"pinpoints" poems
Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
<>
**”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light
Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”**
~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)
<>
First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,
at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee
it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue
simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul
here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 4:05 AM UTC
In the moonlight, high in the Lemon Gum,
perched under the arching ghostly branches
two eyes of jet peer from a snow-white mask.
Tyto Alba, the Barn Owl, with heart shaped
****** disc, edged with ruff of stiff feathers.
Mottled pearl-grey body feathers above
the moth like plumage, purest white beneath
her slim legs are bare on the lower half,
with small feet that end with deadly talons.
Nocturnal, she roosts in the heat of day.
You will hear her screeching in the cold night
hear the scream before you ever see her.
She can see in the half light of humans
night vision even in total darkness
pinpoints her prey by listening to each sound
the desperate, scuttling little creatures make.
She is a well designed killing machine
with hooked beak, powerful feet and sharp claws.
Her flight feathers have softened edges
to make her deadly flight near soundless
She swoops silently down without warning
seizing victims with her claws, biting deep
into their neck arteries, puncturing
their most precious organs for a quick death.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
It's electric friction beneath the feet
Like stockcars locked on the inevitable path
Matching until meters burst
Exceeding the limit and flying off the track
With powerful pinpoints and frustrating fault lines
And the breaking of makeup on the skin most bold
It is a poker face across the way
And the frustrations of knowing that the crowd turns cold
Whenever you've failed to play perfectly within the fold
Tennis
Is the realization that you are IT, and all that which influences the bouncing ball
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
Who is the suiter, what they say?
flassless and pure as you are
Even a perfect cut diamond sure has needles and clouds as its born bigger
May not worthy for the museum collector
It has some value despite having major pinpoints and feathers
Rational thinking process is the only factor and matter
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
science claims
that your pupils dilate
when you look at someone
you love.
you told me
that you loved
how mine grew
when i looked at you.
but when i would look back
into your eyes,
i could only see
pinpoints.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Starlings fly in silver sky
Bullfinch in the dry grass sings,
Emerald teal in tandem fly
Explosively on phosphor wings.
Miracles are in the air
Golden sun in evening glow,
Marigolds of orange flair,
With lavender, in patchwork grow.
Sap is flowing in the wood
bursting buds of olive greens,
Winter flees as winter should
Whilst bubbling brook transform to streams
Miracles are in the air
Colour rich in reddish hues,
Greens of fresh lime , aqua flair
Spring arrives in vivid views.
Silk striations lace the sky
With molten, mackerel clouds of gold,
Evening chill for you and I
Suggest we snuggle close to hold.
Miracles are in the air
A Moonrise breaks horizon’s door,
Hugely round with craters bare
We laugh with joy and seek for more.
Tantalizing night upon us
Stars ignite the heaven's fire,
Black as pitch with jewelled Adonis
Hot white pinpoints of desire.
Miracles are in the air
Passion in the blood doth boil,
Moonlight through her silver hair
Exquisite as blue fire on oil.
Marshalg
@thebach
29 August 2011
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC
*You remind me of the earth,
like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
& spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
grazing beyond dark ether,
sparkles dappling 'pon depths
of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
gusting above her majesty's hazes
beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
of all things recollected in the long ago
essence of your memories' presence*
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
The sunrise betrayed the furnace
pouring heat into this atmosphere,
beauty deceives in pinpoints of fusion
spilling light on these nights in silence
We are all made of stars - we burn within
this core, unreached and untouched
as science fades in its approach -
Who can test the mystery inside?
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Staring out into the crimson sky
the westbound sun melts into the horizon.
A red and gold puddle of translucency,
blends into an ocean
of majestic purples and blues.
Pinpoints of light begin to appear
as day succumbs to night.
I stand in silence,
near to tears.
Wondering where you've gone.
The radiance of the emerging moon
shines a beacon into the vastness.
To no avail.
I know that you are gone.
And unlike my faith in dawning sun,
I hold no hope of your return-
Upon the morning.
Jan 5, 2025
Jan 5, 2025 at 11:34 AM UTC
I'm sorry,
I don't remember your favourite colour.
I know I asked and,
I know you told me and,
I know I forgot, almost instantaneously;
I'm sure you'd shrug it off,
say it's no big deal,
and, I suppose I might agree,
but
I'd hope that you'd find it meaningful,
that you'd changed mine.
for now, its:
the intervallic hues
of your delicately feathered iris,
blanketed
under starlit night skies,
glittering
by the sodium haze
of cityscape lights,
and how transient happiness
set the soft outline of your cheek
ablaze.
your freckles laid out,
like maps of constellations;
distant pinpoints, strung up on high,
ages old,
just waiting to fall, at a moment's notice.
the palette of the sweetness of your skin,
made brushstrokes, weaving into my dreams,
becoming masterpieces, as
literature
rolls
from your lips
in dry-ice cloud
sepia tones,
washing out black and white photographs
I'd hung up,
in homemade picture frames,
throughout the corridors of my chest.
so,
I'm not sorry for that.
but,
I am sorry if I ever hurt you,
{I don't think I did}
I'm sorry if I'm an *******
{though I seem to be the only one to think this}
and,
I'm sorry...
I'm sorry if I love you.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Once, I was a dreamer.
I would look into the dark sky above me,
and see an endless universe.
It was full of mystery,
millions of stories and marvels.
Now, I look into it and see nothing.
Tiny pinpoints of light staring back at me.
Wondering why I no longer ask for their stories.
Blinking, expectant.
And all I can do is stare back.
I have no answer for them.
Nothing that would not seem a lie.
This is the end for me.
The last of the starlight inside of me
has flickered and gone out.
I’m left now with only the vast emptiness.
No stories.
No marvels, or wonders.
Only the mystery.
Once, I was a dreamer.
I searched for the truth in the stars,
the buried treasure of forgotten skies
and the rolling, grassy hills they watched over,
in some faraway land where man had not yet tread.
I saw their secrets and held them tight behind my eyes,
as if they were my own.
Knowing they were not.
Knowing that they were no ones’ but the stars and the sky.
But never believing that one day they would be taken back,
taken away from me.
And now they have left me, the Keeper of nothing.
Perhaps it was my own doing
that drove away those sacred lands and starry nights.
Or perhaps I was selfish in thinking it was only I
that could look upon them as I did,
and see the wonders I saw.
I lay here now,
beneath them.
Blind.
When once, I was a dreamer.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
lying in the bed of an old pick up
parked in the loneliest part of Arizona
in the quietest pitch-black hour of night
i see a breathtakingly beautiful scene
that would rival VanGough's Starry Night
looking out across the desert horizon
i see a glowing pumpkin moon
sinking slowly into the shifting sand
like an orange midnight sunset and
the silhouetted limbs of a gnarled Joshua tree
against the midnight blue dome of
the clear dark sky illuminated by
millions of dazzling pinpoints
like diamonds shattered into pieces
and scattered through the night
though lightyears and galaxies away
I outstretch my hand trying to touch them
wanting to swirl them around with my fingers
and paint new pictures in the cosmos
I try to outline the constellations
but Orion and Cassiopeia
are lost among the sparkling stars
just as I am lost to the world for a brief moment
-sg
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
From his balcony above a man watches down on a little town in Missouri,
he pinpoints a bleak silver container as it slingshots into the darkening shadows above.
It yells to him,
"help, get me out of this awful place."
A trial of slate grey smoke follows the container as if it were it's overly attached mother and within a second pulls it back down into the atmosphere.
After descending the container skids across a schoolyard, rolls off the sidewalk and crakes into minuscule pieces.
From the cracks tear gas spills out in all directions covering the once quiet little down in terror, relinquishing it of any tranquility that remained.
The man on the balcony sits and observes the events that have unfolded.
From his perch he can not tell black from white.
He can not tell man from women.
Turban from top hat,
child from elder.
he can not see if interlocked hands declaring their love and denouncing death that blares from police megaphones, are hetero
or ****
He can not see who's pride is enflamed by blue uniforms
or who's mouth's are covered by dew rags to prevent themselves from speaking a death sentence.
The gas covers it all.
He can only hear footsteps running away,
guns shots following the footsteps,
and unfinished prayers as bodies stain the side walk.
In this moment,
the chess game of life becomes not black versus white
but human versus human.
And the man wonders, from his balcony above,
why it must take weapons that destroy equality,
to make us see each other as equal.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
mine) and it wanders over
the slopes and valleys
of my own
wildernesses
I think of you
in plains and grasslands
sleekly wet in mountain curve
as you coolly crack the
earthly fissures
of my heart quakes
inside
morning light
you transverse
your poetic speak
deep inside my night
your are always with me
in seeping pinpoints
of brightness
of gentle storms
you rock my dark to sleep
you are present
not obsessively
yet strongly
the way people describe
alcohol in veins
you regularly cut them
open, my heartstrings
you strum upon
their vibrations
like waves of calm
intoxication
lulling me
into gentle earthquake
pleasure and centered
breaths
leaving pieces rocking
throughout
my bloodflow back
up interspersed
between beats
i carry you
(that heart of yours)
in my heart
and I treasure
this residence
you have taken up
in my desert
blooms
faraway touch of lips
makes
pulse quiet
in soft booms
your voice soothing
storms
and you i like
sweetly in
my pulse
as seeds just
grow
i carry your heart
inside mine all day
your voice soothing
storms
my raging river
in your flow
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
The scrapyard shouts a sneering hiss, as the metal meets its maker and get put to the ground
in a murky sight, the seer digress, noting the constant vacuum of light, setting the scene as the dead turns to the stage in the theater of life
A staggering cold got him clacking his teeth, the mood of the weather reflected the street, as the rain dropped, people disappeared gradually, not unlike a serenade by those weakened, sitting isolated in a room blinded by a thought as it left a raindrop on his heart
By the curb, you leave it all behind, and by that same curb, you choose a new wine
There is no constant in time, but time itself, a figment of a man's vivid and mad imagination
Set to alarm, to dictate and date, small and big events, it pinpoints effects on the interior and exterior
the changes fade to disappear and all that is left is the shadow of the heart, we carved in the tree behind the yard, bright skies flew by the moonlight, as you gave me your heart, on that dimly lit October night.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
I can't give the raw edge,
Of Life,
a chance in words,
flies away like birds,
it is not mine,
to give.
like the amazon queen,
who ****** for her ****
(they sleep for now)
they both crawl or limp
out from behind the bustop*
I can see the scars from her battles,
starting with the nose on her face,
working down her arms,
and even her legs,
he is an intense pair of eyes,
Address mean street on repeat,
as his looks are like darts,
avoid eye contact, or there
might be only two sounds
he is porter, drags the bags for the both,
they are looking for a home, as the hint,
of cool morning dew tears, is fall, then winter
Will chase at their heels, and his role as protector,
will be tested against a cold-hearted enemy,
in the open, they are on the hunt for a shelter
to run the business, where he is lord, master, lover,
And ****
every day this merciful summer,
it has been a different stop, bus or not
every night under stars pinpoints,
Not Needle Marks,
but the Personal Crack Pipe,
needs cleaning before the next use,
like removing makeup from her skin,
just to put it on again,
And off,
And on,
as he banks the money,
for commodities Street market loss or gain
after all what is the price of crack *******
The raw cost,
In the raw, her business attire,
The raw edge,
I have not lived, not mine to give.
©DWE092013
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
The stars in the sky,
Pinpoints of light,
Cold, hard,
Brilliant, bright,
Diamonds, fire,
They last forever,
The royal court,
Of the indigo sky,
Their queen, the moon,
Sometimes shy,
Sometimes bold,
Sometimes she hides,
But she is always there,
With her face so fair,
To watch o'er us,
Everywhere.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
You pulled long wings from my back to my ribs-
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with your nails as I whispered unholy
prayers into your ears with your mouth closed.
I tripped into your superstition that started with a kiss
outside your door after midnight,
pressing my shoulder blades into the palm of your hands.
You said you didn't try any games.
I said I didn't like to play.
Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.
I attacked you right from the start.
"Shut up, would ya!" you'd say with a smile,
laughing when I'd scream back at the television commercials
when they'd ask me stupid questions.
I drove you insane.
But when you'd fall asleep I'd trace your eyelids
like crop circles with my fingertips,
making a thin bridge over your nose
connecting pinpoints like constellations.
Sometimes I'd ask you to read the stories
that you wrote on my skin.
You'd pass the message along through your lips
gently against mine the way a shadow sits
on a figure.
I'd sigh when your hands skipped over
the space between my thighs.
Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.
I took a chance on you.
You didn't bid on me.
I guess it's true that some things
burn too bright.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Soft glowing
Lights
Hang from emptied corridors
And the night melts into
An
Outer space
Dripping pinpoints of light
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Look to the gloom,
yielding no depth of distance,
only pinpoints of light
blaring the selfish madness of man
and beast alike.
Look to oval eyed Saturn, and
notice not the opalescent crenulation
of teeth, or
the rigid celestial body
inflated and bloated-
floating in the absence of fettered air;
all that is important
is the lifeless bodies
cannibalized and
invariably stuck in an endless orbit
of the greedy giant.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
My sky used to be so bright
Pinpoints of light and joy
Comets bringing icy chunks of cheer
Moons carrying comfort
Shooting stars raining down pure happiness
They all remain-
But a supernova has blinded me to them.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
your skirt was red and flowing,
your blouse was blue
on the night i locked eyes with you.
it seemed to me like i hadn't seen your eyes since last december.
my shredding muscles
my popping joints
i saw the pupils of your eyes by firelight shrinking down to pinpoints
you were poking at the embers
there's a cold wind coming off the ocean.
there's a cold wind coming off the ocean.
i wet my finger with my tongue and pressed it in the ashes,
rubbed it up against your perfect eyelashes.
you said something really important,
something pretty seems to have slipped my mind.
walls were freezing, so was the floor.
i didn't want to hurt you anymore.
you had a sad, sad, friend in front of you,
that dying fire behind.
there was a cold wind coming off the ocean.
there was a cold wind coming off the ocean.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
i am sitting outside,
searching a sunset:
a plant loving light,
gobbling it up through
every pore.
Looking for the pinpoints
of ancient transmission.
i see a bulge...NO...
two, THREE!:
alien fingers pressing
latex event horizon,
mixed palette cornea burned.
(*Just a flashback, a
cold beach night in
my memory, feeling
small in the universe
again; chain-smoking
unfiltered cigarettes,
forcing a process, tasted
bittersweet on the
tip of my tongue.*)
i hate you, Florida,
but every where is equally
beautiful in the now.
None of it is home.
i don't know what that means...
is it here, where i am
understood, examined?
i am cold, seeking fire:
i need to cut you wide
open, Luke's Tauntaun, and
stuff you full of my words,
replace your white insides
with black and gray ink.
To live.
To BURN.
In the light, the way of forever.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
When I was thirteen my mother
Took a rose and crushed it
Letting the thorns ***** into her sides
Pinpoints of blood blushing on her arm
“This is what a man does to a woman,
What he takes and what cannot be
Restored, this what you must endure
This is what your family must endure
Because you are a woman.”
So is it any wonder that when you
Pushed yourself inside without asking
I did not stop you, that I only closed
My eyes and saw the image of that
Crushed red rose lying limp
Between my mother’s feet
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC