"spies" poems
watch her eyes
because they're watching you
her eyes are spies
secrets they know to be true
watch her eyes
creep into her head
watch her closely
before she's dead
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
She Walks By
A Beautiful Lady
And She Smiles
We Catch Eyes
Like Two Spies
She Is Fly
Sassy Little Lady
Eyes Don’t Lie
Her lips Sealed
Red Lips Stick
I Said “Hi”
Her Body Language
Gave The Reply
So Slick, She’s Sly
Keep Our Secrets
My Beautiful Lady
Walk On: Bye
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Their whispers
seep through
the wall vents,
the crackle in the phone,
the inch space underneath their bedroom door.
They fake normalcy.
A pair of
spies
devising plans
to deal with
their children,
their belongings,
their money.
I silently holler
the flaw
in their plan.
Fake.
My siblings remain
oblivious, but
I wonder:
Maybe they were always
faking.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
Wild rose, aggressive usurper,
relentless conqueror of attention, quarrels
wants to make me jelous,
pretends she is nothing but poetry distilled,
stops at every table and whispers:
"He is hard prose, the syntax, I can't grasp"
Unmindful of sly looks from various corners,
that in fact suggest, I had good riddance,
I am concerned about the clutter on my desk,
that escaped my notice during the days I was in that chasm
I was deeply in to Dostoevsky,
my cleansing ritual on such occasions: the Russian masters
when she passed my cubicle she spies Chekhov
lying on my table, waiting his turn
"The lady with the lapdog"* she reads aloud, with suspicion
would she ever understand, what Dostoevsky to me,
would have told?
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
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Paragliding is a matter of maths.
You launch, fly, land, bash or crash.
How you meet the ground depends on maths.
Maths is key to survival.
Allowances for maths out of your control, will drive your fun.
Wind, heat, thermals and other pilots in the sky.
Unforgiving ground is gravity's final aim.
The wind will blow, thermals will lift, but gravity's maths will always win.
Your time in the air, and possibly life's end, will depend pilot error.
But gravity's maths doesn't care, he is all.
Gravity is annoyed with paragliders aiming at the ground with miss.
Gravity has calculated it's maths.
He spies those who fly forever, and wishes them on the ground.
With silence and invisibility, he draws those pilots in.
Some follow the maths and land with ease.
Some ignore the maths with peril.
Gravity's maths will always win.
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
* "Our cattle graze, the wind breathes." -Garcilaso *
It was my ancient voice
ignorant of thick bitter juices.
I sense it lapping my feet
beneath the fragile wet ferns.
Ay, ancient voice of my love,
ay, voice of my truth,
ay, voice of my open flank,
when all the roses flowed from my tongue
and grass knew nothing of horses' impassive teeth!
Here are you drinking my blood,
drinking my tedious childhood mood,
while in the wind my eyes are bludgeoned
by aluminum and drunken voices.
Let me pass the gates
where Eve eats ants
and Adam seeds dazzled fish.
Let me return, manikins with horns,
to the grove where I stretch
and leap with joy.
I know a rite so secret
it requires an old rusty pin
and I know the horror of open eyes
on a plate's concrete surface.
But I want neither world nor dream, nor divine voice,
I want my freedom, my human love
in the darkest corner of breeze that no oen wants.
My human love!
Those hounds of the sea chase each other
and the wind spies on careless tree trunks.
Oh ancient voice, burn with your tongue
this voice of tin and talc!
I long to weep because I want to,
as the children cry in the last row,
because I'm not man, nor poet, nor leaf,
but only a wounded pulse circling the things of the other side
I want to cry out speaking my name,
rose, child and fir-tree beside this lake,
to speak my truth as a man of blood
slay in myself teh tricks and turns of the word.
No, no. I'm not asking, I, desire,
voice, my freedom that laps my hands.
In the labyrinth of screens it's my nakedness receives
the moon of punishment and the ash-drowned clock.
Thus I was speaking.
Thus I was speaking with Saturn stopped the trains,
when the fod and Dream and Death were seeking me.
Seeking me
where the cows, with tiny pages' feet, bellow
and where my body floats between opposing fulcrums.
5.7k
Puissant piquant and predatory
And observant from afar
He looks down on your slumber
Like a door that's left ajar
Plying with his manly vice
A reckless male visage
A rogue of masculine device
Seeks entrance to your mind
He saunters with a swagger
A macho savvy moxie
To personify virility's incarnate
His dream zone's metier
He sifts your ****** entourage
In search of sprawls recumbence
To tantalize climactic fervor
With lambent photic scenes
Grasping at your revelries
He spies the wanton lust
With swanky strut appealing
Your primal urge to sate
He leaves undone resistance
With innate resilience seized
The lavish wayward implications
Of unrequited livid deeds
Like passion's lurid lecheries
An insatiable torrid sooth
You wrestle with his adamance
Your carnal ecstasies revealed
You pounce on his exsertion
You splay your agile form
wriggling like a supple nymph
You accept his blatant storm
You writhe in your abandon
In a euphoric supplication
His machismo ****** enveloping
Your wildest latent needs
With no regrets or reticence
you awaken from this dream
To find yourself alone again
Like it had never been
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Psychic spies from China
Try to steal your mind's elation
And little girls from Sweden
Dreams of silver screen quotation
And if you want these kind of dreams
It's Californication
It's the edge of the world
And all of western civilization
The sun may rise in the East
At least it settles in the final location
It's understood that Hollywood
Sells Californication
Pay your surgeon very well
To break the spell of aging
Celebrity skin is this your chin
Or is that war your waging
First born unicorn
Hard core soft ****
Dream of Californication
Dream of Californication
Marry me girl be my fairy to the world
Be my very own constellation
A teenage bride with a baby inside
Getting high on information
And buy me a star on the boulevard
It's Californication
Space may be the final frontier
But it's made in a Hollywood basement
Cobain can you hear the spheres
Singing songs off station to station
And Alderaan's not far away
It's Californication
Born and raised by those who praise
Control of population everybody's been there and
I don't mean on vacation
First born unicorn
Hard core soft ****
Dream of Californication
Dream of Californication
Destruction leads to a very rough road
But it also breeds creation
And earthquakes are to a girl's guitar
They're just another good vibration
And tidal waves couldn't save the world
From Californication
Pay your surgeon very well
To break the spell of aging
Sicker than the rest
There is no test
But this is what you're craving
First born unicorn
Hard core soft ****
Dream of Californication
Dream of Californication
By Anthony Kiedis / Michael Balzary / John Anthony Frusciante / Chad Smith
Californication lyrics © MoeBeToBlame
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
~
the
skies breath
aloud their sighs
as county-sized clouds
tower o'er the countryside
severed by the mountain's scythe
remnants scattered now like little spies
no hope of rebound to their former glory
only obliterated slices now the sun can’t hide
clouds reduced to skyscraper size must now suffice
and on it goes, cumulus fingers sliced by lofty granite spires.
~
*post script.
just a playful mix
of mindless alliteration
with a bit of concrete.*
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Against too many writers of science fiction
Why did you lure us on like this,
Light-year on light-year, through the abyss,
Building (as though we cared for size!)
Empires that cover galaxies
If at the journey's end we find
The same old stuff we left behind,
Well-worn Tellurian stories of
Crooks, spies, conspirators, or love,
Whose setting might as well have been
The Bronx, Montmartre, or Bedinal Green?
Why should I leave this green-floored cell,
Roofed with blue air, in which we dwell,
Unless, outside its guarded gates,
Long, long desired, the Unearthly waits
Strangeness that moves us more than fear,
Beauty that stabs with tingling spear,
Or Wonder, laying on one's heart
That finger-tip at which we start
As if some thought too swift and shy
For reason's grasp had just gone by?
4.5k
O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
4.5k
bare, bud, green, going
winter claims the land
with a skeleton hand of bare trees
writing its stark song upon
the white white snow
in shadows
long, thin, black, and sharp
bud, green, going, bare
the spring sends small green spies
to see if the earth is ready
ready to try again
to shake the sleep of winter
from the hopeful eyes of spring
green, going, bare, bud
summer crowds the world with green
filling in all the spaces
like a child coloring outside the lines
full of life
and bustle
overflowing with the thoughts of eternity
going, bare, bud, green
the leaves are a kaleidoscopic scream of color
the land rages with its dying
showing all what will be missed
the last bright light of beauty before the
long white sleep
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
Hungry filthy eyes
From every corner
It spies
Lustful desire ignition
Hardly any blinks
Sparks temptation
The growth of hunger
On youthful body
Deludes my anger
It hunts upon everyone
Especially the feminines
Carrying a gun
Streets pollute such eyes
Some cross, some straight
Most full with lies
Each day my eye meets
Such perverts
With viciously lustrous greets...
©sim
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Cruel does not speak,
speak those who felt cruelty "
Cruel are not alive
those who felt cruelty are dead
Why not follow Cain?
seen the land of Cain is the leak
terrified on earth
breathe Oxygen 'til it bit,
Cruel and born cruel gods speak,
Were shadows running for weak?
Gosts spies earth all week,
Those strength was weird,
Wow, now I'm better be a Dragon.
on my metallic griffin
I'm better Cruel be in my fly angels,
As gods I am perfect I am cruel,
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
You will not miss me
Oh you, she kills him every day
Being good is not hers style
She is grumpy
Cause money can't buy happiness is like the biggest lie ever and forever
Slow dancing in a burning room
Are you thinking about me?
Oh yes, everyday!
But you know, I'm bad
I'm falling in love everyday with every winsome stranger
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
I remember when I dreamed that boy
My body was shivering like a hurricane
I'm trying to live in the real world
That's why I love summer
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Morrissey whispers in my ear:
I was happy in the haze of drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Spell is broken
Magic words were spoken
Gone is the hoping
Transformation in coping
Witchy eyes mesmerize
Truth spoken in lies
Undercover like spies
Today delusion dies
Now I must be mad
To want what's sad
Experiment with the bad
Sparks talent that I have
Who's the spell caster?
What makes one a master?
Some fail faster
Document moment of disaster
Love me cruelly
Intoxicated truly
Cursed..I long foolishly
Venus energy unruly
None can ever have me
Many want me badly
Love I give madly
Doesn't have to end sadly
Must've been broken
Before spell was spoken
Art wide open
Commence with scoping
Its all an understanding
Of what we are commanding
May crash before landing
Done with delicate planning
I'm a vibrational hub
Radiate unconditional love
Same below as above
Wrap souls with this hug
These words of magic blows all away
Deflect Spells of hate every day
Enter the game if you choose to play
We all live our lives in our own way
So light me up..Take this token
Potent I become when I'm smoking
Dive inside my love is open
This Phoenix shall rise when spell is broken
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Look at me rhyme
behind time, running only
on tomorrow's line even
if it makes mother cry but
I know she won't die because
of spies on the clocks inside.
There ain't no drive too far
to ride, even if there are
a million mile signs, I'd
still go with you to dine while
the dress you wear is fine
and you give me shivers up
my spine, is enough for me
to be happy if I'd die.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
The demon scratches me
I bite him back
The demon pushes me
I spit in his face with a smack
The demon taunts me
I calleth him out by name
They hate their name called
Don't wanna be recognized for the flame
The demon shows false affections
I giveth him hate
The demons a smiler as he latches to me
I'll kick him to hells gate
The demons find me downtimes
Though with God I shalt win
Demons love misery
To seeith one in sin
Demons are smelly
Like all the dump trucks on the earth
Times ten
Demons haveth enemies
They hate even their own kind
They haveth none kin
Demons haveth a date
With Satan in the fire
They'll turn thou on with lust
For thou they do admire
Demons hast hurt me
They've tried to bring me to mine death
Soo many health issues
I know tis not me
Them
The demons hast entered mine family
From the lives we didst choose!
They entered by portals
Between good and bad souls
They came and come as orbs
Spirtual energy
Trapped to a distance
God won't let them get to close to me
They always want more
They show themselves now and then
They'll portray themselves as good souls
Wherein its all pretend
The demons speaketh in mine bathroom
They hide out in the closets
Parched behind mine bedroom wardrobe
Spies as I sleepeth
They want mine bright soul
It's full of massive glowing energy
They know it as I'm told
So to bad because their not me
They made a big mistake
Turning away from God
Now their outcast losers
Fate of hell and grud!!
They'll soon be in chains and shackles
So they cause pain now whilst here on earth
They come in all shapes and sizes as I've heard from many others
Psychics
Life after death (experiences)
And from preachers
Pastors and others
They come large
Small
Animal like
Mauled
They come stinky
Scaly
Nothing thou shalt imagine
Couldn't fathom
Their everywhere
City streets
Malls
Gyms
Stalls
Homes
Air
First heaven
Second heaven
Hell
Everywhere
Yet these demons cannot taketh me
They knoweth I'm gods light
So demon get hence from me....
Go burn in thine own fright!!!!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
your pitiful braggart
mean as a cuss
a bludgeon for a mouth
with a mind full a ****
its understood
you hate the press
you like the shadows
to relieve your stress
well big boy
you are the man
some people say
your loved by the clan
thanks for telling us
about the size of your *****
while conservatives smile
and give it a lick
your a star studded pageant
of confusion and lies
do you work for Putin
are you one of his spies
show us your taxes
are you a ***** for a foe
are you owned by a devil
we need to know
your purging the swamp
is that what you say
Exxon and Goldman-sax
so thats how you play
you talk so big
why not give it a rest
lets see what you can do
besides be a pest
it doesn't bode well
that you don't pay your bills
let subcontractors go under
so what if it kills
break up some families
of Latin decent
with a heart like a razor
are you really that bent
are you big blabber mouth
but don't a have clue
about our constitution
that keeps us true
we trust you completely
let your kids to the job
no problem at all
are you still friends with the mob
are ethics for others
ah to hard for Trump
will America wither
are you cancerous lump
we need some one
who can help us out
not a reckless fool
that fills us with doubt
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
Write everyday, too much
That's a commandment for a to do list
in hopes it will manifest into routine
I can store the text in the internet
It's safer that way, these days
Store it in a place that actually doesn't exist
How can it be lost?
There's too many spies making logs
and in the rare artful moment of an agent
maybe I'll get discovered
Not banking on it
I'm throwing all my eggs at random houses
and wearing the wicker basket as a helmet to protect from backlash
in hopes that, by then, my poet spirit could leap from treetop to treetop
to avoid hollow bullets
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
I enjoy to walk
Alone in the dark
As the sun falters
And the moon shines and lusters
Bright from its ebony coat
And with every step an echo
So rythmically in tune
It matches my heart beating
As grasp in reality
Ever so loose
I ponder on monsters
Who called themselves men
On what twisted them to fiends
And brought them to change?
Is it treason that warped their hearts?
Maybe a lost love who crushed their ilusion?
Perhaps loneliness brought them this stupor?
Whatever it is that brought them so low
It destroyed their will, it broke their soul.
I ponder on love
I wonder how short it tends to be
And how we dwell on its loss
The suffering it brings.
How easy is it to feel a spark
To bring us from the brink of despair
Just to feel it´s mark
And where there was life, now there´s air.
And my thoughts grow darker
And my pace faster
Anticipating disaster
My eyes widen
I feel as if beset by spies
Who stalk from the shadows
Ready to strike
And I see it...
It is no spy
A beast before me
Clad in black
Eyes in red crimson
Stare sat me back
It fills me fright
I try to run
But stand paralized
My legs betray me
And the beast approches
With its back arched
And talons sharp
Holding me still
With its eyes...
It glared at me deeply
Almost feels pity
And whispers to me
"I am a monument to all you hold dear
For you clasp failure with a tight grip
It took a form in the being that before you stands
And is fear what drives forward
Not any feeling of pride
Deluding yourself in betterment
Inside you are nothing but lies"
I came to my knees
And I began to weep
The monster had tore my resolve
But deep within me
I could still feel
A shimmer, a last ray of hope
I can´t let it win
So I came to my feet
And stared and the brute
Clad in blackness so thick
It could block out the sun
And it´s shape had no shape
It twists and it warps
That piercing red stare
That stared straight to my soul
I said to the thing
"It is true what you say
It seems I can´t escape
From the mire of the past
The more I remain
The harder my escape
And the farther the distance
From achieving my plans
An edifice of failure
Given mortal nature
But mortal you are
All that is mortal can die
And when you do
I´ll be back to life"
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC