"pursuers" poems
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
Caged in a prison, high on a hill, actions ensued but didn’t quite fit the bill
Words of not-always transformed promises to forever,
Side by side, naught to hide,
despite the cloudy weather
A friend, a rock, a ship almost wrecked was looking to dock
Alone in the harbour, under the moonlight,
Ashamed,
The half-wreck shone bright for what it was famed.
Tough stains were covered, remains left undiscovered to be smothered by another
Heart still full of what was before, keen, loveful pursuers already knocking at the door
Cabin wide open: “Ahoy mateys! Ahoy!”
She soon set sail with the innocent boy.
Tides were rolling on peacefully by, some of them were low tides but mainly they were high,
When in need there was a shoulder upon which to cry
And the girl thought the boy would help her get by.
Way out at sea on a tropical isle the boy showed the girl daemons not seen in a while
Opened her up and dove right in, illustrated the flaws of reacting to whims
Open
Broken
Alone at sea,
the boy turned his back as she fell to her knees
Floundering, drowning, thrashing in the waves
The girl succumbed to what her daemon craves
Underwater tears remain unobserved
A not-so-sly Fox spoke of acts undeserved
An unsure girl, curled up, abashed
Covered up the act and watched her daemon be tamed
A ship in the darkness, a ship under the stars
Saved the girl and craved the girl and hoped she knew right
And Oh! How she flourished in this dependable new light
“Love and peace, me mateys!”: a new reason to fight
The boy on his island, soon to return,
Will see that the shipwreck upon which they met, though
not
yet
quite
perfect
Trawls the coast to find an isle of its own
And though different to first-envisaged, Bristol shall be its home.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine;
Refresh your recollection,
And sit a moment, to define
His means of self-protection.
How truly fortified is he!
Where is the beast his double
In forethought of emergency
And readiness for trouble?
Recall his figure, and his shade--
How deftly planned and clearly
For slithering through the dappled glade
Unseen, or pretty nearly.
Yet should an alien eye discern
His presence in the woodland,
How little has he left to learn
Of self-defense! My good land!
For he can run, as swift as sound,
To where his goose may hang high--
Or ****** his head against the ground
And tunnel half to Shanghai;
Or he can climb the dizziest bough--
Unhesitant, mechanic--
And, resting, dash from off his brow
The bitter beads of panic;
Or should pursuers press him hot,
One scarcely needs to mention
His quick and cruel barbs, that got
Shakespearean attention;
Or driven to his final ditch,
To his extremest thicket,
He'll fight with claws and molars (which
Is not considered cricket).
How amply armored, he, to fend
The fear of chase that haunts him!
How well prepared our little friend!--
And who the devil wants him?
2.8k
What is it about loose eyelashes
That prompts wofty wishes;
Are they heaven’s kisses
In disguise?
We all want to lift our eyes
Above the cloak of disguise
Even if it may compromise
The facade, and authenticity’s surprise.
This world is concrete;
In Western buildings and consumer-trodden streets,
In the here-and-now, we can flee
And dismiss lofty things as absolute.
But we are meaning-makers,
We are constant risk-takers.
We are pursuers for magic’s sake,
And may our quest we foolheartedly take.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 4:31 PM UTC
No, I've never writ of butterflies-
pretty things that flit about the flowers.
I've often thought to catch so dear a prize,
but then found better use for fleeting hours.
They won't be caught and if caught can't be kept
unless their hunter's more than passing cruel.
So, watch them, watch each flower they've o'er leapt...
then watch their sick pursuers, each a fool.
For if caught, then, what then? Forever trapped?
Those tender wings would break in any hand,
they'll batter 'gainst their bars till will's full sapped.
The corpse of what once flew has no demand.
Hold anything to tightly and it dies,
but no, I've never writ of butterflies.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
Call it any name.
They still supply the same thing.
It's just the description of the rules that changed.
The Mistress.
The Other Woman.
The Prostitue.
They get paid in similar ways.
For the gifts that they exchange.
Comfort women.
An old trade that many doubt will go anywhere.
Men seeks them out.
Even if they don't advertise.
Men are pursuers of lust.
And the comfort women are the prize.
Money attracts.
Women gives back.
Men are fools.
And the comfort women are the tools.
We can arrest them.
We can expose them.
But at the end of the day.
They relaxed a man somewhere along the way.
Be it the businessman.
Be it the husband.
Or another woman's lover.
The comfort women knows all about them.
Some write books deleteing the names.
Just to protect the good name of the high powerful.
Who hides truth in many ways?
Soldiers been there.
Cowboys went too.
And I hate to say it.
Their biggest distractors the ministers too.
The one that suppose to put moral values in you.
Which proves many aren't better then us.
Yes, comfort women.
Doing the same thing that women in marriages does.
We should act better.
Except, we be only fooling ourselves.
Cause the athletes used money to attract the women they have.
No play.
If you can't pay.
We can hide behind lies.
It's just the truth says so much more.
Comfort women.
If they did it by their own accord.
Then we shouldn't judge them too harsh.
For, to the man they was comfort women of joy.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
He drives with flair..
millionaire billionaire
and such people
on money's stack
all the time behind his back
he drives those racers and pursuers..
the chauffeur.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
A young man with a family back home
A wife and a little girl back home
No one cares who he is now
No one will remember him when he is gone
Whether he was a grade “A” student or not
He will be replaced if he falls
He is a solider of America
His unit drives strait into an ambush
His friends killed by his side
Death everywhere he looks
Someone starts to yell fall back
But is stopped in mid-sentence
By a bullet through the heart
Someone manages to spit the words out
Once they finally fall back,
He looks at the ragtag group around him
A man from Georgia
A couple from Tennessee
Their leader didn’t make it
Nor the man who finally yelled fall back
He is the last of the officers
Nothing in his training could have prepared him,
For this
Now not only is his life in his hands
But those around him
He breaks down and cries
An aged man with a family back home
A wife and a little girl back home
Now he is all that stands between home and death
His next move could be his last or his best
He has a choice between life or death
He has a choice between waiting or fighting his way out
Waiting they could be ambushed again and all die
Fighting their way out they could all die
Only seventeen remain
He chooses to fight his way out
They break out the back entrance
Only to find more enemies
After a brief scrimmage they continue adrenalized
They see a Humvee and a troop-transport that look unscathed
He sprints followed closely by his men
Halfway he hears gunfire
His only target is the 50 caliber on the Humvee
Running through bullets and crossfire he makes it
His men low on ammo
His enemies coming by the thousands
He yells to get in as soon as he is shooting
They escape barely losing only one guy
But as their code says,
No man left behind even his body comes
He continues shooting over a hundred yards away
Even though there are no pursuers
He finally climbs back in
He looks over his men checking for wounds
Only to see the color drained from their faces
He begins to see black
He wonders if this is what death feels like
A dying man with a family back home
A wife and a little girl back home
A Purple Heart recipient
A Medal of Honor recipient
A Medal of Valor recipient
A man now decorated with honors
An army veteran with a family back home
A wife and a little girl back home
A survivor of Afghanistan with a family back home
A wife and a little girl
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
Thank You Lord
For Your righteousness
I sing about Your Name
The Lord Most High
I am pregnant with evil
Conceived by trouble
Giving birth to deceit
I have dug a pit
Hollowed it out
I have fallen
Into the hole I dug
My trouble comes back
And my violence falls
On my head
In my failure to repent
God has sharpened His sword
And strung His bow
Made them ready
His deadly weapons have been prepared
His arrows tipped with fire
Let the evil of my wickedness come to its end
Establish my righteousness
He examines my heart and soul
He is a righteous God
My shield is with Him
He saves the purity of my heart
He is a righteous judge
Executing justice daily
In His anger He rises up
Lifting Himself against the fury
Of my soul
Awakening for me
Declaring judgment on me
A mass of people gather around Him
He takes His seat High over it
He judges me
Vindicates me
By my righteousness and integrity
(By my inequity and infidelity)
My God
Because I have done this
There is injustice on my hands
I have done harm
To one at peace with me
I have plundered my adversary
Without cause
My enemies shall pursue me
They shall overtake me
They will trample me
Leaving my honor in the dust
I seek refuge in You
My God
Save me from my pursuers
Rescue me
They tear at me like lions
Ripping me apart
And no one rescues me
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
It often feels as though I was never meant
To be the man that I have stubbornly become;
It often seems more likely that at one time,
During my checkered past,
I laid in wait in the foliage,
Sprung a makeshift trap,
Subdued one of my pursuers,
And assumed their identity
It would be one of the few logical explanations
For why I consistently sabotage my own path;
Retreating to my sanctuary,
Setting up tripwires around every corner,
Poisoning my sole water source,
Setting up sensors around my heart,
Camouflaging the exposed crimson,
And stalling for time that I no longer own
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 5:02 PM UTC
My heart beats in my ear drums
My blood boils in my head
The blinding white and silence
and the soft folds of my bed
Then the world comes to hit me
It all starts with a bang
The searing red of his blood
and the pain that comes in pangs
I leap up from my white grave
Escaping by inch the knife
Crash through the window panes
and inhale the breath of life
But the horror is not over
And racing down the empty streets
I feel my body breaking
as my eyes do slowly bleed
I set the roads on fire
Indiscriminate in my aim
Searing the terrors in black
and burning in my shame
Still their blows are relentless
Gashes and slits on me
And while I shriek in terror
no one will hear my plea
––––––––or someone––––––––
Pulled to by my screaming
Always shielding in my way
His roars the town would wake
the fights just child's play
Bare-fisted he slew my pursuers
Down the throats of every one
And before I could catch my breath
all the deeds were done
I panted and watched embarrassed
As he turned to look at me
Dressed in my undergown
with my hair wet and free
Yet despite the bloodied state
And my sorry battered mess
He tread calmly over
to carefully straight my dress
While the rest of the world used me
While its people hated me
While I took harried breaths
and was drowned in the sea
Somehow he always knew
And at the stretch of a hand
He would pull me ashore
and breathe life into me again.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
It wasn't supposed to go like this!
Julian and cousin Henry
fled breathless down the alley
Henry turned and fired two shots
toward their uniformed pursuers.
*"Late breaking news:
Police interrupted a burglary
in the 300 block of Hastings.
An officer is down and has been taken to
Blessed Sacrament Hospital."*
Henry and Julian raced in
through his Mom's front door
scrambling for the basement.
Henry mad beyond himself said.
"I know I hit him, man, I saw him drop!"
"Get a grip you fool,
you winged him and we got away
*"The slain officer's name has been released.
Brad Kravcik leaves a wife, a grown daughter
and two teen-aged sons.
Witnesses identified two youths and police
expect an arrest at any minute."*
Julian's mother exploded
down the stairs. "Your pictures
are on the tube. You idiots
killed a ********* cop.
Get the hell out of my house!"
The two boys tried for the door
but bullhorns, lights
and a forest of rifles barred their exit.
*"This just in: two suspects have been arrested
in the shooting death of officer Kravcik.
Julian Lewis and Henry Behrens
are believe to be responsible
for a string of north side break-ins.
The whole community is
breathing a huge sigh of relief."*
The governor made no eleventh hour call,
so Henry banished all thoughts
of the plastic tube silently
dripping terminal liquid into his vein
He felt the world go hazy
then felt nothing - nothing at all.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
On that bleak frontier, thousands suffered
For the Emperor's cruel project;
Men with hollow stomachs making endless mounds
To fashion his recreation hall.
The monster was alike to its creation:
Heartless in the handling of generals.
When Li Guang, an expert strategist,
Fell into the hands of barbarians,
He played possum and seized a horse,
Riding for nine miles to rejoin his men,
Spitting arrows at his pursuers.
After bringing his troop safely home,
He was recommended for execution.
...Woe befalls he who settles there,
Where exhausted horses go to pace,
Where the crows are the only ones eating.
Should the rice harvest fail, a soldier will go
To the red northern gate and die unmourned.
The fruits of the south are sweet in all seasons,
But the fruit of the Long Wall is ruin and death.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
whispering words not yet created
humming all forgotten lines
the unborn, the unfinished
cradled in loving arms
the arms that hug the sleepless
and hold off desperate pursuers
apropos of nothing, comes unbidden
as you work, as you drive, as you sleep
at the worst times possible
nothing handy to scribble down
dictation of the gods
whispered in words not yet created
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
For you my valentine
I can think of no rhyme.
For you, like St. valentine
are history.
As I soon will be, his story.
Let's agree-not to he forced
caught in meaningless circumscribed tradition.
There be no meter measure rhyme nor mission,
which can calm human insatiable desire.
If love be a chess board my fawn.
I do not know what the **** is going on,
here have all my pawns.
Check
My
Mate
Check
Please
Waitress
Capture my king as my queen escapades away, running, fleeing, free.
What possibly more? What other than frail fragile, loosely connected filaments of sin do you see me in? If You deem, what more? My God? My soul weeps for thee as Solomon did 2000 years before a random set of circumstance produced, birthed, this Young soul. Searching gnashing in his forgotten temple.
Attempting to circumscribe with
his own repeating circle of
history
mystery
mystory
my Valentine
my divine
my fine wine.
My God
send a divine flood
to wipe the swine
from my mind.
Bath me in the blood of your
crucified son, for am I not Yours?
What sick Christian symbolism
must I entail to rid myself
from the weeping wall at which I flail.
Why must my words always fail?
Rain down the plagues, hail! There is hale and kale and all.
My blood sweat and tears shall prevail, un-availed, lest pharaoh comes in hot aiming to derail. But with Moses as my guide I will not fail.
I will leave my pursuers in the Red Sea...
Flail,
Flail,
Flail.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Midnight and the house is still, you are alone in the near darkness.
A solitary candle flickers before you making the shadows dance.
In front of you, on the table, lies a blank sheet of paper.
You long to write but words elude and subjects are sparse, elusive.
Concentrate on the page before you. Nothing,
Try harder now, imagine that you are looking through the paper, to a world beyond. Did you hear that cry? was it a lamb looking for it's mother, or the cry of a frightened child?
You hear another cry, and the flash of a gunshot illuminates the edge of the distant forest. In the darkness you can hear many voices calling in the distance. They are angry strident calls.
A horseman gallops out of the darkness, he is bleeding from a head wound. He cradles a little girl in his arms. As he turns his mount out of the field and onto the road he is approached by a young woman, who was waiting there, tear full and apprehensive. She cries out in anguish as she takes the child into her arms and sobs with relief.
The horse man lifts her up onto the horse and they hurry off along the Dover road. All but one of their pursuers give up the chase, but he is more determined, spurred on by hatred! He will never give up ever! Keep looking now, where are they going, and from whom are they running and why? What does the future hold for them, disaster or happiness? Realize that their future is now in your hands, so WRITE ON!
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
Don't look at the chest.
She won't be impressed.
Don't look at the hips.
She knows she has them.
But look at the eyes.
They tell you more.
Just don't look at the chest.
Cause she's not impress.
A woman knows her physical self.
And what impress her pursuers.
But when speaking to her in person.
Just don't look at the chest.
While you're talking.
She taking notes.
Just eliminating those she consider a total joke.
Even if you is that type.
You must have a different approach.
You must comprehend the things she like.
But remember one true advice.
Just don't look at the chest.
We know the first body measurements starts there.
But unless you're bold.
It's dangerous to go there.
Yes, look at the eyes.
And notice the color.
And you might just stand a chance.
If you just don't look at the chest.
Compliment her with kindness of words.
Even, how lovely her legs are?
Maybe, ever her hands.
But avoid that certain part that might leave you boken hearted.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
There's no worse news
than no news,
it's the news you want to hear,
despite all your hopes and fears,
but you have none.
You have only a wing and a prayer
when you feel like you're the only survivor.
You can fight,
and you can bleed,
this was the product,
of such a beautiful seed.
Alone in this desert,
exposed to the open air,
Alone I can only hope,
that no one else is there.
For this is not my land,
no friends here have I.
I must tread ever so carefully,
lest I be caught
and die.
Down to the waters,
which I can only hope is real,
and unto the bazaars,
to which I have to make my business deals.
But even so,
with a crowd full of people,
I am persecuted,
for I come from a land with a church and steeple.
So away I must run,
in hopes for better news,
but not before,
I stop to pay my dues.
There's much to sacrifice,
as there is to gain,
unfortunately my hands are bleeding red,
covered in someone else's blood stains.
I wait here alone,
waiting for the news,
hoping I lost my pursuers,
but unfortunately this is their land,
and it's only covered with clues.
I hear nothing from the village,
indeed it's much too silent,
like the stones upon a grave,
perhaps it is fitting,
for the name of the village,
which the elders gave.
Death's Crossing.
There's no news yet,
as to where they maybe about,
but I'll find them, indeed I will,
I will without a doubt.
For my friends are out there,
and to them I must go,
where and how I shall find them,
I suppose only God the Devil knows.
So clean up that greaser,
and sharpen that blade,
keep safe that picture,
never to let their memories fade.
It's time to find them,
no more the time to wait,
the war has begun,
the enemy has breached the gate.
No more news shall be cast,
nor voices shall ring,
let the bullets fly and the blood rain down,
for there's no other time than now,
to finally start dying.
Unto the breach,
I travel once more,
braving danger and death,
staring at the door.
The worse news I remember,
from my instructor so old,
was the news that you couldn't hear,
the ones never told.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
i could write about how you fooled me
into thinking, you were a poet of sorts not in words
you could feel upon my lap for the gun
since I'm driving, just to make our pursuers swerve
we could stop- practice our aim or drive on
still towards the setting sun, see Cali by sun up on a beach
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
A woman kneels on the edge of the cliff
She carries a child in her arms
Her tears fall to join the black sea
She holds the child's tiny palm in her hand
The woman looks up as she prays
But her prayers cannot reach her god
A thick film of smoke obfuscates her wishes
A barrier born from the destruction of her village
The king's men quickly approach
She knows they will not spare her
For she does not believe in the same god
She will be thrown into the flames with her companions
The woman turns to her pursuers
The men in chainmail are closing in
She knows they will **** her before they **** her
For they see her as a pagan savage
She sees them as the same.
She looks back to the black sea
If she is to die, she wishes to die with dignity
She clutches the child tightly
And she steps backwards.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC
The church bells went for the last time in the day.
Bands played music in the streets.
The wanted man was running home.
Scaling the rooftops, he jumped from building, unawares of details as he evaded the cruel, corrupt cops that chased him down the long winding streets.
Eventually he stopped, seeing the distance between the pursuers.
Thats when he saw it.
The sky was a stunning shade of purple.
The peace that the set sun had brought about made him realize that it simply wasn't worth running anymore.
He stood on the ledge, getting ready for a leap of faith, when She stood by his side.
He reached home, he realized with a shock.
"Time to go?" She asks.
Her startlingly green eyes bore into his deep brown ones.
With a smile, he realized what she was asking.
Turning towards the sky, and glancing back at her, he figured.
There were worse ways to die.
He nodded.
And they jumped.
And they kept falling.
And they never stopped.
Turns out that was their punishment for their life's crimes.
But they didn't care.
They were dead.
But they were together.
And they were finally free.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Give her a flower.
Give her a card.
If you're trying to attract her with your heart.
Write her a poem.
Write her a note.
If you want her to be yours.
There are things you must do to prove your efforts are true.
Or within time she will see through you.
Speak to her when possible.
Tell her, you want a lover not a hostage.
Someone, you can say is your woman.
Sell her on your attributes.
What makes you better?
Then other pursuers.
If you trying to win her love..
One costly mistake can make her walk away.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
Youth desires trysts
hot blood,
and new pursuers-
She desires more ease than work
not to seek but be sought after;
And I possess Her like the rest,
somehow I’ve had two lovers-
Yet both are not who I would have picked for myself,
both male and wildly immature...
I get myself into tight spots because of this desire,
and then wish just as quick to run from the admirer,
I want, all at once,
to be wanted and to be alone,
For Logic tells me
“you need none”
but my body wants Youth’s hot fun...
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 3:10 PM UTC
Dull is the day.
A new thrill in the night.
A shrill scream in her flight.
Blood is dripping, the ax is lifting
Last of his kind,
a creature of night,
life in perpetual darkness,
neverending, the madness.
The spirits are raising,
pursuers are racing,
with a goal of ending his splendid ambition.
The endless ordeal has come to an end,
his final salvation eluded again.
The blood is no longer dripping,
his hands, no longer ripping the flesh.
Rapture is gone, once again he's alone.
He's come to oblivion, forgotten again,
ignored, but prison can bind him only so long.
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 2:51 PM UTC
A soft song
distracts.
The window fogs,
as white lights
fall away
running fast
as can be
on into
a sea
of infinity.
She yawns,
then fingers
a circle
into the glass
trying to
make time pass,
make her hours
move faster
then those
minute ********
that just drag on.
Dullness settles in.
Her mind wanders
slipping beyond
normal constraints.
A pew, pew, pew
of imaginary lasers
escape her
small lips
as she races
to escape this
boring moment.
Little blue eyes close,
and all those stars above
move light years closer,
as she sits
in the cockpit
of a little weaponless
space junker.
Two bogeys,
circle her ship,
but she ducks
and twirls
through the gap,
allowing the blasts
to blow up
passing meteorites
which shred the
metal plating
and pulsating
engines of her
impatient pursuers.
Now she is free
to explore infinity
with her
Soft body settled
deeply into
the comfort
of the old couch.
Eyes still closed.
Her mom
comes home,
kisses her
brave space traveler
on the forehead,
then carries
the tired wayfarer
off to bed.
A space where
dreams take
the young explorer
farther into
the star sparkling unknown.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC