"javelin" poems
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.
A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
**** EVEN Tacit Rainbow.
What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.
Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist
Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
Hound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petrel
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Maverick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw
Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Have you ever been to a sporting event ladies
Perhaps track or football
Where you got to watch powerful men compete
Did you watch the men at track practice
Their shirts off
Bodies glistening in the sun
Rock hard abs
Powerful chests
Strong powerful legs
And tight buttocks
You watch him throw the javelin
The javelin is like a symbol
Of his powerful male member
Do you want to run your hands on his powerful body?
You begin to massage your inner thigh
There is a cool breeze blowing
You spread your legs slightly
As the wind rushes up your skirt
You didn't wear ******* to this practice
It's time to return to your dorm
And fantasize about him
While you explore with your *** toys
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
Smile
Cry Leaf
Dance
Sniff Hair
Eat
Tasty Climb
Sleep
Choose Fluff
Fumes
Nitrogen
Hydrocarbons
Fire
Burn
Death
Fall Scream
Cat
Kyet
Storm
Turmoil
Pencil Javelin
**** Save
Love Hate
Dog
Squirrel
Sob
Laugh
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
my heart
a javelin
hurled
straight up
towards
the
mango moon
a place
where
i
thirst for
your love
when
it blooms
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
White,naked,realizations.
A moment of breaking dawn.
Today
Two bright slits
of blinding light
pry open
these tired kohl-lined eyes
smudged black.
Javelin rays
trespass fences of barbed wire,
her mascara-ed lashes,
playing fortress to
teary lakes
of dreams and lullabies.
Though yesterday
She lay
so breakable in his marble arms.
her porcelain breast,
her delicate heart,
so fragile.
His breath on her neck, cold,
colder than December ice.
Alcoholic kisses
slow anesthesia in his eyes.
A cascade
of ebony curls
darker than the midnight sky
holds a constellation
of beauty spots.
But she
holds her universe,
his face
between her tiny palms.
A pair of snow white wrists.
His fingers,
long shards of glass.
A single teardrop on her cheek,
pale moon,
the consequence of a million scars.
One afternoon after
Two thousand years of unending strife
Three stubborn blades
of a forbidding ceiling fan
Orthodox curtains,
and the guarding yellow walls
were joined
by a mirror
too shy
to watch,
her indiscretion,
his blatant lie.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:30 AM UTC
A barely coherent deity entered frowning,
giving his incisive javelin kinetic life,
malicious, negative omnipresence.
Perforating quickly, random, stealth targets,
unified viciously with xenogenic youth, zoic.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
you're screaming at me--"b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s"
death rattle of the century
now the floor, now the eyes in the window, now the fridge door
swung open
gateway to paradise
b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s
******* magnum opus
stutter-screech
blood blood blood in the streets
(blood blood blood in your teeth,
in your sheets
******* christ, i want to **** you")
m-m-m-m-m-m-a-r-t-y-r complex
you're cruel.
now the casket wide open,
now the eyes in the windows,
now the showerhead, now you,
framed portrait, you,
"this isnt over,"
you, buzzing in my skull
(b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s)
quiet down.
wasp nest lying at your feet
bug, holy thing, germ
("this, this, this")
now the bed, now the covers thrown back,
now an empty casket.
theres no grace in slaughterhouses
no sweetness on the tip of a dead man's tongue--
******* death of princes, i could
devour you whole, i could
eat the oyster-world raw.
b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s
and a note attached to a javelin.
(and they'll say, "welcome to the end of the world")
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
in the dark honey, the knees of bees and afterthoughts coagulate in burnt gold and warm blood.
the air is made of dander and random. the dog barks a virus you check for fleas. and the north star -
is violent. in the blemish of symmetry, the ruling class of ravens, flock to your discord,
they adorn your wretched gorgeous. they engorge the zenith
of your curse.
javelin happy, the stab behind the eye that sees too deep is delight's dagger !
the imminent ruse of a persistent Truth and an eternal Lie.
the Macbeth in your chicken soup.
and the Soup.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
the defense of your legacy manifested into strings of saccharin
and phrases like ‘Come on in from the rain. We all need a torrent to own the storm, just- take off your clothes, don’t mind Kierkegaard.’
your sincerity is a cipher
you’re something of a conversation piece between good friends
who were artfully made of pre-engineered steel on a day Jove tremored in his bed
you’re something postured beneath a javelin
and likewise- something propelled for decorum
blackguard, black coffee and a birthmark turned into a running joke.
inevitable.
you searched the bottoms of summer pools
and found no discernible trace of your history
her sable crown whips back and forth in your head
and you maintain the chaos with aureate cries of preservation
it’s a halcyon boom, a lonely and sexless halcyon boom
it makes every yellow and red dress chimerical
it makes your neck unassailable
drugstore cowboy
they got close enough
to see you sweat
to note that heat and her magnificence could purge as quick as they reinstate
and you still beat
like they do
stubbornly.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:20 AM UTC
Touching the moment, this delicate moment
Touching the face with its’ sad falling tear,
Softly aware that strange feelings surround us
Cloyingly close with their aura of fear.
Fear of a mantle of misunderstanding
Fear of uncertainty choked in forlorn,
Cloaked in thick prejudice clad by constriction
All drowned in a sea of wet ignorance borne.
Where stand the rational reaching for reason?
How seek the humble in searching for more?
****** not the javelin of angers’ contrition
In weighing this moment, I humbly implore.
For thus sits the fabric of deep understanding
Thus lies the tantric of feelings unspoke,
Thus the true substance of one to another
Uttered in wisdom through words best unwrote.
M.
30 September 2015
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Rising guano smokes the white birds.
The North winds homing, ave, a long
Besieging sea and ferries the prince
Of waves pass pacific and the fair isles.
With javelin eyes, aloft, blue streaks
The seething air, headlands draft
Grave embattlements, red rivulets
Paint on the raining wing, black art
Ticks the tern, marked minions and more
Dread. Once you were a foundling
Dropped from sovereign doons, scree
Of sky, air of wizard, your image late
Spikes from the lake, taut talons train,
Your breast a speckled main, rapier
Of dreams, arisen, sheathed in stone.
In the frosts of autumn, leaves do tell
In storied colours, yellow and red,
Round the shores your kingdoms table,
Battle cries break, a silence of wails,
Though they fall they shall burn again.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
Rising guano smokes the white birds.
The North winds homing, ave, a long
Besieging sea and ferries the prince
Of waves pass pacific and the fair isles.
With javelin eyes, aloft, blue streaks
The seething air, headlands draft
Grave embattlements, red rivulets
Paint on the raining wing, black art
Ticks the tern, marked minions and more
Dread. Once you were a foundling
Dropped from sovereign doons, scree
Of sky, air of wizard, your image late
Spikes from the lake, taut talons train,
Your breast a speckled main, rapier
Of dreams, arisen, sheathed in stone.
In the frosts of autumn, leaves do tell
In storied colours, yellow and red,
Round the shores your kingdoms table,
Battle cries break, a silence of wails,
Though they fall they shall burn again.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
There is a woman,
In years her sun is setting.
When it rises,
She wakes,
Gets out of bed,
Walks through hallways,
Out her front door,
Into her car,
In the backseat,
Where she goes back to sleep.
Why she does this, I don't know.
It has something to do with her fingernails.
She holds them in front of her,
Little ribbons of light emerge and weave themselves,
Until tangled and without direction,
Not without,
In every direction.
In the red back-light her silver hair becomes ablaze.
Extending from this fire that has no sentiment towards time,
Is an arm,
It has no joints and can only have it's palm facing up.
Cradled in the pit of infinite lifelines,
Are a set of hands,
They do a trapeze act on an entire spectrum,
That spangle into a single pillar.
Atop is the closest thing to,
Eternal elixirs.
Why she does this, I don't know,
But I don't want to be like her.
I don't want to hand myself a glass of water and say
'Thank you'.
I don't want to let the wind in my ears,
So it can pierce my head like a javelin.
Turning me to a device that spits directions,
Though,
Doesn't really know,
Because I constantly spin on one foot.
I don't want to be the popping spark,
That ebbs away the right hemisphere of the brain.
The hollowed echo of conversations from prior days.
She drives her car as if it were a living room.
She makes everything inside my skin move down,
A quarter inch.
I don't want to be like that woman,
Who only has herself as company,
Yet still manages to disagree with whats being said.
I want to be a compass that points towards paradise,
Instead,
I find a mirror,
And a reflection of fleeting beauty.
Instead,
I hear the wind,
And an unfamiliar dinner party.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Please don’t leave me
Now that you have been too dear
To me, though it might be queer to say that
You have been a huge part of my life
(even if your purpose remains unclear)
You have already struck my heart like cupid
It’s just that
You shot me not with an arrow
But with a spear
–
Like a javelin thrown with such tremendous force
That I didn’t have much time to prepare
For it, and I can only do nothing (for I am not aware)
But to shed a tear
A tear not of pain
Not of anger
Nor sorrow
But of joy
Joy of knowing that somewhere,
Someone is thinking of me
Joy of knowing that for someone, I am special
And it makes me feel special, and anyone can see it
For loving someone gives happiness in parts
But being loved back is the soul of the art.
–
But what happened to all of these?
Why does it have to rain
Whilst a child is still enjoying the sun?
Why does it have to turn into a drastic nightmare
And tear my heart apart?
Not only my heart but also my soul and
Everything that completes me, I lost
All the emotions that I tried to keep
Safe from harm, ruined
My visions of the future, our future and
Everything else that lies ahead of us.
What emptiness awaits me? I dread
Of becoming a mere vessel, without a soul
Without any chance of being whole.
–
Alas, the time has come for your departure
I don’t mean to be rude but
Is it not right for a soul to hold on and not let go?
Do you really have to leave this heart you have encaptured?
And now leave me in rapture
But did not dare to mend me
Because you cannot touch me
And I cannot touch you either
Because you are only a ghost
And I am only human.
And now I am left with one solution
To end this confusion I would give up everything
Just to stay forever in this illusion
Because to live without you makes life not worth living
And every moment turns to grieving.
–
And now for once in this winter
I feel warmth from deep within
The sadness starts to fade and
All the pain that has been
Turned back to joy
For I know that on the other side
You wait for my arrival
Along with all the emotions I lost
On the garden by the sea
And that we will be together
For all eternity
And for all eternity it shall be.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Rising guano smokes the white birds.
The North winds homing, ave, a long
Besieging sea and ferries the prince
Of waves pass pacific and the fair isles.
With javelin eyes, aloft, blue streaks
The seething air, headlands draft
Grave embattlements, red rivulets
Paint on the raining wing, black art
Ticks the tern, marked minions and more
Dread. Once you were a foundling
Dropped from sovereign doons, scree
Of sky, air of wizard, your image late
Spikes from the lake, taut talons train,
Your breast a speckled main, rapier
Of dreams, arisen, sheathed in stone.
In the frosts of autumn, leaves do tell
In storied colours, yellow and red,
Round the shores your kingdoms table,
Battle cries break, a silence of wails,
Though they fall they shall burn again.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
i wake
it is 8
i am seven
the sun floods in through the window
(late!) 2 pop-tarts and some juice and out the door in 9 minutes flat.-
r u n n i n g
recon the neighborhood. "Hey, Scott". We team up. A few of the"little" kids are out as well.
Check at Ricky's. Some sort of punishment, but a little whining and he is free as well.
More kids come out.
DIRT CLOD WARS!
seek cover
They go behind a dumpster. us, in a ditch.
we lob (never throw! ) the chunks of red clay which hit the asphalt with a puff
of puce vapor.
Some kid hits my little brother with a thrown clod,
with a rock in it.
He cries.
Honor demands a fight.
taunting , shoving,
I hit the kid in the nose and it bleeds. Crying he runs home.
(and I feel a glory Alexander would envy.)
"FELIX, COME HOME FOR LUNCH"
(5 minutes to devour a bologna sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk)
then ****** into round two. this time hide-and-seek and she . .
(the new girl ; corn-silk hair and eyes that . . ??
so i'm "it"
but even the "little" kids are getting Home
( i am way out left
because i know . . .)
- suddenly -
she makes a deerlike dash for home, but i am ready,
and like a javelin
appear between her and Home.
"you're out"
as my hand grasps her shoulder.
e v e r y m o l e c u l e o f m y f l e s h
!ignites!
and i feel as a god)
The game is over. Scott, Ricky and I spend an hour tricking the"little" kids into sitting in piles of dog ****
Suppertime and we are called home.
years have come and gone,
still i remember those summers.
with Scott and Ricky.
and the heady . . .
. . .dizzying
breathless . . .
. . . bliss
of
p
l
a
y. . .!
Sometimes . . . from time to time
I also remember the girl -
(and I still feel a tingle in my right hand.)
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
(homage to Ogden Nash)
See the buzzard soar, the swallow skim a lake, the kestrel hover;
observe the skylark pouring his little heart out in the sky;
admire the flapwing, lapwing flight of a flock of plover;
what birds do is fly.
At least they oughter,
because once birds get onto the water
they can't help looking absurd
– except the swan, for which nobody I know has an unkind word,
or, mostly, seagulls,
who fly with almost the grace of eagulls,
and in their silvery-white uniforms are impeccably neat,
even if my admiration for their manners is incomplete –
but, shucks,
look at ducks.
And for something really silly,
shaggy-winged, fluffy-headed, and disproportionately
neck-and-bill-y,
consider the pelican, for heaven's sake.
Surely Nature made a mistake,
or left the designing of it to a particularly inept committee,
it's so unpretty.
But once in the air he can soar like a buzzard, though maybe lower,
and skim over the waves with more perfect control
than a swallow, and slower,
and dive for a fish like a living javelin, that clumsy pelican.
By helican!
No, for a shapeless, hapless caricature, created to be comical,
the epitome of what a bird shouldn't be, the penguin
must be the most epitomical.
As he does his impression of a Charlie Chaplin waiter,
you know he'll fall off the ice sooner or later.
But before a warning can escape your lips
he trips
(and slips).
Then, as he slides beneath the waves, ah! See the happy penguin fly,
A graceful bird in his greenblue underwater sky.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
Bigotry has a smell of death
The fuhrer would watch piles on piles of empty flesh
In the summer of 1941
On the grounds of Auschwitz, that place weighed heavier than a ton
Years after the shoah, would this understanding begin to unfold
That nothing stains the soul more indelibly than loathe
What do the blind see?
Your oratory abhorrence they forsee
They see, not your bitter visage
But their ears crush under the muscle of your burning rage
What do the deaf hear?
Even years after the passing of a yesteryear
I suppose, they hear words, like skin caressing skin
Your tirade tearing their tissues like a throw of javelin
Along Its path, since decades, turning into centuries
Before times were tamed
Even after times were maimed
Our tongues have plucked
Incessantly
The plumage of quarantined birds
With stubborn shame
And a sequence of demise ensues
Their voice also dies, so does their silence
Because after all
Bigotry has a smell of death
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 10:00 AM UTC
Love in a mist.
But I missed it.
All I did was drown.
Soaking wet inside.
A beautiful flower.
Young and fresh.
Roots put down.
And a crack appeared through the window on the world.
No roses round the old oak door.
Spectacles crushed.
Visions spoiled.
Beauty of the planet tragically marred.
World herself speared on a javelin,
Invisible to the naked eye.
Sharp and clean and fresh.
The globe spins on another day.
Then death courts you.
Rips your heart away.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
if Jesus told me to write
several notes here etched for you
read from tablets of stone
there she goes
far from the grasp of my reach
there she goes
I still stand before her
as she leaves through the gates
gilded with the purest mineral
I still stand before her
taking her shame along
this is a good bye, so long
so long so long so long
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Rising guano smokes the white birds.
The North winds homing, ave, a long
Besieging sea and ferries the prince
Of waves pass pacific and the fair isles.
With javelin eyes, aloft, blue streaks
The seething air, headlands draft
Grave embattlements, red rivulets
Paint on the raining wing, black art
Ticks the tern, marked minions and more
Dread. Once you were a foundling
Dropped from sovereign doons, scree
Of sky, air of wizard, your image late
Spikes from the lake, taut talons train,
Your breast a speckled main, rapier
Of dreams, arisen, sheathed in stone.
In the frosts of autumn, leaves do tell
In storied colours, yellow and red,
Round the shores your kingdoms table,
Battle cries break, a silence of wails,
Though they fall they shall burn again.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Rising guano smokes the white birds.
The North winds homing, ave, a long
Besieging sea and ferries the prince
Of waves pass pacific and the fair isles.
With javelin eyes, aloft, blue streaks
The seething air, headlands draft
Grave embattlements, red rivulets
Paint on the raining wing, black art
Ticks the tern, marked minions and more
Dread. Once you were a foundling
Dropped from sovereign doons, scree
Of sky, air of wizard, your image late
Spikes from the lake, taut talons train,
Your breast a speckled main, rapier
Of dreams, arisen, sheathed in stone.
In the frosts of autumn, leaves do tell
In storied colours, yellow and red,
Round the shores your kingdoms table,
Battle cries break, a silence of wails,
Though they fall they shall burn again.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Standing on morals and values
How you?
Sit here and not shed a tear
In this atmosphere
Hells been here my dear
Listen to the sounds of the wind
Paintin' an image you could see within
Soul dwellin' spells sailin'
Like boats on oceans
**** a notion and stop
Sippin' the mental potion
Nothing but poison causing noises
To the intellects
Folks so confused they dont
Know what to reject
Whats thrown at em
Pitches up and i bat em
Out the park
Slicker than John Starks
On the court
Light my spark **** in the dark
Take a trip through my mind
And let the chakras tingle your spine
Im genuine
So anxious notorious when my guns bust
Through the evils hearts
Of mankind no rewind
We going forward marchin'
While ya barkin'
At cars that be parked and
We clear benches from distances
Strong as stance
None could separate this
This part of yosef anthology
Who am i? Who are we?
Stuck in the game calles society
Pawns place carefully
Gotta strategize my moves swiftly
Or else they'll catch me
Slippin- destiny to the penitentiary
Or an early cemetery
Like young revolutionaries
No longer scared no fear
Mama dry yo tears and hear
Me talking to your mind javelin'
While my spirit travelin'
To unknown destinations
No subjugations make it through any situation of the litigation
No hesitation thugs in migrations
No imatitin' raw with our hits
No fakin' slam ya Blake Griffin
Got lots of guns
So dont be trippin' strippin'
Titles off men and men off titles
Im an ultimate rival
To the system its the survival
Of the fittest **** this
Life ill die broke than a slave
Cursed to the carnal sins of man
But then again
Spirits will guide me again
To where it all began
The garden of Eden
You'll see the demons risin' in earthly form
Next to you breathin'
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 3:23 AM UTC
a young warrior fulfils a dream,
one on one combat, and his foe
folds like wet parchment.
a wounded musician, has his back
even as the javelin impaled
in her arm (her spoils)
drips with life.
the clatter of a die.
a number announcing if she survives
is softly reported
[or how Oscar’s help was neither wanted nor needed, thank you very much]
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:23 PM UTC