"javelins" poems
A hammer upon the landscape.
Thunder like a toppling mountain.
Flashes like x-ray explosions.
Supernova surprise.
Sheets of rain.
Glistening-rebar javelins
Pierce the asphalt
Shatter the concrete.
Long shards of glass
From the grey
Steel-wool clouds.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
3.1k
Nails the length of javelins click on countertop
with the speed of a coked-up woodpecker
as this goddess of the night with bullets
of caked foundation sweating from her forehead
awaits her fifth free Long Island of the night.
Safe to say, she's a little high maintenance,
like all treasured centerpieces
of a local museum deserve to be.
She is your generation's Mona Lisa, trust.
Her sneezes will be dissected for coding.
Like the rust on buried Babylonian armor,
she lives sandwiched between myth and reality.
A Frankenstein of queer iconography,
door-knocker earrings designed by Adrian.
Stilts for heels clack on blinking dancefloor,
balancing a hermaphroditic echo
that charges through hieroglyphic binaries
with a four-on-the-floor precision.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
O mother!
It is I, I your son.
I never did outrun
the death waiting for me.
Destiny, Martyr to be…
O mother!
I thought of you only
when javelins pierced me.
The memory of your eyes.
Had made me smile in disguise.
O mother!
I lay there helplessly.
My friends could not help me.
But your prayer was enough.
It kept helping me stay tough.
O mother!
The blood kept boiling out.
I let out a low shout.
It was your blood after all,
ran off me like waterfall.
O mother!
With final hiccup I
drowned into darkest sky.
Now I’m sure you’re proud of me.
I know I made you happy.
O mother!
Is this not what you want?
Is it not what you crave?
Your martyr is taking your
Guidance with him to his grave.
O mother!
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:39 AM UTC
When I was at school
They used to put me in running races
And I would run as fast as I could
But my little legs made limited progress
When we played rugby
If someone passed the ball to me
It was as if my hands and eyes
Weren't on speaking terms
They would give me things to throw
Stuff like javelins and things
But my arms were too short
To provide the necessary leverage
But when I was out on the streets
Whenever the cry went up of
"Leg it lads! "
I was uncatchable
By Phil Roberts
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 4:14 AM UTC
he sweeps me off my feet and lays me by a tombstone,
his volley of crows rain down like black-night javelins,
and i can't quite realize if i am to be shocked
or mesmerized.
the moon shines high in the heavens now,
and her eyes are stuck on me.
she can somehow bear the audacity to watch me
be taken by such a goes-around-comes-around
type of guy.
he smells of sterility and tears
and peace and closure
and happiness in relief;
like roses on blank stones
and lilting monologues.
i can only be struck dumb by the
compelling, coal nocturne
and my hourglass of a lover.
his dual-edged shadowing forms wings of blackened bone on my back,
and i can't bring myself to
turn the sands of times.
so i ask you now:
before you leave me alone in this world,
would you lay me to rest,
kiss me good night,
and tell me stories of what could have been?
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
"Having turned the machinery of the Gov't into
a corrupt process of getting bad press made on
his political opponents, the Bidens, by buying
false investigations on them by multiple Gov'ts,
must be impeached, now", say Dems, the people.
The impeachment investigation has received much
evidence to support it, yet, Rumputin/vlad-
the-impaler, who were illegally installed into
the Blackhouse after the 2016 election, are
stonewalling numerous other subpeonas, requests.
People have seen evidence of Donald's demanding
false investigations of the Bidens be started by
the Ukrainian President in exchange for already
allocated by Congress 1/2 a bill in anti-tank
'javelins', but not the unreturned voicemails
detailing his desires for the same 'quid pro quo'
by him to other nations, here's some. The Donald,
'Hi President of Ghana, I've heard you have some
hellified kool-aid, if you investigate the Bidens
we'll buy 100's of tons, awaiting your call.'
'Yo, yo, yo, President of Liechtenstein, just
calling to let you know if you liechten the Bidens
and find some dirt on them, we'll buy a hundred gross
of your steins, this is time sensitive, top secret,
so get back to us a.s.a.p., pppppllllleeeeeaaassse?'
''Sup, President of Guyana, must be hot in Africa,
too bad for you, all kidding aside, I hear you guys
have the best kool-aid to die for, if you investigate
the Bidens and find dirt on them we'll buy 1/4 of a
bill worth. Limited time offer, bro, sooooo holla.'
'President of Hungary, I've heard you guys are always
Hungary, so, if you want a 1000 tons of food 'b' alls you
have to do is investigate the Bidens, find dirt on them
and provide it to the Steve Bannon set-up Hungarian fox
news who'll broadcast it globally over the next year.'
The atrocities of it all is all the people can say. Does
this feel like a Greek comedy/tragedy to anyone else? A
quickie impeachment to cover-up the bigger Russiagate one
that indicts the whole of the republican conspiracy, just in
time for vlad, etc., to hack our next presidential election?
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
Hark! the tempest doth devour,
(Hurry, the lair of Hell prepare,)
Raining needles, a sharp shower,
Arrows arc thru the dark air.
Glaring weapons are the loom,
Where the soldiers strain,
Weaving many a fighters doom,
This man's woe, that man's bane.
See the fortress walls to right grow,
"'Tis a corpse tower." maiden said.
And cannon ***** do fire from below,
Each an enemy soldiers' lobbed head.
Bones for arrows, dipped in gore,
Shot by the spinal cords so long.
Dagger, that once an emblem bore,
Keep that blade so sharp; so strong.
Before the ****** sun is ****** set,
Lances must shiver;
And javelins do sing.
Blades with clanging
sound to whet.
Lightning crashes; helmets ring.
Blades of swords to suddenly glare
Send more to the front, let 'em fight,
Where our companions
The conflict share.
Many triumph, yeah: but, O!
Yet, they die.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Pull "The dog says: 'Bark'"
Pull "The cat says: 'Meow'"
Pull "The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says: 'The human says:......
The human says: 'I can understand that.'
Sternly command that.
shear and plow and smelt and can that
I can make a plan
to catch and **** and roast and feast
on that hard quill and bristle beast
And I can stain his image on the living rock
no, not to mock
But to remember what feats we drew
up from ourselves
As the javelins flew
My hands are clever
They chip the stone, and scrape the wood,
and wind the sinew
My tongue is cleverer still
My words are the creeping shadow of my thoughts
And just as a shadow is drawn along behind,
and stretches in the late dying sun
And snaps to attention in the noonday swelter, to heel, obedient
My words precede me, and linger behind, and snap to my side to attack
And defend
And manipulate
For well you know, dear reader
That words move men to move mountains
They can drive him to brave the tusks and teeth
And reward him with praise, as the fire flickers against portraiture
Of a hundred beasts
Deadly, proud, roaring
And in the end, delicious.
How splendid am I
To suss out basic truths
From straight-line scratches
In the dirt
I can learn the rules
of all that ever was
And to learn, is to understand,
is to become unfettered
I can cleave, dissect, ***** inject
And figure it all out
And learn from a loosing bout
Every monster brought low
will be investigated
To see how we can end him easier
Until the last monster
Is man himself
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
These words
Are like javelins
We hurl them through
The eyes of the naked sky
Words live in the hearts of men
All the mountains that we climb within
Words flush out the august light again
These words have great power in them
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
You make it all go red,
bottled wine crimson.
Pictures pop like plump bubbles,
sleep clogged
with soggy might-have-beens.
I bounce my words
along a washing line
in the hope they’ll find you
looking out
at a cement-made sky,
windows lashed
with crinkled blobs of rain.
Pause. A thought.
Skinny ***** of light
javelins across your face.
A sentence built
with strawberries,
not a comma
like an ugly smudge of blood.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
so she puts on her scratched Doc Martens with the mud-stricken laces - because that’s what she wants to wear - swish and flicks the stick so the surf of her eyes have raven wings - because that’s how she likes to do it - strikes her lips Beauregarde blue - plonks a fedora atop her tiers of panther-black hair - because it’s her favourite colour - her favourite hat - wriggles on three rings - her grandmother’s, mother’s, and the one from Amsterdam - pins the badge GIRLS DO NOT DRESS FOR BOYS on her fluff-stippled dress - because she’s in the mood to wear it - because it feels comfortable - prods a white trinket in her ear that gushes Bikini **** - because she’s feeling like a rebel - fishes for a fiver for bus fare - knows the driver will silently judge her - knows the thirty-something mother will - knows the raisin-faced cane-in-hand man will as well - knows she doesn’t care - sun javelins in from the windows - feels great looks good her version of girl - later when her friends call they call her Wednesday - her kisses tasting of blueberry pie
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC
A swarm of blue and white
Shot-putters hurdlers sprinters javelins long and high jumpers
Congregate before esteemed guests whom the PTA did invite
To secretly scoff at losers and worship winners.
Not quick or strong,
All I could do was jump high.
Alwyn came in stone last in the cross country after long.
Poor chap – their sneering and booing made him cry.
Soon after, it was my turn,.
Third jump – down went the pole.
Alas! – one corner poked me in the back. The pain, the burn!
Need something sweet for the shock, like a Swiss roll.
Into the common room I went,
Where smoky, limp athletes unwound with a movie.
There I encountered three foes infernally-sent.
Alwyn was among them – out to get me.
“Why are you crying?” one goon prodded.
“I got hurt by a pole,” was all I could muster.
At this, Alwyn’s raucous laughter erupted and exploded.
One day I’ll get you, buster.
Didn’t you cry moments ago when they sneered at you?
So, your solution is to do as the Romans do?
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
Simple symbols start with fingers ,acknowledging that O for O.K.
Standing on flat ground we are still revolving ,spinning ,spinning around
Always coming to a point,a new sign to align ,even when hidden by smoke
Trains of thought, traveling tracks or trails to elsewhere always with no bounds
Throwing spears,hurling javelins,cursors for the mystery they invoke
Ways to go ,directions to follow ,up down ,singing out with the sounds
Mimes mimicking leave us spellbound,trains crossing ,always outbound not to revoke
Round eyes noting rings encompassing other planets ,far away with all it endows
Going out ,coming in, enter,or exit following as a guide .always a way to simply take a walk
Path for a task, forward or reverse or four way to parallel or perfection in neat rows
Taken in stride unknowingly we abide ,even ideas follow in line,off center we balk
Beacon as a guide,taken to heart our claim to fame is how we follow the aim
see the arrow with a mind that is not narrow and maybe realize the way it flows
R.C.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC