"precaution" poems
They see it.
Oh, how they see it so quickly:
an open door of what's closed.
They do not know what's in there.
Do they take a peek?
Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.
No, they don't.
The emptiness is killing, they say;
the air is poisoned with apathy,
cynicism,
breath of bitter lungs.
Something is not healthy there.
Someone is sick.
But what is?
How can something be stated as sick
when they do not even see what's inside?
Based on instinct, they say.
A precaution of what must not be known.
Then off they go,
leaving the open door
once again locked.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event
Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.
They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro
These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.
Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
Love isn't a word
I throw around foolishly
Simply because I've been denied the opportunity
Of being held , filled with the possibilities
That one touch can carry
A simple caress
That serves as if to say
You're perfect
I wouldn't want you any other way
No such touches have came in my direction
Causing me to pick apart my reflection
Imperfections, one after the other
Become apparent
Because of one thing that was said
Even if I wasn't supposed to hear it - I did
and those words?
they haunt me
I'm sorry I don't believe it when you say you love me
My head pounds and my knees start to tremble
As a precaution I ignore whatever
It is I'm feeling, burying it so deep
It'll need a shovel
and a rope to emerge
You think it's unbelievable the extent I go to so I won't be hurt
I think it's unbelievable that you claim to know my worth
When I'm not sure myself
Fearing you're just one more of many
Attempting
To take advantage
Of the self image I posses that's in shambles
I'm sorry I can't believe your compliments
Those sweet words you say with honesty
sincerity, unquestionable truth
A rarity in itself, especially coming from you
Inside me there's a girl smiling
Next to the one crying,
bruised from years of being used
poisoned with sugarcoated I love you's
And promises made
With fingers crossed
I'm sorry I don't believe I'm enough
I look in the mirror and I hate what I see
Automatically I think of other girls and the joy they may bring to your life
While I sit happily alone
And I know
I can't possibly love you if I don't love myself
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Sweet as pipe, sonorous as violin
Wicked as a snake, ill-mannered as Bedouin;
Laziness creeps in secretly body within
And remains there undisturbed and akin.
It is seen when duty or slog does spin
Grinds us till in others found Lenin.
But that is a bad time as made us thin.
Hence precaution must be taken, O Kin!
Laziness, a Bad King, should not reign
Over us from beginning to let out jinn.
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 9:56 PM UTC
I've taken special precaution to protect myself.
Meaning, I don't give my email to people I do not know.
My phone number is clutched to my chest.
Even my real name is never disclosed.
I live by pseudonym.
Pandarra,
Pandakin
or simply just Panda.
And'
If that's not to your liking.
Try;
Vearena,
Vearona
or even Vea.
I have lots of names,
all of them a mouthful
as they roll off your tongue.
I live with precautions,
to keep people at bay.
Too many idiots and pervert
now-a-days.
But that's not the worst,
heathens and **** dwell
as well.
People who are working the angles
to make a quick buck or two
off the naive and the unknowing.
So learn from me well;
live with precautions.
Keep people at arms length,
because then, and only then,
can they not
sink their teeth in.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
There's no sullying its consternation of him in her,
her in him.
A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its
ruffled heretofore and floats.
As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the
trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled
blood.
The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation
to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture.
Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch
frozen frames in want of editing.
Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black
swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness.
A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at
maximum indifference...O black swan.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC
It was on Hallowe'en when we said we'd meet;
as we thought it might be romantically spooky;
and I trotted gaily along the pathway
through the dimly-lit park
where the predator gay *** maniacs roamed
hoping for a bit of backdoor action
and my excited little heart went
"YI YI YI YI YI YAAAAARRRGGGHHH!"
with eager anticipation
of a hot new nymphomaniac date.
We had been a-texting with
ever-increasing frankness
for several weeks and I was beginning
to get tired of wiping the keyboard clean
after each bout of frenzied
manual self-stimulation
which she had boldly urged me to
and the built-in camera was out of order
because of the damp ***** build-up.
I found the pictures she sent me
stimulating to say the very least
especially the one with the melon
peeping out from between her legs
and I found her blood-red eyes
rather exciting really
once I got used to them;
and I was quite looking forward
to the love bites she promised me
which was why I had washed my neck
with particular attention to the blackheads.
Promptly at the stroke of midnight
my putative mistress arrived
with a ******* great clap of thunder
and to say I was surprised by her sulphurous breath
would be putting it mildly
and the fifty-five inch waist
was a bit of a disappointment,
and I honestly and truly think
she might have mentioned
the suppurating scabs
and oozing boils
or at least hinted at them.
As I fought the ravening hell-bitch off
with the hatchet I had wisely brought
in my briefcase as a safety precaution
once more I rued my innocence:
how many times have I been let down
after such high hopes from internet dating
and yet - trusting soul that I am -
I had again let my heart go astray.
Once it was all over
and I gazed down at her hideous
and mutilated corpse bleeding
and twitching on the ****** bitumen,
I lifted up her skirt
just to check the melon photo
hadn't been a fake;
and although there was no large
piece of fruit in situ at the time
I could see it had always
been a very real possibility.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
If charged particles are not guilty of existence, why would anyone be? Man who holds book or man who holds gun, the choice is neither obvious or attenuated. Reactionary causes rash tactlessness. Still, proof must be exposed. Who will avenge a payback unpunished? How to take satisfaction in evening the score, when so many more will fall before any justice will cure the lure to revenge? It depends, on how charged particles defend, or how you decipher foe from friend. Call upon prudence, or we shall see no end. Precaution is canniness in your own circumspection. Please use forethought for neither the neutron or proton are happy with these electrons.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
Nobody ever talks about how the rain turns soil into mud;
how precaution tangoes
on the soles of your rain boots and
one misstep could lead to a concussion;
damage,
or a little scrape on the knee.
Nobody ever talks about
how caged birds sometimes forget
how to fly.
Mundane gestures marinated
as “special”
instead of something one ought to do.
He’s forgotten how to make her laugh.
When he says “baby”,
she could almost hear the anchor
pulling down the sincerity
in his voice box
along with the word “sorry”
and “sweetie, im never gonna hurt you again”
where his voice begin to crack
like tectonic plates that supported his
ego—
when he says “i love you”
nobody ever talks about the barriers
on beds and ******* and fetishes
to which the extent
of the phrase lies—
His i love yous were starting
to sound like a beg for ***
and his i love yous fade out
when he gets what he wants.
He gets what he wants.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
My mind is elsewhere...
and the only person I have on it; is you.
My mind goes back to that night; the way you spoke to me, touched me, looked into me, The way you kissed me...
The intensity and passion between us was so magnetic that even shadows could not bare to lurk.
Obsession, possession, love.
I want it all for myself.
I filtrate your thoughts, you obsess over it, you want to do more than just **** me.
You feel guilt.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that...
The mannerism of it was, was something I have never had or felt before.
I feel his thoughts, pulsating through my every nerve, my desires are not to be obsolete.
Our energies, it's intertwined in a way that I have not with anyone else.
An image, a reflection... Of me.
You are me, and I am you.
I want to feel you again, in person.
I feel you spiritually and it makes me miss you immaculately.
I see you in my dreams, waking thoughts, my soul longs for yours.
I know you feel me, I know you love me, I can feel it.
It's creating a hold of heartache inside of you, you are dared to not even breach because of your priceless ego that stops you from what could make you someone completely different.
You were hurt, and to never trust a woman again was your broken promise you made to yourself.
Yet, you saw something in me when you met me, and decided to run away and treat it for what it was not because of your broken soul that you were not ready to face.
Complacent, stubborn, you already know you are mine, and I already know that I am yours.
I've adapted, but I still think of you.
Profusely, I still remember the gleaming stare in your hazel eyes.
Yet, timing is a matter of precaution...
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 10:25 AM UTC
hey
hi, hello
so i realized
that there is the slightest possibility
you don't know just how much
i love you
sure, i say it all the time
hugs and kisses
pat your head and give you affection
but i'm worried
is it enough?
do you really understand
how much you mean to me
i'll never know
and the only precaution i can take
is to keep loving you
until you realize.
but that was always on the agenda.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC
my mother told me
that I should take
great precaution
because some people die
of a broken heart
what she doesn't know
is I would choose
to die
in the most brutal
and grotesque ways possible
over and over again
just to have my heart
broken by
you.
Don't tell her I said that.
-m.j.a
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, this short poem was composed during the Summer
of 2010, and posted on ‘Poemhunter.com’. Hope you like it. Thanks.
WHEN YOU CATCH THAT FEVER!
When the body temperature exceeds the normal,
You know you have got the fever on you.
High fever can get you in a delirium,
And even inside the ICU!
One must guard oneself from the Summer’s sun,
Take precaution from exhaustion and heat.
Wear dark glasses and use a parasol,
And sun-tan lotion makes the picture complete.
‘Prevention is half the cure’, is an old saying which
is true!
With cool butter milk and iced lemonades, -
You can keep that heat off you!
Now there is another type of fever, more potent
than that ‘Swine Flu’!
It can strike you anywhere and anytime,
And you cannot take adequate precautions too!
When your heart starts to beat faster, -
And a fever rages all inside.
You get melancholic and delirious, -
When someone calls the doctor by your bedside!
But when no temperature gets recorded,
And the doctor looks all concerned!
For you have caught the 'Love’s Fever', -
Oh, what a lovely way to burn!
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi
(Comments from Fay Slims, a senior & a veteran poet from
Cornwall, SW England:- “Raj, catching that fever is never
avoided by those who have given their heart!”)
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
You have a heart shaped freckle on your body.
You have a mouth shaped bruise on your neck.
You wear a certain type of sweatshirt on your birthday
as a precaution in case they were to check
if someone had given you a love bite
sunken lips deep into your skin,
but dear lover, a lesson you have yet to learn-
leaving the heart shaped freckle on display was your sin.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC
To the girl he will cheat on me with,
Forgive me for my naivety, for loving him even though he will not deserve it
for trusting him to go out alone, go home alone,
and for being the reason he leaves you before you wake.
I am so sorry.
You, must be so pretty.
You must know that that is never a good excuse.
That night,
You will have captured his attention while dancing beneath twinkling lights
that catch the gold and silver in your hair just right.
In ten minutes,
He will have asked if he can by you a drink, so that he can watch your red lips move in conversation.
In two hours he will have had you in some quiet place,
He will have enveloped his senses in your feel, your taste, your smell.
He will have told you as if on cue that you, are so good at being pretty.
And witty. And bright. And he will kiss you for it.
He will not know that your "pretty" tonight was not completely meant for him,
It was, just-in-case.
You will wake up tangled in cool sheets, and understand.
Be glad you took the precaution before ******* my lover,
Comprehend that he will never have been worth our time.
Still, for giving him the time,
for giving him this opportunity to tear out my heart and crush it in his fingers,
I thank you in advance.
You, are so good at being pretty.
Your lipstick will stain the collar of his shirt.
The glitter in your hair will stick to his skin.
He will reek of a perfume I have never worn
And I will know.
So, thank you
for making yourself so pretty that night,
just in case he had a girl back home.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
I wish I had a million photos.
Everytime I blinked a snapshot'd flash
The glint of coffee slurp eyes
Perfect pick me up
Six in the morning color
Stinging spicy-sweet skin
Cinnamon spoon smooth
Coughing with a mouthful of the spice
Pugnacious snarl affixed as a precaution
Wicked giggles sneaking out from forced corners
Sinew slim and succulently young
A fresh cocoa berry-burst
Your default is **** and vinegar
So
Is
Mine...
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
"see you later "
Is a promise.
While
"good bye"
Is a precaution.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Her writings overflowed with emotion,
But she herself was an empty shell.
She took it as a precaution,
That true love is never felt.
She killed everyone with her words,
But she herself is immortal.
And so this she hated herself for it,
Even if she earns the poet label.
Then she suddenly met him,
To which her poems were given life.
But to still feel helpless and cold,
She just wanted to die.
But he never let her go,
Her leaving as much as she tried to,
He sought to bring back life into her arms,
To bring me back to you.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
The Riddle
One of you has seen my face.
One of you knows where I live.
Stuff. Important stuff,
like the locale of
my hidey-holes.
My email and my
cell disclosed
soon to be
on sale on eBay
for a trifling sum.
So now I must
disburse to parts
more remote,
reappear in a
nouveau identity.
Just a necessary precaution.
Moreover, methinks
you have grown
tired of my waning voice,
waxing ineloquently,
opining too frequently.
feel like a
thick wooly straw
welcome mat,
edges unravelling,
grown raggedy,
roundabout the edges,
or like a
paperback book,
tho well thumbed,
nonetheless,
consigned to the
bye-bye
discard box.
riddle me,
me be the riddle,
when I scribe
under a new
Nom de Plume.
will you recognize,
my signature
hid amidst the
restless words that
still need a home?
are my poems
worthy of a
second glance,
do you predispose
your attentions on
your favorites only,
the newbies squeaking
ignored and unattended,
whose ranks I have
now rejoined?
did you ever meet
a poem
you did not like?
did you ever greet
a poet
with palms
outwardly raised,
saying, no mas,
had enough,
no time for you
and your
clouded clarifications?
need you.
need you to judge me,
without the saddlebags of
predisposition and imposition.
if you need me
just give me a
loud holler
in my sleepy hollow.
tho sadly my
country road,
has listening posts
on the telephone wires,
I will know, when.
you call,
your voice,
I will come,
if you ask,
always.
I'll be riddling
in plain sight,
if you have the taste
for and of me,
you will find me
soon enough.
HOWEVER,
in emergencies
all you need dial,
my digital signature,
911 and
ask for the
Poetry Hotline.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
<>
***"having found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings"^***
the computer tablet recognizes as I essay,
the "tomorrow" word
as possessing a reality, with time sensitivity,
please, somebody help us, almost
an inevitability
the possibility of a realizable event,
as if the poem composing was
the future's assuming a 99% probability, right ready for scheduling
offering me two choices:
create event or view calendar?
as if the next shooting, bombing,
and my glum apprehension thereof,
as if ''tomorrow's" tidings were mine own doing
of my undoing,
somehow my fears create or anticipation of
the "next one" makes me a guilty part
my heart cracking with despairing moans
knowing that this is foolishness
but
not to me
for as we think upon it, that tiny extra precaution,
'tis already the small death of me
each death a cut in the same spot,
and the pestering wound ground deeper, bone closer
find myself
jailed in a place with no view, insecure and unprotected
no view, no window to crack, no window no view
no to letting in fresh air, hope or something good,
and yes to no,
I know about this and that and words
intended to offer up optimism,
albeit on a small scale
I am careful not to mock
the words and those who offer up
but seriously,
don't
I came to,
I came to this place to write
only love poetry silly love songs
and some black angel sideswiped me in the left lane
writing now in stead of ways I'm dented and unforgiving
feeling stoopidly foolish even as
I try and I try to find the seed germane to the connectivity between the horror hallmarks of these times and the ******* window is just stuck stuck stuck
I'll think I'll change my name,
honestly,
only love poetry? cries out ridiculous
this is no poem, more a teacher's note of surrender,
come back with a new identity or just a new field of endeavor
so I put that on my calendar for tomorrow
and it appears right away, right after:
6:00 am Check on Glum Apprehensions
and it appears that I'm too late
confirming I've missed my appointment so too late for my kind of tomfoolery. and that white seam, glimpsed but not grasped, illusion noxious,, I can't seem to locate it anymore
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
At my worst, you taught me
how to feel again,
brought me places I thought
had already ceased to exist,
now I miss them.
I miss them all the time.
Without my compass, my guide
all I have are these thoughts.
Eyes aimlessly searching for trails
in undergrown forests,
hopelessly lost.
You could have left me
the way you found me:
a screen door that only knows how to open,
a playground swing causing accidents,
a walking precaution,
a sink hole trying to grow a heart,
something inherently broken,
something with missing parts.
But, you didn't.
You mended the hinges,
you took down the warning signs,
grew an entire meadow of wildflowers—
you patched me up with your love.
My cup is brimming,
and I no longer know
where else to pour.
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC
The answer is not
To wander
To lose one’s self in the wondrous thought
Or to throw precaution the wind
No
One answer which will travel much farther
Is to simply do
Whatever it is
You ought
That which you can
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
you held my hand,
and, with that, my heart skipped a beat.
don't fall in love with me
i whispered.
you showed me the world,
and, with that, my lungs gasped for more air.
don't fall in love with me
again, i whispered.
you took the stars and gave them to me,
and, with that, my knees felt weak.
don't fall in love with me.
i warned you- a lot of times, yes.
but i forgot to warn myself;
i forgot that i am but naive.
and after all my precautions,
it was i who fell.
i fell in love with you.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
My child I dearly pray
The wrong doers will pay
Your life was priceless
To some meaningless
You had a golden smile
Tho so far, so many miles
If I had you here with me
You would have been alive to see
There are those who have lost
Beautiful innocence by cost
I am deeply hurt reading about you
My heart cried tho I don't know you
The red t-shirt you wore last
Will alway remind me of this past
Why your family had to flee?
Why authorities ignore your plea?
Why the boat capsized in the ocean?
Why was there no precaution?
Why the world had to see you washed on the shore?
Laying face down on the Turkish shore
Such a beautiful child, how many more!
The aches getting worse as I see your face
You left every heart to break where we trace
It was not you fault, Oh baby boy!
You were thrown off board like a broken toy
May the good spirits guide your soul
Don't you worry, these ruthless will burn in hole
Even hell might reject them for achieving such goal
You were a Syrian prince, one can hint
Your tragic death would stay as an imprint...
©sim
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC