"oversee" poems
Go on with haste and fly through this undawning memory of love,
What is the moon looking up at, perhaps a dance of pulsar stars ?
What is the sun looking down at, perhaps the life growing from light?
An eternal sinner wanders under their light, with no aim, no goal,
All he carries shall be the pride in his heart, with undying love burning as bright as a hyper nova in the nearby young nightsky,
Lingering sadness seeps it's way through, to the surface of the moon, forever to be bound in an orbit, overshadowed, shining in lesser light,
Yet does it oversee, what beauty it brings to the night, or what it would be if darkness reigned supreme without it and the stars to rise?
Enlighting the darkest of nights for us, forgotten it keeps up his duty,
For maybe, even if just one is touched by his luminosity it would be enough to keep going, until the time comes to greet the break of dawn
The milkyway alike a river of stars, each with their own story to tell,
Stars stand with their secret hidden, an orbital parent to many planets
The sky is the eternity in a land of pure fantasy and hope after all,
A dream which knows no death till its termination draws near,
But isn't waking up the commencement of something far greater ?
~ Umi
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 12:07 PM UTC
A world, hidden in a lover's eye—
Outsiders ought not to oversee.
It's where anything can come by,
Where ordinary would be a beauty.
Yes, dear reader,
It's the lover's eyes,
A realm much deeper,
Where all the magic lies.
Don't turn away,
Don't shun the flame
Let it softly stay—
It's love, not shame.
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 8:12 AM UTC
I think that I might fly away, in my hot air balloon,
And hide from worldly worries on the dark side of the moon;
There’s but one thing I need before I float into the blue:
I need a sky companion and I want it to be you.
We’ll fly beyond the storm clouds and we’ll watch from up above,
I’ll cover you in rainbows as we feel each others’ love;
You’ll shower in the stars at midnight in our special place,
I’ll dry you with a comet’s tail and kiss your beaming face.
Dreamy drifting panorama, changing every day,
Every night your loving smile will be my milky way,
The moon will wane before us, sailing there in heaven’s height,
For nothing else can challenge our love’s everlasting light.
Venus shining on us, glowing soft at our devotion,
Our daily drifting dalliance in love’s celestial ocean,
I’ll write you lovers’ poetry, and you will be my muse,
Orion and Andromeda will oversee our cruise.
We’ll sleep with clouds as pillows, maybe steal an angel’s wings,
Then fly as magic lovebirds, or slide round Saturn’s rings,
And should we tire of drifting and the stars all floating by,
We’ll hook onto a meteor and soar across the sky.
Will you consent to be my mate on our celestial ship?
I’m ready, heart all packed with love, to last us for the trip,
Take my hand and step aboard, we’re heading for the sun,
We’re flying till we find the place where our two souls are one.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:36 PM UTC
Everywhere, clocks and gears oversee
The passing storms that time their paces.
The leap between air and faces
Is more imagined than shown.
Forever lost among the few
Are trails, leaves, and traces.
Given up on chases-
I'd rather be alone.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
Gazing into the bright dome of the sky
Through veils and drifting continents of cloud
Suspended lost dimensions travel by
I hear the universe dreaming aloud.
Infinity reflected in a lake
Deep mirror to the heavens far above,
Where reeling kestrels fly for flying's sake
Where breezes sigh like whispered words of love
Love lead me to infinities of blue
With endless depths of cloudscapes on all sides
To ride with kestrels; oversee the view
Which hitherto I'd seen with earthbound eyes.
For always with us, high above the crowds,
They glide; shape-shifting monuments of clouds.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:22 PM UTC
Welcome to your execution
You will not be exonerated
Your rights will not be debated
In this secret prison
This bay of pigs
But it’s not the pigs imprisoned
Corporate sponsored terrorism
Government created schism
Between the illusion of rights
And the truth
There will be no repeals
And when we are ready
Secret tribunals with no oversight
Will oversee your execution
Or worse your lifetime imprisonment
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away
A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way
Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.
Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away
A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.
A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.
Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way
Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Thank you.
Thank you for carrying me,
against the wind, the jagged rocks and tainted floorboards.
Thank you for enduring,
the pain, the burden, and heat.
In sadness and in grief,
I torture you, standing, waiting, depleting you of your vitality.
In happiness,
I dance, prance, shake, and run,
I oversee your longevity, as you harden to sustain
my happiness.
All that's left,
is an impression, an imprint in the sand that trails behind.
Effete and tired,
I thank you, my feet,
for carrying me through it all.
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 2:51 PM UTC
Restless in bed, the stir of warmth blossoming in his heart,
the girl he loved has gone,
drifted from his house to the field of vacant stares.
Rainstorms brew in his mind, shifting from one end to the other,
the current forming into a large sheet of distance damp with disconnection.
He thinks of fire. As he rolls out of bed.
Grabbing a cigarette from his ashtray,
he lights up. Old habits stay kept in the roof of his mouth. Fresh air
permeates through his nostrils as he steps out onto the front porch.
He props his elbows on the balustrade,
brushes against the grainy wood
tarnished from the skywater.
The sun droops below the gray cluster of clouds
hanging over a horizon colored with blues, reds, and yellows.
While he smokes on his cigarette he remembers the girl. Her name is a
wrinkled photograph stored in a dusty shoe box.
She has green eyes and curly red hair.
Her body is shaped in an hourglass figure.
She's tall and gaunt, but her
legs are toned from running several miles on her treadmill
each morning before the dark slips away into the fog of light.
He grounds the cigarette out on the porch. He steps onto the driveway. There's a red
Honda CRV parked across from the two-car garage.
He hops in. The key turns.
Booming engine roars out loud.
The wheels churn backwards. He pulls out of the
cul-de-sac. And he drives, drives,
until he can remember the road map, the one
that she stole from him to follow her dreams, and hopes, the aspirations that he had
once shared with her. A thin, white film of mist
belays across the windshield.
And for a short second he wishes that he were dead.
Dead so that he could have the
perspective of an omniscient narrator to oversee everything, and everyone.
But where is his girl? She's not the one who got away,
she's the one who abandoned him, the
night after he ate the sweet nectar,
the fruit, little drops of dew splashing onto the back of his tongue.
The red Honda CR-V careens down the interstate, windows down, subwoofers pumping
with something similar to apprehension,
tense with overwrought poems.
The substance lacking from trying too hard,
for something that wants nothing to do with him.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Looking at the heart wrenching image,
Moved my whole being to tears,
Laying lifeless, bloodied,
Entry wood to her temple;
The husband craddling her head,
Tearfully looking down,
At the love of his life,
Never again to cheer his home;
She left the home that morning,
To oversee elections,
To serve her fatherland,
To contribute her own quota;
But all she got,
Was a bullet to her head,
The robbing of her life,
Abrupt end to an unfolding story;
Two children have lost their mother,
Parents have lost their daughter,
Sibblings have lost their kin,
And a husband his confidant;
Would she like many others,
Be a little statistic,
Some unfortunate incident,
Lost to unending callousness?
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC
I shalt not fall in love with the hand of one god
For many oversee my world.
Nor listen to the lies that dance off your tongue
In a way so distant and curled.
See I live in a way so peaceful and kind
As these spirits around me say.
For seeing through the eyes of one powerful man
Is like selling my soul to the grave.
Your love-
Your captain-
Your savior of beast-
Although whoever betrays him is of ways-
Of crafts and horrid slurs to keep
Me locked in with devilish dismays.
The fate that lies if I do not drift
In love with the hand of your kind.
Of a man that promises all and hell
If I don't sync with the ways of his mind.
So go on and tell me the ways I should see
Although I feel it deep in my heart.
For if I succumb to the ways of your world
My life will diminish and fall apart.
Surrender my soul for one who sees all as sin?
I'd rather vanish into the depths-
Of whirl winds and tragic mystics that spin
Down the treacherous dismays of man.
So go on and tell me the things I should feel
Just because you were brought up that way.
For it doesn't mean I shall appeal to his eyes
For mine turned opaquely to grey.
If hell is what I'm given for my love
Of many spirits and gods-
Then let this reign of "darkness" devoir
My body-
My heart-
And my mind.
Alysia Marie 2015 ©
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
*Oh look,
Dusty memory built on dusty memory,
Let's blow the dirt away,
Give the old generator a massive*
KICK
*Oh look,
Let's oversee the images of happy children,
Ice-cream vans out to play,
And skip on over to the start*
QUICK
*Oh look,
Clown phobias and fear of frowning faces,
A teenage hand gripping teenage hand,
In case of imminent circus death,
Also, look here,*
**DON'T GO ANY FURTHER.
NOT WORTH THE PAIN.**
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”
I prefer “scatological reveries.”
Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.
These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
**[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]**
Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.
I hope [they have popcorn on hand.]
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
The way that I know, you're knowing me.
Was the older me.
That old is over, see.
There's a few mistakes god needs to oversee.
I’ve done such bogus things.
I repent in the words of my poetry.
Refocusing.
The direction of a reflected
soulless me.
Misguided and couldn't hide it,
I wasn't fighting,
the vices holding me,
back
and whats sad is that these manic laughs,
as ecstatic as they come,
stem from the fact
that I'm feeling like crap
sad sap, too fast to play dumb
sad-sack ,
trapped rat
thats numb to the things that once would make me run.
Rock bottoms not a problem for my partna
who’s drug drama and habits are this fun.
These rhymes that I've designed inside my witty mind
redefine what is brand new.
The reflection of perfection,
the best is my profession,
and the rest belongs to you.
The professors teaching lessons,
of transgression in repressive,
unimpressive
back road routes
perspective is subjective but
effective in selection
and reflection of the truth.
Truth.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
The lone man ventures the path to the unknown,
and to the unknown he went alone…
From there, he trekked the shadowed Valley of Death,
where bleakness was raw within, and
it swarms lost souls of their own mischiefs and miseries…
There, nothingness spawned.
Time does not exist, but nothing is absolute.
Plains and jagged paths, all but nothing to last.
He stood there in the crossroad,
where the absolute was over the horizon of
impossibilities and possibilities…
No Sages to come and see, no Forseer to oversee.
Nothing.
Without heed nor light, he strode towards the dead of the night.
The Lone Man walks along the crooked road…
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC
1
it’s graduation day
and the teacher gives awards
to each :
a book to one
a staff to another
silk or precious stones;
and to Nasrudin
the teacher
gives a donkey
2
It is some years
and the teacher
hears of Nasrudin’s fame
and comes to visit
the House of Prayer Nasrudin oversees
and to pay homage to the Saint
buried just beside
3
O Nasrudin,
says the teacher -
*how great your fame
and vast your following
Tell me, which Eminent Saint
is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?*
O Master,
says Nasrudin
*It’s the donkey
you gave me
It died just 4 years after
and I buried him here
And everyone wants a Saint
so I have not disabused people
of their faith*
4
The teacher nods with a smile
and Nasrudin continues:
*But tell me Master –
which Eminent Saint is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?*
Ah, Nasrudin, says the teacher
*though people believe it’s a Saint
it’s really your dead donkey’s mother*
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 4:31 AM UTC
Cure me
Of this plague
That’s snaking around my throat
Allow me to tiptoe
To avoid confrontation
Social humiliation
I would speak if I could only say the words
Cure me
Of the echoing dull in my heart
A dying buzz
A cycle of depression
Undecipherable ****** expressions
Stunting my progression
I would sing if I didn’t care who heard
The vines circling my feet
Threatening to tighten
Forever clutching
Me in its embrace
I need you
You say you know me
Maybe I don’t want you to
The biggest lie, can’t you see?
Because I don’t even understand me
I hide behind poetry
I would pray to a God, if I were sure
Sure that this world kept its promises
Every inhale a burning desire
Reverberating thoughts clouding
Polluting my mind
Exhale
This isn’t a plea
But I am trying to oversee
But this love I feel for you
Isn’t meant for just one,
It needs two
This legacy of pain
Scorching my veins
Spreading the plague
A world filled of vague
Cure me
Before it spreads
To you
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Summer sun surrounds us.
Those icy biting winds are long forgotten.
We’re smothered by sultry, moisture-laden air.
A cooling breeze
Cuts through the verdant smell of fresh-mown grass.
The kids are playing:
Shouting loud.
Flock birds twitter,
What a crowd!
Those early mists give way to sun,
And wispy high-clouds stain the blue.
A happy sky to oversee our fun,
With sun to highlight every hue.
The Summer Solstice has been and gone
And nights will soon be getting long.
But it’s still hot I hear you say,
Who cares if thunder’s on the way.
We pay for sun with thunderstorms:
In Britain the weather soon transforms.
Yet now it’s time to cease the day;
I’d better send you on your way.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
A false accusation
Leads to a truth,
And a breakdown;
A realization
A growing issue;
A breakthrough.
I see you as a virtue;
Limitless we argue
You hold belief in divine right
Even as I rule your day, like light
Calm you down, like night
Oversee your thoughts; I am your sight
You are the exception
The flaw to my opinion
A breech of my dominion
You are the devil’s minion
You’re the catchy hook in every song
The heat that makes a summer night so long
The passion that makes love feel wrong
You’re the motive that makes a liar strong
A fear in all my dreams
A decibel in all my screams
Turn my tears to streams
Collapse my walls to broken beams
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 11:28 PM UTC
Water bottle and a candle sitting in the dark,
the room filled with heat,
so much energy vibrating in and out,
what is it that helps me stay focused.
The night is not as bright as a full moon would be,
but you can hear some kind of gloom.
Is it only because I only look at the negative things,
because all I think about are these stupid flings.
I can live life with no strings,
attached to my mind and just act like kings!
I should just stretch my wings, and fly maybe until I get to the Colorado Springs.
Does it really matter?
Because what im concerned with is being happy,
I shouldn't get mad if there is a challenge cause that just means I get to be a bit scrappy,
This is no reason to get all ******
and make myself and the others around me unhappy.
I lived and I learned,
Sometimes in life you just have to be;
And not worry about how to get free,
No matter how bad you think you need to flee.
Because you learn that nothing is a guarantee,
So even if it feels like your emotions are falling out of your heart like a planed that crash and left debris,
Everywhere so everyone can just plainly see,
who cares just let it all oversee, that there is nothing **** wrong with being ARTSY.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
It's funny how you're no longer attractive to me
because my week with you was laced with an ennui
that I could not foresee
and was forced to oversee
your drug-induced reveree.
It's funny because you think you're a player,
but you've got only one layer,
which acts as a disclaimer
to your vacant container
of empty and witless charm.
You seem to ooze smarm
to those who haven't been darned
with knowing the feel of your arm
in their, and you always seem lost
and somehow aloft
but I think that's just because of your recent list
for a drug that breeds mistrust.
I'm not saying you can't get high,
or that I don't have the supply,
but I can't understand why
I could never verify
and ounce of sobriety in you
in the week we went through.
If this is a preview
of your future revenue,
I don't want this friendship to ensue.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
wings of birds were stolen by the gods, centuries ago
an earth's day lasts for 86, 400.002 seconds
children are roaming in the mind of these lines
they are counting, playfully and without feelings
days come and go, they float through our lives
i wrote about the stages of dreams and dreamt of an ********
the ruins of old poems are silver, blue and red
remains of a day's thoughts, decoded and clear, similarly
it is not wise to count seconds while you are breathing
it is not wise to count on people while they are leaving
it is strange to use "wise" in order to refer to cleverness
people of color may feel excluded by our languages
in german, "white" is called "weiß" and that sounds like "wise"
explain to me the origins of such a word, i demand it
before the river will have swallowed me; i demand an answer
poems come, poems go, leave a trace, stain – and a change
fools are flodding the streets in order to have a five o'clock tea
proudly, they are talking about their old heroes, bearded conquerors
these guys nevah really wanted to dig strangaz, dey killed 'em.
they killed unknown people, they stabbed my dreams
they murdered ancestors because they were used to murdering
they invented words without speaking but grinning
power is an invisible instrument that consists of hierarchies
power is what we see and oversee, power is the origin of wars
wars are the origin of despair; and that is nothing new
wars, though, may be invisible and silent, just in the mind
what is a war, does a war need bombs, guns and soldiers?
wars occur everywhere, daily, within 86, 400.002 seconds
the length of a day is measured in numbers; they are just inventions
numbers are man-made, animals orient on the sun and the moon
humans celebrate planets and write poems about them
we all will surive as long as we keep writing and tolerate each other
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 9:16 AM UTC
Your life’s story is haunting,
Filled with the worst memories imaginable
How can a soldier like you deal with the trauma?
The experience? The witness to the killings and suicide bombings?
You’re out there, fighting for what you believe in.
Not knowing if you’ll ever come back home,
Knowing if you’ll see your loved ones again.
All you do is hope for the best, stay on guard,
Gun fully loaded, waiting for an unexpected target to pass you by,
While you oversee others and step over land-mines.
You wish this was over with. Six months may not seem long.
But to you, it feels like you’ve been here forever.
You keep your head up, no matter the circumstances.
You can’t help but go crazy, in moments where
The enemy steps over the line without a glance,
You lose your mind, lose it so fast.
Pulling the trigger out of instinct,
You label yourself as a criminal,
Killing only being politically justified.
Your comrades say it’s out of defense,
While this may be true, the guilt hovers over you.
So tell me, soldier: How does it feel.
Fighting for a country you love,
Feeling remorse for carrying out the deed,
Receiving honors for a mass killing spree?
How have you kept up without shattering to tiny little pieces?
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC