"inspects" poems
a 4am fox
inspects the night's carcass
under the sodium delete of street light
and to the sound of my wife's gentle snoring
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
A man went for a walk one day. He seemed to be searching for something as he hurried about, "Just a rock covered in dirt nothing special he says while he walks away".
A little girl walking down the same path carefully inspects each rock
She examines each one and than picks up the same rock that the man
had rejected.
She holds it in her hands lifts it up toward the sun and says," you may not look like much outside , but I have a feeling that your true worth lies within you".
She excitedly skips down the path and brings it home and proudly presents the rock to her father.
He carefully takes the rock and breaks it open and discovers the treasure that lies within, a geode that is sparkling like diamonds in the light.
In life people at times are too quick to judge according to appearances alone. They hurry through life seem to be searching for something but not taking time to discover what life has to offer us through one another. They might even perceive that another person is like dirt,and with that misconception they miss out in discovering another's true worth.
Upon closer examination they might discover that the other person has many great qualities and can become a treasured friend.
If only they would slow down and take the time to take a closer look so that they don't miss the hidden treasure that lies within.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
this same robin
has visited every day
for the past week
watching as I work
curiosity
fearlessness
bringing him closer
and closer
enough for me to identify
the glowing colour
of his breast
the ruffled feathers
of his crown
and his gentle
inquisitive conversation
as he inspects
the freshly turned soil
i respond
to his chatter
knowing but
not caring
that neither
understands the other;
there is something
in his presence
that outweighs
the need
for answers
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 12:06 PM UTC
as my sister
inspects
her *******
in the white
piece of paper
we both
refer to
as the one
and only
ghost
mirror
I fry
god’s egg
in the plastic
shovel
I took
from a sandbox
shaped
like a coffin
and shiver
like the psychic
who with
the controllable
sobbing
of her hands
gave our seizures
to animals
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
if you stop
and wait long enough,
you can see my life build itself up.
going through the industrialization of happiness.
things seem to be looking up.
and then slowly
one worker slips
it's over extended itself on building up.
the resources are gone.
then they all start to.
it seems that war
inner and outer conflict; turmoil
has become the rival, t
he other power
versus the good.
it's black or it's white.
that seems to be my life.
there is no grey.
i'm not mysterious.
i'm not magical.
i'm not the face everyone inspects
not the voice everyone listens to.
it seems to be like a cold
(depression that is)
crawling back at unsuspecting times of my life.
reaching out to the light and strangling it.
i suppose you would try to understand.
maybe even try to help.
but in the end
like the industrialization of my happiness
your loyalty will crumble as well,
and i'll be left to my own devices.
and they're not dull.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
Rainbow cascades down the clouds
In all its colorful splendor, only to
Ingress in a land listless and gray.
The people watch in horror as color
Invades them, the contrast, repulsive.
The children scream and run to their
Mothers, pointing at such anomaly.
“Don’t look, my dears. Such filth your
Eyes must not witness.” A curious
Bystander inspects the rainbow and as he
Lay his hands on it, color makes its way
Up his arm, flushing out the pale visage.
His hair the color of earth, hazel eyes, and
Garments, a fiery crimson and tint of
Sunrise. Pandemonium erupts as the
Man of color stands before the crowds.
“Mom, why does he have color?”
“Keep your distance, my dear, he might
be dangerous.” The man of color walks
Down the street as people scurry away
In fear. “You! Hands up!” Commands a
Squad of armed officers and they proceed
To arrest him. Cuffed, he is taken to the
Town jailhouse and studied by a team of
Physicians. “How do you feel, Sir?”
“ I feel happier than I ever felt in years.”
The man of color surmised he was free,
But little did he know he was imprisoned
By the town. Marked. Stigmatized. Reviled.
A freak who lost it all for showing his true
Colors. Ostracized and alone, why live?
But one fateful day, the man of color found
Purpose, and discovered an ability to infuse
Color on any object he chose. It didn’t take long
For his house to burst with vibrant blues, reds,
Greens, and yellows. He hurried outside to
Breathe resplendent hues onto pallid flowers,
And took a step back, glowing with pride.
Onwards he dashed to town to impart color
On the bleak streets and its ashen inhabitants.
“Hold it right there, freak!" Yelled someone from
Behind. "I saw what you did, and I can’t let you
Pass.” A shot was heard and a bullet pierced
Through his sanguine heart. Falling to his knees,
The man of color kissed the ground and
Declared, “May color come to those who love,”
And breathed his last.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
Observation. the act. a frenetic rat
turning the cheese around.
Twisted little turning fingers.
a scientist looks at two peas
in a pod, and deigns to his ******* child.
His spectacles reflect the world
and classify to a faulty eye.
As fingers manipulate the strings;
connected to divinity
or the prison-within-ity?
A man long flown towards freedom...
hanging high from the telephone line...
Triumphant introspection;
chains inwardly strewn;
a thrall to the matterless dark.
A slave to the unreal Master;
now free to plot against his enemies,
he curses the baker’s wife.
Turning the cheese around
the rat sniffs and inspects
with an eye for ratio,
a life applied ambitiously,
to the Holy cheese and gold trophies.
A ticket to the image of love
But how will he trust her fidelity?
The mail-order bride, she cries.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
The polyp was benign according to the pathology report.
One of my poems was Published in the Lindberg Edition of the Sr. Perspective, April 2016. The story-poem is called Hidden Treasure, as it first appeared here on Hello Poetry.
Here it is below if you missed it:
Hidden Treasure
A man went for a walk one day. He seemed to be searching for something as he hurried about, "Just a rock covered in dirt nothing special he says while he walks away".
A little girl walking down the same path carefully inspects each rock
she examines each one and then picks up the same rock that the man
had rejected.
She holds it in her hands lifts it up toward the sun and says," you may not look like much outside, but I have a feeling that you’re true worth lies within you".
She excitedly skips down the path and brings it home and proudly presents the rock to her father.
He carefully takes the rock and breaks it open and discovers the treasure that lies within, a geode that is sparkling like diamonds in the light.
In life, people at times are too quick to judge according to appearances alone. They hurry through life, they seem to be searching for something but not taking time to discover what life has to offer us through one another. They might even perceive that another person is like dirt, and with that misconception they miss out in discovering another's true worth.
Upon closer examination they might discover that the other person has many great qualities and can become a treasured friend.
If only they would slow down and take the time to take a closer look so that they don't miss the hidden treasure that lies within.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
The butter’s too hard.
The pressure of the broken knife handle
leaves imprints of alien-like creatures on her little palm.
Slicing through morning rays like a red-hot blade through butter,
she raises her hand, and inspects the outlandish patterns with curiosity:
A school of koi carp,
teeth as sharp as prison razor wire,
are using their fins to harvest two-headed sunflowers
which are growing from within the tip of a giant scorpion tail.
Dark clouds are looming over Dragon’s Fang Mountain. The wind is howling.
Ten Bone Warriors
emerge from a grotto— a cavity
at the foot of the mountain, where their bows shine bright,
even in the fading light; wild puffs of excitement steam-fills the air—
the riders’ horses’ nostrils flare— a dance of death tramples over all things white.
The koi sense trouble;
some dive away and hide between the roots,
they disappear into the scorpion tail’s cracks and craters,
others harvest as fast as their fins can work, craning their necks.
The Bone Warriors’ arrows rain down on the sunflower field. Lightning strikes.
Pop! goes the toaster;
she walks towards the refrigerator,
and rubs her hand on her Spongebob apron.
Her mother inquires how breakfast is coming along;
Nika shakes her head and giggles, says it’s going to be the breakfast ever.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
In shaking verse
She writes down the gifts of his divinity.
Her trembling meter pays homage
To the ruby red circles seared onto her skin.
Every stuttering syllable is an offering
That she conjures as a devotee,
Who has defaulted on the repayment
Of words, now long overdue.
He demands epic proportions of gifted wisdom,
He asks for legendary lines in his honour.
He demands for glory to his name,
Written in red.
The patron saint of inspiration
Retains his light,
And casts gifted shadows over her,
As she struggles to her elbows,
Drowning in loud, blank papers.
The patron saint of inspiration
Waits at the altar of poetry,
Watching tributes flow in,
Mounted on her fragile skin
And faded rhymes.
The patron saint of inspiration
Inspects the fabric of the writer's soul,
And passes judgement
On the worth of her tears,
Ever smiling, ever watching.
The patron saint of inspiration
Lures her to the gates of Eden
Only to have her trace her words
In the eternal dust of the ephemeral
Gods that gathers beneath it.
His grace against her fatigue,
His divinity against her anguish.
His grand schemes against her hope
His knowledge against her intrigue.
The patron saint of inspiration
Watches her from the walls within.
The patron saint of inspiration
Encourages her divine sin.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
A magpie inspects
what is trusted, what is new --
around my new house.
Dec 10, 2022
Dec 10, 2022 at 2:38 AM UTC
Beware the rosy cheeked colleague
passing you in the hall
asking you how you are.
Beware the helpful friend
willing to lend a hand
at a moment's notice.
Beware the grocery clerk
smiling while she inspects your list
sending you off to have a nice day.
Beware
Beware
Beware
All snipers everywhere
False smiles are the turrets they hide behind
Praise offered in an attempt to make you feel safe
Only so they can make their mark
Hit thier target
Finish the job
Bullseye
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
My sunbaked hands, that are worn in places, handle the grapefruit moon. Juiceless craters embellish the surface that is smooth to the touch, but ¾ it’s natural size, as it has been prematurely picked from the tree above. Flatlands an Amazonian green, resembling the most courageous leaves that journey to find the purest sunlight, with polka-dot peaks that resemble the tint of dewy summer grass in the shade. There is a hole where once stood a pylon that connected the moon to the universe it knew. The scar’s mark forms a pupil and in it’s orbit I see nothing but the incomparable eye of a chameleon. While it twitches and inspects the world, tiny white rovers scuttle across the glossy hide of their new-found planet and big black bugs invade. Bugs! I drop the moon, as it is infested, and recoil as it hits the ***** concrete floor of what is known and rolls into what is expanding.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I have you in my book
though she has said
the man with fancy words
holds no special grip
her praises
left to honor him
is like a honey drip
she has told him
her inner thoughts
everything that she feels
he has looked upon her face
late at night
while lifting his biker wheels
he is a total stranger
someone who writes divinely
most often words of lustful ***
who doesn't have the right
to know the things
about her as he inspects
you see I love this woman
and I work so very hard
to earn her love in return
sometimes I work to hard
making many mistakes
saying things that sometimes burn
how can you fight someone
someone who
is only a ghost to you
you cannot reach across
the miles in between
to ask him bid adieu
leave her alone
stop asking for her thoughts
about your words of lust
but it's too late
he already has a book
of her inside his mind I trust
I almost threw away
my dignity and
my chance to keep her near
by begging her
to remove this villain
from names that appear
she was afraid
I wanted to control
every thought that she had
but it was her special words
put in his book
that made me feel so bad
she has acquiesced
with feelings hurt
she still loves me but now this look
but I just couldn't
take it anymore
as he sits and reads his book
Gomer LePoet...
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
each night
while i rest my weary head
god comes and counts my hair
carefully he inspects each strand
to his gentle touch my strands reveal there secrets
the reason for pre-mature greying or braking
his eyes become watery in conversation with my strands
he so wants me to tell him what he already knew
he is the all knowing
he just want me to talk to him
to tell him i need you
to tell him i love you
to tell him thank you for being my father
in return he is always Faithfull
as the night gives way to the new day
second change is revealed in the new sun
enter the chamber of the king
let his favour fall upon you
in bounty rich overwhelming
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 3:57 AM UTC
At dawn's first light, she awakens,
casting off her grey stone shell.
Her skin reflects Old Sol's blaze,
revealing no sign of age or blemish.
She takes to the tower's spiral staircase,
descending with the timely grace
of Autumn's auburn leaves falling.
To the pier, she walks alone.
She comes to rest on an ivory throne
and casts her gaze upon the mountainside.
Dining on dates and a spectrum of berries
as she solemnly inspects every summit and base.
Sailing down from overhead,
a hunting falcon attempts to catch a view
of the maiden seated on her chiseled cloud.
She neither blinks, nor turns. Eyes set upon the jagged rocks.
Her purpose is frightful, but she continues.
From eras since passed and still to unhatch,
she waits for the mountains to come alive.
Once more, she will tend to her hard-set herd.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
She tries on men like a summer dress
Inspects the fit, the color, the silky fabric
“It scratches like that one I had last year”
She loves the feel of a new dress.
The excitement, the way she looks at dinner
How it brings out the color of her eyes.
They are always special at first, she thinks.
But the second and third wearing
It starts to become
Just another dress.
Her closet is full, the colors reflect her memories:
The concert in Cologne, the opera in Vienna
A performance here, a recital there.
On each dress is written a symphony
The notes emblazoned on the fabric
Never to be played again
Her men are her performances
Infused with passion, tempered with distance
The growing flame must be drenched
Before it consumes her art and her life.
The past must be altered
Lest she play that piece again.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
a friend of mine begs me to have a beginning. I rub my hands together and lose track of which cleans which. my mother steps back and forth over a bucket. my father inspects the chalk outline of my brother’s progress. my body wants to be my brother’s body and so plagiarizes the latest convulsion. it happens to be violent. I love my sister for trying to pinpoint the moment her shadow appeared and for deterring my stillness. my brother is a riot. his creation story gives birth only once with dignity. he mangles a paper clip and pulls a praying child by the hair and is separated from his life. the paper clip becomes a bit small enough to be used on a snake. I have a cut that needs some attention. the void is a man. the beginning is money.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
Without any forewarning
You are leaning over top of me
I reach my face up to kiss you
Easing my legs to either side
Push your hips into mine, so that I may see
Wrap my thighs tighter, telling you I want to
How much you want it
Baby
Gasp
I tell you
Don't hesitate
Please?
Let me on it
For now; I am craving what you seek
At last
Your hand finds its way
Down below
You breathe into my neck
Finding me saturated
You start nice and slow
Your mouth continuously inspects
Mouth on my collarbone
The urgent kisses that follow
Your hand holding my face firmly away
You kiss all the way down
I feel you swallow
You look up to me with your dampened face
Hand in your hair
I tell you "baby now."
Taking my skirt and pulling it firmly down
He strips of his own pants
And eases his hips onto mine
I feel the way he desperately wants inside
I kiss him again
As my thighs give him a squeeze
But I will continue later
What can I say?
I'm a tease
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
Alabaster hands
I paint like I know you
but I am afraid
I paint like I know
the hours of holy songs he sang
when chip by chip
he broke his David
out of stone
but I mumble with a brush
polluted a tomb
with thievery and doubt
if I return to you
I will do so stollen
rolled up in bay and --
my Florence! I couldn't see you
I was lost
I could not be him
he unleashed, I hold
and now you wear his hands
like a beloved scar
and then you haunt my sleep
with your eyes of old
I am sessile, sterile - I doubt.
I cannot speak.
stone carved inadequate, for
I do not know hands
the venules and the etchings.
I could not learn
fiddling like a cricket
in the arms of leaf
I see him leap through ages
to come and observe
I am an artefact flaw
and him the sound perfectionist
he inspects fingers
as they stumble in paint
ever-looming, giant, bearded
with a broken nose
you, Florence! He steals
movement, instill it, gifts it
you wear it, then you watch me
with museum eyes
Good love,
I am no David
do not ask that of me, I may weep
stone in my hand
I sling stutter over my shoulder
and watch the forever tyrant grow
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 3:34 PM UTC
"I say it was the butler,"
And so the accusations begin.
They fly through the dining room
with their winged reasons
based on heresay and whims.
"It can't have been him.
He wasn't even there!"
A professor counters with snark.
Pointing out the other was wrong
for their own chance to glow.
"Well then it must've been the maid"
A woman in red counters
Glaring daggers like the ones
That get buried deep into trusting backs.
"Maybe it was one of you!
Looking for monetary gain!"
A man exclaims pointedly
Green overcoat buttoned tightly
as he perused the crowd unkindly.
"Everyone calm down!"
A gentleman speaks soothingly.
"Since we're speaking in clichés
I thought I'd put my two cents in."
the man inspects the body
and with dramatic flair
Announces:
"It was Colonel Mustard, in the dining room, with a rope."
And the fancy dressed group
Cried out in frustration.
But upon further inspection
of the victim dressed
in peacock blues and greens
yielded a braided rope pattern
surrounding her neck.
And it left them all to wonder,
"Who is Colonel Mustard?"
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 12:05 AM UTC
Whoah! A stinky ****
In an enclosed room!
Out we go…
To pure fresh air
Ozonal
With a hint of salty sea.
Smell that fresh-cut sappy grass,
Those rustic woods
An acrid hint of fox
Dog and cat
Someone’s perfume lingering in the air.
Things are cooking:
Bacon to **** for,
Baking bread,
Spicy curries
And glorious fish and chips.
Roast beef and lamb
Fast fried food
And coffee
Pervades the air.
Garden blossoms
Traditional roses.
I finger a mint-leaf…
But something is burning!
Ah!
Not the same as the smell of rain.
But don’t ask me.
Ask instead those dogs and cats
With their super-sense of smell.
For Max the Labrador Collie
Always inspects my feet
And heaven knows
What he makes of
That.
Paul Butters
© PB 14\4\2020. ("Fast fried food And coffee" added 18\4).
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 6:24 AM UTC
three sisters
old enough to date
enter a house
their father
can’t find. a bit of my mother
is seen
in this woman
going out of her way
to give satan
directions. a drug dog
on its last legs
inspects a used
vacuum cleaner, the lawnmower
of lost
men.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
Dog, you are just as old as me
Our mind in one purview,
When I was young and did a lot
Dog dreamtime cradled you.
When I had ripened to a fault,
Growth full, next stop decay
You tore from tree to me in glee
And romped all day in play.
From that, we both decline in one
To sit and listen now,
Our ball is caught, our song is sung
And we wait the hour.
My flesh and bone is well and strong,
The mind is loth and weak
Beginnings new the loss among
Happy now to seek.
Break out O Sun from that swift cloud
Sailing the Heaven free,
Warm up Earth’s stones and my bones proud
To embrace what is not me.
A dragonfly inspects my garden
In a fleeting blaze of sun,
Huge and dusky, like a dancer
Whirling wings of filigree spun
Beguiling sweet my spirit faint
Tips new-dipped in golden paint.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
Dampened Canary-
cloth hanging in the unforgiving
heat
A fateful transaction is upon the balancing wheel
of a godhead-wheelbarrow
(called forth from an unknown plain)
Here comes the chosen Sufferer,
who endures,
endures the cruel calming
of the desert
as if himself archetypal/
The Lonesome Cowboy
(Poésie)
Plotted on a humble Hillside,
where nobody has walked since
the first Red Riser fell honorably
(& honorably still)
The Martyr savors
the last of his strawberries before Tragedy (Muerte)
drinking water from a stranger's flask
removing pinpricks
individually, little droplets of
blood are sacrificed to quench
the
Arid Empress
*(Eruption/magnesium iris/Harper's Ferry 1805
perched toward the Consummation Twilight/Alexandria playfully
inspects his remains/judges past-lives/submitting to Lastly/DOWN/fertilizing the soil, creating,
smoking smiles/smoking kills/his skeleton braces for
savagery & foul gale)*
! Maroon-like
lamplight daybreak
(Leviathan)
Sacred-Serpent at their typewriter again, concluding/procuring
iron baskets-
-of bread and wine
to
celebrate the success in preserving
an irrevocable Cycle
...Another gentle youth invokes
the strange Temperament of Lilacs
& Chaotic Seraphim
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 3:06 AM UTC