"poacher" poems
Alarm clock kicks exhaustion into gut immediately as it sounds
University student jolts into day still dark
20 years later body still too daft to recognize shrill wake-up call as prey rather than predator
US kills Russians in Syria strikes
How to get ready in under ten minutes—life hacks you won’t believe: leave without locking the door, forget to brush your hair, and more
Five reasons breakfast is the most important meal of the day
Trump wants to replace food stamps for impoverished Americans
Snow in the forecast for the next three days
Why is vitamin D important for our bodies?
Sleep deprivation: a student epidemic
I’ve had panic attacks every day for the past three years—here’s how I’ve coped
Accused killer says victim hired him to do it on Craigslist
Want to know how to budget as a college student? Stop buying Starbucks
All she has to do to claim 560-million-dollar lotto is make her name public—she refuses
Signs that your friendship is coming to an end
Lions eat and **** suspected poacher
Tips on how to be successful after college
These are the victims of the Florida school shooting
Binge-drinking on college campuses and escapism: the dangers of drinking to forget
Declinism: is the world actually getting worse?
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
The ivory poacher stalks his prey
each day he walks the silent plains
a gun slung high upon his arm
no warmth within his gaze
Elephants nor rhinos sought
but two or one extensions of
an ivory tower painted red a
bullseye meaning meant for dead
The ivory poacher sights his barrel
warily delivers narrow
slivers of a weathered corpse
thundering down to the earth
an ivory tower in his hand
or two if it's an elephant
a clean pristine white he holds high
and on his soul a red bullseye
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
3.1k
Two great minds
On each other they land
Each never knew the other
But they fought each other
The secret was kept
Not to let unconscious conscious
So there were two men
One a poacher
The other trader.
Trader:my friend, make me a sword,
My honey I give in return.
Poacher:ok,let us meet tomorrow.
(They part)
The trader was a liar
The poacher was a cheat
The day came
Each sent a boy to pick the items
Trader:(sent soil,smeared by honey,)
Received a wood carefully
Chopped and a sword
It looked.
Caught amazed
Just laughed at himself
Pocher:(sent the "sword")
Received the "honey"
Caught amused
Laugh at the haux
...
Again,
The poacher invite the trader
They go poach
The day was set
And it came,off they set
The bush rough,
Grass wet,
Poach on the lead!
Poach:(seeing an angry beast,)
My friend,the coarse has
Turned rough,come lead this
Shrubby path!
Trader:is it ***** or thorny?
Poach: *****
Trader:I lead we go back home,turn
And follow me!
They went back home
The danger was evaded.
The liar and the cheat were clever.
The trader invited the poach
Come for this honey
we got to harvest
And he came
Trader:(climbs the tree,he realises
that there was a big snake
inside)
My friend,the bees are fierce
Come help me.
Pocher:is it smooth or sticky?
Trader:smooth my friend!
Poacher: come we go,we have to set
another day then
The clever men went home save
The liar lost,the cheat lost
They were clever.
The cheat invited the liar,
Come home for a meal!
That day he drank a cow!
And the friend arrived
A heavy lunch then,
Poacher:I have a problem,for years
This my cow has been sick!
What kind of sickness
This can be?
Trader:(taking his time,'staggering?')
If cows could take alcohol
I can say this one is drank!
......
The men laughed jointly
And the wisdom minds
Got them by surprise.
The liar and the cheater
Were the best wisdom
Of the time
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one,...do you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
Across the savannah carrying guns
and behind them, a poacher swings
he is a warning to others, to not come back
they had brought death and destruction
to those who made Elephant tracks
What was left in the wake of these poachers
were the carcasses of a whole herd
even the young that had little tusk
were hacked to death for fun
these travesties of man these poachers
These brave rangers will hunt them down
bring all their crimes to face justice
for the twenty they slaughtered
just for tusks and feet
****** tusks and feet
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
Sleeping.
No. Not sleeping.
Hands in the dark.
Arm/Arm.
Next to each other, on top of each other.
Legs. Legs.
Foot. Tracing your leg.
A hand in the dark.
Fingers take my fingers.
Touches my face.
Kissing.
Suddenly.
You’re there.
So am I.
Should we be doing--?
--Kiss.
Never mind.
You’re supposed to be on a plane right now.
You’re not.
You’re on this bed.
Where I am too.
You kiss me again. Hard.
Hello, tongue.
Wait. What?
Doesn’t matter?
Okay.
Keep kissing.
Yes.
I know what this is.
I’m everything she’s not.
You call me beautiful.
No, I’m not.
My, you’re insistent.
I really don’t think I am.
You stare at me:
I’m the only woman in the world.
No one’s ever done that before.
Hands are going places.
I don’t want ***
Well, I do.
I want *** with love. You love someone else. And I love you.
I am not an Equal Opportunity Provider.
Is that okay?
God, you’re so sweet.
You kiss me again.
I kiss you back.
Stroke my hair.
Scratchy beard,
Rubs my chin.
God you feel good.
Ugh.
My willpower is diminishing.
Stop.
Let’s talk.
Not about…her.
I mean.
About whatever, really.
Your back porch in Atlanta.
Play them blues.
Drink your Manhattans.
You and your gin.
Sounds beautiful.
You want me to know I’m beautiful.
No I’m not.
Why do I think that?
I’m just not.
It seems we’re at an impasse.
I don’t know I’m beautiful.
You don’t know you’re quite a catch.
You’re fanfacking tastic.
How do you not know it?
[It’s a cruel game;
that the universe made you love someone
who just can’t see that.
That the Gods would laugh
at our human folly
seems unfair.
That they gave us love
and then gave us no directions on how to use it.
That this man
is tripping over his own two feet
trekking mountains
traversing deserts
stealing the stars right out of the sky
Trying to re-win the love of his life.
She doesn’t even bat an eye.
She doesn’t know
that he is the rarest form of species.
And she
is a ******* poacher.]
Now I’m falling in love with your soul.
The very depths of you.
The secret rooms.
The inner dialogue.
You just get me like no one else does.
Sleeping.
No.
Getting there.
Pull me in tight.
Body on body.
Safest place in the world
is right here.
My head on your chest.
Arm/Arm.
Hand/Hand.
Tonight you’re mine.
Tomorrow
you were just a dream.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.
My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.
It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.
Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.
If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.
If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.
Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!
These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.
I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
Seated on the edge of the riverbank
Watching raindrops fall across the city light's reflection;
A living Monet of color and fluidity and the sutble refractions of life.
The bridge above me is humming with traffic,
The railyard to my left fills the cold night with the timeless bellowing of midnight trains,
Used syringes lay amongst the driftwood here.
A crudely painted ******** adorns the trail head,
Overgrown with brambles bushes and blackberry vines.
A solitary ****** cruises the shallow dregs of shore
On an endless quest to find her mate,
Painfully unawares of his fate,
Fallen victim to a poacher,
Some careless fool with a greedy and discontented heart.
The tents and tarps of Portland's homeless, the lost and forgotten, line these hillsides;
Their many dreams and hopes lie broken amidst the rubble of this everyday existence.
I sit here often, smoking and thinking, and watching the ever changing lights.
Every now and again I take a picture, gather a stone, or fall asleep to the sound of rain
And the smell of earth and leaves and rushing water.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
I’m just a man looking for a woman and a therapist
One to fix me, one to love me, in any order
And you, you’re just a lovely, sweet, spoiled
Left by a father, whose death ruined you
It burns like a wildfire, ebbing in all directions
Our duo resembles a bear and a bear trap
While the poacher of souls trains his stare on us
Chewing tobacco with a tear in his shirt
With a wife somewhere, with all her chords in the proper sockets
Bored, dumping her love down the sink with the extra beans
Running the water we’ve come to share like barroom jokes.
And back to you and me, it was only a month; and I loved you
You never knew, because stitches never love a wound
They fall away frivolously, and anonymous
Much like us, now, with alarms of harder times burning in our ears
Yet the sound never fades, it sticks around like the old friends
The ones who helped you before you were famous, or infamous
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
I wake in a rage!
A poacher has dared step foot in this,
my City. It is just not done.
The fool.
I will....extract....him tonight.
Are we that many, that we cannot stay at home?
He may be a rogue. If he is, all the better.
They tend to put up a fight.
I will toy with him. This rogue. This interloper.
Give him a small chance.
In the end I will **** him of course.
I will simply behead him.
Not such a hard task. But it is rather grisly.
Oh well. Off I go.
Now, just what does one wear to a messy beheading?
~Lord Kellington
This is the second installment from the Diary of Lord Kellington
and my Halloween offering for Oct. 14th
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
White flies and red beetles.
Blue birds and sour sweet chocolates
Mixed up sweets, all together in this place.
Take my hand and meet the king of taste.
Pictures of money thieving parrots.
Who hold silver goblets which scream inspiration.
Music notes travel in circles above our heads.
Follow the empty circus filled with half made beds.
The house of glass which oozes golden liquid.
Quickly; the runners sprint with hands clenching bottles.
Lion and the poacher share deep glares of remorse
Fighting the nightmares in which we force.
Cordless fingers which slip out of place.
Jewels that glimmer in shades of misinterpretation
Fists fight with fists in the battle of wits.
The people glare at homeless sofas in their crying fits.
The muddled up poem which seems to make no sense.
Has clearly not made you see.
That life is not as simple as they say.
Which will bring about the dawning of a new day.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 10:45 AM UTC
The man stood
Frozen, in time
Not bravery
Just surprised
He stared, transfixed
The creature emerged
And he stood
Where others ran
Scooping babies
And young up
Their faces a mess
Tears and fears
He surprised himself
He was flat faced
The feeling was flat
Empty, calm
The arrow was nocked
Maybe he didn't do it
Only his fingers knew
That it was there
It cornered his lip
And their eyes met
Brown, now washed grey
Against its fiery orange
The creature's attention torn
From havok and rage
Directed upon the poacher
It stared, boring down
Neither moved, readying
A second in time, another
Stretching, another heartbeat
Cats, before the pounce
It moved,
So did he
Releasing
Flight
The creature
Almost a howl
Died, just before
It gave voice
Before the poacher
Sweat never broke
It was curious
But an after thought
The Poacher turned
Facing forward
Examined his prey
Contemplating pay
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
One covered in dirt,
remembering the dusty trail it ran along,
the poacher with the switchblade machete,
the fingerprints still left from getting yanked
no longer pursued after evasion.
One covered in blush,
the stylist that had wanted to cut,
the look she didn't truly want,
yet now was permanent dye onto
the white that is now pink.
One covered in black ink,
the artist that showed the beauty how to paint.
Such beautiful and stylized portraits
were often created by force and greed,
when the feline decided to go by her own creed.
One covered by ribbons of all sorts,
the types the kittycat wanted,
pretty loops twirling into the air,
when the nightly run would draw
a silhouette of fleeing beauty.
One covered by braided hearts
done by a former mate,
but left in the pattern
to remember the love assumed,
the nights spent gazing into the moon.
One covered by scars that had no fur
from the attempts of self mutilation tried when life seemed gone.
Alone and craving for the jolt.
Resistance was forced by a nurse on patrol.
Death would not be an option anymore.
One covered by text reading "Hope",
For at least the one right being who
would care and love, not constantly *****
the sensitive tails that would
lead deep into her soul.
One covered by a face that smiled and frowned,
reflecting the emotional surges that happen.
Both occur rapidly and were usually
the greatest things for her, unbeknown in her mind.
As depressed as she could be, she could still be happy.
One covered by nothing,
still something more to do,
Life still young and ready.
A continued path she would lead
For the true one to be
That would mark the position of her final tale.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 11:44 PM UTC
Every morning
As the Alarm clock
Slowly brings
The classical music Station on
And I wake from
Vivid dreams
Of places I have never been
Nor seen
I drink my coffee and await
My daily dispensation
My script
My Medication
To help fight my Illnesses
Allegedly at least
That's what the medical
People say
And I never argue
I don't know how
But the walk
The walk to the chemists
It humiliates me
Makes me feel like a criminal
Or a ****** in need of a fix
A poacher in search of a doe
The walk in rain and shine
It lessens me
Step by step
Until I recieve
My daily dispensation
And I walk those same steps back
On old, old streets, with people
In early morning fluster
Creating a new day
While mine as a hopless case
is ending
In a roundabout way
And I bring my daily dispensation
Home, and what happens then?
All I know is that my hands stop
Shivering
And I am able to stand up
And feel as a living person
Every day,
It is a tiresome thing
Had I known
Such pain was possible
I should think
I would have stayed in
The womb
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
Weariness of straining stress
In a bedchamber of thick darkness
Illumination drowned in the
darkfield of ******
Mysterious mole in the conclave
of concord
Crawler of cruelty crawling for prey
Eulogising gods of darkness for
caging light in the attic of
darkness.
Espionage goon of evil
Drenched in darkness to sell sorrow
Where are you migrating from?
Where are you swaggering to?
In bewilderment, my spirit watched
you
In astonishment, my soul monitored
you
But my body wallowed in deep-sea
of deep dreamless slumber.
Creeping like a poacher
In swarthiness of darkness
Habitant of evil you are
To sting
To ****
Denizen of death you are
To turn hubby to widow-man
Undertaker of tragedy you are
To turn wife to widow-woman
Envoy of hemlock of hell you are
Dweller of darkness
Agent of disaster
But suddenly!
And suddenly!!
Light engulfed the aura of darkness in
the cavity of Illumination
Lucidly l saw you
Clearly l heard you
Dangling proboscis of danger
Waggling poisonous *** end of death
You stuck on the wall
To sting
To ****
Helplessly you watched me
Now pray your last prayer
Clod of callousness
Vasoconstrictor of wastages
What is your real name?
Scorpion!
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 1:12 PM UTC
I am the rumbling of the thunder,
I roar,
I rest.
I feel my power coarse through my fibers.
I crack,
I jest.
None can silence my noble roar,
not the poacher,
not the muzzle,
nor even God.
I rumble and shake.
I make all quake.
I am here for a moment,
I fade and fault you.
The king's throne is more mortal,
Than its scepter-wielding ruler.
For he shall also perish as the thunder.
Alas,
No faster than his roar and the might of his throne.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
in infancy,
I was everything
you had hoped
for in a child,
played a cherub
in our church’s
Christmas pageant,
wore a felt gown
& angel wings tethered
to my back, a halo atop
a mop of blonde colored hair.
it was as if I were finally
worth the title of
beautiful.angelic.
god sent. elegance.
you had finally
worked up enough
magic to procreate
& theorized that
something you made
could finally be an
angel. you threw yourself
so hard to another’s body
you became divine, if only
for a moment.
but you’ve always been
such a skilled poacher.
cut off my wings in slumber
& nailed them
above your head
board. one might
think this is a
brutal comparison
to how you’ve
never learned
to love anything
god sent.
both our knees
are bruised, but we’re
practicing a different
type of prayer. I still
feel a pain in my shoulder
blades from where you cut me,
your hands no longer feel damp
with my blood.
maybe, one day, you’ll hunt me
down, with your poacher’s pride,
& with your rifle, you’ll finally
take more than my wings. &
as I bleed out, a task which may take
days. . . or months . . . or years,
I hope you’ll look me in my eyes
& you’ll remember that even as an
angel, I was once still just your
daughter.
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 12:02 PM UTC
Never ever call me that name again ever
Understood, poacher ?
You know ! This is one reason
I mark my territory,
I don’t give my flesh out easily
I have too much pain associated
With my birth name.
Write it down in capital letters
My name is PANGOLIN MUSE !
Want me to spell it for you ?
P – A – N – G – O – L – I – N M-U- S - E !
PANGOLIN MUSE!
Stress on the first syllable just as mandolin, please !
That’ll be it for phonetics !
And don’t call me ever something else
whatever, will you ! I’m serious !
Weaned I am not yet !
Or I’ll Flame you with my stinky fluid,
Secretive scent from way over down there,
From my solitary underground burrows !
Or I’ll flame you with my sticky tongue,
Whoever you are
Under the bark !
Or I’ll flame you with eyes wide shut
You know I can hypnotize !
I’m no nocturnal Delicacy
I’m no red hot ant !
Wanna please me ?
You know what ?
Call me just Muse
And put yourself in position;
One Two Three
Scales in
Four Five Six
Scales out
Seven Eight Nine
Curl up
Ten Eleven Twelve
Roll baby roll
Let do the ant and pangolin dance
Stick that tongue out
And try to reach the furthest you can
but first are you willing to hear that old lullaby ?
Eyes naked
Claws Naked.
We have just started the initial steps.
Step one :
We are fully dressed still.
You’re the ant, I’m the pangolin, today !
Tomorrow, vice versa ! Or you’d rather try the contrary ?
Or you’d rather toss head and tails ?
On top or under the bark ?
Horizontal or vertical ?
Perpendicular or Parallel ?
We’re both the visitors of the same bark
Faraway Feathers of the same Wild Wordsmith
Who dreamt once ant and pangolin
So let’s start that ant and pangolin dance.
Now let me slide into you
Like a thirsty moon-mosquito
At the nape of your neck !
Or you’d rather have me
Dive into the very abyss of your niples ?
Let me soothe you softly with my wings of fire
Oh I’ve been yearning for so long
For those pomegranates of you
To quench my thirst
On those purple pillows.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:40 AM UTC
The elephant is poacher’s target.
Ivory
The irony of fate!
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
We are dead to the pleas of people like these and by these
people we're referring to you.
Come show me the serpents and
I'll show you parliaments
where the unwise would be
wary
to tred.
We're all looking for justice
but
can't find any peace
why bother?
one without the other is hopeless.
And I am reflex
at the apex
gun at the ready
are you?
We survive then to deprive them
and depraved as we are
slaves unto mammon
religion
the car
far from the rank and file
I take a little while
to consider these
thoughts.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC