow
Widening and filling
With a gentle lapping of inlets
Ripples tease the reeds into turgid tremors
Merging to waves
Wave upon wave
Curves slide over curves
And at the Delta’s swollen, gaping breadth
Crests slip over craving crevices
Slapping froth in desperate gasps
Milking cruel spasms from the urgent need to reach escape
Until with turmoil resolved
A gentle calm inundates the great ocean of sleep.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
I'm stuck inside
The psychosis
I know this
I have a doctoral degree
In Reality
I have been taught
The architecture
And structure
Of the grand psychosis
I know this
I have been goaded
I have been guided
I have been shown
Inside
The minds of men
Who whirl around
Their imagined worlds
Boys and girls
Unaware
Fighting phantoms
In thin air
I should dis appear
Yet
I find myself
Still
Inextricably
Involved
In ordinary appearances
I'm inside
The psychosis
I know this
HELP!
Sean Hunt
Windermere November 9 2015
https://vimeo.com/145132005 (recitation)
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
A Gang of Guns was walking down the street
Looking for trouble, Someone to defeat.
The Guns saw a man who looked very loaded.
One Gun shot him in the head. He was goaded.
"Please don't shoot me Gun. " the man had pleaded.
"I have a wife and kids. I am needed!"
"Dude" said the Gun when he found no money.
"You are a real loser. Ain't it funny?"
Got to get the Guns off the street.
Too many people dying, blown off their feet.
Note.
2016— 781 killed
2017— 664 killed
2018 —555 killed. CPD
2019 -- 498 killed
2020 -- 772 killed
2021 -- 797 killed
2022 -- 695 killed
2023 --
Those who pull the triggers.
Need an appointment with the diggers.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious,
cracking sounds so god awful fearful
that one questions his-her sanity,
an overage so unnatural that
only nature could create it
it is a moment momentousness
when the exhalation of exhaustion,
the winner and loser, both you,
surrender ne’er knowing
which you is which,
life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version,
either way you say to yourself got to
get past that lousy stinking
love affair
win the race to clean slate,
where the end is insight where everything replaced
in its used to be placed
goaded into melted nothingness,
goaded into believing that’s a real thing,
that when you finally get there,
enough is enough,
get out of jail ticket will work,
but it ain’t never free,
even if you paid for it in
what you call
throwing bad after good,
monopoly money,
nope, ain’t never free
no idea what to put in the second empty closet,
who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile
toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space,
where to hide picture albums in a space
outta sight, outta mind, you still can find
why you didn’t care enough to
daily mat-wipe street shoes before
riveted in place
before entering your own! apartment and no,
you are consciously unconscious immobilized by
the missing calling out of her “don’t forget”
in the car’s ashtray,
a red kissed blotted red lipstick
tissue that needs discard-action,
but you incapable of either,
those collected records and cd’s,
her teasing your old fashion ways,
reluctance to let go
so you read
“that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting”
and it hits home, home run, score to the core,
since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon,
a punctuating thunderstorm day
refusing to decide
which
haunts worse
<>
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
I. You were thunder and I was lightning. For some reason a part of me always knew this, but never voiced it out. Your arm was around my shoulders and you were warm, radiating heat like the sun. And in some ways, you were my sun. It seemed that somehow I always managed to trip and stumble my way into your orbit, losing count of the number of times I fell into your warmth, into you. When you asked if I was frightened after you huddled close to me I lied and said yes, only to keep you by my side for just a bit longer, just a bit closer. That night we looked into each other's eyes and laughed through our tears, and in that moment I knew as long as I was with you, it was more than enough.
II. My fingers interlocked with yours. It was pitch black and I was terrified, the wind in my face and the moonlight dimly streaming through the trees. We had danced among the leaves and whispered secrets, but you had gone off first; darted in blind excitement towards the crowd in the main square. I screamed for you, an anxious, desperate and impulsive thing, goaded on by the looming shadows and still silence that echoed around the area. If I had blinked I would have missed it, your sudden appearance at my side with my hand in yours. You smiled, and somehow the night didn't seem so dark anymore.
III. It had been a year since, and none of us mentioned that day, the day that left us in ruins. You had smashed my heart against my rib cage the way poets slam poetry, and the tidal waves had washed us over with tears that the ocean couldn't hold. But you came for me, and in that moment I had forgotten; your face a vague image in my memory. Still, you came for me, relentless like the typhoons in august and the storms in december. You pushed and pulled and wormed your way back into my heart, your song a lullaby to my ears and your gaze, a blanket to my fears. I let you in again, I pushed you out again. You tried, You stopped, You tried again. We were quiet about it, but what we left unsaid spoke volumes.
IV. We are here now. It was beginning to fade before this, to become a passing memory. But I should have known better, and as always you knew before me. You had nothing more than a tired smile, but I saw myself in your eyes again, saw us again. The thunder and the lightning, the grass under our feet, the rain in our hair and our laughter that mingled and became one sound. Your warmth and my heart. In that moment I knew you could not and had not forgotten; it was a loud relic and an even louder memory. It was you. It was me. It was us, screaming from the bottom of our lungs into the air and fields like we did years ago, except now it was in our hearts and in our eyes; I love you. I love you. I love you.
(A.H.Z)
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.
with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.
use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.
those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget". That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
until you write.
©DWE012014
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world's hell,
Did not forever feed me vital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist--
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.
1.9k
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
1991
I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.
That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.
10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.
The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.
So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.
Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.
Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.
Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!
…
So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.
And when you tell me, ***
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Drip, drip, drip.
Something falls on the floor.
Something is loaded.
Click, it's a clip.
A hammering on the door.
Something exploded.
Skip, skip, skip.
Kids play outside, class is a bore.
"That's so gay," the older ones goaded.
Slip, it's a pistol grip.
Kids fight outside, it's all blood and gore.
"That's so gay." His sanity eroded.
Whip, whip, whip.
A prisoner screams, tell me more.
Broken, his ****** body corroded.
Flip, it's a jeep by the gaza strip.
It's not worth it, the leader's a *****
The refugee food unloaded.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
You were everything I thought I stood for.
And I loved it.
Then you became everything I stood for.
And I loathed it.
You were my other half.
And I goaded you to change.
I didn’t understand that if we were the same,
Then we would both be the same half.
I didn’t understand that two identical halves don’t make a whole.
You needed to be different.
Or in other words, you needed to stay the same.
You can’t really love someone else
If you want them to be just like you.
That’s just loving yourself.
And you can’t love someone else
If all you want is to love yourself.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Love the greatest teacher,
she teaches us to understand ourselves,
to reveal that love is not an outer thing,
it’s deep within.
Before we can receive, we give,
and giving find the jewel of human worth,
we have this trait from birth
like many things,
quelled by the laws of adults in their ignorance.
Born with the bond that ties all spirits close,
and when it manifests its magical sensation,
goaded by our state of mind,
we revel in its complete attention,
to details sensitive and full of joy.
Her soft caresses touch our quick,
her ties established hard to break,
her empathy with all that lives and breathes,
she is our welfare, our religion, our raison d'être.
Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th November 2013.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
goaded by a stereophonic monotone:
a flumine voice waxes with lovelorn dregs.
i heard the plump word of rescue
dangle from the heady decibel of song,
winterward, blue-veined and stillicide.
no more, shall the wind traverse the impasse of the verdigris. the incertitude
of beginnings sigh ultimately.
o people, your darling children soldered
to your denims. o rosefrail and sightless
bannerets — we mourn such coming.
it sleuths with a tangle of fingers
underneath fringes of flesh-warmed
draperies with a different temperament
as moderate as climates in squandered tropics, flows with a truth wishing it
more of the untruth:
never shall return, in faraway lands,
never shall look back and lay in prairies
attenuated, continue to sing oblivion.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
I spent Fall Break with Lisa (one of my college suite-mates) in NYC. They live in a Central Park South high-rise. I hope to spend Thanksgiving there someday because the Macy’s Day Parade goes right by their front window. “Yeah,” Lisa says in a bored voice, “right down there.” (They’re about 45 floors above it.)
Lisa has a younger sister (12), named Elizabeth (who likes to be called Leeza (pronounced LeeZa) and yeah, that can be confusing). Pretty, little, stick-figured Leeza, wears braces, has fluorescent green eyes, long, curly, red hair, and gorgeous, fair, vampire-like skin that’s freckled to perfection.
Leeza is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met - so she’s always surrounded with laughter - and goaded by laughter, she’s fearless. We’re at this posh “On the Green” restaurant (outdoor, terrace dining) and Leeza won’t take her Airpods off (no matter how mad her mom gets). Her dad finally says, “What are you listening to?”
When asked, Leeza stands up and starts singing, clapping and herky-jerky beat-dancing “the Monster Mash.” It was so sudden and funny that I coughed cherry coke out of my nose. The entire restaurant erupted in laughter and then applause at this crazy, scarecrow beauty’s brief, comic performance.
Someday that girl’s gonna be a STAR.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
*Calling ambition, loose manes intertwine not goaded,
Creeping low, or unguided down, shh-
Let it stand, tension eases naught-*
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
‘See we aren’t leaving anything out,
check once more to be sure’
she said with a nagging doubt,
‘we’re going to come back no more
once behind us we close the door’.
The hassles had made her tense
Moving out was trouble immense
I said to soothe her nerve ‘be assured dear,
We would leave nothing here’.
Still for her peace I went in
To make sure nothing lay within
And what I got was a jolting shock
On the wall still hung our bedroom clock!
She fumed and blurted on my face
‘I always knew you’re too careless,
thank god I goaded you for another look
precious things might be lying in some nook’.
I went in not to seek anymore things
But for the spent moments still fluttering wings
Smell our joys and sorrows hanging in the air
Of the times living as a tenant here!
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
Love is Emotion
Love is Passion
Love is Rejection
Love is Obssession
Love is Transition..
**
Love is
Going through the pain
Again and again
Over and over,
yet again !!**
Being in love is the best phase
The Missing,
The Craving,
The Feeling
The Thinking,
The Caring,
The Loving....
But soon the phase is over...
And Then follows
The Guilt
The Pain
The Hurting
The Blaming
The Shaming
The Hating
The Name calling..
This is acceptable
The parting shots
But
Where does it all lead to??
The worst is yet to begin,
The Obsession..
The Rejection
The Vengeance...
The Stalking
The Blackmailing....
The Threatening...
&
Then the worst phase begins
Love is Lost..
Love is Dreaded..
Love is Goaded..
Love is Loaded
Love is Roasted.
And
The memory is darkened..
The torment awakened..
**The once beautiful Love turns
Suffocating emotion..
When**
Love becomes Unsettling
Love becomes Unnerving
Love becomes Unstoppable
Love becomes Unsympathising
Love becomes Unwanted..
Love becomes Unrequited
**Then
Love becomes a question
And
An unsolved emotion..!!**
It becomes a simple
understanding
gone wrong forever,
Failing to believe
The love can end..
The relation can die..
The fizz can evaporate..
The things can come to end...
If you ever
loved someone,
wish them happiness,
If you ever
loved someone let it go
If you ever
loved someone then
LET LOVE PREVAIL...
!!
Sparkle In Wisdom
Oct 2018
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
A little red bird
Drags a beaded yellow thread of blood
Across a sullen sky
And comes to sleep, a crumpled shape
Upon the murky water draped across the stone canal.
I feel the icy touch of guilt
Like spilt red wine inside the glass case of my mind
Because I feel it is banal
To watch the stain of ****** seep like nicotine across the flag;
Because I am serene
Upon my nails is drawn the verdant green of moss
And blood that goaded from beneath a cross;
And now it sinks below the water of the stone canal
And suddenly there is no guilt
Though one worm-ridden bird floats down to rest amongst the silt.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
Cathartic condition
Far from bliss
A foolish decision
Clearly a miss
Soulless revision
No shelter in this
Into remission
Into the abyss
A clip full of kisses
loaded
She shot me down
Like an animal
goaded
I hit the ground
And on my venture
Herds and flocks of birds in frocks
Fathom long legs in knee high socks
No longer I contain or diverge the rocks
From bieng coloured and framed by burbon stocks.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
We dine off of hearts
goaded from the sea.
Hearts drawn to dead promise
and
cold hooks.
The gills
taste metallic
and the flesh is sweet
with mercury.
The haul is yanked overboard,
and the tuna fly
like angels of vengeance
to our dinner tables
where wine
condenses the poisoned bodies
into forkfulls
of pleasure.
The meat is sweeter
than anything we have ever tasted,
we hope that it puts us to sleep.
Not wanting to ****
or cherish
the bones of each other's bodies
has led us to gorge
on these fish,
these harbingers
of comas
that we are too awake
to realize
are the dreams of the stars
filtered through the
diamond-studded
rollers of the Pacific.
The blue and cold Pacific
it pumps out
the fuel for restaurants.
Restaurants
where we gnash our teeth silently
against oily meat.
Restaurants
where I have a drink
and you have a drink
and we have our fill
on vicarious oceans
that decay in the parties
of our bellies.
Tonight we will sleep
because we are drunk
with poisoned meat.
Robbed meat.
Catastrophic
is the grinder of your mouth.
A goaded heart
is an atomic bomb
and we have our fills on them.
Until we no longer want to ****
The mercury
courses.
The waiter
dashes back and forth.
The cook
slices and dices.
The fishers haul in a line
ten-ton lines of bycatch.
All for a single forkful
of the most sugary
thing
two people can share
when their bodies
are useless
and wheezing for the oxygen
of a purified love.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
How can you lead when
you can't walk?
How can you speak
when you can't talk?
What do you do when your
wasted life amounts to nothing?
The shadows, closer they draw.
I watch them creep along the hall.
I cannot hope to see the sunrise
on the morrow.
My ******* last drop of
blood is spilt and my last
earned dollar lent, just
to fuel your ever burning fire.
How can I hope to keep this
pace? I know I'm dammed to
loose this race, only goaded
on by my desire...
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 7:26 PM UTC
I told you, I really did. I told you this was exactly what I didn't want to be & maybe thinking like this is just a product of greed but life was real because I was sad & it feels like I'm better but those are just letters on a page in an obituary no one has to write. What's the point in swimming if the water's too shallow? What's the point in living if this mind stays hollow? The rope has been refashioned & the guns been unloaded but that's as far as I can get in being goaded to lead this good life.
I can't even remember what I did this week.
I told you that not wanting to exist was what made it worthwhile & you told me it would be better if I was skillful, half smiled. I live life in the moment but forget it the next, so I'm not sure you were right to say this was for the best. My brain feels superficial, an art piece on the wall, are my only options to feel everything or to feel nothing at all? So yeah, I'm not sad anymore but I did tell you so, & now that I'm happy I'm scared that you'll go.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC