"overseen" poems
Kudos to Kaepernick.
I just cannot drown all my beliefs and ideas, even if it contradicts my flesh and soul. When I heard that not standing up to the tune; that has always succeeded on sweeping all of the messes underneath the sad reality, to be deemed as subversive, I know that Rosa would definitely clench onto the seat tighter than ever.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
To drag our body out there, all over the precious hills and fields, while acting as if the scale has always been set fairly beneath you all this time, will hurt you more than myself. How can a mere matter of things decide our future, our destiny? We shall shape our fate, you shall shape your own fate, and to be judged on the perception biasedly built in the name of order for thousands of years, is a situation that should not be endured by anyone or anything in a tiny dot within this vast universe.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
And for that, I cannot stand proudly and profess my love to you as of now, even though I will always wear my heart on my sleeve for you to see. To be cheated, to be manipulated, to be deemed as surplus, by those at the tip of the plateau, that cunningly asked us to forget all the tangles and wrangles for the love of this sacred land, while unashamedly distribute everything off the land, off the ocean amongst them, is the last thing that we should allow to happen. I am one of those people that are not able to put on the mask on top of our meant-to-be honest faces, to say hail to the thief is worse than the eternal grief. I have never dreamed of burying the hatchet with them, not even for a second and if I ever do it, I shall be condemned and dismissed for forgetting the roots, the fons et origo of mine. To love you does not mean to stand still to the soulless melodies, to love you does not mean to bow down to the meaningless piece of cloth that has overseen countless infiltration and bombing over the years.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
To love you is to fight for the rights of many, by any means, even by not standing up. When black is no longer the symbol of miserable, filth and calamity, we shall then breath with ease, stand on our feet and fully embrace the real meaning behind all those majestic words.
Kudos to Kaepernick.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
All present in the stream of time,
Connected they build a line, a river which flows uninterruptedly,
The here and now, is the future of a pasts dream, a wonderous reality,
It is the futures past, the memories recorded within the depths of it
Gravity distorts time, causing it to slow down till it's stopping point lensed from a black hole, lurking within shadows of remorse in space,
Fished out from the sea of passing events, it keeps flowing, but now it does so while not including the fallen one who embraced a blackhole,
Time only knows one path, straight ahead with no slips and turns,
The present is the pasts future and what was thought to be possible,
It is the little wealth every living being possesses yet it is overseen and forgotten, until the moment of ones death drives gladly near,
From the womb to the tomb, drowning within the waves of a temporal lengh, the event of an entity's existence and its period.
A pace for an allotment, given from the complaints of an worldly life,
Spend it well, unlike the spring we cannot turn the tide, recycle again!
But for that matter the world of dreams holds a sweet embrace to all,
After all, you don't need to die in a dream.
~ Umi
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
With nails in hand,
As sharp as knifes, reflecting the dim light of a lamp from the ceiling.
A thought rushing through my head, no actions follow.
Hollow, is the lamp which is about to go out soon enough
Hollow, it is when no body is around and when people gather.
It doesn't matter, not its surroundings, not its use, it remains the same
Without ever changing, wether shining or not it is hollow.
Nails, as sharp as little knifes, could pierce through it carelessly
It wouldn't matter, it would remain the same, it would be hollow.
The difference, relies in the possibility of it not being able to shine
Shine out the light, which people are desiring to have in this room.
It simply would be thrown away, replaced and forgotten.
And it wouldn't be questioned, what the nail had done it for.
Overseen, the lamp remains the same after all.
Hollow
~ Umi
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
I have a friend in north Wales
She's a scouser but lives in Rhyl
Her job is taking care of young adults
Who have learning dificulties
They live in hostels where they are overseen
By my friend and her colleagues
So, another friend of our's rang her at work
And asked if she was busy
She said that she wasn't as they were all out
So and so had gone shopping with so and so
Someone else had gone here
Another had gone there
And one had gone to the harpoonist
As usual, for lessons
From a harpoonist?
Yeah, you know
Someone who plays harp
By Phil Roberts
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
The beginning of the end.
A sandstorm made a huge 400 floor library sink beneath the sand.
At times a tall tower can be seen sticking out of the sand.
There are wolfs bringing information from across the land.
The library overseen by a spirit of an owl.
Many have tried to find the library but they threw in the towel.
The library has a huge ancient observatory.
A huge telescope looking at the stars tells a story.
There are parts of the library that has been untouched for a century.
There is an extremely huge card catalogue.
It even owns books from ancient babylon.
The library has various gateways.
The bookshelves looks like endless hallways.
There are parts that are inaccessible.
The libraries knowledge is unsurpassable.
A huge staircase that is broken.
The timepiece on the wall is broken.
A Lot of travellers got lost.
The library is filled with snow, sand, moss and the one room is filled with a forest.
The library is full but it still has a lot of storage.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
Would you rather the majestic pure white polar bear had a home in this world or that Paul Ryan took a slow, slow boat
to China & then turned around & came back, & then again,
& again?
... the humble Praying Mantis was able to bask in the sunshine
on a leaf of its choosing or that Trump was locked away for
70 years in a dank & dismal people's cell?
... all the bees, & all the dainty flying creatures could buzz here & there as was their want or that Mitch 'Gruesome' McConnell was marooned forever on a distant deserted isle?
... the startling life-form that is coral could take its own sweet time covering rocks & outcrops & undersea crags or that Mike Pence quite suddenly & terminally lost his ability to function in any way whatsoever?
... the soon-to-be starved nomadic people, the soon-to-be flooded
coastal peoples & the soon-to-be parched farmers of India were to be given direct financial & physical assistance by expropriated & toiling Masters of Industry & sundry media lackeys?
... that the delicate flowers, the tall & mighty trees, the vital green, green grass could just a go on going on, & anyone, anyone at all who ticked that box declaring Climate Change a hoax be pitilessly overseen constructing vital networks of deep, deep canals, oh for the remainder of their natural life?
... Would you rather one less Republican politician or one less soaring & majestic wind-tumbling vulture?
... Would you rather ...
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
Yesterday was serene n playful,
But today it’s just about stress..
Yesterday was about a joy ful laughter on our chubby faces,
But today it’s about babbling all day..
Yesterday our ambition was to win every game next door,
But today it’s about loosing everything just to get the right one..
Yesterday every work was fearless n freaky ,
But today it's jittery behaviour for any n every work..
Yesterday it was a habit to be scoffed n loved together,
But today even a harsh word peers away in our heart n love is overseen..
Yesterday every moment was like having repose,
But today it's just about having bubble reputation at any cost..
Yesterday was about spending all day on our dad’s shoulder n mum’s lap,
But today it's just ’our’ room, ‘our’ bed, n ‘our’ lives..
Yesterday changes were cherished as souvenir of childhood,
But today few changes have actually changed us..
But in a deploring way….
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
(For the Words of LIFE have already been spoken tens of Times over through the Centuries)
I’d write,
spill out words,
letters binded and bond,
pasted to structure and form.
Language to engage and interact,
to mean and defy,
but this tongue of fingers,
lips of print and digital paper
have laser printed the world out upon the glitter of the screen.
Whispered to sing
and shriek sonnets of the reality I’m chuckling within,
presence surrounding.
I’ve spent shadowed years to form my personalized blue prints,
the architecture of the emotions and logics,
the laws to routines I’ve overseen.
I’ve grasped reality and found a serene among terror and sadness,
wretched and blurred.
Obviously I can contain contentnous when I’m so lavished,
family surrounding,
medium wealth cloaked about me,
but it only gives me even more reason to convey calm,
control, and content.
I’ve bathed among aloneness to puzzle about in confuse and wonder,
figuring to form a philosophy.
There is nothing left to pass against the parched flesh of my lips,
for the universe has already grasped it within the wind.
Devoured my sense of self and awareness,
there’s little left to say when every significant philosophy and observation
I’ve known and could provide
I’ve already said
or has been said
for it is but a well known to sought after cliché or element of the living.
What’s left to speak when every thought feels as common knowledge.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 10:44 PM UTC
It was my first Cathedral,
Cavernous and nearly silent.
Dark enough that I closed,
My eyes giving them time
To adjust to the depths,
Of it's shadowed blackness.
Languid slanting rays
Of penetrating sunshine,
Alive with moving mists,
Of floating, rotating dust,
The only source of light.
The bittersweet scents,
Of venerable age mixed,
With fodder and animal waste,
Not at all unpleasant to sniff.
Leather tack hung on walls,
Awaiting the call to work.
Long delayed, and overlooked,
Replaced by mechanical steeds,
Wheels and blades of steel.
Neatly festooned wall hooks
Displaying wooden handled
Hard-worn steel hand tools,
Flecked with rust, chipped by use.
The choir was in the rafters,
Pigeons’ and Doves
Cooing Heavenly Hymns.
Occasionally the murmur of,
Feathers flapping on high,
Like the sounds,
Of Angels wings.
I climbed the ladder,
Into the Loft up high,
Followed by a friendly,
Old one eyed Barn Cat,
I recall his name was Cy.
Old Cy who knew,
All the good places,
To explore and secretly hide.
And too, where tasty rodents
Were found in heavenly,
bountiful supply.
That lofty perch,
Among the penetrating
slanting rays of sunlight
Inspired a fathomless hush
of contemplation and inner bliss,
I'd never known before, or since.
We sat silent for many minutes,
In a state of transfixed repose,
Old Cy and I, speaking not a word.
We crawled among stacked bales,
Of fragrant fresh cut hay,
Like a lofty Fortress built for us,
Playing and imagining,
Endless flights of fantasy,
Long into the eve of day.
Yes, my Grandfather’s
Old wooden Barn,
Was indeed a magical,
Reverent and sacred place,
As any formal denominational
house, of any faith can be.
If ever, I truly felt,
The presence of Holy Grace
Surely it was within,
That impressionable
all inspiring place.
Even fleeing memories
of a long ago small boy,
Have not diminished,
That big Cathedral's
Prevailing, exalted space.
Spiritually overseen by,
An old, feline, one-eyed
clergyman named Cy.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
She loses herself within the pages that he writes
Never knew life could be so bitter through someone else’s eyes
Stabbing you in the back, but what’s the plan of attack
Just to be watching from a distance, the disturbance that you lack
Motionless stuttering aimlessly to the ground
Overwhelmed by the filth that nurtures and surrounds
Your dream-like disorder
Learning as you get older
Not to shake hands with the strangers whose immaturity seems shorter
Nocturnal
And breathe before the anxiety sets in
Don’t stop just because the direction you’re following could bleed sin
It’s the flow
Of the fluid
To let be
And swim through it
So let’s just smile as the rain hits and keep this ship in movement
No creo
En vivo para su asilo
Ven conmigo
Dynasty dwells on the richer man’s lawn
As she chooses her words carefully
Lips like the pawn
Of the black and white lifestyle
She nods as she sits while
The pulse that once harbored takes its turn to stand trial
Anointed, at last
The shock theory stood chance
But tell me how many licks does it take for you to understand
You’re ignoring too much hurt
The beauty of disturbed
Until god whispered in your ear
The pain fled dispersed
And at first with unreasonable doubt
It felt good to feel new
Empowered by the strength and the wisdom that it grew
Overseen by the temperament
Not knowing where December went
And all I saw within the darkness was a reflection of you
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
Uptown.
Because you can't ever feel down
Up
Town.
Lights swirling around
and exotic colors become all
at once
neon bright.
Searing your eyes enough to give everything
that dim cloud whirling around it
like an oversized trench coat.
But this is all overseen
and somewhat out of place
by the people in
fur coats.
And ladies who hold silken scarves
over their oddly high placed noses
as they pass my friend's cigarette smoke
just before they enter the "hip" Latin restaurant
to prove they're cultured.
And even though I laugh,
and give my friend a knowing smile,
I hear them over the crowd
incorrectly pronounce
the phrase "dos cervezas",
and can't stop the cringe that appears on my face.
My friend walks away as if nothing is wrong,
truth be told, there shouldn't be.
We both know how this works.
Who gets upset about a heritage they don't advertise?
We have all
but bleached our skin
(because anything that isn't white is in)
We want out.
Because exotic
animals
are often admired
(as they are worn around the shoulders).
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
For a brief moment
with a pen in hand
I become god
If I choose it to be so
you’d all bend to my wim,
with every pen stroke I’ll
make brush stokes that
forge fields of dreams
that are overseen by
boundless galaxies riddled
full of stars that never
got their wishes of being wished upon,
the moon in all it’s heavenly bound glory
would set depthless ocean tops ablaze
with its luminescence and all of the beings
I create would live on the earth as if they realized
this is the only one they’ll get.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
In my Dreams I see scenes I haven't experienced, I remember what I so wish to live & I miss nonexistent times.
My soul is now nourished by a mature heart, my actions overseen by a mind that lacks a bad intention, & my being aches for something which for there is a distant line.
As I sleep I see her & I miss her. My dear friend, I one day fell lost into the moon light gleaming on your face & stood ardently found in your chestnut eyes.
When I hold your hand I can feel my chest in your palm, as your breathe calms my heart races, & I feel the pain you carry from your past, & my eyes bathe in your cries.
You said you were scared to lose me, & just when I thought we couldn't be anymore similar I learned we share a common fear.
Friend or Lover, In the flesh or spiritually, your presence, your aura is one my being requests daily for emotional nutrition & no premise will ever exist to keep me from being here.
When I laugh with you my troubles become silent, my worries are the softest of whispers & my joys howl ferociously a pleasure that demands to be heard & one so true.
The day I stared into your eyes under wonderland painted concert lights in a moment to be cherished I felt myself die Only to be reborn, only to tell God I couldn't stay, that I had to come back, come back for you.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
The touch, it makes me weak it makes me strong
makes me feel that I belong
when I reach
and become enthroned under your arm
I belong
to the skin and not the deceitful lies
to the nature that is mine
those evil ugly spies
that despise
my internal
eternal
purity
there's a body pressing inside of me
holding me
from wriggling free
and when my guilelessness breaks from it's digging piano wires
and I lay
my desire to be touched
on your skin
theres a small opportunity
though
I'm mute
each tear length finger tenderly on the edge of your consciousness
touching like pen to paper
of my inner fears, hopes, disposure
and even so gingerly
I know
I know you feel me
and its depth
it's radiating heat
before I come
I'm a child with my cheeks pressed to a screen door
I move as though my body should ******* like dried mud
as though my yoke is exposed
but surprisingly
I've the hunch to know
that you feel my heaviness
to know the weightlessness I feel
in my soul
you reach with your minds eye around its negative space
and feel its sorrow
though it needn't be real any longer
because the lies are fake
you move like a ghost in my soul
through the layers of my existence
until you reach my blinding light
that smiles with blinding stars
and cries with pools of joy in every corner of my face
in spite of the darkness that tries to influence us
influence as it may, to block me
I know you see me
because it permits me to breathe
loosen the strings of this
of the injuries
of this mask
of what it has taught me
digging raw behind my ears
through the experiences
that cant do more than to try to contain me
the person, the essence, I adore above all else
When this cast is cracked
my lithe body
my bones tumble out
like a newborn animal
exhausted
into a tender pool, locked lovingly around your body
with your will
and its silent attentions
I'm safe to empty
to heave the waters of my deepest
perpetuating well
with agonizing throbs of pain in my arms
to feel the weight
live the weight
to finally know it's release
If I desired, or I so choose
I could flood the very color from my eyes
I can do this very thing
You must know the feeling
behind my face
when I lunge the gallons from my linen canvass
Thank you
for this safe place from the world and its composing times, overseen by your perceptive silence and compassionate lovely gaze
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
There are scores of characters seen
from the third story window.
They litter the walks:
step after invisible step, past imperfections in the damp cement.
I wish I had their consent,
to interrupt their set,
to interject:
curiously, coolly, calmly,
to tear every costume to shreds,
to mend the script that's been
written on every bathroom wall,
every dorm room hall,
and in monopolized letters to all.
It wages on and on
like some cranking machine overseen by fashionable businessmen
and their thirsty paper money hearts.
But, there are times
when the walks are vacant and lonely
and the set is silent,
no acting for an hour or two.
They're getting their makeup done,
practicing their lines,
and warming their jaw muscles
for the next play of the day.
There are scores of characters seen
from the third story window.
Littering the walks,
and putting on plays.
All for my afternoon rest.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
You said you know the tales of cities,
traveled through each, big and small,
You've roamed the streets, felt the rush
and acquired a taste for it all
But the one you've overseen the most,
the one with history in its veins,
riddled with ancient relics and goods,
has a tale you have not obtained
Your efforts to expose this minute metropolis
to the doors inside of your mind
have failed thus far in your journey
because you've locked the key inside
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
Another day ending by waking up to another empty pillow
A coffee break for two and a carriage ride for one
Bad lyrics to sum up a life, or not a life at all
It's not me
Who's he? Who's she?
Mysteries the Hardy Boys won’t touch
When Mary Jane is the best lawyer out there
I'm in court for the ****** of a young woman
Found guilty; life without parole
It's better that way anyway
I can't go after myself anymore
There's tape over my ears to silence the words around me
Clown smiles painted across the town now
I'm panicking Indian style of the side of the road
Waiting for someone to throw candy my way
Fortunately, I'm overseen
A walk home, alone, empty handed
But happy
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Clumsy creator
scribbling whimsical impulses
silently crying with desire for bliss;
the one-sided dream of popularity.
Such history
angst protrudes
endless words repetitive
for all shades to a single
melancholic emotion.
Comfort comes from discomfort
past and present.
His tales err
each day a page
littered with blemishes,
the next forever blank
until written so.
Don't dwell too long
correction's left to
what the future promises;
more room to fill
than a page growing
ever so occupied,
worry growing rapid
like a child to a parent.
Despair
long the struggle
you must overcome.
The weather for any path we take
realized by our mind's forecast
our eyes the screen we sense.
Solace may come
when rain falls heavy
yet the sun shines
promising growth with
the earth long overseen;
beauty cannot forever cling to
nights and overcast days
while light permanently contrasts
So please
embrace balance.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
What happened to the cannon fire
And to the guns with bayonets?
What happened to the cavalry
And to the soldiers with straight backs?
What happened to the officer
Who had overseen their training?
What happened to the drummer boy
Who kept the troops marching steady?
The cannons changed into grenades
And guns became automatic.
Horses were traded in for tanks
And our soldiers came home a wreck.
The officer is dead and gone
Replaced by a carbon copy.
And what use is music to them?
All they can hear are hearts pounding.
War has changed in so many ways
But there are some things I still know:
Glory was never an aspect
Of it and neither was honor.
Instead war is comprised of blood,
Tears, fallen comrades and lost years.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Spring Spring, makes me sing
Sing song sun shining down my face
Face this place, this beautiful world
Worldly treasures lie naked in nature
Naturally over looked
Overseen
Underrated
Underappreciated
Spring Spring, what a glorious ring
Ring ding **** of the church bell song
Sing, sing for me my spr ing
The birdies of life
Hidden, not to be seen
Spring, Spring your ring!
Oh you beautiful thing,
Spring!
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
The templars took the cross
and made it a religion rose
a psychological overseen dome
of acquiesce and admiration
What if there weren't any slaves?
only mercenaries who craved
for power and a subservience rave
across the vast seas and distances
We trace the Omlec race in Americans
way before Colombus leaped his strides
as they left scented archeological remnants
of basalt and granite sculptured rights
The templars took the cross
and created glorified corded bonds
aesthetically covered with an overseer
of utter deceit and embellished conmanship
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
Honour
They have used me and I have served.
How could I not?
They made me what I am.
A servant to their cause.
I’ve seen Queens crowned.
Threats of invasion from afar.
Overseen their communications.
Remained steadfast
As a good subject does.
I serve Queen and country.
I provide shelter for the ******
And light for her successors.
I trembled as planes flew above
And celebrated as they flew no more.
I’ve watched from afar, as the great playwright worked,
As theories and principles that would shape the world
Were committed to paper for forever more.
I’ve seen evil and good, hatred and love
Entangled in their eternal battle
From high above.
And as I waned, as I began to fall
Like all the Queen’s servants must do
Even those that had once stood so tall
Above it all, yet never apart
I can fade happy knowing this oak has honoured thy ******
Goodbye London, my one true love.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC