"rapacious" poems
Into the wonderment of your autumnal mind.
Where the skin of your grief sheds its leaves.
Is the song of your sea bound into colourful light?
The Shepherd breaches the flock of your dreams,
And the pastures breathe a sigh of relief,
As your tears of morning dew
Glisten the parched landscape.
Does your bouquet of *****
Lay wistfully in the wilderness?
The skies of blue that reside in your eyes
Serenades the coming of the tide,
Harvesting the fruit of our labour of love.
Is this a wind of smile that turns into a voyage of valiancy?
A flock of thoughts liberated with a cry of exclamation
As your fears of autumn blue
Are exiled into the rapacious wind.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
I
A playing raging guitar
Of a kid with taboo thoughts
The first cigar
Who fired shots of dots...
Don’t care and
The revolt of caring
Be scared and
Be the scare!
The acquaint of survival
The wrath of revival
Is everywhere
Anywhere, not visible too
The wrath is the root of trouble
But the root of solution is not wrath
II
A desire so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of wealth
A pursuit so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of status
A need so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of power
A greed so greedy
III
Slaves of virtual reality
To whom dictatorship is not real
To whom liberality, brutality and unreality
Is not real
But the ticking clock is not sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
Men who walk toward sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
'till old growth
Tick-tock
Loath
Tock
IV
Sit idly-by low self-esteem
Caused by lack of ******
Translated to scheme
And unfortunate dream
For achieving an alleged excellency
Or a lengthy and empty possession
What frenzy
And all for envy
V
Advertising
On bus stops
On train stops
On metro stops
On everything that stops
To make you stop
And start
Over-consumption
Over-indulgence
Over everything
Obesity!
Wealthy
Withholding from the needy
From what they really need
Advertising gluttony
VI
A feature of abstinence
Leads to a lack of extravagance
But there are no angels
Only fallen angels
Or angels about to fall
A feature of desire
Leads to an higher feature
Noisy or hushed
It can't be crushed
It's just fuel swallowed
A tool for lust
VII
Pride is divergent
A dreadfully enemy
Or an inside allied
Pride is divergent
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD
Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City;
Where the sand is stained with blood
As the world feigns pity.
Broken families, unspoken tragedies –
The order of everyday life.
He was born amidst chaos and strife,
To a divorcing husband and wife.
If life were lived in peace,
This dissolution would’ve been a release.
Not much more, not much less –
A family’s lore, a decision to digress.
In war-ravaged land, however,
One needs every helping hand,
Especially a soul that was so clever.
Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand;
A furious, rapacious search,
Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind.
Why do we exist?
Why do we fight and resist?
Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists?
Does anybody outside Palestine care?
Will they keep on watching?
Or will they be unable to bear?
Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought,
As he sat at the Marna House Hotel,
Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought.
A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist,
A prudent man who would have gotten far.
An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression –
An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression.
Hunted down and killed by the IDF,
Another pacifist murdered for being an activist.
One figure of many who died;
One of those who did not want to hide.
Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter –
He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter.
Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter,
And perhaps have family of his own.
He was in love, and wanted to get married,
But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried.
The final twist of horror?
Having the intellect to apply for University,
And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply,
Yet not being allowed to leave the city.
That is the news Mohanad had received,
Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived.
Denied a right to education
Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication.
The glass ceiling, dripping with blood,
Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
I've become a victim
To my own rapacious desire,
'Slaved to the rhythm
Of this unquenchable fire.
Succubus personified,
As abysmal concupiscence;
I'm Incubus defiled,
Who lost her innocence.
Erotism's my passion ;
A passion that's my monster,
Worn as frenzy fashion;
My sweet seductive sinister.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 4:44 AM UTC
Crocodiles catnapping cuddling in cordial cliques,
Loafing, lollygagging, lurking low like lounging leeches,
Protective postures pouncing prey with piercing pinned precision,
Brilliant belligerent beasts basking boldly by swamp beaches,
Agressively angry attitudes among alluring adverse animals,
Deep daunting jaws of death damage drastically when dropping down,
Scales shaped like stabbing shards scrape while swimming strongly,
Opposing opposition order obedience of outrageous odious opponents,
Raged ravenous rapacious reptiles rank repulsive ratings and resourses...
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
He declared himself a refugee, and ran away from his country
Running away from hunger and poverty, to the overseas,
He roams foreign countries from one place to another,
Chewing foreign fortunes of historical efforts,
Of blood and sweat shed by the fore(wo)men of those countries,
He is prostrate and defenseless to foreign languages,
Begging for sympathy to be made a citizen in Europe,
His rapacious appetite wedding his tongue,
Swallowing saliva on sight of European fortune,
Feating into mad appetite for sweat of others proceeds.
He burned the bridges on the way back to his home
Lest he be told the piffling of going back to his emaciated mother,
He changed his names to become a foreign native
Out of laziness not to fight for political and social change,
An imperative need of his motherland and fatherland,
Blind cowardice made him to over measure homespun folly
In the patriotic spirit of verve-less readiness
To die for political goodness of his motherland,
A (de)patriotic syndrome to only which
Hugo Garcia Manriquez sang a limerick
The best of all poems in his time of solitude;
(The fear of representation, of going back
to representation, that is,
to animosity)
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
UNDERDOG RAP
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes;
No chance to know what rich is,
While graduates are digging ditches
Immigrant PhDs are doing dishes.
Never quite knowing which is
Snake oil salesmen pitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
Fools don’t know where the hitch is
Whatever the larcenous pitch is;
Reacting with kneejerk twitches
Due to governmental glitches.
And creeps like that guy Mitch is
Are rapacious sons of *******
Hunting for Democratic witches
In all the freedom fighting niches
With hearts as black as pitch is.
And the rich have a wish list
In which they scratch their itches
Regardless of what our ***** is
By wallowing in stolen riches
Punishing watchdogs snitches.
Politicians too big for their britches.
We are a population which is
Awaiting loaves and the fishes
And other unfulfilled wishes.
No chance to know what rich is.
Brent Kincaid
March 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
*Growing Old is so disheartening
filled with too much stress, perplexity and charade.
Getting older made me to envision the malice in society
and the world we live in, which is
full of rapacious and self-centered human beings,
lack of compassion and division of people
on the grounds of ethnicity,
economic inequalities .
I have realized that childhood is the prime phase of life,
where worries were the least ,
and i was ignorant from the cruel facts of life.
I wish i was just a child and had not been
exposed to cruel facts of life.*
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Sand paper bags scratch empty city streets, like nails on chalkboards. It’s amazing how silence can be scary. I gaze upon empty playground grass, the rampant, rapacious children are no longer able to climb jungle gyms to be king of the world. Why? I believe someone invited the Devil to dinner. He scorched earth and burnt tears in barren city streets, I alone see the beauty in the destruction. Amongst anguish and anger, lies pure serenity. An ending is just as beautiful as a beginning, like light to files, I’m addicted to pain. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you how demise is perfect. It’s starts with a smile, broken. Too many demons spiting languages of hot lava that sounds similar to the solar maximum, It’s my mind that breaks from reality. Unstable and unappreciated, pain is the only way I can rid the stress, So I have believed. Starting like a headache, addicting like ****** or cough syrup, The rush of blood spiraling round my upper thigh is something I used to look forward to,
It was the only thing I could say I did for myself.
Moments spilled into months, months pouring into one self-inflicting year, If only I could show the buckets I filled with the sadness I was afraid to share with the world. I finally put the blades away when I made a mother watch her baby boy dig scissors into his wrists. Rosy-red cheeks and rain-drop tears slipping down her face was enough to know I could I do better. I needed to do better. So, I washed the blood away, erasing every past memory I thought I should regret. I know life is no ethcy-sketch, the marks I once was proud of bare the same weight of shame. I consider my addiction to be my savior. If I never landed on rock bottom, I would never know the power it takes to stand back up. Now I wake among empty city streets, Sand paper bags sit silently, It’s amazing how silence can be comforting. I alone see the beauty behind the monster that tore apart my freckled canvas. I look at the Devil in the mirror.
Dinner is finished.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
Days and dawns have risen and fallen
My mood, like the New England weather
Has transformed in short time
Resembling the howling nor'easter
Each greeting, cold and methodical
And when I close my eyes
I can still hear your rapacious voice,
After these many years
Am I the dying abode that you inhabit?
The one, that gives you life with each thought
Be gone, you devilish succubus
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
In the forest, there grows a flower
That the night loves with starlit showers.
How it blossoms near the tree beneath the moon!
Its petals are a vibrant indentation
Which, with its beauty, betokens the wilderness.
Rapacious and beguiled
Become the seekers of the bloom.
Ravenous are they for its syrupy nector,
And greedy for its savory and intoxicating effect,
Which is delusive to those who would otherwise be able to reckon.
Its glamour incites a yearning
That, not sated, becomes a burning
Which leaves a hollow place where the logic used to be,
And tangles the chords of one's emotions.
Not everything that is enticing is worth the bill of fare,
Even if it thrives freely throughout the land.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
I am haunted with the breeze that was you...
Barely noticeable, a memory long gone, a faint whisper in the air.
Without any warning it becomes gusting with a voracious rage, cloaking my very being with rapacious eagerness, consuming me in whole.
I crumble to the floor like a tear-stained rag doll, destroyed by my unwillingness to admit, I miss you.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
In the hush of your eyes
my heart speaks loudest
feeling our lips hover
our conversations
not a word
rhythmic drums
rapacious lungs /
repeating
the beatitude
getting
after you
inhaling
exhaling
in all “caps”
“YES!”
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
*Like the sin of lust, greed, is a need,
however unlike my need for you
greed turns my desire for your touch
your kiss, your caress to lust, to a greed of more.
Lust and greed are twins in the land of sin.
Sins of excess.
Rapacious, covetous, guaranteed to
succeed in tricking you into conceding them as a need.
Dante's, penitents were bound and laid face down on the ground.
Perhaps my greed of you exceeds the sin itself,
inordinate desire feeds my greed, that in turn
changes to lust*
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
dizzied waves calm the haze
count the ways of perfect blue
hurried trees catch salty breeze
besting winded walkers by
sand surrenders to barefoot folly
warming and forming prints
a scattered sky drips a drop or two
nothing stays like perfect blue
see the sea shake
feel the heat ache
smell the sun bake
taste the cloud shapes
horizons breathe
shorelines walk
water talks
cream-filled crests crown the abyss
distant ships tilt and lilt
slippery wakes surfers skate
children trench
tanners twist
lovers tryst
caught by chance in ocean's glance
impelled to do this human dance
nature's floor a ballroom
its rhythm a rapacious hue
life cascades in perfect blue
©Jason Cole
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
----
The Superstition mountains
Have a mine, or so it's told
Its canyons echo riches
Many died in search of gold
Four rapacious desperados
Rode hard into its hills
In search of the Lost Dutchman
But it's said that his ghost kills...
They saw an onyx jaguar
Dark as a holocaust
It walked on ahead of them
When they found that
they were LOST
They saw Jacob's Ladder
Wraiths ascending to on high
They walked under as a good sign
But found this was a lie...
They saw a snow white owl
And asked it what to do
It stared at them with golden eyes
And simply answered, "Who?"
They found a wooden box
Carved with foreign runes
They opened It expecting gems
And found Pandora's DOOM
They heard coyotes laughing
As they closed in for the ****
Those bad men found no treasure
no one ever will
The mountains take their toll
As the outlaws will attest
The sky birthed out a Blood Moon
As they rode into the west...
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/24/2015
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Many are hamster-wheel humans
So punch-drunk from assuming
They know the way things work.
The wealthy urged them to elect jerks
To run this country into the ground
And turn it into the worst place around.
It’s a sad tale, a ***** of a story
Where those with guts, don’t get glory.
It’s a horror story, like in scary flicks
Where when men in suits get their kicks
Imprisoning brown people and kids
And laughing about the bad they did.
Afterward, they say others are to blame
But make no attempt to hide their game.
They put thousands in jail and charge them
And sing out loud their lying anthems.
They say fake news is the real McCoy
But, the real news they say is a ploy
Honest people want to stop the plunder
That, up ’til now, they kept hidden under.
But now it’s in the open meant to appease
Ignorant white people that are hard to please.
They want whites in power, think that’s nifty,
No wonder they elect only those who are shifty.
Too many quit learning in school, after ABC,
And they have no use for the land of the free.
They liked how it was in eighteen hundreds
With slaves, inhumanity to those they plundered.
They got up in arms when a black man won
And the class war was once again begun.
The very rich told lies to change the rules
People began to act openly like rapacious fools.
This is the country of which we were once proud.
It’s right now being destroyed by the elite crowd.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
They crest the white foam in perfect formation,
With purpose and strength they flap as they glide,
Fixated ahead in assured navigation,
Each trailing the other with nowhere to hide.
Then all of a sudden with no clear command,
They veer on some path and head for the sky,
Soaring the waves like a mischievous band,
Riding the thermals with a predatory eye.
No longer a pod but single torpedoes,
Spotting their quarry they launch with intent,
Diving at speed like rapacious mosquitoes,
To feast on that glimmering shoal now hell bent.
Again and again they dive to then surface,
Their sacks full of loot hidden from sight.
Transfixing, majestic, nature's true circus,
The curtain then falling as they once more take flight.
Florida's Pelicans, a marvelous sight,
Gregarious and cheeky with us so entwined,
Once hunted and culled as merely a blight,
Now in our hearts so fully enshrined.
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 10:06 AM UTC
say we rapacious
im down for
foot races
car chases
the lavish
and vivacious
or anything
bipartisan no cardigan
only arsenic
no old laces
just let me
say my graces
tie my shoelaces
and grab my
terracotta suitcases
these faces these places
where the make or break
takes us
it is spacious
ostentatious
spontaneous
it is more
or less
oh my gracious
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
The billionaires tend to their garden
at the expense of the forest,
whilst landlocked towns
invest in pine trees and surfboards
to sell a notion of escape
against the cell of a poorer tomorrow.
Religion lost its claim to G-d
once the churches locked their doors.
The homeless started a choir
on the park bench by the chapel
once they grew tired of food;
fame now the nutrition of the masses.
The baby boomers are a dying breed
set for containment and greed
and rapacious war;
the dreadful threat of a next door neighbour-
their extinction amongst
a millennial wantonness.
Heiresses brush their hair in vanity,
as does the poet to his white-noise
crowd of lunatics and alcoholics.
He crushes diazepam into his whiskey sour,
then lifts a shaking hand
to find the power he is preaching against.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC