"spectators" poems
not sure if I am cold
like they believe
or simply numb,
from being treated coldly
for so **** long.
a pretty girl whose smile
is always in rare form
spectators judge
others intriqued
with the quiet storm.
"knock knock,
is anybody home?"
I AM HERE,
but my emotions
are long gone.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Wake up Nigeria whilst it is still day.
Your darkness thickens in the hot summer sun.
Wake up Nigeria from your spectators' fun.
Like a titan to the slaughter, your way
to financial hades might be certain.
Awake, or your future is uncertain.
Your teeming youth population languish
in persistent erosive social crimes.
Awake Nigeria from pain and anguish.
Your tragedies exceed your countless births.
Awake Nigeria, for these many deaths
reveal a corrupt weakened armed forces.
Awake Nigeria from your great slumber.
Your rank in the black world has been usurped.
Awake Nigeria, reclaim your number
one position by treading those courses
once trod, and never again to be stopped.
Awake Nigeria and discern the times.
Cease for good to be black gold dependent.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 9:22 AM UTC
Derartu, Haile, Tirunesh
Kenenisa, Meseret, and all
With a similar footfall!
Displaying a superb
Long-distance athletic feat
When many superstars
Awe inspiringly you beat
And as a result of it
When your sought-for
Fought-for
And nation- prayed-for
Dream proves a hit
And also with kudos
A stadium full of people opt
You to greet
And when spectators
Accord you a high five
It is for your country's flag
You immediately dive!
Also on the podium
while Ethiopia's row-wise
Green,Yellow and Red
Emblazoned flag,
Shoulder high,
Soars above
You express
Your umbilical cord-tight
National love
With tears that
Trickle down each of
Your cheek,quick.
Is it because
Reminiscent of
Each living hero
With a life sacrifice
That brought colonial
Aggression to zero?
Is it because
The bounty of the land
You grew up
Seeing first hand?
Is it because
The cherished corner
You cut in the heart of
The poor but prideful
Ethiopian neighbour?
Is it because
The unity in diversity
That showcases
Ethiopia's identity
Or citizens hospitality?
Is it because
At heart strings a tug
Or ,among others
Gratefulness to
Your iron-strong lung
When you hear
Ethiopian anthem sung?
Is it because a secret another
Deep down you harbour?
Is it because the Fertility
Hope and Sovereignty ideals
The flag advance,
Also Ethiopia's being
A beacon of independence
What is more
The nation's renaissance
Which in a curtain of mist
Before your eyes dance?
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
I want to write something deep and poetic
About the fireworks I saw.
But all I can come up with
Is the physical attributes—
The seeing that I did,
The hearing that I did,
The feeling that I did,
The experiencing that I did.
Red comets shot upward
In a slight arcing path
To explode in brilliant light
And rain down upon the spectators.
There’s a hush of anticipation in the audience
Between the moment they notice
The curling smoke trail,
The breathtaking visual display,
And the slightly delayed KERPOW
As the firework’s sound
Finally makes its way through the air.
Each exploding fragment
Fizzles through the air with a quiet hissing,
Competing with the screeching
Of the next firework going up.
It’s almost kind of sad:
Each firework aims for the sky,
Reaches as high as it can go,
Leaving behind bits of itself as it does so,
But hits some invisible ceiling—
Some fireworks’ ceilings
Are higher than others—
And that is their maximum.
They can take no more,
They cannot reach the sky,
They cannot reach the stars,
They cannot reach their brethren,
And so they explode in their sadness or anger;
But in doing so,
They light the way for others.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
The name sounds alien,
But it seems to be ours,
Belonging to the earth.
There might not be a more enchanting thing,
Than these Northern Lights;
In green and pink,
Like curtains in the sky,
Ready to be raised,
Unveiling a beautiful surprise.
The spectators are less,
(About only a million,)
But the scene keeps on going,
The lights dancing,
Apparently,
To some silent,
Unheard beats.
It looks to have captured my eyes,
For they are glued to it.
And wouldn’t stop gazing,
Till the end of the life.
The green becomes lighter,
With a tinge of pink,
Then the pink dominates.
It looks like a confused kid’s painting,
Unable to decide, which colour to choose,
For the shades keep on changing.
The snow in dark,
Having only these to reflect,
Looks so pure,
So serene,
And frozen,
As it should be.
And still,
As it could be.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.
Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;
The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.
A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.
And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown
And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.
Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
*Two performers debating on a quirky time capsule stage
Evaporating the barriers of time with their improv
As the spectators breathe life into their routine with no turmoil*
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Clear, serene, crystal pool of collected calm
naked to the eye, deceiver of the deceived.
I see myself in you.
And so much i hate.
For you spectators are sport;
To be picked and plowed, ticked and crossed.
Making old wrongs new.
Fooling all.
You lie to my face, I see how you
bend and twist your shape.
Contorting my view. Calling me untrue.
Nothing is upfront.
My hands are tied behind, a foot above
hovers the dagger.
It hangs, yellow, brittle, jagged canine.
Reminds me of your smile.
Villains smile. One day I will rap a knuckle,
crack your rattling skull.
I will open that box and set evil upon the world.
All I have ever known.
Seven years bad luck;
better than a life time.
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
*I want to lay bare the fire in me
before the spectators
I want to be the wisps of smoke
flying through their faces
unfettered
unfazed
liberating what lies entrapped
forever.*
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC
We slump in mismatched chairs. Two hunches
over shame and a 3am breakfast, I think:
*There’s gotta be a reason why art rhymes with ****
If you want anything to go anywhere with any respectable…affect,
the force of pressure on the inside must exceed that from the outside.
Interrupting this genius, He asks:
How can you eat that crap? It’s so…empty.
He is flipping through his coffeeblack back pocket note rag.
It’s soiled, wrinkled concave with the ever-heaving
stomachfuls of his inky midnight doubt, and I would really
rather not have it at the table while I’m eating.
I am pouring another glorious bowl of Frooty Froot Hoops—yeasty,
store-brand sugarfuel for the lower-middle-income child poet.
He spends another tasteless oatmeal evening
reading essays about how to improve his writing.
Instead of, like, writing to improve his writing.
I ask:
If you took a knife to the edge of your boundary’s boundary—stabbed right into your life-world’s fleshy monad-sac,
glory running ****** down your blade,
As you breached forth into the well-lit unknown,
would it still be courageous, if you emerged from
your warm wet ignorance, and they were all waiting outside with mylar balloons, a banner, and "Congratulations on your Artistic Rupture!”
in blue icing on the cake??
There's still a moment there, right?
Petrified in the sap of thrill, in the momentous-stasis between
The arrow flung and the arrow fallen. A moment of
advancement …a moment of abandon!
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
I say:
Newness, originality, (birth), is purely indexical.
It points, and no one notices that all those shiny vegas lights aren't really moving anywhere—It's just utility bills and light-bulb trickery.
They're asking for genesis extended, genesis again and again
and each false gesture points only towards another
incandescent unreachable elsewhere.
(He nods along, still, not listening.)
But there's little monotony in taking a stab!
Even if it's just for them, again, those perennial spectators expecting,
Waiting outside with ***** little pocket notebooks of their own,
crowding the bassinets, ever-eager to begin another “surprise" celebration.
Gulping sweet, sugarpink milk, I say:
I happen to like this crap!
It keeps my knife sharp.
(He nods along, but he isn't listening.)
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
Dig deep in the sand with a cupped shovel-hand
Until you come across a healthy source of water.
Scoop up what you see and let loose the soggy contents,
Let them dribble through a careful filter fist.
Slowly drip foundations and upon them start your fortress
Using steady streams of trickled dribs and drabs.
Stalagmites in hyperspeed form walls and lookout towers
With the damp bricks one by one constructing peaks.
Spectators of all sizes will collect and cast their gazes
But you must keep up the focused droplet swell.
Maiden battles can't be won and so the masterpiece will crumble
To the tide that forces motes to overflow.
Waves crash and reek their havoc on the castle that you managed
To build with will and manky dripping palms.
The sand on which it once stood will be flattened out and polished
To make way for a palace twice as grand.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
The acoustic guitar plays softly, in the background of a critiqued ball room as he made his entrance. The attention of the audience fell upon him; As he walked readily towards the dance floor, The melody of the flute and the rhythm of the bass guitar, Dramatized his beauty. The spectators in fear, but his passion so real, As I stared into his eyes, that made beauty felt unreal everything else that surrounded me disappeared. He focused his eyes on the dance floor they began to whisper; Who will he choose? Who has to leave now? He flashed his eyes upon the viewers that were once in shock, now in terror, but their ****** expression in awe. The apothegm states that he continually seeks for the one that would heal his disease but bound to the power of the earth’s forces, his determined, stunning eyes will never be able to reveal, the secret one that can heal. The bass drums play wildly as he shows the crowd his fury. The once stunned viewers now begin to panic, but I draw myself closer. Before I could reach him someone else got in the way. “I would like to die” was the words I know her to repeatedly say. He gently pushed himself away in anger. He looked around the ball room, and observed the reaction of the audience to his response. They’re now in astonishment. He then stopped and his focal point was clear. The piano and the cello played softly to become one with his voice. He said to me “let us dance.” I’m frightened, the majority of the onlookers left in a daze. My vision weakened before our dance began. He smiled, and as he looked upon my face all the instruments faded away. He said to me is this your last dance? Will you leave us tonight? I’m the kiss of death will you close your eyes forever or will you leave me in delight?”
Nov 19, 2009
Nov 19, 2009 at 9:39 AM UTC
Elevate the sound
Slowly and surely
you have to listen
smell, taste and touch
the music
Alcohol? Yes.
Drugs? Yes.
What kinds? All kinds.
60 people in a room w/ worn out walls
an unwanted male is followed by hecklers
the matriarchs have had enough
and bull him to the door
He doesn't want to leave
the party is just beginning
The clowns follow him
like wild hyenas
He fights like a lion
targets the clan of the matriarch
the young and weak
is it correct to aim the violence on the weak
because the strong is of the opposite gender?
Is it right to abuse the rule
Woman: the untouchable
People being to watch
w/ their dying spectators eyes
in another section a large male confronts the house owner
They begin their violent dance of limbs
Swarming bodies collide
violent outburst
chaotic music to accompany
I scream a devils scream
fighting everywhere
Another matriarch
she jumps on the crowd
using a whiskey bottle for a club
dancing on top of the twirling bodies of energy
A pit-bull barks aggressively
people start to jump out windows
everybody is way too high
The fighting stops
with the arrival of cops
nobody listens
their vision of authority thwarted
nobody is arrested
narcotics present
amphetamine fuel
We burned a cross in a large fire half an hour earlier
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
Silky smooth,
Tender veins,
Numerous petals
Smell sweet.
Beautiful.
Admired.
A spectators gaze,
Floral physique.
Made for my
Enjoyment.
Just as pretty
As He views me.
The flowers -
Alluring
Yet, I'm lovelier
Than peonies.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
Another gladiator fell
Watering the field in blood.
His head was sheathed,
He never cut through the net
That descended from the stands.
The iron-fisted trident
Brought thumbs up from the spectators
Indulging in the beer and nuts.
There are always some to be sacrificed
To placate the mob in the colosseum
Beneath the night lights on Mondays,
When Coke is the drink of victors,
And jerseys are sold to the trainees
Who now put on their spikes.
These are ours
Running headlong into the arena.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
I feel like a ******* superhero
when I think about You
walking around your college campus,
150 miles away,
your behind shaking back and forth
As if to tell the spectators,
“No.”
Your ******* nod up and down,
Approving your soft face.
The suitors
trail you like butterflies,
proclaiming their love for you aloud
they swim in your wake of sugar,
the place you inhabit
glows with golden energy.
You turn them all down
because for some reason
I am the lucky one.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
The South African sun caused my
Eleven year old eyes to squint.
Sat in the stadium, my father and I,
Sweated and watched rugby;
A father - daughter tradition.
That Saturday afternoon was the final,
The stands were crowded and full,
Like a fish-tank ready to burst
At any moment.
In front of my father and I,
There sat a dark-haired woman
In a lose fitting jersey.
About forty minutes in,
She bent down, sudden and quick,
Her head, hitting her kneecaps,
She screamed her intense screams;
Muffled in her own bent body,
Some spectators thought her crazy,
She continued her whails, and soon
A small crowd grew in front of us,
One man pulled her straight in her seat,
Her hands, her face, her her legs and stomach
Were all drenched red with blood.
No one ever heard the gunshot;
They traced it back to its origin,
Two hundred meters away,
Fired from a building by the stadium.
The bullet just happened to land where it did,
And the game went on.
- Jamie F. Nugent
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
every so often
they threw the seal a fish
though it was only a small fish
the seal would jump for joy
he would wiggle his fins
his nose, his eyes
his space coming alive
and from his landing
he would dive into the water
with the youthfulness of a pup
diving after that little silver
like it was for the first time
his eyes wider than the moon
as he streaked across the pool
with pent up
exuberance
so graceful
and in rhythm
his back to the spectators
but not really
as his moon peeks through
the surface
back towards the smiles
the cheers, the applause
it meant the world to him
receiving
the acceptance
and acknowledgment
the likes, the love
the words from the butterflies
descending on his blooms
for
he sees and hears
feels their touches
his splashes of fate
leaving his face golden
and beholden
in the face of sorrow
he circles back to the surface
pockets of bubbles rising
like his love for the audience
that little silver
wiggles of his daily grace
now his sustenance
his nose, his eyes
his shrill coming alive
and now back at his landing
animated
and blessed
his moon shining at the spectators
and in all sincerity
he lets out an arf, arf, arf
intonations
and sublimity
dancing in the moonlight
thankyou
Logan Robertson
10/14/2018
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
I'll have my heart in a gift box wrapped in see-through,
embellished with flowers, dedicated to you.
I'll spread a smear of glitter on it, maybe a little gold too,
so it doesn't seem so bitter, so overdue.
I hope it's vivacious; if it was pumping still,
and with prudent words you would overkill.
Its liveliness--once, now long forgotten--will decay in your palms.
Daffodils and daisies will melt into your hands, betraying all qualms.
Being the human that I am, obliged me to always seek knowledge.
I loved everything. Everything was a wreckage.
The fact that humans can cause this much damage enlightened me,
yet the thought of persuing self-destruction further could never set me free.
I was distraught till I was numb to the bones,
paralyzed on the cold tiles, silencing my own moans,
because what future awaits those who are namely the sick-minded,
the delusional, the know-it-all, the blindsided?
For spectators like us, we set everything into action,
to those who are less fortunate; the earth is flattened.
Their ideas, their meticulous theorems and allegories would all be dispersed,
by those who ignited the fire from the beginning. By the universe. By us.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
“The Maiden”
Over her long legs,
Hips sway in a salacious manner,
As she strolls,
Past the gaggle of gentlemen,
Mustering the valor to face,
Their glances varying from curiosity,
To disgust,
Perhaps intrigue as these men,
Behold this exotic form of femininity.
An aura of mystery emanates,
From a tenderly warm demeanor,
Welcoming the viewers,
Who encounter this daughter of Aphrodite,
Capturing attention regardless of,
One’s alleged reasoning.
Intrepid knights receive the blessing,
To witness the hazel windows,
Into a maiden’s soul,
Deeply adorned with unbidden intensity,
Bestowing a small glimpse,
Into a beguiling beauty,
Mistaken as a cozening siren,
To an untrained eye.
Many chaps desire her,
Until revelations bereave these fellows,
Of security interwoven into the fabric,
Of society sewn with fine threads,
Uniting into an existence of conformity.
Some licentious men lunge,
At the maiden,
Gaping at what these fellows,
Observe as a tantalizing goddess,
Desiring to place lascivious hands,
Upon her soft skin.
Misguided stories allow life to be given,
To glaring spectators,
Spewing jeers of rancor,
Bemused as the unknown,
Deftly saunters near,
The valley of Oblivion.
Like the majestic Mona Lisa,
The maiden consists of subtle nuances,
Painting her tributes behind cryptic techniques,
Allowing one to inspect her façade,
Learning her similarities to the wind,
Feeling her spirit,
Rather than glancing upon visual proof.
The souls encountering the maiden,
Gain respite from strangling thoughts,
Placated by her light,
Revealing the contrasts,
The highlights to expose,
An extraordinary beauty,
Manifesting from genuine kindness,
Breaths of generosity,
And irrevocable love of all shades and tints,
Within a painter’s palate.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
*When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut. I told myself, "I want to see the stars and the planets up-close." I think probably we all had that stage in childhood where we all wished to be space walkers like Armstrong.
But eight years later, now I don't wish to be an astronaut anymore. I wish to be a writer. Because I have already seen all of the stars and the nebulae in your eyes. I wonder how they all got condensed in those two small circles like the moon. I whisper to myself, "It's so lustrous."
I already felt the weightlessness of space in your kisses, and your hugs are like oxygen tanks -- I need them to breathe. And when I see you-- just looking at your gait and smelling your perfume is even more enthralling than being in a launching rocket ship that pierces through the clouds and breaks the invisible mantle that separates the Earthly skies from the cosmic tapestry called "the rest of the universe". And I float away from reality and just revolve around the idea of you and nothing more like how the satellites of Jupiter revolve around it almost eternally.
I don't need to see the constellations anymore nor the planets or the meteors because I have seen them all in your skin-- I painted them on your skin. Others might call it bruises, but they do not understand that your body-- your neck, your arms, your chest are empty spaces and it'd feel like a sin not to embellish them with love marks -- the bruises that do not scream pain but* I love you's. *And I love you.
More than all the splendor of space, I still find your hair and the arch of your back and the gaps between your fingers and your clavicles so much more beautiful. Even this galaxy we live in seem to be unfit for its name: Milky Way. I think that name suits better your complexion alone. And when you smile-- oh, your smile! -- it is more radiant than the brightest comet and more warm than the hottest blue star; even the sun in the most arid summer-- it just gives me sunburns, but your smile, only yours, renders my heart melted.
When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut because I wanted to see the space. But now I don't anymore. Because I learned that astronauts are just spectators and I want to write about the universe. I want to write about you.*
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
*The cordons of existence are constricting
For the keepers of the dream have let us down,
Who will buy tomorrow if performances are hollow
Causing all the global spectators to frown?
American has been the silk pyjamas
Since ’45 they’ve lead the world’s display
In health and wealth and brandishing the muscle
But in recent times it seems they’ve seen their day.
For since Clinton’s time the National debt has spiralled
They’ve departed brushfire wars in disarray,
Default now looms obscene with disharmony supreme
With Congressional leaders ranting in the fray.
The fiasco of a Government held to ransom
By a faction of extremist’s from the right,
Whilst the greenback in decline won’t change water into wine
The dire threat of fiscal chaos causes fright.
So global confidence is fading in the dollar
And the watchers shake their heads in blank despair,
For the willingness to follow is now a bitter pill to swallow
When the USA’s rock steadiness aint’ there.
So, what’s around the corner for tomorrow?
What aspirants are waiting in the wings?
With a fading USA perhaps it’s China’s turn to play
Though that’s going to mean adjustments made to things.
Of course we’re venturing into territory’s unchartered
And the crystal ball consulted, isn’t clear
But one thing I can assure, if this is what we must endure,
Is that our tomorrows will be something, now, to fear.*
Marshalg
Auckland N.Z.
19 October 2013
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
The male tortoise was quite harried,
more than that hurt,
not being able to get
the logistics right,
to copulate with its mate,
even after repeated attempts,
in which the girl did her best!
The keeper of his cage
and other men stood
as mute spectators,
looking the other way
acting coy,
offering no help.
**How could he know
that they didn't want
to be seen
as a zoophilous lot!**
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
sunset faces
seem filled with thoughtful reflection
eyes drawn to their own page of living
and their own written in stone paths
the golden light of the westbound sun
gives its kindness to her weathered face
hides the lines of worry
that have shadowed her days
and in the dark hour
it will be the afterimage of her golden moment
that will sketch this day in ink for me
that will define this place for me
the profile of her face in golden sunset
her proud strong frailty
that her standing spoke so loudly
as to confound the darkness
and in thouse dying embers of daylight
behind and by her side all these silent spectators
to this strange day shall mark it within their own hearts
what they beheld on this side road of humanity's circus
one old woman stood and defeated the darkness
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC