"snipe" poems
on the other-side of a grave wall
there may rightly be a water-vessel
that is chicken-hearted by birth
there may not be around her
a stretching of water-body
do remember
when we all went that day to catch the train
the room of the rail-station was totally vanished
after enquiry it was revealed that
it had gone to observe holidays with its family
in the yolk of the eggs of the snipe
before opening the no-door to take a leap i also knew
that the top-branch of a green and large grasshopper
was mainly made up of white-stones
i did not also have
any mystic words
given by the moon
to recite silently
so without caring for the water
i made a all-complete ocean
with sands and cement
throughout the year
solvency gets down
from the body of the traffic signal
even-then
the monsoon this year
has been under the poverty-line
and the ray of hope is that
it is this circuitous route
leading to the top of the himalaya
that would one day
play the tune of differential calculus
on her guitar
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
GOOD Father John O'Hart
In penal days rode out
To a Shoneen who had free lands
And his own snipe and trout.
In trust took he John's lands;
Sleiveens were all his race;
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters.
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his Shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From the wives, and the cats, and the children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, "Have peace now';
And he went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them give over their keening;
For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John,
When, weeping score by score,
People came into Colooney;
For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea
And the world round Knocknashee
Came keening in that day.
The young birds and old birds
Came flying, heavy and sad;
Keening in from Tiraragh,
Keening from Ballinafad;
Keening from Inishmurray.
Nor stayed for bite or sup;
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up.
3.7k
No second chances!
No do-overs!
That is one of the regreatable rules of time.
No more pigtails & pretty dresses,
No more Horsey-back & Piggy-back rides,
No more Tee-ball & Soccer,
No more Marry Poppens & Wizard of OZ,
No more Popcorn & Video games,
No more homework & bed time stories,
No more marshmellow roasts & snipe hunts,
No more sand castles & sand dollars,
No more Sparklers & Pinwheels.
No time to pause & reflect!
It can only cause regret!
Enjoy it along the way while you can.
Everything is temporary.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
If I Could Write Anger into Poetry
If I could write anger into poetry I'd write about how five months with someone has led me to almost 6 months of insanity
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how he said he was depressed his sophomore year but I knew "was" wasn't the right tense of the word and I didn't say anything more
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how ******* him didn't change the way he treated me (not that I ever imagined we'd be here)
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about all the times he swore he wasn't talking to her
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how I begged him to stay
If I would write anger into poetry I would write about my headache from screaming so loud the night I found out he was talking to her
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about the time they walked by me in the hallway and all of a sudden it all became too real; I was nothing.
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about the pit in my stomach and the tears in my eyes as I watched them wear matching colors at prom
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about watching the girl who called me " the ****** ex" take a snipe of me and send it to him as if I am blind to other teenage girls
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how I swear I can still smell his cologne in the passenger seat of my car
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how he broke up with me when all I wanted was him and he didn't break up with her when she cheated on him and how that makes me feel like every atom of my being is nothing
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how I dreamt of literally trying to strangle an apology out of him and he kept saying "no, no, no"
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how that doesn't compare to the dreams where he kisses my neck and tells me he still loves me
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about suddenly waking up at 5:00 am because my blood is boiling about the time almost a year ago we were waiting in line for popcorn and he said that his parents wouldn't care if he died and I didn't say anything more
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how I watched him laugh with his friends in school about how he ripped me apart vein by vein and months later he tries to tell me he is sorry
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how socially embarrassing it is to confide in the one person who betrayed you
If I could write anger into poetry I would write about how he's gotten worse and there's nothing I can say, nothing I can do. I am meaningless now.
If I could write anger into poetry, I would.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
My heroes don’t wear capes or camouflage
Don’t snipe from sand dunes or hide behind mirages
Don’t shoot hoops in Nike shoes
Or praise Jesus while supporting corporate issues
My heroes hold hands on picket lines and tear gassed streets
Wear blood red wounds from aggressive police
Sigh and cry for the innocent
Try and try against impossible odds
Sing songs of freedom
Not the military type but the kind that social movements keep bringing
And they are still bleeding
And they are still singing
And they are still marching
And they are still dreaming
My heroes keep
Carrying children from the wreckage
Running into burning buildings
Bandaging wounds
Holding the hands of strangers who are in danger,
Sheltering strangers, feeding strangers,
Caring for the poor,
Singing songs of love,
Putting down their guns and refusing to ****
While they pass out water bottles on the battlefield
These are my heroes
And they are still healing
And they are still singing
And they are still loving
And they are still dreaming
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample ***** where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.
now " who could that be ? "
agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Red
Bed
Lead
Head
Gob
Rob
Sob
Mob
Flit
Fit
Bit
Writ
Ooze
Cruise
Choose
Lose
Glut
****
Rut
Mutt
Ace
Race
Space
Face
Haze
Craze
Daze
Maze
Crump
****
Dump
Slump
Wipe
Ripe
Snipe
Tripe
Dub
Grub
Tub
Hub
Gnaw
Draw
Flaw
Saw
Gape
Ape
Tape
Vape
Lick
Sick
Nick
Pick
Flop
Plop
Drop
Mop
Age
Rage
Sage
Page
Bend
Tend
Mend
End
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
you knew
what you were
doing
with all that
slinking around
in
lingerie and
leather
it didn’t matter
to you
that I was
only
ten
you kissed
my childlike eyes
with an
open mouth
until I adjusted
to the
light in the
cave
of your
tongue and
teeth and
lips
you hot, ****
handgun
in high-heels
you were
dancing
on a primetime
table
hammer-cocked
back
turned sideways
for show
commercial
breaks were
the 75 cent
bathroom
vending-machine
condoms
that couldn’t
stop
anything
are you as
proud of
my glorious
fist-fights
as you are of
how
good you
look
with the right
lighting?
my gaze is
handcuffed
to the bedpost
of death
and light-
hearted
****** mysteries
because it’s
just
make
believe
so what, if
it is pretty
violent
after all?
it is
pretty
it is
violent
sure, I’ll
grow
out of it
or get
over it
if I don’t
grow
into it
or get
under it
like I got
under your
sheets
“all the better
to snipe you
with, my dear”
and
I haven’t felt
any of it
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
The King’s trove, the Queen’s affection.
Or rather, her affectations.
Pretention is the worst kind of beast,
snarling in the corner and snatching out with snipe claws.
It wipes my nose with its shirttail, then pronounces my snot
something of wonder it has created.
It causes such an itch in my throat, ensuing a
gag that threatens to choke the flare within me.
Trust it, and you will be following those signs that declare
Ogres! and
Certain Death!
not far ahead.
You will reach under its nautical waves and
Duped! Done for!
Now say ‘hello’ to your watery hollow.
You won’t find God here, or even
an ounce of hope to take flight.
All that will be left is a bitter taste on your tongue and the sound of
“Why, oh why…”
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:10 AM UTC
I awoke from pseudo-sleep to frigid sweats and an unhealthy heartbeat
my mind snowy as the television opposite me, morning, half past three.
I dreamt up a personal narrative, reflecting on dreams forgone
time deferred, potential memories collecting dust on a suburban lawn.
Similar to that of books gifted to me, never read, and currently locked,
Vonnegut converses with Hemingway within a cavernous box.
Tucked neatly beside the dehumidifier, bottom level of my fortress
My once-manicured front yard so overgrown, you'd expect wild horses
galloping about like I once did before my femur weathered like sea glass,
leaving me like my alabaster figurines, just more stationary mass.
I've grown accustomed to drawn curtains and opening them at nightfall,
my eyeballs have grown to love staring contests with my blankest wall.
Not-quite-yet-discarded alcohol bottles have become my closest fellows,
kind enough to let me grasp them as action figures between my yellowed fingertips. We'd make dates to watch Local on the 8's together,
humming along blissfully to the muzak without regard to the weather.
Since my everyday life now remains a comfy 72 degrees, accompanied
by a soundtrack of leaky faucets and turning pages of AARP magazines.
Now completely alone I float, clinging to life in a sea of unknown
Clawing a barely buoyant lifevest filled with styrofoam and rhinestones
If I were still as spry as a spring chicken, I'd walk ten paces in the kitchen,
I'd draw my nine and snipe a mirror for displaying an unpleasant image.
If my eyes had less cataracts I'd be in the process of shredding them to bits
because I never wanted to peer through lenses so dull and spiritless.
If my ears were better, I'd hear fewer phantom telephone rings,
answer every telemarketer, hear more synthetic voices advertising things.
I'd never touch my college sweaters for the regrets they would conjure,
But now I'm finally grown up, wasn't that what I always wanted?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
I am a poetic bad boy
I am a poetic good boy
I'm a Poetic gutter snipe
Some words are good and cool
some crap and makes me fool
I'm a poetic guttersnipe
Read me if you want to
I don't give a f**k if you don't
for I am a poetic guttersnipe
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Is it naive to hope or dream,
To dream of hope, or hope to dream?
Some say it is naive to ask a question.
A question forged by a dream with hope of success.
Upon the topic familiar to the thespian.
A dream of which you hope would be redeemed.
For when you ask you believe it your task.
When you puck up some courage, its not what it seems.
To ask the question in the dream once had.
Although the answer you receive may or may not be.
Be as you believe in the dream.
The reply comes but not as a beam of warmth and ecstasy.
But a beam of darkness and regret.
So, the hope is gone, the dream is shattered.
With you now standing still and tattered,
With memories.
Memories of the dream now shattered.
And all the while your heart now battered.
Your outlook is now bleak
With you now feeling weak.
Again you repose the question with hope that.
That the dream once had could be more than a dream.
It’s 50/50, yes or no,
However.
We all know the results reside in the latter.
With more planning given to the former.
Due to the hope in a dream now lost.
You stand there now alone and cold with nothing.
Nothing but the ensuing darkness closing in.
Falling now as though of lead.
You try to stumble off to bed,
You weep a silent tear,
Among a wash of despair and fear.
That all will be lost and propped-up for the entire world to laugh and sneer.
And shout “fool!”
For they knew the aforementioned dreams were that of pipes.
And you are certain that they will poke and snipe.
To derive their own sadist torment for the woe that drags you off to bed.
You lie there now weeping
Sobbing and not yet sleeping.
With dreams of dreams,
And hopes of dreams.
And the hope to dream of her again.
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
You undersell me
And overwhelm me
Your lovely tidal wave
Cuts like a bridal blade
Your knife slices so deep
It drags on my bone
Your knife must meet sheath
For me to find home
Your blade
Is high grade
So sharply acute
It cuts all roots
I didn't realize emotions went this deep
You use your blade to slaughter sheep
If they don't survive your brain surgery
Or your engrained perjury
You're the blade
But you don't hunt vampires
I want you to stay
And light my heart's fire
Don't Wesley snipe at me
Or point your knife at me
Just hold me
So I forget the old me
Cut out what you don't like
Until I made only of light
The process is painful
But you change me
Cut from every angle
You rearrange me
You make improvements
By cutting grooves in
I'm so afraid I may disappoint you
Because I have already anointed you
My king
I wear your ring
That severs my fingers
Making me useless
When so much love lingers
But I can't prove this
There is a ****** blade at my throat
While our love precariously floats
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 5:31 AM UTC
You go strains of mad when...
...Ambition becomes Eating Your Own Hunger Pains
With savaged pride you feel that all you need to achieve in life
Can be done faster with gold and good courtship
You croon apologies to your ideas and hope they stay.
They don't stay.
You go strains of mad when...
...Demonic intercession is hailed as miracle
You pay your division of a vast tithe into coffers you never see
and watch with shame and awe at a penetrative truth
working noisily behind curtains.
This polls well.
You go strains of mad when...
...Dust and diamonds are sold as combi-packs,
**** comes in boxes of strict six; for illustrative purposes, if you want four you've got to sell or discard two for your reputation.
There's no loyalty card or price-break on bulk.
I'm flat broke.
You go strains of mad when...
...A nobody sketches you with disarming accuracy
Their medium is a third hand snipe relayed with bitter remove
No more the taut nymphette lounged aground, on the rocks
The naked crystal uniform of your debtless regime, gone.
You're a shirt and name-tag girl now.
You go strains of mad when...
...Pockets burst outside the Church yard sale
The Ministry guilts you into buying all the furniture and music
moving it one piece at a time into your life until
suddenly you have a Church to burn
Just in time for winter.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC
He held his gun,
Prepared to snipe,
An evil laugh was given from distance,
And through the air it disappeared,
He pushed the grip,
The bullet flied,
And it landed inside the heart,
Of what was once called,
"Brother"...
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
Third world livin' is the intention
While im.sittin' in Satan's detention
Need I mention all the little henchmen
Trolls streamin' tag teamin'
Nothin' but government covert
Intervenin' &. schemin'
Tryna see who's conscious and who advocates the nonsense
Big brother watching with there Rolex's tick tocking no need for.knocking
Kick down the doors walk through the corridors
of the media studios blast everybody I see
Set the Islamic bombs then escape free
Catastrophe givin' by me
It's me the prophet of Lost Destiny it God in me
And I'll be labeled an adversary to the epitome
jailed with no bail ain't no freedom.of speech
New world we'll slaughter fools ain't gettin' smarter
Wise up young blood wipe the crud out my eyes
Cuz brighter days are comin' Techs is hummin'
Armageddon World War III will be summoned
Millions of souls being rapture
Takin' captive
By the Muthafuckin' Puppet masters
As I travel through time
Deep in my mind
Hip hop approachin' the flat line
Nigguhs in blackface lookin' disgrace
Wipe the smiles off Satan's face
Corporate Companies ****** up our unity
Dictatin' what to play in our community
They say it ain't about race
But I'm lookin' with my optics
White audience is the topics makin' hot profits
Got nigguhs minds lynched my fist clinched
Punch out the airwaves and the medias a and how they portray
US want us to keep the guns bust
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
Breakin' off America's Pie Crust I don't eat it
From.the ******** they feedin'
Rockin' craniums im.from the slums
Makin' liberals go crazy mental in an asylum
So as the beat goes on I'm gonna continue strong
No hate for whites but hate for whites that push that ******** black stereotypes
Deep aim wipe my snipe wipe
Out competition **** the FCC commission
As my visions progresses movin' faster
Eradictin' my enemies that are servant to the fuckin' Puppet Masterssssss
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Or Why I Left Medium.com
Sing, Muse, the futile war betwixt genders.
Hate, stupidity, intolerance, PC ********
Femmes Afeared of contradiction. Shout.
Their castrato sycophants. Here, *****
Nannie and her harridan hyenas. Attack.
On Medium you will be well done. Fried.
Hordes of Harpies hurling lightening.
Petulant little girls. Stamp feet. Pull hair.
Free to agree; otherwise, shut up.
Hidden behind PC barriers, they snipe.
All men are potential rapists. Factoid.
All women are helpless victims. Fact.
Millennial milquetoasts. Everywhere.
Do exactly as you are told
or take your evil ***** and fold.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
Like a breath of fresh air -
A zephyr, young and fair;
Raven haired, but dyed for flair;
Intense eyes - piercing, bovine stare.
Refreshing intelligence, with wit to match;
Nubile and sensual - Oh, what a catch!
But alas! for this old fool,
All his charms make him appear such a tool!
Sly remarks and innuendo abound;
Even though she's amused, she must be bound
To think, while flattered, that this ****
Is an occupational hazard of a hospitality job.
So this fool shall be content to make her smile
And suppress his profound feelings for the while,
Until the beautiful, youthful flower blossoms, ripe
To be plucked by one with a romantic stripe
And if it be not he who pens this tripe
Then he should be happy and not snipe.
Realising, though broken hearted, that he
Should never have competed for the heart of she
That is destined for success in whatever field she applies
Her dazzling charms and wily smarts, while he cries
For the Valentine he failed to impress
With his basal humour and flirtatious address.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
And he sleeps
Amongst the fisherman,
And the cab drivers,
And he's with me at midnight
Where the devil's hour draws
Closer to the lone sidewalk
And we are all ghosts
And I'm on the edge
Of a proverbial cliff and he's
There with me.
And he is no longer
Jesus of the Chapel
But of the slum dwellers,
Of the motocycle bikers,
Of the sodomites mentioned in
Howl and thought to
Roam the nights unsatiated.
That God.
The one I'm looking for.
The savior with an armsling
And an extensive knowledge
Of ***********
Every position every crack
Every twist and turn.
That God
Who baptized needles pinned
Freshly to tattoos
And made theologians
Out of tax collectors
And Jesus
Whose nails
Were used to tattoo
The words "King" grisly
On his forehead
And he was chiseled
On a cross,
Not hung.
Spurs on his feet licked
Like lapdogs by tongues
Hungry still for love,
Laying at the foot of the
Memory Jesus,
Crying,
All adulterers and profaners
And cheaters and liars all,
Who laugh
And sneer and snipe
In disbelief at his memory.
Ours.
At his clean, pierced hand
Slowly turning to ash
At the weight of our
Ink, face turning to bulletholes
As the chests decay
Into some kind of
Gang war amalgamation,
Tongues swollen,
Organs numb,
***** pierced with rose thorns
And rubbed with alcohol
And lubricant and
Sharp fingernails.
And we weep
As we are transfigured in return,
Each wound a closing scar.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
The feeling that I give you is one of long hailed and expected love. That word, L-O-V-E, it's possibly the one emotion that can't be suppressed, I came from Selma, a slim that;s mildly better than the ghettos and projects of Chicago. But you know that, you're of the same background, and yet we still find an above classiness inside ourselves.
This is real, more real than Farrakhan, and hated and tampered with just as much. No dream can be as straight-forward, a poet is a poet, but when word cun meets form sway, electricity is formed.
What people mean is to sneak away and snipe us from afar, gunning what we have down so that the movement fails permanently. They don't know, they can't know, and so they walk around un-enlightened and dreams lose their appeal to them.
I had also forgotten love, being tossed around in usage and riddled with untold guilts, but you spared my soul, you chilled my heat and made me the perfect temperature. You are my regulator.
I gave all when I gave my heart, but you substantially replaced it with your energy. It wasn't enough to you? It was to me, and that's all that really counts now.
They wonder what reason you have to smile, tell them that you're awake. Tell them that you've finally jumped down the rabbit-hole, and it's not as deep and scary as they've claimed
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
it isn't some fairy fiction or a dark verbal snipe,
it is a tribute to an explorer and his atypical psychic hype.
Not long ago, this lost explorer met a new friend,
But he was already scarred, he was afraid to even shake hand,
this new friend of his, was full of ebullience and light,
whereas he was just a desolate soul known as the pall knight,
She wanted to create a bond, forged from love and care,
but he was chained with all the hate and isolation, he had to bear,
she gave him a source of light, she guided him out of this maze,
she annihilated the viscous demons, pacified his obnoxious rage,
its like she was sent for him, to fill his blank page,
to color his dark canvas of life, to end his forlorn stage.
he then felt a warmth in his frozen soul, he felt more alive and restored.
there was no limit to how much grateful he was,
for she freed him from a deception.
there was no limit how tranquil his soul was,
for it was guided to a superior inception.
Then when he was just ready to say hi,
to this new friend, with whom he wanted to fly,
and all these new feelings, he wanted to try,
he ran all the way to her place, he searched for his angel,
instead he found a note that inscribed,
" I'm glad you found yourself, now stay the same until you die,
maybe we'll cross our paths here or maybe in the paradise,
but you will always find me within you, if you try,
take care my friend, for now its a goodbye."
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
I rearranged my room but I could
Not rearrange the stars I bought a blue
Towel for the bathroom and I tried to
Forget about you but I could not.
I am more snipe when I drink
This is not a drunk poem…lies and lies
And lies. I rearranged my room but I could
Not rearrange you.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
From cold wickedness and sly pack more magnums
Than PI Infamous wise guy see the world's cry
From a Thousand yard stare light year glare none can compare
My flows a magnet hard not to get attracted
Thoughts subtracted from the rhymes abstracted
This ain't an act or a tactics my southpaw be raw
Outlaw living out dramas with out laws
Invoke perdition from the hidden commissions
Y'all still wishin'
Upon a star snake bezel shinin' cane like Jafar
Yo I wonder if they know who we are
Braced into my race now they getting a taste
Of an intellectual toxic waste get sprayed like mase
Ya loosin' sight tryna fight the might
As my cells excite off of a dope write soon to snipe
All the hype got more mack skills than Dolemite
Bringin' back down from the Htown we ******* up
Without the driver I'm
liver
Learn from my past mistakes cuz I grew wiser
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 7:53 PM UTC
sea wake
shale rake
snipe & drake
winters slake
tern & turn
rush & fern
grey dawn
a wings return
moons caul
weasels maul
muted toll
wicked all
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC