"manoeuvres" poems
O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.
O what is that light I see flashing so clear
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.
O what are they doing with all that gear,
What are they doing this morning, morning?
Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,
Or perhaps a warning.
O why have they left the road down there,
Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in their orders, dear,
Why are you kneeling?
O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,
Haven't they reined their horses, horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
None of these forces.
O is it the parson they want, with white hair,
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
Without a visit.
O it must be the farmer that lives so near.
It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farmyard already, dear,
And now they are running.
O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;
Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.
4.2k
The story of a tiny gift, half chewed and fear-stained
Left on the alter outside the back door:
When first stunned with a slap or a precisely timed
Bite, a vigil is held -- wings twitch and flutter.
With a curious tilt, widened eyes record
Muscle spasms; calculating the
Flight risk; metering the force of the next
Outburst; prolonging the fun.
A game or performance art?
The victim's peers yell and screech
From the rooftops - do they know
The show is for them?
After few manoeuvres more it matters little
As a tiny neck snaps between missing teeth.
The audience scatters and the corpse is left behind
As an offering for those who feed the beast.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,
They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,
Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere,
Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,
Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,
Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons,
Opulent mechanisms,
Fabulous manoeuvres,
In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their stylish Sari's, airborne.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
The spirit of the age projects a myriad of peculiarities which are diametrically opposed to the wisdom of our ancestral manoeuvres of foreboding contemplations.
It is sufficient for me to say, that I have rolled up my trouser-legs in metaphysical resignation.
Lest you forget, that the history of our posterity is shrouded in post-Edwardian etiquette, as she balances on the brink of relinquished community.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
Glowing Windows embedded into mouldy brick walls
Ivy climbing the gutters of neighbourhood roofs
Skies becoming burnt out like charred blackened fields
Tall spiny trees project shadows onto the road below
Leaves curl up to receive some weakening light from above
A formation of sputtering cars cling to each turn they decide to make
Cloudy milky light bounces off faulty windows that exhale the aroma of somebodies impending supper
A heavy truck manoeuvres itself into the blistered bitumen horizon
Dry deflated branches make obscene gestures towards passers-by
Gardeners rummage through their bags as they near the end of their working day
Their faces filled with an expired enthusiasm for breathing
Parked hunks of metal pelted with dead itchy leaves
Windscreen wipers hold fragile twigs down against grotty neglected glass
Chain-link fences link disparate housing and the sleeping people within
Some dispirited unsatisfied psychos gaze up as they catch a moving bus
Smoky Incense billows down from some apartment balcony
The air becomes cold and sharply fills these ordinary streets
Engine sounds try to supress the divine quietness
They only merge into it
Now the stars are out and about
Bright specks waddling in an aerial pool of dark blue
You turn the key and walk through the front door
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
A folktale
There is a small country sharing part of its border
to a giant country, both have been friends for
over 300 years during world war two they came
helped the small country to get rid of the enemy.
Then propaganda articles appeared in many papers
how bad the government in the big country was,
(Let us make it easy the small country we can call
Norway and big the country Russia) the Norwegian
took no notice, they visited Russia often to buy
***** cigarettes and other items that are expensive
in their little country; and some travelled to Moskva
which has a rich cultural heritage.
Then the Americans/NATO held a proxy war and
the American soldiers and tanks got in the way
of tour buses, needless to say, the soldiers were
confused that the people from the tiny country
we’re not afraid of the big bear this because of the
US combatants were victims of lying propaganda.
Well, the military nonsense ended their proxy war
the Norwegian continued to travel to Russia to do
their shopping and as always they were welcomed
and no one mentioned the silly manoeuvres by
the misguided military personnel were playing in the snow.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 4:09 AM UTC
She tries to put that favorite poem of her's to sleep
it wasn't easy as it spoke of pain, made her weep,
kept on talking about losses, promises not kept,
fighting losing wars, strifes and getting lost.
She waited for the night, fully covered in black tresses
the ample woman, compassionate, who gently would caress
in night's presence and deft manoeuvres all weeping stops.
She sighs, no more poems resurrecting the reign of pain, she hopes
forgets what makes her nightly haunt this place, that she is a ghost
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
My throat fills with the pain of loneliness...
With all my smooth words and all my fancy manoeuvres I always seem to escape loves kiss...
My thoughts seem focused on one kiss...
My mind keeps asking my heart why we fear this...
This emotion that can run to the inner corners of your soul...
With every step gathered with every emotion mastered still no end goal...
My mind seems restless my soul uneasy...
But my spirit and heart drive me...
To be what I am...
A man...no a boy that can run through your hand like sand...
And leave but a pebble that will stick forever...
All I want is one smile from love but never and I do mean never...
Will this be ...
I walk through rain hoping the tears from heaven will sooth me...
And wash away my pain as I now lay in a room covered by darkness I close my eyes and ask god why ....... me...
But my plea falls on ears of a deaf man...
All this talk of a grand plan but true be true a joke is what I am...
My every step seems to bring me deeper into the pits of agony...
And all the ladies that come in my web follow me...
And return broken and empty...
I ask for love and affection but one smile is all there is for me
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 4:19 AM UTC
Terminate with Prejudice,
The word came from on high,
Synchronise the satellite
Above her in the sky.
Instruct the drone manoeuvres
To glide 10,000 feet
And fire the micro missile
Through the roof, but be discreet!
*A haze of gas like perfume,
A sneezing fit or two
And every living thing within
The building dies on cue.
No symptoms are detected,
No evidence is found,
The toxic gas is oxidised
Before the hour comes round.*
She lies in all her beauty,
Clear alabaster skin,
Green eyes stare to infinity
No heart, that beats, within.
Her searching words offended
The holders of the grail,
Who reached across the globe
To wield their deadly flail.
**This Brave, New, evil World
With technology to do
The bidding of the acolytes
Who transgress borders through,
Of every creed and every man,
Across the planet vast
To violate, at will,
All human values of the past.**
Marshalg
Revelations in a Scorching Sauna
26/11/2011
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
Fall into an enormous jeopardy catastrophe hole,
seeking for a sacred love and some hopes,
its just too adamant to appease all,
the burdens but i’ll never fall,
as long as the faith saves me,
i’m giving my all.
Watching the ghastly sky in sight,
and the waves of the clouds seem fading,
the cloud manoeuvres gracefully as the wind blows,
and the thoughts of you emblaze my mind,
relinquish me idle helpless,
those ghastly cloud forever in sorrow.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Major Tom's a spaceman.
Wing walker.
Space suit.
Mr Fix it.
Out in space.
Station without passing trains.
No sign of tracks.
Earth is dashing.
Flying past.
A blast in space.
Not lost in space.
No flowers or orchestral manoeuvres.
Just dancing in the dark.
(c)LIVVI
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
Most hated places i hate to leave.
Very few in square meters a rectangular shaped
It has its own environment from a tungsten tomas made sun
Probably Tesla if they had not shaken hands on things
Cage for a man of my diameter
One of the hottest places on earth
Even under the rain,
Tesla ensures sweats
Yet, they are not felt
, And dancing manoeuvres are limited
The portal for all
To travel from bigbang to sven suns
To discharge all emotions
To refresh and recharge
And the witch doctor to all evil
Second to none
Prehabs to the berth which is all angel
Yet, this portal known to both evil and angel may be the most underrated places in universe..
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 3:44 AM UTC
O the rain yesterday
Miriam says
didn't it come down?
I thought once
in San Sabastian
all would be well
and then it poured
I sit next to her
in the camp cafe
others from the coach
were there
some looked fed up
with the weather
I know
the guide said to me
and the ex-army guy
there's your tent
down in the field
and it was pouring
down with rain
and we could hardly see
and the ex-army guy
says to me
what the heck
I thought
by coming here
I'd get away
from manoeuvres
what's he like?
she asks
he's ok I guess
I say
bet you wish
it was me
in your tent?
she says
be a bit crowded
three of us
not with him
just me and you
o sure
that'd go down
a bundle with him
and others
I say
but I like to think
it was possible
especially as
the ex-army guy
kept me awake
a good part
of the night
moaning about
his mother's
new boyfriend
and how he gets
on his nerves
and how the army
was once his life
anyway maybe later
we can
she says
I nod
and think of her
on the journey
down from Paris
on the coach
her next to me
the dim lights
on the coach
through the Parisian night
us kissing
and such
doing all right.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Plane flies miles high above us
Energy pushes it into manoeuvres
Nothing stationery about it
I see it turn, roll and zoom about
Stunning display of aerial prowess
I wish I was a pilot and flew like that
Not working in a stuffy boring job
The two percent get to fly in a jet
How they are the best of the best
Expensively trained Air Force pilots
Show boating in their F-18 fighter
Knowing they will soon be in trouble
Yes, they drew a huge airborne *****
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
We ascend,
depend on our own wit,
do it
and target the top.
Well that we know
the river runs deep, but
always flows to the sea.
Downstream
where the sharks eats the dream
where the jellyfish sting.
We yo-yo
go fast
end slow
up and down
and fancy manoeuvres,
favours for favours,
target the top until reaching
the full stop where
downstream is the dream
eaten by sharks.
Ascend,
and the top is the **** end,
elbow creek where the minnows seek some respite,
despite knowing this and yet not knowing at all
we fall and we fall.
I climb
and why not?
if I fail and I fall
do I fail when I fall?
and what does it mean
does it mean anything at all?
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Let Saharan
songbirds attempt
If I were Hemingway, I would regale you with Mediterranean love and war, peace and harmony and depression; watch sparrows flock and block the horizon with their spectral manoeuvres; if I were Hemingway I would **** the bull myself just to spend another shallow evening staring into the finest contours of your visage and finding beauty in every imperfection.
to spell
If I were Fioravanti, I would keep my trio of siblings out of the rain and let no one know of their existence, except for you, would you allow me to hold your hand on a baked beach or kiss the malignancy from your lips or point out your flaws in the hope of somehow persuading you that you could not possibly do any better than me, when, as we all know, I am the ogre to your princess.
your
If I were Schrödinger, I would have put nothing inside the box and established that our perceptions are meaningless without the foreknowledge of earlier parameters; that were I to tell you that nothing existed within the box and you opened it, finding nothing, would that prove me right or prove to you that I take reality too seriously?
name with
If I were Plath, I would have written the name of a ghost using the blood of the miscarriage; the ghost of you haunting the dying hallways of my imperialistic mind, the ghost of you creaking on the rickety floorboards of the basement in my head, shuffling with empowerment as you frighten me to believe in the sempiternal illogical.
the finest
of
If I were Doolittle, I would uncover that song's measure and attach your name in soporifics betwixt the lines of Pound and the tantalising folds within the amerciable sapphic relations that only experience and true appreciation of the human body could ever prescribe.
detail.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Mr Oji looks disturbed yet at the wheel,
Now that the month is dying for real, He manoeuvres around with bills,
Bold as he demands the arrears of the deal
Emmanuel come see him,
Come along with the entire team,
You will be sceptic about the scheme,
Scheme to make our eyes deem,
See Oji cleans the compound,
So satirical how he hoovers around,
Don't you think he Is broke and no more pound,
That he badly misses the coins sound?
I just eavesdropped,
Heard him tell Kevo that he once knocked,
His tenant to death as others watched,
His tact to fast track payments is surely crooked.
No alcohol in his breath for sure,
The atmosphere is so pure,
His usually fierce tone seems to have got a cure,
And this are signs that his coins are now fewer.
We better call at his door ,
All of us at once especially at four,
We precipitate our challenges to this bro,
No pay unless he improves we vow.
Let's remind this drunkard,
That His days are numbered,
That the narrative have been pondered,
And the hare this time is not to be spared.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 2:20 PM UTC