"slingshots" poems
I
loathe
fighting with
my entire being.
Maybe because I have
never really been in a fight
just observed my parents, my
friends, everyone around me and
watched as the tension built and built
and built making me feel as small as a child
and as powerless too. People don’t understand
the consequences of their actions, I don’t understand
people. But, I understand fights. Words are like slingshots
catapulting friendships into dangerous territories the words you
say sometimes you mean them, sometimes you don’t and it’s the
words you mean that are the worst. Those are the words you can’t
take back. And what I understand about fights taught me this. A fight
is like a symphony it builds and builds until its deafeningly loud, and then
its quiet, and there is nothing left leaving its audience unbearably sad and at a
loss.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Ethereal and Base a harmony so diametric a solid.
Wisdom's forgiveness lands to the unyielding new,
white spray on black lava, merging
elemental minerals in salt water.
Life the mediator, yearns for compromise
algea harvests sunlight at the hard shore, grows into plants
fish munch coral creating sand washing up, a tree's foothold creating soil...
can rock become Earth any other way?
Mother's beauty, an unknowable generous smile
and confident grace from the sun.
Ages
sitting wrinkled and depleted to her waist,
beauty transforms
into unknowable generous laughter alighting graciously from wise eyes,
like a flock of Heaven's doves so close to home
stirred by her running children: daughter and son.
All the while all the yearning is unrequited.
For her children, Beauty is vertigo,
painful reality rooted to the shore.
Eyes long for the horizon, Vision Country
between sky holding its breath and water measuring out patience,
The heart spills out futile on the crystalline sea,
but Sadness, belonging to clear water,
lightly buoys lonely Ecstasy,
Completes the voyage.
The Vision pairs selfless love with unmet desire,
opposites' harmony the firmament,
but the sound breaks from tension and the echoes fade,
and the senses footing gives way;
vertigo with dove's wings tied shut.
Descending minuscule between dissipation
falling through molecules of bliss,
and diffusing atoms of despair,
to the last remaining positive and negative
and the tension's silver thin wire between.
It cuts tied wings free,
slingshots the dove's soul back up,
at the last second, the tension's iridescent thread tangles loosely on her foot.
She hurtles back up through the scales of size:
Microns, amoeba, minnows, birds, primates, people,
over trees, looking down at cities, mountains, yet higher
borderless nations, green and sand continents,
and again all the crystalline blue seas.
The silver filament draws taut, holds the dove's ascent,
wings slowing in awe as she views Mother Gaea
her intensely brilliant sphere accompanied by vivid tiny stars.
in a cold cold soundless night...
Grandmother teaching her children to fly;
Beauty's yearning realized complete.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
From his balcony above a man watches down on a little town in Missouri,
he pinpoints a bleak silver container as it slingshots into the darkening shadows above.
It yells to him,
"help, get me out of this awful place."
A trial of slate grey smoke follows the container as if it were it's overly attached mother and within a second pulls it back down into the atmosphere.
After descending the container skids across a schoolyard, rolls off the sidewalk and crakes into minuscule pieces.
From the cracks tear gas spills out in all directions covering the once quiet little down in terror, relinquishing it of any tranquility that remained.
The man on the balcony sits and observes the events that have unfolded.
From his perch he can not tell black from white.
He can not tell man from women.
Turban from top hat,
child from elder.
he can not see if interlocked hands declaring their love and denouncing death that blares from police megaphones, are hetero
or ****
He can not see who's pride is enflamed by blue uniforms
or who's mouth's are covered by dew rags to prevent themselves from speaking a death sentence.
The gas covers it all.
He can only hear footsteps running away,
guns shots following the footsteps,
and unfinished prayers as bodies stain the side walk.
In this moment,
the chess game of life becomes not black versus white
but human versus human.
And the man wonders, from his balcony above,
why it must take weapons that destroy equality,
to make us see each other as equal.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
lesbians laugh like clockwork
each cackle measured
for effectiveness
and travels well
on Sunday's eve
then buckeyes pop in the road
like tiny bombs
good for slingshots
but my petty neighbors
would never allow
such insolence
so I don't bother
somehow the tree
gets away with it
then a car rolls by
with thunderous beats
why they choose
this little alleyway
is always a question
but in between
the occasional car
the occasional pop
and the occasional laugh
I occasionally enjoy
©2012 Lyn
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
step into the surf.
waves surge over your ankles,
unexpected speed, threatening push.
wade thigh-deep on sea legs,
digging your toes into the sand,
timing your steps with the waves
as earth and moon play tug-of-war.
the drop-off slingshots your heart into your throat.
making slow progress to the ******* --
you're unfamiliar with this marine rhythm.
the ocean knows you don't belong on this dance floor.
stand up, fighting riptide, undertow.
side-tackle weakened waves
hitting the ******* like brick walls,
each an oceanic supernova with whitecaps imploding.
surrender to one,
let it ****** your feet from under you,
immerse you in its raging swansong.
it traveled a thousand miles to die
on this insignificant strip of coastline.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Target practice, aiming high
shoot these stones and watch them fly
see them hit and watch them fall
dropping bottles, one and all.
Line them neatly in a row
dented plastic, all will go
crashing quickly to the ground
with this new skill that I have found.
Knock them over, stack them up
once again, I just can't stop
precision like you've never seen
to rival Katniss Everdeen.
She had an arrow and a bow,
I begged my dad but he said no
cause with an aim as true as mine
he thinks I'd end up doing time!
So pebbles, sticks and bits of string,
who knew the fun these things could bring?
the satsisfaction is quite grand
to fell these items with my hands.
I love to see my Dad impressed
because he is the very best
but even with his throwing arm
he cannot hit the neighbours barn!
and so I laugh and love to tease
while sitting here beneath the trees
he tries to make an angry face
but laughter cracks it with quick pace.
So I call him my " Bottle Boy"
shout "line them up" just to annoy
and shoot those bottles to the ground
another favourite pastime found.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Walking in the woods, I fell
Down into a knothole that lead
To another realm, unlike our own
‘Twas a wondrous realm like a twilit dream
Where the dazzling sky at night engulfed all
And satyrs who were young like me
Beckoned me to their sordid ******
Fountains of wine poured into streams,
And wood nymphs danced and bathed in falls
Deliciously drunken and sweet, calling me
To pick their flowers.
We caroused and we aroused
As we fired our slingshots into the sky
And watched the night shimmer with the
Comets we launched up and away.
I fired mine, foolishly unaware
That my target was the moon so full
I shattered my joy to pieces
And brought this realm to darkness
The satyrs howled in fear
The wood nymphs withered away
The fountains of wine turned into blood
And I was left drowningl
Until a glorious golden hand
Went from the moon’s place to
Shield me, carry me back to reality.
I awoke in a sweat and a shiver
'Twas always night in the Satyr’s Garden
Be it drenched with stars and ecstasy,
'Twas night, and night to remain.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC
Mischievous smiles
against golden sunset hues
orange, reds and blues
Pranks in tow
carefree laughter that follows.
Bright eyes, lizards, snails and slingshots.
Campfire sing-a-longs
through the moist light air
under a blanket of stars
sleeping in tents
with the days dusty hair
Cozy long john sleepers
are
curled up in sleeping bag dreams.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
It's true that when the moon glows brightest
Incidents of ****** rise.
But when you can't see the stars out here
You have to take some risks.
Modern-day Rippers can catch me if they like.
I'll be too distracted by the bright hole in the sky.
You know when you look through a paper towel roll
And it's all black
And there's just that bright circle of escaping light at the end?
Maybe the moon is our escape.
Like I said, I'd lie down and stare at the stars
But the lights here make that difficult
And who knows when the sprinklers will go off.
Instead I'll pretend I'm an astronaut
The Argonauts and I, haha.
We'll find out what's beyond our paper towel tube existence
Via slingshots and arrows.
A lunar eclipse is a beautiful thing
Except that it covers the escape portal.
We must ask the gods:
How will we get out
When you put your hands over it?
How will we seek greater things?
There are no stars here.
No pinpricks have penetrated this world
Pins pricked so the gods can have a peepshow
And don't all have to share the window.
Maybe the ****** rates go up
To entertain them.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 7:30 AM UTC
Coins clink and that quickly
her mindless heart bats between
bright colors and moving lights—
pinging with bonus points
for kindness and understanding;
slingshots for extra lives
each time she feels something
and means it.
He’s not used to having a
playfield quite like this.
She makes this exciting;
a fifty-cent thrill that
he can afford to entertain
as long as he cares to.
/Insert./Launch./Flip./
Under glass, she’s untouchable—
unstoppable—
a stainless force that earns him
the high score he’s always
dreamed of having.
His string of numbers
lit in the back of.
He’s done it; he’s done.
She watches his hands drop
from the sides.
Music stops.
Bulbs dim.
Glass goes dark.
She falls again—
this time
with nothing to
catch her.
She waits; she hates
begging for the sound
of that coin to drop
one more time.
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 10:28 PM UTC
Ring up the deaths
From sticks and stones
And slingshots
Knives and clubs
T.N.T.
And nuclear bombs
Their total sum
By year 2010
Counts fewer deaths
Than guns
The chosen tool
That beats 'em all
North and south
East and west
Guns can't be outdone
Say thank you NRA
And get your gun
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
*Truth’s a double edged sword
And true lies have a façade
For each occasion that’s mundane
Or otherwise and when peddled they’re mostly plain
Eliciting brouhaha meant to send mixed signals
Kind of “stones” hitting an “undisclosed” number of birds.
A crop of good fellows, politicians that is
Barely ever leave the populace at ease
Buttering them up with falsehoods, platitudes even half truths
And by virtue of being inherently over-excitable, these verbal missiles
From ‘slingshots’ cause strife, discord, discontent even apathy
In all manner of forms and so nationhood and integration atrophy.
Funny enough this happens from a seemingly divided
Front “truth” is there’s a common denominator, self-preservation and that’s farsighted.*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
I was sitting outside
the caravan
we'd been let
by some
do-gooders society
some one Netanya knew
who knew some one
I was lazying
in a deck chair
smoking
and sipping a beer
looking into the area
around the caravan
where other caravans
were parked
behind us
over the hedge
and road
was the beach
I could hear the sound
of the sea
and smell the salt
who you looking at?
Netanya asked
you looking at her?
Huh?
You looking at her
over there
by the caravan
hanging out
her smalls?
What you talking about?
I'm sitting here
having a smoke
sipping a beer
I said
you are gazing
at the *****
in the short skirt
with her *******
hanging out
like squirrels
out of a tree
I’m sitting here resting
I didn't see her
until you
picked her out
Netanya spat
on the grass
my *** you didn't
I’ve a good mind
to go over there
and give her
a piece of my mind
I was looking around
the site not at her
I said
Netanya's kids
had gone down
to the beach
to swim and play ball
Netanya gave the female
over the way
a glare
if I see you
looking at her again
I’ll tear her hair out
and stuff that cigarette
down your throat
Netanya went inside
the caravan
and banged about
with pots and pans
and cups and mugs
I sipped my beer
and smoked my smoke
the female
with the short skirt
hung up her bras
like huge slingshots
I looked away
it was a hot
liquid blue
of a sky day.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
I was an assassin,
With magnifying glass and firecrackers,
Bringing Sodom's destruction down on pismires.
BB's left feathers fluttering on powerlines;
Slingshots made Swiss cheese of tree nests.
It's the Wild West outside the urban boundary
Where the .22 slew coyotes and red-tailed foxes.
Old dogs and tired cats were destroyed.
And just now, when the January thaw is here,
I trapped a housefly between my windows,
Opened to draw air.
It will die of starvation in a merciless frenzy.
****** cried the old king.
"Most foul."
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Stars and slingshots
Hot rocks flying through the sky
Matter blinking at me non-stop
Doesn’t matter were alive
Expanding blackness or bliss
Darkness that I can’t resist
Black holes and myths
Shards of lights and comets
Surviving on the one round stone I’m capable of breathing
Stumbling around with no money desperate for a meaning
Corrupt with greed and corporate crime
Dead presidents more powerful than the one that’s still alive
Money is divine
The bank is god
Stealing is a crime
When the rich are getting robbed
It’s complex but it’s primal
A thirst to have the most
Spit in the faces of your rivals
Stash away and hoarding paper notes
Consumer capitalism is a miracle
Built a world connected
But made us all so cynical
We sit in mansions miserable
It’ll only end when the sun and sky collapses
***** us all in whole
Won’t be a god to grace you
You can’t cash in your worthless souls
By then we’ll probably be somewhere else
Where the wheels keep turning
Crushing the poorer and helping ourselves
On and on until the universe is burning.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
Dante four-hundred-years-later
when it was too late
to consider contemporaries;
and more about encrusting an
English class wit Irish nuns.....
who are we to judge?
the Dire Straits of sensibility....
as a bet: the one true fame
is posthumous cha cha choo
in Buenos Aires' tango and tiaras.
we all said lefty Hendrix and Morrison
in a tongue of Gobi tongue accented for
a rue worth a caramel's worth of yo yo;
maybe i too the tongue-tie buff
in search of the encyclopaedia,
and the higher status Orff tornado...
and wept to catch culprits like slingshots
in the wild west.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
Do you sense it?
The little men
are mixing up a stew again
They are chopping their children
And grinding all the toys
Breaking the women and
Breaking them on
They will peel colours off the swings
And shred them to debris
Do you sense the moons all hiding
Covering up their silver eyes
And the night is angry
It roars and stomps—
A drunken frenzy; it fights
Its own decayed, black being
Oh, Palestine
You and your fidgeting hands
Fingers fight fingers
And skins are ripped
fingers fight fingers still—
There goes the ballad you never sang
There goes the ballad
You sang all around
There go the plastic dolls
Chaste slingshots, fruits never shot down
Oh, Palestine
You and the lightning
Stumbling through the clouds
You, your tumbling birds—There goes the wind
Mourning a violence unmourned
There goes the silence
There goes the noise
There, all the paintings
Eulogies etched in whispers unfathomed
And there go the stones
Cold and blank
All plunging within the gaping mix
As the *** sits quiet
Upon a fire
Birthed from their own white bones
The little men
are cooking up a stew again
Sprinkled with gold, with ashen stars
It boils and burps
A viscous storm
Never to come
As the *** sits quiet all night long
Oh Palestine,
You, your lovers
Lovers and the rest—
When in the morning
The flames are tired, and bones
Bones no more
The stew will still be stirring
With winds raging on
And no one will be left
No one will be left
With winds raging on
No one will be left
Oh Palestine
Where did the little men go so wrong—
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 4:23 PM UTC
Camp Johnson Crossing
Tire swings and cattails
Tall grass and oak trees
Chasing rabbits and picking flowers
Lily pads and orange soda
Pigtails and slingshots
Rolled up jeans and her hand
Wet toes and sunshine
Bubblegum and promises
First kiss and moonlight
Worn paths and carved initials
Fingers and buttons
Love and life
Teardrops and good-byes
Moments and memories
Camp Johnson Crossing
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
isn't it funny how we can now
identify rivers from the air
i see colored squares of grass
living beneath this metal machine
a vantage point that
humans sought from birds
we were always searching for flight formulas
or aiming slingshots toward the stars
maybe writing songs for the gods
sweet melodic pleas
so we could levitate-
separate
into angel dust
precipitation-
sweaty droplets of liquefied soul
drowning the mississippi
in pulls of poison
from my past lives' organs
the very air
that dares to guard the rain
contains all of the oxygen
those bodies had
smoked to stay awake
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC
I live in a glass house and throw
rock after rock til the shards cut through my veins
like warm, bitter butter
from all the soapbox prat falls,
kicks in the teeth,
and busted *****
I get up after each one like
**** is my cannon?!?!"
I wander the streets just
waiting for life to **** me
No ****
No condoms
Just a ****** *** buying *****
with wooden nickels and a brownish white stain on my pants.
Judge me, but do it harshly
Cuz I'm better at it than you are
and I'm gonna stab you
right in the eye
with this plank pulled directly from mine
Kettle's blacker than a couldron,
and I stir em both with a crooked middle finger
I stealthily stuck down my pants
for a stink palm
for an *******
So don't hassle me with that
"don't judge me" ********
That's life, and she makes Judy
look like a fuckin' church mouse
So get your glass house
in order
I'm bringing all my friends
and a dump truck full of rocks,
slingshots,
and bottle rockets.
We're moving boys to men tonight...
We're taking no prisoners to light...
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
They'll stage false flag shootings
- so - that they can begin looting
- us all o' our rifles and muskets.
But - they get to keep their rockets
- and shoot missiles into our homes.
They'll leave us slingshots & stones
- and tell us that we'll all be, just, fine
- unless we should step over a line;
- and if we do, they'll send in nine
- of their Teflon-covered fine-
-st troops: who'll come in and shoot
- us all before we can grab our boots
- and wonder who broke through
- the front door.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC