"scouting" poems
Perched quietly in the shadows of the night,
Observing completely, using all her might,
Untouched the landscape sat; she breathed a sigh,
She leapt and began to fly
She soared through the trees, dark and murky,
Weaving in and out, the ride a little jerky,
Until she reached the clearing, blooming and sprouting,
Where she landed and began scouting
She spotted a baby, small and alone,
Hungry and confused, wanting to be shown,
Flying over to the area in which it sat,
She pulled some wisdom from her hat
Unmoving and silent, she sat as an example,
Showing her apprentice just a little sample,
Teaching patience and perseverance was first on the list,
She didn’t quit until it got the gist
Next thing she knew, her student was growing,
In no time, it was the one doing all the showing,
She took a step back, gazing proudly at her work,
While the child continued doing all the groundwork
Rays peaked out across the horizon in all hues,
Most of which consisted of reds and blues,
She looked at the child, beckoning it to fly on home,
Although she longed to stay and roam
As the sun rose, slow and bright,
She decided to turn and take off in flight,
Twisting and turning through trees and brush,
She flew on quickly, as if in a rush
She spotted it then, modest and small,
The place she longed to go most of all,
Adventures are fun and she liked to roam,
But there’s definitely no place quite like home.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
O might those sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain;
In mine Idolatry what showers of rain
Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent!
That sufferance was my sin; now I repent;
‘Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain.
Th’ hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief,
The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud
Have the remembrance of past joys for relief
Of comming ills. To (poor) me is allowed
No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been
Th’ effect and cause, the punishment and sin.
5k
scouting for talent in the streets
(for the next Michael Jackson or Pavarotti
or anyone who can make me money)
I spotted there in the streets of Melbourne
a bloodhound and a puppy, each with a violin
and each playing –
the puppy a natural, the bloodhound indistinct
I spread out on the floor
the talent contract for a team
and the bloodhound signed with a grin;
but just as the puppy lifted its paw
another dog came running, picked up the puppy
and ran off with the speed of lightning
**** What’s that about?”*
I asked the bloodhound
“Oh,” said the bloodhound sheepishly
*“That’s his mum, my wife – she doesn’t want
him to be a musician like me…
she’d rather he grows up to be a doctor!”*
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.
The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
A honeybee hovers
Over my lawn,
Scouting nectar
Like a drone.
He hums a song
I love to hear:
Honey, he hums,
I'm coming home.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Where I live, you see, is the future
which nobody saw coming but me,
and I guarantee, its truth,
I consider ants sentient, indeed.
I cringe for my imaginary Jain friends,
I just smashed another dozen scouting sugar ants,
and I sang to them as I did,
hoping their tiny antennae
knew the deal,
we throw ant-edibles in rodent safe containers,
out past the edge
of the motion sensors,
ants of all common sorts are welcome.
- because our fire ants have some how mellowed
- since arriving from Texas
on waves of dread… fire ants,
maybe that kind never got here. any way
- now, we live with them and all the others
- on the edge of the eastern pacific
- super colony that has no war
- on its inner or outer edges.
But one must consider ants
as sapient sentients,
senders of signals, wireless radio,
wee-tiny antennae vibes,
to sing a song ants can translate that says,
This human says: I shall **** all you send to my kitchen.
It is a thought song, you think it, as you ****
You might try it if, you consider
ants are not just pests, but
interesting life tools, for living in dirt
with no screens, lack so obvious it is
noticed by any with attention to antennae
as intense as
that that of Everest Pax, who in April began his sixth year…
Now, who
can hold the ant mind
long enough to imagine the queen,
with Ender-vision?
Through the eyes that watched me **** the scouts,
and signal boundaries to the Queen.
Jun 12, 2021
Jun 12, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
Scouting Minerals with some pirates.
A while ago- Stopped and thought, drank some tea.
A little while ago- Watched American ****** read Fear and loathing in Las Vegas while watching the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while on Lsd.
Some time ago- slept in, Slept with someone, listened to "Endless, Nameless" on repeat for four straight hours.
Not too long ago- HaD a DrEaM tHaT i CaN't ReMeMbEr, had an acoustic nightmare, melted the atmosphere of my brain with ***** and had a cancer attack.
A light year ago- Watched Live Leak while eating smores, more and more, more or less, she was ********** which was cool and all but I got a little scared.
A minute ago- typed the last line which isn't this line but is supposed to be, I guess.
Garrett Johnson.
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 4:10 PM UTC
Touch me like I am,
a moonbeam of delight.
A sky diamond no flaws,
a flashback through time.
Seek solace in midnight memories,
a weight in golden worth.
Arrest me make the suggest,
to hold me in utter nakedness.
Pretty dancer whiskey bottle,
phone on repeat dead line.
Custody danger never to be seen,
another round null no sound.
Constance in the coffee shop,
scouting out potentials.
Blows off steam outside church walls,
ringing bells magical three tolls.
Great thinkers diseased,
malady of souls.
Faking it 'til they make it,
open your eyes.
Sorrows of another night,
off the wagon.
Pick you up,
lost cause.
*Judas.
Judas.
Judas.*
Desperation,
a blinded soul.
© Sia Jane
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
my program is a lost signal
overweight styrofoam rubbing
muddled in hangover hair
choke back the over spill
language will clog the drain
bulky, fatigued under the awning
cruised to isle tempi passati
surfed a certain drift,
definite
your flexing dedication was
heat exhaled into a humbled room wearing a sweatshirt/sweat pant combo with the comforter pulled all the way up at 3 p.m. on a humid summer afternoon
sweltering
wandering mirage day trips
publicly a deaf runaway gnawing on a cactus wing
robbed of north and south
scouting for rocks half in moss
anxious I won't be home in time to see
my favorite show. doesn't need a
button to play, just some bad
luck and thunder drool
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
my father warned me about
boys with black, dead hearts
but he hadn't even realized
that his deranged daughter
had become a girl with that same
kind of heart and she was scouting
for boys with nice ones, so she could
break them to pieces
and stomp on them.
but every time she tried,
she was the one who ended up
with a damaged, scratched heart
and she loathed herself for that,
the way she let herself feel even
the slightest bit of pain again.
but she coaxed herself that if she felt,
she was still human and she hasn't turned
into a emotionless, cold blooded monster,
yet.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Everyday the squirrels gather round-
AS I place peanuts upon the ground-
Sometimes theres'four-sometimes three-
They never lose sight of me-
They spot the bags of treats galore-
Eat the nuts and look for more-
Their little eyes look so sad-
Giving them nuts makes them glad-
They are not afraid as they look around-
Scouting for nuts upon the ground-
IT'S fun to see them eat and play-
AS I go about my day-
Their little faces light up my heart-
AS I feed them from the start-
I am indeed their friend-
Tossing peanuts is the trend-
They look for me everyday-
AS I go on my way-
Having fun all the way-
I love squirrels what can I say?
THE END
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Mondays in Van Nuys:
velvet morning, bee stings,
and medicating angels
wrapped in mesh,
at the scene of a fugitive motel,
swimming towards
*** and misery.
Nicotine lizard
fresh from film school,
and his molten young
interceptors
with corduroy legs,
scouting for girls
any way, shape, or form,
pinpointing them
in alphabetical order.
Flashing red light means go:
pretty Eve in the tub,
lit from underneath,
she sun shines,
her back to the prehension
from a survey of hands
and power tools.
No tan lines,
the boundaries of
this celluloid garden
begin at her knees
--a fleshprint,
start the Van de Graaff
and watch as she reels
the far faded whispers
of carnal quicksand.
A smell of peroxide and sweat,
her constant freezing
and thawing
totally crushed out,
the dark don't hide it.
Candy Bar
--it's not her real name,
but she smiles like
she means it,
lying is the most fun a girl
can have without taking
her clothes off.
Once again
the week gets lost in repeat:
a certain smile,
a certain sadness,
look on the bright side,
this isn't happiness.
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 11:35 AM UTC
When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor ****** the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time ****** like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.
When the galactic sea was ******
And all the dry seabed unlocked,
I sent my creature scouting on the globe,
That globe itself of hair and bone
That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,
Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.
My fuses are timed to charge his heart,
He blew like powder to the light
And held a little sabbath with the sun,
But when the stars, assuming shape,
Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep
He drowned his father's magics in a dream.
All issue armoured, of the grave,
The redhaired cancer still alive,
The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;
Some dead undid their bushy jaws,
And bags of blood let out their flies;
He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.
Sleep navigates the tides of time;
The dry Sargasso of the tomb
Gives up its dead to such a working sea;
And sleep rolls mute above the beds
Where fishes' food is fed the shades
Who periscope through flowers to the sky.
When once the twilight screws were turned,
And mother milk was stiff as sand,
I sent my own ambassador to light;
By trick or chance he fell asleep
And conjured up a carcass shape
To rob me of my fluids in his heart.
Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.
2k
the girls want reason.
the boys want prizes.
when do we take inventory?
the blood, or the time, or the hope?
the only winners here are the ones that annulled their pride.
and i'm at the back of the class....... again.
scouting another victim.
or is she scouting me?
when we play to lose,
the "winner" never wins.
there's a masterpiece of checks and balances
but i fail to see
if you won,
or if i lost.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
For we vile and unquenchable creatures
scavenge the twisted fate of imagination;
take pleasure not only in the creation
but in the movement, harmony,
and persuasion a verse evokes.
Enthralled and misted by
Ambiguity,
Intangibility,
and a verdict -
a sole desire to reach
what the mind wails,
a conclusion.
Beware,
for elegantly,
a writer scribes
or utters nonsense
for a mere, distant
consultation
yielded by the
faithful art.
Ordinarily,
we create while
lacking meaning,
gratuitous spirits,
echoing
a whimpering quail,
yet, we are bewildered
by profound imagery
and indescribable joy.
Doubt arises
in regards of
each word's validity,
bringing upon
interrogation,
scouting the way
for infinitive
journeys
yet to be written.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
Enter softly, she spoke to me, twisted like fungi on a tree trunk. For every spot of desert there's an ounce of ocean to fit inside it. Our tunnels will meet someday I told her. Do not be afraid reading this, doom can be sweet as a garden or smelly like an eye ******
My abdomen is creased with age and tourniquets. Every time...I tie myself to a lamp post and wait for my Master to come with the next direction. I eat sugar cubes, carrots, and stand eight feet- so dive with me. I am a Pisces. I have been built to swim and suffer intolerable cruelties. Break me with your hand, your closed fist, a strap of leather, a bagful of flour. I am not the valor of your toothbrush or table cloth. I do not follow the sunset home, instead I fly over the bayou, scouting for sandpipers in the low tide.
Looking at the telephone for you to appear, playing the songs of you in my head. I hear you, I remember the airports, the MCA, the head holding, and the longing. In place of reality, I choose your colors boldly and stuff them tightly into my left lapel and chest breast pocket. You are superior evidence that I exist.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
the Beats high on Benzedrine
wandering the upper west side
before there was an Upper West
Side; following the jazz to the
heat; scouting Times Square [& runaways]
for H & down to the Village; where pale
women w/ accents pick up strange
colored dudes on St. Marks Place,
dancing to hiphop; bobbysoxers
transition from Swing to Rock-and-Roll;
becoming universal Harlem hipsters
from anywhere on the globe; she,
a Japanese painter & body artist;
what bebop was to the beats; hot jazz
& jumping ***** jive, ****** & H,
***** & *** ******* **** drunk;
strung out, hitchhiking; writing poetry
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
If you're burning to learn you'd better learn from the best and if destiny rules you then each day you live fools you so go out in attire suited to fire and learn from the best.
The faster I learn from the master I turn and become that in turn the fire to burn and in this thing I learn that I learn.
It's no good being hell bent on getting there when you're sent somewhere else,so buckle your belts and pull in your waist,feast your eyes on the taste of more speed and less haste and learn from the best,and when you're full to the rim and can't fit no more in then carry a case,put facebook in its place and learn from the,don't turn from the best
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
I'm about to slip
quietly into sleep
when the cat,
her food bowl bare
and the drink dried up
like Mojave,
hops on my back
and feigns affection
her sharp claws
stabbing here & there
in a soft attack
as she carves out
a cozy perch
in my flesh.
I lurch up
grunting and fumbling
pull the short chain
on the night table lamp
and in the pale green glow
pad off into the kitchen
scouting for Cat Chow
and a measure
of peace
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
Acting is carried away and the dazed, wise boy is alone smoking viceroys. Without a word or a day to change the things that should be running down the shower drain. Wipe the sweat off his face and he could shave to the grain to make himself okay. Putting his act in place, but his special place is forevermore changing.
Sweet tastes of likely lead to an addiction for a boy who always runs blindly, but when the ground gets icy, the boy will break through ever so lightly and even after hopping the fence, love and lovely still has a big difference. So, the boy will keep on filling his bed, forgetting the age of his existence.
Maybe he is just homeless, scouting out a place to live. Jumping couches with people he loves and people he knows love him. Hardwood floors and springy couches aren't enough to break his back, but when the time comes he'll have to choose and face the facts. Business and opportunities can still make you homeless and the fact there's no love makes you almost boneless. This boy is bright and clever and will be able to rise up whenever, but without cutting off the extra cartilage, he may never find a home because home is where the heart is.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
1. The 15th Day of the Seventh Moon
In the court of the Jade King, on the day of the ghost moon
The general of the northern region was taking tea with the King.
Before them was a large map of the realm.
They talked in hushed tones.
Green tea was poured from a golden ***
Bowls of rice and fish were spread before them.
Just before dawn the general of the western region arrived.
He removed his armor with pain.
A court physician attended to his wounds.
He was escorted into the great hall
Past the guarded rooms of the inner chamber
Into the war room.
He knelt on left side of the King. He spoke,
“The armies of mountain kingdoms will not come to our aid.”
“We can not wait for a change of heart.” The King relied.
“How did you come by your wounds?” The King inquired.
“I crossed the great river at the summer camp
And was set upon by a Han scouting party”. He replied.
The sun was starting to rising in the east.
And a western breeze
Carried the hint of burning pine.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
pistachio nuts - or the clams of the the forest,
not among the helter skelter
birch tree scouting and marking territory,
but among the aged oaks
and pristine scents of pines among
the fallen pine needles in zigzag promenade -
indeed pistachio nuts like shellfish,
slightly opened ergo healthy -
clams or mussels, once opened then
healthy for the palette - still a bewilderment
to care with a hydrochloric acid cauldron
that the stomach is -
that's the prior bewilderment, the other
being this madonna-whore complex
that Anaïs Nin represents -
i've eaten a prostitute's *** (her own
anatomical definition) - indeed smothered
in creams to ease a professional approach to
a lack of relationship stimulation -
science says that eating the female *** is
like downing a range of antibiotics -
i can imagine - why is she suddenly this hailed
saint of scissors applied to a middle-class
straitjacket? what the hell is going on?
ah... i know, the longer a feeble secret is allowed
to ferment, it goes from being vinegar
to being wine to being a fruity ***** -
well shiver me timbers!
ever walk into a brothel with 7 prostitutes waiting
their bus for £110 an hour and not feel
intimidated asking for a glass of water?
i have... they eye you like hyenas,
a true spirit of solidarity that feminism forgot,
7 prostitutes eyeing you, then you say
'can one of your pick me?'
'you can't say that, it's not allowed!'
'oh, aren't you a talker, you'll do.'
every single brothel i've been too always reminds
me of Jack Daniels - i don't know why,
the burnt auburn sweetness of charcoal or something,
add the skin creams on the ****** smeared
like an insomniac creating a synthetic approach
to sleep with amitriptyline (25mg) and alcohol
and you've just bought yourself a treasure island
crucifix.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
The underground monastery,
a feat of such majesty which imposes on me a sense of tranquility
until the Koltsevaya line to Komsomolskya tube rushes in,
they
push past me quite brusquely
as if I'm just a part of the tapestry
while they're making history in
the underground monastery.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
I sit up there in the thin air where my focus is extended by eyes that feed on loneliness and lips that taste the awesomeness of pipe dreams in the sky,
A vision opens up to me, unreal, a trip out LSD, but no this is reality and here
in thin air flying free, the eagles seem to float as if on skis across a frozen sea.
I have abandoned all for self sufficiency, I want the eagle to be me and me to be the eagle, up here in the thin air where I grab at straws.
Two thousand floors down on the elevator to desperation in the nation of investigators they look for me, Up is not on their agenda or they'd send a scouting party to hunt me down.
In some era long before when I tore envelopes to lick my life and stuck them to the notice boards and no one cared, I cared more for stray dogs on the street than any one of ten or so of beggars that I met or those who came to meet the dawn with pleading looks, was it yesterday when my name, written in the book that details all? I began the fall that rose me to this place where I now sit, invisible but I am seen by clean air to be particle, to be this place without the trappings of a soiled humanity, I want to ski like eagles 'cross the frozen sea and for those who doubt me this was never LSD, this was the walking in and through a life that no one ever knew and a shout or two along the way,
In the thin air, I learn to grin, to remember what it feels like when you let the future in, some time ago I knelt to pray and being nearer to tomorrow than today. I'm sure that if someone watches over me, they'll set the skis, fire up the frozen seas and let me go.
I become my own General and watch over my army, but here in the thin air there is no one to harm me,
the eagles look on quizzically
floating by on skis.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
Running marathons through my mind
One of a kind
Time and time again
You keep playing this game
The rules always change
You're doing laps around the field
And I'm just your home base
A rest stop when you need to change lanes
Like I'm nitro for your ego
But I'm running low on oxygen
And you've had enough nitrogen
Keep scoring singles if you got to
But you're about to miss your chance
At a grand slam
Cause I'm scouting out a new partner
Who's playing the same game
That I am
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC