"pursuer" poems
Duck Season
Opens on Toon Lake
Cartoon Man
Is ready
His mouth waters for roast duck
Horns grow on his head
Cartoon Duck
Is on full alert
Playing ticks
Scheming plans
Confusing his pursuer
Until the moon shines
Duck Dinners
Never come about
Cartoon man
Thinks and thinks
And finally surrenders
Waiting for next year
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
Off I go
To the ****** ward
For the chasing of elusive words
I round them up and write them down
A poet demanding to be heard
Using only a word at a time
I will never have enough
So here I sit in the silly ward
A word chaser
A nut
The more words I write
The more I want
It has become an insatiable greed
Words I must have them all
Not a wanting
An uncontrollable need
My crime is that I am a word chaser
Many cannot understand
So this is my explanation
As I scrawl with pen in hand
Yes I am a pursuer of words
And all the letters I find
Line them up
Assigning their places
I paint them with metaphor and rhyme
A word chaser yes
Without reservation these faults I confess
Though my hands are no longer tied
The door is forever shut
So in the ****** ward I will remain
A word chaser'
A nut
All right Reserved. Tammy M. Darby.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
<>
thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>
*we are a thrifty thirty years apart
but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack
laugh at myself once again
for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of embers brightest glow
the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^
can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him
physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race*
"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "
as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15
*too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap
I mind the gap,
I mine the gap
for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer
she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy
replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way*
<>
"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
Call to me Enchantress, Awaken!
How long must you sleep undisturbed?
What forms will you gather in the midst of my dreaming?
Come to me
Lucid waking life I watch for you
On walks behind each bush, each tree through crowded room
At times our eyes touch, electricity courses from my stomach leaving through my mouth in small gasps
But the facade breaks, you flee
I search you out and only during nights breath
I run pursued by your many forms and faces... Ha!
One nights day I may surprise myself
Turning to face my pursuer
You!
Please come to me, show your true self, lead the way
I saw your face in the mirror night last, vague and unpretty
That time in the ice and snow was that your best?
Remember!
I followed your tracks
You turned gazing at me with yellow eyes before bounding off
Bending down, my hand inside the print of your paw seemed small
A drop of blood red on a crust of ice suddenly convinced me of the reality
Of that moment
Tremendously excited throwing my thoughts to you
I call come back...
Stoic, still, yet razor sharp
Only the green haze from the forest remained
Another time I will follow
But in in my excitement I lost hold on my dreaming
Remember
Raven
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
For a while now, I've had a thought swimming alongside my awareness, a fin cutting the water as I wait for it to save or **** me. Dolphin or shark? It came near enough for me to make out its shape recently.
**** or save? I know at least that it wasn't a fat guy with a prank fin and a snorkel. It closed on me and I realized what is most painfully missing.
When I am touched, it is simply that.
Dreamlike, my finned pursuer still refused to reveal its whole shape to me, and instead became the emotive image of a hand lovingly reaching for my face.
That small act of love is gone.
It means so much to me, that tenderness, that I ruined the last ship I sailed. I tore every beam apart in my search for what was just a three-legged spider deep in her darkest corner. So I burned down the good ship Treble and used the remains to float away.
I drifted to an atoll and chose a meek ******* It would certainly do, what better place to spend my remaining balance of time?
The breezes whispered and wouldn't stop.
Tides eroded and regrew my ******* until the even rhythm became inherently strange. So steady.
Evenly, unknown, eternity.
When the bottle washed up, I jealously guarded it from the ******* I should not have called the ******* Wilson.
Apparently Wilson controlled the weather.
Several gales and at least one hurricane punished my foolish hide. But the bottles kept coming, encouraged by the raging.
Shortly after, I learned to surf.
Well, I wasn't good at it. And Wilson didn't approve. It only took a little inclementation to sweep me away. If Wilson did control the weather, she must have been exhausted by then.
What a flimsy board.
It was my shield, held wearily up against the hungry ocean. Before my encounter with the amorphous beast, I was just drifting, again, unsure what quixotic urge took me so far.
And then the fin arrived.
**** or save?
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
TINA
The innocent pouty lip
The feminine grin
The Elvis lyrics
The yearner of scandal
KAY
The cynical, annoyed mope
The rock and roll
The sharp black nails
The pursuer of scandal
GRANT
The friend of mother nature
The need for peace and love
The flowy relaxed soul
The denier of scandal
and you wonder why I have a war in my mind.
My passions
My spirit and
My blank stares into heaven
Tell you that I am...
TINA KAY GRANT - The Vintage Rebel.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Call to me Enchantress, Awaken!
How long must you sleep undisturbed?
What forms will you gather in the midst of my dreaming?
Come to me
Lucid waking life I watch for you
On walks behind each bush, each tree through crowded room
At times our eyes touch, electricity courses from my stomach leaving through my mouth in small gasps
But the facade breaks, you flee
I search you out and only during nights breath
I run pursued by your many forms and faces... Ha!
One nights day I may surprise myself
Turning to face my pursuer
You!
Please come to me, show your true self, lead the way
I saw your face in the mirror night last, vague and unpretty
That time in the ice and snow was that your best?
Remember!
I followed your tracks
You turned gazing at me with yellow eyes before bounding off
Bending down, my hand inside the print of your paw seemed small
A drop of blood red on a crust of ice suddenly convinced me of the reality
Of that moment
Tremendously excited throwing my thoughts to you
I call come back...
Stoic, still, yet razor sharp
Only the green haze from the forest remained
Another time I will follow
But in in my excitement I lost hold on my dreaming
Remember!
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
1.
Innocent birth destined for a ****** grave,
Quick unplanned for exodus,
Once frolicking before friends,
Events to come, surprises to find,
Now taken in spirit and soul,
Toward creations living will never know,
Crying spawn,
Another lost, another torn,
Eternal black is not hard to find,
Young mind,
I've seen death,
Like an instant,
Like a cruel pursuer,
No reason, no justification,
No right,
Who writes this apt and confused thriller we call life,
Monotonous pain and lies,
Peering through the blood,
Unseeing eyes,
It's all crucifixion with a different face,
Stalking us all,
Hesitating,
Waiting for the right second,
The pounce of a tiger,
The bite of a snake,
The death of an angel.
2.
Voices aloud in eternal consecration,
In it's many forms,
The advice of surprise is not enough to harvest safety,
Among the prey, one of the children,
Behind the fire, one of the seeds condemned to expire,
Snatched from the light,
Arrived to early to feel the wound,
Disparately together with the truth,
And envisaged no sacrifices,
Reunited and peaceful,
Quiet and relaxed,
The death of a young life.
...............................
Nov 5, 2009
Nov 5, 2009 at 7:36 PM UTC
Cities shrug
by safe harbors
or not;
laundry hanging
on a line --
each moment
caught in time
by pen in hand.
Beauty flirtatious,
glances at the beast --
yet, there is
the uncommon beauty
languidly battling
the ardent pursuer;
(tangerine lips),
a bed of blossoms.
There is the invisible
woman
shallow beyond
the bone.
This, too, caught
by pen in hand.
At once, political
fanfare --
who's running the world
and why?
Revolution's heroes
and the first small step,
later enduring
and correct.
A dear friend, from
childhood, seen,
'Ti-jean with his
plaid shirt and
merere.
This all caught
by pen in hand.
The two old loves
yearning for green
meadows,
lie down by weeds
and tracks
as if in graves.
But, why not stave off
the hands of fate?
Love lingers long
if it is true.
And last of all, yes,
perhaps happier than
the rest,
a little woman --
tame bird in hand:
no truer friend.
This, too, caught by
pen in hand.
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 2:35 PM UTC
Love is a feeling so powerful,
so consuming.
Men have gone to war for it,
gone to great extremes in search of it
and yet sometimes, despite their efforts,
sometimes because of their efforts,
love is lost or flees from the pursuer.
Love is not a material thing,
a treasure like gold silver and jewels are.
Love is an emotion, a connection,
an attraction between people that pulls
them together. Sometimes its a one
way pull, but it pulls and functions
nonetheless.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
Eyes of blue oceans
Hair of blonde silk
She fell because she was broken
She couldn't make up her mind
And she was running out of time
The pressure on her shoulders
Pushed her through that hole
It was An escape from her reality
To another
The rabbit chased the wind
While she shouted to him
She was lost in a world that
Couldn't be real
But her fingertips defied
Solid and warm
The trees bark seemed to breath
Everything there was alive
In the corner of her eye little eyes look
At her curiosity, yet unease
Is she the one?
Little voice squeaks
Be quite she'll hear you!
Another one
What could this strange place be
The trees were taller than any
The grass and flowers , many
The small rivers and streams all around her
Could this be a dream?
A voice echoes , like it's lost in a cave
But suddenly her body hurts
A scream from her lungs
And suddenly she's flung
And the pursuer yells,
"off with her head !"
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 6:58 AM UTC
How can you defend the meager walls you've built,
when you're cornered
and working with fragile hands,
to protect a fragile heart,
when the pursuit of you has become too much to fight;
when you've run as long,
and as hard
as your quick, short breaths can take you?
You can't.
Your only option is to fall on your knees,
roll with the punches,
take the pain,
and beg for mercy when all's said and done,
And though there's a certain peace in
finally admitting defeat,
The scars will emerge, reminding you of your lapse in strength,
your pursuer's victory,
and the battle that will have forever left your fragile fortress
in utter ruins.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 2:30 PM UTC
My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the
tête-à-tête
of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain.
The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare.
And then: Revelation.
The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility;
Only
Silence
Impotence
A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
She
Is a pursuer
Of Happiness.
She
Is a tornado
And when she pursues Happiness
As though It is her lover who loved her enough
To let her go,
She kicks up **** where **** doesn’t have to be
And Happiness
Is no longer curled up under her nose,
Like treasure
Waiting to be discovered.
It has scurried away
In the calm before the storm.
She
Is a Perfectionist.
She sits here
Imagining what it would be like to construct a poem
That would turn her reader’s world upside down
Or her audience
Or herself.
Because she needs a change,
A dose of anti-gravity,
A chance for her toes to dig their tiny graves in the sky
And bury themselves.
And when she is not satisfied
Like right now?
She gives up.
Though sometimes,
She does not give up.
And she continues a pattern
That we might as well all call Self-Destruction
For lack of a better name.
And she really does become a ticking time bomb.
Let her introduce you to Self-Destruction.
Self-Destruction
Is the monster in her mirror
Who, every time she gets too close,
Eats away at her.
Self-Destruction
Is her fascination with blood
And her love of bones.
Self-Destruction
Is all the stupid things
She knows she could do
If she couldn’t take it anymore.
One day she will sit down on an unsuspecting airplane,
And she will blow up.
It will start in her head.
And her eyes will quiver
Until they roll out of their sockets
And her neck will shake
Until it snaps
And her hands will twitch
Until they break off
And suddenly her head will split in half
Her whole body will split in half
And the molecules that have defined her for over fifteen years will break apart
And her infinite number of atoms
Will carry the plane down, down, down
And the passengers’ screams won’t be able to lift the plane back up like helium
And they’re screaming
And they’re screaming
And suddenly the ground magnifies in the windows
And they’re screaming
And
And—!
She believes it.
She believes one day she will lose herself
Into the abyss we call life.
Snatched away into the wind;
One second she is there,
And then,
She is not.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
Your face shows thee an illusion of the happiness long sought by tears
of retribution. A elusive traveller of contentment lost. That prominent
illustrator of false satisfaction and materialism. Proprietor of everything
yet possessor of nought.
Envied forever, pursued by the blindness of the ravenous follower. Yet
not for such trivialities as love or companionship. That one jewel that you
have always required, hunted for over a lifetime, yet never owned. Instead
they sprawl at your Midas touch.
You repulse now, exiled by your own commitment to fortune and
eminence. Words of greed and fortune once uttered became truth, your
own prayers answered and for this you now recoil. Ashamed at your own
self-indulgence and gluttony.
You have seen love, felt its breath. Wondered at its divine beauty, yet only
through imagination and dreams can you ever lay your hands upon it. Only
through delusion do you experience the exquisiteness of touch that lover
and love maker shall ever feel.
You have endeavored to grasp its finery, strived to gain such knowledge.
You have precious trophies, love laboured perfect sculptures of the
untouchable efforts you have made. Entire fortunes of love surround you,
mementos, untouchable memorials of your heart.
A lifetime as pursuer yet never as owner. You have everything yet nothing.
Your only certainty lurks around you, silently waiting for its payment, its
shadow almost upon you. It has followed you for millennia with hands only
now making grasp.
As you await your demise, wrapped in cloaks of golden flake and covered
in sheets of ingot, it appears to you. This long shadow calls to you, clad in
robes of blackened textile, awaiting its prize. So you breathe your last breath
as death exacts its toll.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
In my dreams...
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
Across the plains
I behold with vigilance
Where desert meets azure, sand meets sky.
There is no pollution; no smoke stacks
To **** and penetrate,
To change blue to violated gray.
The heavens are pure.
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
By peaceful streams,
Along mountain ridges,
Where nature and I have communion,
There is no war, no rumors of war,
To depress and intimidate,
To make life insensible.
The world is harmonious.
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
Among the wild horses;
They are my brothers.
Eagles and hawks fly together.
There is no hunter, no pursuer,
To **** and capture,
To infringe upon freedom.
The Earth is free.
I ride barebacked upon a white stallion,
Within my mind,
Into feigned sunsets,
Where Utopia is real to me.
There is no unreason, no absurdity,
To bewilder and unsettle,
To eradicate my certainty.
The dreams are real.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
*
***
******
Her heartbeats are imperturbable,
ready to face any day
blue skies, or gray,
with, or,
without uncertainties.
******
no words said, just thoughts progress
in the silence of after midnight hours,
her eyes and mind go far, beyond the
dark horizon, she's a bird flying early
morning...soars over shadowed trees
and mountains...well before light,
she perches on the window sills of
her real world.
******
in the kitchen, she fries sausages and
potatoes...her mind travels with the
rising steam of coffee brewing,
tiptoe-ing on sad waters,
then basks in unforgettable moments past,
as voices from far away lands,
and even those
who are long gone
still echo
and dwell within her.
******
she faces life's adversities with true grit,
is toughened by pain, by loss...and by
grief, that sometimes...refuses to die.
******
her happiness springs from shallow waters.
she regrets not, about her goals foregone,
content, that, once in her life, she had her
dreams...and wished upon many stars.
******
eyes and heart often wander upon hills
and valleys, she fondly calls "home,"
sun-wrapped at day, shadowed at night,
it is where her soul.....freely roams.
******
she is wife, mother, grandmother, sister,
a friend, a caregiver, a voice...a pursuer of
truths...all she needs to be...for the sake
of her loved ones.....she is WOMAN.
******
***
*
sally b
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 12:31 AM UTC
Sweet rain drizzles on fields of purple Heather.
You sit, watching through your latticed casement sill.
With this kind of pure, unmarred, untainted weather,
You can skip the distasteful daily ritual of taking your pill.
Then the sky clears, leaving only a damp reminder.
You can go outside and walk the misty grounds.
“Marco!” you hear. You know you must find her.
You start to run, while doing so; you hear all of natures sounds.
All in due time, the mist starts to clear.
You feel the Morning Star welcome you in its rays.
Thinking, pondering, it is clarity you fear.
You want to go back to the dark, where everyone else stays.
You hear her familiar feminine laughter.
You stop to see a tempting shady tree by the sea.
You are quickly reminded you must be quick to go after her.
You have to wonder, where she might happen to be.
While this game can go on for hours,
“Polo!” you scream in a loud raspy voice.
You see a figure, but the picture soon sours.
As you run closer, you realize that only you have this choice.
A full grown woman, resorts to darting behind trees.
To escape her pursuer, her courtier, her lover in secret.
But then she falls on her knees.
And tells you a secret that must be forever kept.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
Let’s get the ball rolling:
Fractions and decimals form a hill;
A rock as big as a house appears at the top
And starts turning at subtraction.
Quicker now, here comes
Derivatives
And
Long division.
What have I done to provoke this improbable pursuer?
Miscounted decimal places,
Carried the wrong number,
Or did I just forget to underline my answer?
Questions dance in the background of operations,
The star of this ill-provoked tantrum.
Though it never catches me before I wake,
The rock stays with me until the next act:
Pieces of it stuck to my shirt
Like the Devil’s Velcro golf *****
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 11:44 AM UTC
It is a curious thing,
Fear
It dictates decisions
Actions
Sometimes to our benefit
As we act to evade out pursuer
Sometimes to our demise
As we think too quickly
And run into our pursuer's arms
To be consumed
And left without a hope
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
We're in a house,
Apparently ours, and
I'm smashing your things
You've never seen,
You're smashing my things
I've never seen.
A crack is made by your
Closed fist on a tank containing
Unidentified carnivores of the sea.
The tank very nearly emptied it's
Contents, but the scene changed.
A bear now terrorized the house.
Furniture stood in the way between
It and the upstairs where you'd
Find us hiding.
Someone fell through the fragile wooden
Floor, not sure if they made it.
Ripping the screen from the window,
We made it out, but the bear was still inside.
I was being pursued. By the bear?
Unclear. I knew it was different though,
For I was soaked and outside, begging
admittance into a stranger's house.
New dry clothes were found
In the bathroom. I found it
Strangely difficult to change.
I had to get out. He was in the house
Already. How does he always find me?
A station wagon with a man and son
was my getaway car. But I just couldn't
Get away. Somehow they knew I didn't
Belong there. We were being tracked.
Then **** The car, the man, the boy,
All gone. What's left was me on the
Road with the pursuer fast approaching.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
Lovely's she,
Who shuns the shrewd pursuer.
Whose heart's unbreached,
By he who heaves in reaching.
And I am cursed,
Of this of coarse,
That my heart laments to leave her.
For this I must,
Commit because,
She shuns the shrewd pursuer.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
if you have dreams like me
you dream of running. you dream of being pursued. you run down paths created by flights and fancy. you hide in holes deep and dark. you can't run. you can't hide.
the creature that pursues you has an indomitable will and is fueled with a indeplenishable store of energy. it doesn't know fear. it doesn't show weakness. it doesn't tire.
it is knowable intellect against unknowable power. there is no winning.
when i wake, i know the runner is where i am. the pursuer is where i want to be.
i am fearful of the future and energized by the possibilities.
if you don't have dreams like me...
i am sorry.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC