"newscaster" poems
heart of the chaos
all the fantasy hovering around one central
superpower
gravitational generator
the one sober spot in all the performance
Pierrot's dressing room
pornography’s hangover
the blank stare of a newscaster
when the cameras start just a moment too early
the metallic ashes of Challenger
heart of the chaos
rotten teeth on an English Queen
sigh’s and cigarette’s
were had all around
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Driving down a small country road.
The year is 1946,
Brand new truck,
fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand,
My fingers intertwine with hers.
A spiderweb of emotions and flesh.
Golden engagement ring rubs against my knuckle.
The newscaster on the radio telling us about another day without a glimpse of humidity.
She turns the radio down to where the muffled voices are barely audible.
"I love you." She says, observing me from the passenger's seat.
I look ahead at the road still.
"I love you, too." It took me a second to think about her French accent.
Desiree, her name.
Flew over to America after Paris was bombed by the Germans.
I was the only person who took her for who she really is,
Wonderful.
Bombshells are strewn about,
Thames Riverside, England, 1943.
My leather war boots are poorly placed on top of a landmine.
Hospital beds are more comforting than a mothers hug.
"Sargent Jack, you're going home." The nurse says.
Off I went, that night I was sent back to Missouri.
I bought myself a new truck.
A 1946 ford.
Fresh off the line.
A warmth embraces my hand.
I look down,
Memories are slipping between my fingertips like blood from an open wound,
the wound being my mind,
not my head,
my mind.
Thoughts strewn about like bombshells.
Disorganized,
Written off,
Buried and left on the battlefield,
the corpse of my sanity awaits for nothing.
I'll never make it back.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
How they flutter
through the air, those feet;
like a butterfly’s wings;
though it is said
in Science
an action so small as the flick
of butterfly wings
may cause a catastrophic disaster
half-way round the world,
were the newscaster to announce today
that an earthquake
has pulverised Tokyo,
or that another tsunami
is invading the Indonesian coast,
or that, so long now quiescent,
Mount St. Helen’s is spouting down
once more
on Washington,
for their beauty,
I could not wish
the quelling of their flight;
could order
no net cast over them,
not those feet
like a butterfly’s wings.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, God **** it! My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell, 'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!'
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
If You have been sending
fires, floods, and mind boggling hurricanes
to get our attention -
This morning I watched a newscaster holding
a screaming baby she had just pulled from
what used to be his home and no one was
coming to get him--
You have my attention.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
i am four. i don't want to be a princess. i tell my mother i want to be an astronaut. as young as i am, i am already wanting to be with the constellations. i am eight. at this point, i have wanted to be many things. the weirdest: a bee keeper, after a field trip to some zoo. i stick, however, to consider being a teacher; to children, i hoped. specifically kindergarten. or maybe a football player?
i am ten. i have it all planned out. i'll be taking up Mass Communication in college and i'll work as an author, or a journalist. i consider being a newscaster. or a National Geographic photographer. i am fourteen. i do not want to be anything but dead. six feet under with my feet pointing the way the tulips grow.
and now... i guess i just miss how simple it all was. how i was so convinced i had my **** together. how there weren't entrance exams to worry about, or wrongly-chosen tracks and courses and electives to regret. because it gets harder to hold it together, gets harder to hope for the better, gets harder to love and live when there are galaxies upon galaxies calling out your name;
i want to be wide-eyed and four years old again; arms outstretched to the sky, the stars at the tips of my fingers. i want to be that little girl again. that little girl who was excited to get up in the morning and face what the universe had in store. that little girl who wasn't cynical for tomorrows she was not promised. that little girl who smiled bright in pictures, and actually meant it.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
I remember your naked body
like it was yesterday,
bending about your bedroom, quiet as
drifting rose petals stripped straight out
of a summer sunset sky.
I remember our naked bodies,
touching in discovery, swimming oceans
between ourselves we never fathomed
into existence; never questioned out of it.
For the first time, I felt at home—at sea.
Innocence no longer played part.
After the crescendo, I saw the clock beside
us on your nightstand. I used it as an excuse.
"I really should leave, it's getting late," knowing
full and well that she could see right through it,
right through me. I lept through the doorway,
sparing a look back, parting with my shame.
I got home and ate pizza with my family.
My mother and father chuckled about a newscaster.
My brother and I bickered about housework.
I went to my room after dinner and collapsed on my bed.
I wept as my eyes surrendered to darkness.
I am lost at sea—and so is she.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
and the planet bleeds from
a volcano of angst
and anger
refugees from the
black heart of fire
errupt on the scene
sending the ashes
skyward
in gouts
engulfing
Paris
like
Pompeii
wars errupt on the Main Streets
of Middle America
carrion for coyote
drug dealers
the PTSD
persuasion
has newly
vacant veteran's
tenement
bodies piling
like cordwood...
I hear the newscaster
announcing;
COULD WHAT HAPPENED IN
PARIS HAPPEN HERE?
WE ARE NOT PREPARED!
@ TEN!
duh.
in a country that
has forgotten its soul
we say goodbye to God
while Ol' Faithful waits...
soulsurvivor
11/19/2015
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
rural or urban
urban or rural
no matter who says it
it always sounds turrible
It came out all wrong
when joe biden tried it
tonight watching the news
our newscaster fried it
two little words
that everyone knows
say them together
your mouth sounds all froze
city or country
nor urban or rural
they both mean the same
But the second pair sounds turrible
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 7:43 AM UTC
If there's a God up there
he must be sleeping and
keeping the best bits
'til the last,
But there's a new Master,pumping
out verse on a second hand ghetto blaster,
I heard it at five from the
newscaster and the pastors are checking the terms of their contracts,the vicars have packed up and gone off to Butlins,saving some sins from the high church,Jehovah is perched on the bed post,hosting a party fresh in from the West coast,toasting the end of the East side,
I think the newscaster lied.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Killed on TV
The shooter got three
Newscaster's nightmare
Filmed in the stare
Wonders did he need?
Bullets made them bleed
Click Bang Bang
Oh, What a stain!!
Gone in a moment
Stop the commotion
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
*It was out of the blue.
Really why would he talk to me.
I am pleasantly plump.
size fourteen if I lie.
my hair is wild
and terminal frizzy.
he has a cut glass
English accent.
like a BBC newscaster.
I am from the Bronx.
we drank too much wine.
he took me home to my place.
I had to pay for the cab.
But it's not like paying for him
to...well...you know.
I could not walk the next morning.
he told me I was Beautiful and
the best time he had had in America.
me can you believe that.
He was a botanist from the UK
working on the nesting habits
of the speckle throated warbler
or something.
All I knew was he had ice blue eyes
a sweet accent and grey specks
in his blueness that made me
want to undress for him.
He was beautiful.
when he left in the morning
I gave him my number
on his phone.
call me I said.
but months went by.
not a word.
then when the morning
sickness came.
I realised he was still inside me.
The eclampsia came at seven months
I was hospitalised the doctors told me
I and the baby could die.
I went into a coma.
when. woke up my belly was flat
the baby I cried.
I opened my eyes and he was there.
holding my hand.
my baby I wept
they are fine Kelly
he said.
they?
you had twins a boy and a girl.
I looked up into his eyes
with the grey fleck's.
Micheal how?
I was sent back to the UK
I lost my job at the university.
I tried to call you
but no answer.
I came back on a visitors visa.
your neighbor told
me you were here.
six months later
we went for a Sunday evening
stroll in central park
it was fall the trees
were red and amber
leaves of gold
russeled under our feet.
new York was grey in fading light.
A city that hadwitnessed
many such love stories.
I looked at Micheal
his beautiful eyes
that held some kind
of optical aberration.
For they saw me as
worthy of his love.
He lifted the twins
over his head.
they laughed in delight.
I never seen anyone
as happy as him.
Unless you
count me in that is.
He said I love my family Kelly.
I whispered I love you Micheal.
Then at that moment
in the urban forrest of Cental park
on a vermillian autumn evening.
I felt him walk into
the door in my heart
that I left opened or him.
As he entered
I closed it quickly
so he could never leave.
locking it with the only key
that existed.
Then throwing it into the brambled
undergrowth of the woodlands
never to found again.*
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
here the sunshine patriot, bright and bleached –
they plucked the stars
to hang them from your chest. the rest are
gone, hidden by light pollution
and concrete skies.
your eyes reflect the blank face
of stopped clocks; steps from the car,
summer soldier.
but winter hides in
the cold metal of the trigger
a bang –
it echoes in fireworks, spatters the street with
blue white red red red.
the stutter of a gun,
or just a backfiring car?
sunshine man melts in a puddle of gaudy red,
the colour of sticky ice lollies
and patriotism.
here the newscaster, weeping tirelessly
for the camera.
“he was our country,” he says, and wasn’t he just?
back alleys and sunshine and
wanting to go back, wanting
to hide in the past.
and here the politicians, mourning loudly
into crisp white handkerchiefs. oh, how i wish we could
freeze time, draw grimaces in markers
on their painted faces
and watch them point fingers.
they use pretty words
heroic, or tragic
and pat their sweaty backs.
meanwhile,
sunshine man bleeds into the gutter
red white blue
the colour of freedom.
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
These wings are clipped
from memories past.
I was trying to fly,
when I should have been swimming.
There is no separation between a man and his words.
The radios blaring,
and the television’s blasting
The newscaster reads with such finesse,
the weatherman has such flair.
This is a show and we’re the audience.
To think you weren’t so special after all,
One in billions,
mommy and daddy’s voices playing inside your head,
an oncoming of dread.
I've gotta keep running a marathon so they don't catch up with me. Don't Stop. Keep Going.
These are the words that want to be said, this is their voice.
This is just a guy talking to himself.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
Who told you good artist are only see in television?
For they being so effinly good we didn't realize they are hiding in the screen name who we call "FRIEND",
Or some random people around us who other people mistakenly call "FRIEND".
They can act that they care,
They can be a newscaster who will talk behind your back,
They can make you cry,
They can be the Antagonist,
But a good girl in their story..
So be careful whom you call "FRIEND" .
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
When the newscaster, he preaches for a war abroad with drones,
And why battle-hardened soldiers must shoot children armed with stones,
They say "Genocide? apartheid? No!
These are strategic goals."
Remember that their wrong.
When you've waited four more years and now finally you can vote,
And you've leafed through manifestos that your favourite party wrote,
They're now in power, but you're just as powerless and broke.
It isn't you who's wrong.
The seas they are a-rising and the temperature's so high,
That the forests are a-blazing and we know precisely why,
Billionaires build bunkers, leave the rest of us to die.
Remember that they're wrong.
In distant mines and sweatshops our nation reaps rewards,
The wheels of commerce greased by blood of poor people abroad,
If you'd rather see their boats capsize than make it to our shores.
Remember that you're wrong.
In misery you've toiled and with anger you have burned,
For security and comfort and some meaning, you have yearned;
If all this has made you hopeless, then forget all you have learned!
The union makes us strong.
By now you are a skeptic of the ideology,
That says serfdom and consumption's all there is for you and me,
The hope that felt like weakness, now's a stark necessity
'Cos the union makes us strong.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 5:19 AM UTC
Newscaster spew out jargon,
well orchestrated.
Evening stars appear covered with hazy veil
from chem trails unseen cover.
Truth plastered
in newspaper and TV
for the sleeping is played regularly.
It is not called an idiot box for nothing.
Lies are fabricated,
wrapped in a fancy box labeled truth
for those handcuffed by
controlling monsters of greed.
They’re like vampires,
who prey on the innocent un-awaked ones.
Ones who buy into what is fed them like hungry cattle.
When will enough wake up to see, I wonder?
See that the many are kept in corrals of fear,
lack, and prejudice.
In states of numbness by our air and contaminated food.
Humans bleed everyday
with the paradoxes of lies that filter
every aspect of daily life, until cleansing is done.
Thankfully, more and more are being rounded up
to pay for the atrocities to Humanity.
More and more behind scenes
are standing at service to help
the sleeping transition
with minimum casualties.
Time to get out of the matrex
and question to realign with
the real truth.
Will you keep going with old programs,
or connect to truth and walk on new fields for freedom?
Which version of truth will you vibrate with in waking days?
Do you believe what your told?
OR what is the truth
of YOU being amazingly powerful, gifted,
and a manifesting human with Gods spark within?
(a Jesus in disguise)
Time to decide.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
Sometimes the whispers of the night
Are drowned out by the wailing of disaster
Hear the dolorous screams and smell the fright
Catch the story from the newscaster
All was lost aflamed
Lighting up the horizon
The devil left maimed
And a mother crying
An imbroglio of water and fire
Never seemed to placate
Home to only a smokey pyre
Left to vacate
A new sojourn
Hotel to hospital
A new adjourn
To suffer or a sacrificial angel
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC