"leery" poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your **** have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
I am the Lorax, who once spoke for the trees
In the hope of bringing progress to its knees
But now I have grown somewhat older and tired,
My outlook and thought process being rewired
(Sometimes to see forest, you must clear the trees.)
Examine the case of the Brown Bar-ba-loots
Whose interests for so long I worked in cahoots.
Could such timid beasts truly thrive in the wild
So innocent, trusting, submissive, and mild?
(My former assertions I strongly refute.)
Why, see how they frolic and scamper in zoos;
How can one watch them and steadfastly refuse
To see how much better their lot is today
As joy for our children as opposed to prey
(A happy condition where no one can lose.)
Ah, scoff the nihilists, *but Truffula Trees,
Those havens for birds and those homes for the bees.
Why, what do you say now that they are all gone,
Removed to make way for some suburban lawn?*
(These angry young men—O Lord, take them all please!)
I gently remind them it’s just nature’s way,
That some species go while other ones stay,
The carrier pigeon’s no longer alive
Yet somehow we manage to live—indeed, thrive!
(In the face of brute logic, they’ve little to say.)
So don’t be dismayed or frightened or leery
Of doomsday projections outlined by theory
Suggesting that our time on this earth may be done;
Consider the caged Bar-ba-loot having fun
(And we hear fish do quite well in Lake Erie.)
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
They meet once again,
One teary, one leery, both weary,
Daughter, mother, cut from the same cloth.
They meet once again,
Sense one another's desire to be,
Forgiven, understood, loved.
They meet once again,
To talk, to listen, to avoid,
Mistaken, misunderstood, miscommunication.
They meet once again,
Shuttered down, boarded up, fear within resides,
Mother, daughter, cut from the same cloth.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
It's not deception,
but it, I cannot believe.
These truths transmitting,
time permitting,
will crush me flat.
I'm not sure what to think,
in the fact's bull-rush.
Screaming out.
Damming it to be,
cardboard scenery.
In sincere
secrecy.
With a dash of nothing,
spicing the world.
Give me a kiss; no,
give me a twirl.
Splicing the word-weary
and thought-Leery.
Such fresh ********
Screaming out.
Damming it to be,
cardboard scenery.
In sincere
secrecy.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
No homeostasis today.
Teetering this sickness
in a-
leery (putrid) way.
Disgruntled.
When will this darkness fade?
Ill be seeing you.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 7:18 PM UTC
It has been many moons since these translucent eyes set forth the bellowing cries of a whispered hymn. The cries of those long since forgotten, briefly heard, myopic, blind to the background sound of our nestled unruly world. The white noise that paints the landscape continually resetting itself in a desperate attempt to regain its foothold in our lives. It is this fight for free reign that forever brings me here. Brings me to each infinitesimal moment in life where we as the white noise fight for dominance over our subconscious realm.
Leery of what we experience with our senses and what we experience with the extensions of. Touching everything with our nothing making sure that the existence that we live is not just a state of mind but an actuality. We are self-altruistic, in this i am sure, for we care about the well being of ourselves. No state of mind left behind this is our status quo. Let it be that no mirror binds you to your own failures nor to those that look onto from a distance. Let you be your own shadow let your own shadow not be a former representation of what is but what's to come. Let your shadow be effectively that of which you strive. Let the shovels of ill will be fated to bury themselves hand in hand with those that foster it. Stand firm in your position overcome only by the mountains of your own design.
These peaks scream out echoes of your hate and shame not for you, nay. Not for I, nay. but for those that challenge what you stand for because the earth beneath our feet stands for everyone. stands stained with bloodied tears that rained down from our glorified manufactured heaven. This epoch marks the second coming of our custom, individualized, patent-pending, rights reserved, copyrighted Christ; our self-proclaimed god. self-proclaimed because we are the gods we seek, we ignore, and we pray for. the effervescent pool of life reads no running so we segue our way on this Segway to take advantage of the loopholes we ourselves placed as if only to cheat our fabricated reality because rebellion is refreshing and different but only when no one else is looking.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
Often the news gives me the blues
I really ought to choose
to simply refuse
I mean really, what will I lose
Schadenfreude?
no that isn't it
truth is stranger than fiction
more like a fascination with the surreal
or a blinded self-affliction with the scroungy real deal
Talking heads that speak for work
punctuate sentences with erratic head jerks
nobody normal talks that way, they ask rhetorical questions
when the answer's are known, they’re killing time
“rephrase the question, run the clock out
a commercial will spare us the embarrassment of doubt.”
Take’s a special person to face each new day
with zillions of prying eyes hanging on every word you say
the mendicant voyeurs of utter destruction’s charming new day
the slashing machete melt down of the abject speakers foray
"Oh say, can you see by the dawns early light"
What's become of your people and their obsession with fright
desensitization is paramount to achieve an abeyance of light
Frankenfoods, and "side affects" hideous monsters in the making
high resolution mayhem require victims for the taking
awaking half-dead like Dracula’s each dusk
they'll find a cure, there's another vaccine, there’s always dumb luck
maybe you won't be the sucker that makes that dreadful scene
bludgeon your mind with a another faker, a different fresh news team
fobbing your leery eyes you ponder “they can’t possibly all be the same!”
different day, different month, different year, same game
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
velveteen ruins cluster hush the horizon
smearing dusk and warp across the frog croak fracas
of the outer wilderness, where the buildings disassemble
the domiciles of dank and drab. where no maidens
await rescue. just the desolate hub
of wilt and bane. towers felled by iron claws
and engines of rake and drain. our progressive diaspora
of un-living things. the faint jewelery of our banshee
before swine.
dead of night prone... while reading ' Confessions Of A Hope Fiend '
we are leery of our tiny Thames
but dredge our Vistas
for humming
bugs.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
In the toilet, neath the stairs
Anywhere Thee's rancor glares
Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
Laughing at Thee's haughty airs,
Boastful words… but no one cares
Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
Faced with words where talent flares,
Leaves Thee startled, unawares
Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
In Thee prate or in Thee prayers
Be forewarned, our patience wears
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
The invalids,
misanthropes-
Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm ********
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-
So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
Inadequate!
Mundane!
The pedestrian,
Heretofore-
I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-
I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-
As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
Bob Marley threw this one on the fire
It burned brightly fo me from his song
RAT RACE.
Dont know if this is a borrowed line but it has become one of mine when describing the hive mentality and closed consciousness of group think
Anything bigger than a basketball team makes me leery. ;-)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
On impulse I sputter to life,
New lungs spitting blue into the sky.
Fingers wet with the tide
That as yet
Unspoken
Need
Clinging with infant fingers to my ribs.
Trap in human skin.
I reach back into the bliss,
Savoring the sensation of sin slithered across my tongue.
I have been frozen in the sun.
In dreams my respite comes,
But oh, the night slips softly away.
That unfinished chapter dissolving into day
Leaving its scent to crawl beneath my door,
That incessant, leery, lust for more.
And the terror of knowing that soon
It must
End.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
You were the dream maker lacking impediments and I the wanting of nothing.
Hesitant heart of mine leery of blissful nature of love thou bestowed upon me.
Whilst thou who is handsome of face and perfection of body lay in slumber's state,
took flight in night and prayed I would not waken the keeper of frightened heart.
T'was you my gallant knight who stole my heart when least I wanted or expected,
t'was you who brought light to the darkness of dreams and made night terrors fade.
You who never questioned where I'd been but sought to bring out the best in me.
Life with you my kindred spirit was near perfection with never a dull moment.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Poor courage,
break down pleasantly.
Feed the nameless
with siren calls.
Feed them all!
Their hungry bellies can have myth.
Feed them all
splinters of health in your absence.
Be a doll and let them feast.
Behold! You're tragic
after all.
After all drips have fallen
from the auto-feeder,
believing so much in -- no!
Run right back to mother hope,
covered in wire.
Metal bones frame our warm lit home.
Covered in wire.
Stares hurt too
much to remedy.
Breathe the pain in
your oxygen.
Breathe to mend
old bite marks on which critters gnaw.
Breathe to mend!
But breathe instead, poison
cutting coughs.
Begin orbit, notice your throat bleed.
Behold! Your answer
to their call:
Silence. Retreat.
Whisper frustration into bedsheets like a lover,
feel the warmth you radiate imitate another, to
take reward in the title "savior", to be reborn
in your listlessly pulsing head, and sing your solo
song, song, song,
Reborn, born, born
in leery echoes.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
It was in April we met of last year
Never thought I'd hold you so dear
A curious thing I thought you were
Loud, eccentric, and certainly belligerent
Of my feelings, mostly inconsiderate
At odds were we from the start
With every argument we rip each other clean apart
We clash like demigods on the battlefront
I, petulantly persistent and you, cruelly blunt
I am stubborn and prideful just like you
An abundance of intense feelings between we two
Polar opposites in personality are we
But some of the things in you I see in me
Leery was I of your intentions
Following every reply with even more questions
See, no matter how hard I try can't read you
So handing my trust over to you is an issue
I've never had someone be so true
It scares me to death, because true people are so few
Even if you are not meant to be my lover
You'd be a genuine friend--like no other
(Even at times when we can't stand one another)
Patient sometimes you are with me
As I slowly release my grip and conceed to our reality
For whatever twisted reason there may be
I love you for you and you love me for me
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
One of many apologetic arguments
is an application of Game Theory,
as defined by “Pascal’s Wager”;
ideas of infinite gain make leery
skeptics doubt a likely existence
of an omnipotent and omniscient God,
Who is worthy of our time and talent.
They believe this premise is flawed,
as they willingly bet against Hell,
damnation and its infinite losses;
the discussion, of rational thought
and atheistic stances, crisscrosses
mental boundaries in search of Truth.
Is finite loss of luxury and pleasure
worth the Christian lifestyle today?
Where are you storing your treasures?
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Gen 1; Matt 6:19-20 and
More info on Wikipedia
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
Amazon
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
You're
So mechanical,
Grinding and menacing.
Why did you change?
Remember you not our bliss?
I'm
The same;
I resist alteration.
It's true - seasons change,
Yet that's about it here.
Your
Leery labyrinth
Of menacing streets
I searched inside out,
All to find you've gone.
Why
Don't you
Just come back
To our sweet nature
Where our love was pure?
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
The comments of the ocean
Blend nicely with the brush
Of tipper topper dinky dinghies
That paddle all a hush
Ships sailing on the summer current
Keels are black and leery
With barnacles and treasures trawled at sea
They nose ahead worn and weary
I sigh a little on the plinth of my palm
Propped nicely 'gainst the ivory table
And clink ****** cups, you know
Those little things that make you remember
Shame? Not me. When I watch the birds
They hover without shame
Boasting of the clouds they've visited
And castles up high they are welcome to
Take, take, take the spring breeze that simmers in
I couldn't feel the grace of disgust
I couldn't, I'm too happy
With salt ground tea and seemly company.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
Bitten by a bitter asp,
Scorched by a flame,
Conned by a sneaky fox,
And charmed by his game.
So, excuse me, if I’m wary,
Of your silky, smooth orations,
Or bewildered and maybe slightly scared,
Of these somewhat odd sensations.
My soul is bidding that I run,
From your words, so much like his,
But, my heart commands my feet to stay,
Afraid of what I’ll miss.
Afraid, also, that your tender touch,
Is tender in only practice.
Frightened that your wooing game,
Will end shy of the kiss.
Yet,
What if your lips are sweetened with,
Sugar in its purest state.
And, your eyes whisper to me, not lies,
But secrets of our hidden fate.
I want my heart to beat with yours,
And to allay these silly fears.
But, how can I know that you won’t go,
And leave me fighting tears?
I trust you with my kisses,
With my rain of sweet affection.
I give to you my drowsy dreams,
For a feverish night’s connection.
Though my heart wells up with age-old songs,
At the whisper of your name,
And belts them out on every corner,
It’s within my own breast, all the same.
My fingers idle at the thought,
Of unlocking my heart once more,
Leery of the childish stitching,
From heartbreaks done before.
Cross your heart, and say you’ll stay,
To love me through the night,
To narrate my dreams, and welcome the beams,
That pour in from waking light.
To give my heart is to give my love,
To the one I most adore.
And, when it’s true, I swear to you,
My heart and soul is yours.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 1:03 PM UTC
there was a wolf
I tell you
sharp teeth, a stench
I tried to run I tell you
wouldn’t listen
Little girl hearts
Beat and behave like
A sparrow
leery fingers touch
Lingering wounds
don’t touch
He wouldn’t listen
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 9:20 AM UTC
Turn on. He preached,
A psychodelic mantra.
Turn off, I rejoin.
Recharge your battery.
Hear the place.
Don't skip out.
Tune in,
That's what he proclaimed,
Like a hallelujah chorus.
Tune out, I respond.
Extract the buds, and smell the flowers.
Drop out, his litany ended.
Alone, or with drop outs?
Distances and depths vary.
But his voice carried.
Drop by, I invite. Stay awhile.
Have a cup of Yorkshire Gold,
And walk in the garden,
With me.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC
Coughing
up a lung
a little leery
worse for
wear and tear
I say fill
your boots
go for it
let it ride
it's just
a cold
what
you're
not a kid
man up
pull up
your socks
get out
there
and give
'em hell
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC