"spinners" poems
What if it rained daisies today?
And no one got wet
and nothing washed away?
What if the sun shone bright
as daisies flew?
What if the breeze blew
soft daisies like spinners
in the wind?
Would we all be happy then?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship
buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker
just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains
its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling
"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers
Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?
exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there
Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune
Its all about
the bling
baby
All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997
You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
2.9k
Klusener could whack it, yes Lance,
To spinners, down wicket, he'd dance,
No defensive tricks,
He smote them for six,
The same for the quicks without prance.
Sometimes he could bowl pretty quick,
Sometimes the batsmen he'd trick.
Gave balance to the side,
Served country with pride,
All without ever being a *****
His best score V England, remember?
Our bowlers he got to dismember.
Zulu hit it so high
Way up into the sky,
It didn't come down 'til November.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:40 AM UTC
When I look into my bedroom
I see a shelf of various book
genres that I read over and over
again, when I look into my bedroom
and look beyond the rest I see a
window which I have seen many, many
different things through, when I look
into my bedroom and door ahead I
see a dresser with many clothing items
I will cherish for life. Above I see some
of my most valuable collections, when
I look into my bedroom and look down
I see a box of various types of *****
which I have kicked and thrown all over
the house When I look inside my closet
and look down I see board games that
I have played over and over again.
When I look inside my closet and look
straight ahead I see sweatshirts that
have kept me warm in the winter months.
When I look inside my closet and look
up I see enormous puzzles that I have
spent days and days and days to complete,
when I look into my bedroom and look
right I see my bed where I have had
good dreams and bad dreams and dreams
in between. When I look into my bedroom
and look right I see soccer cards which
I have spent hours organizing and putting
in their holders. When I look into my
bedroom and look beyond my bed I see
a shelf with fidget spinners, nerf guns,
athlete cards, travel games, and remote
control cars everywhere, when I look
into my bedroom and look beyond my
dresser I see a big box of athletes cards
which I have studied over and over again,
when I look in my bedroom and look at
the walls I see posters of athletes who
inspire mes like no other,
when I look into my bedroom and look
above my closet I see my mini basketball
hoop which I have attempted many shots
on. when I look into my bedroom I see
my very own personality.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
My mind offers a compromise
Which is instantly refuted
Shot down
I’m absolutely amazed by the sheer
Number of superficial constraints placed
Upon me, my superstitions, my desires, my obligations
Each one currently impossibly to fulfill
Each side impossible to sait
And so,
A stalemate
Sitting here, doing nothing
Unmoving, but
Thoughts whirling about
Fidget spinners, or
Bablades repeatedly clashing
Repeatedly smashing
Till it’s just me and the broken debre
But,
All you see
Is a girl
Too lazy to move
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
FIRST I would like to write for you a poem to be shouted in the teeth of a strong wind.
Next I would like to write one for you to sit on a hill and read down the river valley on a late summer afternoon, reading it in less than a whisper to Jack on his soft wire legs learning to stand up and preach, Jack-in-the-pulpit.
As many poems as I have written to the moon and the streaming of the moon spinners of light, so many of the summer moon and the winter moon I would like to shoot along to your ears for nothing, for a laugh, a song,
for nothing at all,
for one look from you,
for your face turned away
and your voice in one clutch
half way between a tree wind moan
and a night-bird sob.
Believe nothing of it all, pay me nothing, open your window for the other singers and keep it shut for me.
The road I am on is a long road and I can go hungry again like I have gone hungry before.
What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
Leave me with the hoot owl.
I have slept in a blanket listening.
He learned it, he must have learned it
From two moons, the summer moon,
And the winter moon
And the streaming of the moon spinners of light.
1.9k
Wreaths of mist swirled up into the cold air
As I looked at my grave in despair.
It was in disrepair and could not be saved.
Am I such a depraved knave that
I was waived my rights for a better place of interment?
I can not get over the convalesce
that this will be my permanent address.
I played the saint.
A saint I'm ain't.
No one heard my plaints.
But I heard your complaints.
Gave you tainted words.
No wonder I am where I am.
Wreaths of mist swirled up into the cold air
as I said my prayers.
A foursquare refusal to yield
to this grave, to this field.
To life and all it's strife.
To death and it's last breath.
I blocked my ears to the whispers
and it did stop the fate spinners.
Leaving destiny
at my mercy.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
One thing that get's me all venty
Is bad talk of jolly 'T' 20.
It's much better by half
So much more of a laugh
Because 50 is far more than plenty.
England play Pakistan later.
I think that our players are greater.
But Gul bowls great yorkers,
And other rip-snoters,
And the ball, oh Afridi, he ate her!
For England the openers are wrong
Neither will give it a biff or a ****
We need someone tough
And aggressive enough
To win it for us when on song.
Our bowling is coming on nicely
The spinners are landing it precisely
But the quicks can get hit
When missing length by a bit
Shouldn't do it like that more than twicely
Will we win it today, well who knows?
By then I'll stop blowing my nose.
I'm now on my knees,
So a close contest please.
I cannot wait to see how it goes.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
Yahweh Yahweh
Hear as I say
A crumbling rock is I as I stand
All points of the compass lies the sinking sand
And as bits of I fall
Jah, hear as I call.
For the Saints and the Angels
The knights of the round table
The prophets of old
The wise man with his gold.
The heathens the sinners
Enslaved cotton spinners.
The trumpeteers
The cannoneers.
The old blues players
The Christian slayers.
For Peter for John
I need not go on
And as they arrive
To watch this demise
Hear me.
Repentance I cries.
Yahweh Yahweh.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
So sing the spinners
Of lackrymint folly,
"The dew of the done is the 'Laid'."
But savor the grace-knots,
Of thoughtsal Sir Kno-Heed,
"Your stay here is shorter, now paid."
My wack-grin is bolder,
With knowledge of twisties,
With fervorent type-glans so splayed.
Though sit them each shoulder,
Me drawn so, and quartered,
I'm happily split,
and well played.
well played,
well played.
Adorncraft doth leave me,
Her ***** done heaving,
This over is moving,
This over is moving.
this lover
and losing
is crossed.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 11:48 PM UTC
Educate our hearts before we speak our minds.
For it is we who keep our shadow company,
not our shadow ours.
I try to catch the latest news,
Lest otherwise,
I become rolled over by it.
And I heard the hiss
Of venomous spinners,
“We must arm ourselves to the teeth...
**** them all! Bomb them all!”
Such comely pundits,
coated in makeup and gloss,
to read incendiary scripts from teleprompters,
to incite and heap bricks of lead
to tip their side of the scales of Justice.
Smoke speaks before fire,
then soon after comes the flame,
and then the wind of sentiment
to fan the inferno.
But who will speak low and soft of love?
Where are the healing eyes
and empathetic ears of poets past
who dipped their feather pens in compassion
and caressed messages, as
balms for our wounds?
Why do we taint the inherent scripture of mankind
with rhetoric and reaction
by those who seek to study the chaff
and not the wheat of a communal harvest?
Our great leaders have gone softly
into their nights…
battle weary
and brittle by war.
So if a bomb explodes at the Café I plan to visit today –
who will avenge my death
and who to see to the seeds I'd sewn
for compassion and peace?
Pray not these men and women on prime media payroll
and those of privileged wealth
and inherited power
who climb the backs of soft singing nightingales
to cackle the message of crows.
I’m none of these.
I was born of the womb,
and crawled to a walk, and thereon
through forests, and mountains, and shores,
shared with all things visible.
My heart rises and falls and races with beauty
and aches with darkness.
I fade, feeling the color run from my hair
and the suppleness of my skin
to dry and wither.
I watch my children quiver
like green leaves on the lithe limbs of youth –
fearing their fall,
but adoring their verdant energy.
All man is by nature equal
before the rise of knowledge –
and as the kingdom rises within each human being,
who will he take for a sage
and who for a fool?
Lo' we must focus the light in our hearts
before we speak from our darkening minds.
For it is we who keep our shadow company,
not our shadow ours.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Lures, flies and spinners
provide variety for
multiple techniques.
Casting carefree lines
the sportsmen and women look…
For fishy hook-ups.
Moonlight over pines –
Adds a touch of elegance
to nighttime fishing.
Daytime sea trollers
combine leisure travel
and hands-free fishing.
The ignorant fish –
Unaware of keepers of…
Life’s aquarium.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2009, All rights reserved.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
8AM strikes like a *****
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.
The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin
The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.
The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say
They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes
I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke
And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.
And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes
The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale
And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts
A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out
I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--
Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh
Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.
Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.
You slimy ******* you ****
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.
You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Oh, how the emperor loves his new clothes!
He loves the flash, the glitz, the show.
The presentation is all that matters--
The garish, ostentatious tableau.
His lackeys and sycophants grovel before him,
Currying favor and kissing his…arse.
Loving all the attention, he can't
Distinguish between substance and farce.
The emperor has the best people--
The best tailors, the best spinners--
Who say that the ruler's fancy new clothes
Can separate losers from winners.
Fawning subjects praise their leader.
Mesmerized by his tales,
The people fail to see the danger
When facts are ignored and fiction prevails.
Whether from pride, thirst for power,
Or ego, the emperor--walking on air--
Doesn't see that underneath
The pageantry there's nothing there.
Who can break the news to the emperor?
Who can put an end to the lies?
What will bring about true awareness?
What will it take to open his eyes?
- by Bob B (2-13-17)
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
Yahweh Yahweh
Hear as I say
A crumbling rock is I as I stand
All points of the compass lies the sinking sand
And as bits of I fall
Jah, hear as I call.
For the Saints and the Angels
The knights of the round table
The prophets of old
The wise man with his gold.
The heathens the sinners
Enslaved cotton spinners.
The trumpeteers
The cannoneers.
The old blues players
The Christian slayers.
For Peter for John
I need not go on
And as they arrive
To watch this demise
Hear me.
Repentance I cries.
Yahweh Yahweh.
Share this:
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
Well it's "Famous This" and "Famous That"
Though few might ever have
heard of any of them, still
We use the words because we love them
And not just us but everybody
Walking down the street
There's Plenty Bright and
Double Happiness,
as if it's not enough
to just have happiness
But then, perhaps a little extra
wouldn't hurt because
We could,
if we perhaps might choose
then offer some to others on the street
but all of this.....
I just can't speak
and still there's more to come
The signs upon the walls and over doors
I see them in the people's eyes and
on the floors
They're written in the skies
As close as air
Sometimes I think I see them everywhere
and yet
As I stop and stare
I ask,
or would if I could bear
to hear an answer
What does all of it mean?
Let us pray in the dying of the day
in the strange glow that comes
from somewhere we cannot tell
That these words we throw so causually about
will not turn upon us
or we will then discover that
if the pen is mighter than the sword
the power in the pen is in the words
and these we do not own
but only borrow for a time.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 6:53 PM UTC
The spiders of sleep
are weaving words
in the back of her throat.
I listen to the sibilant
murmur of her dreams
unfurling.
She recites non sequiturs
to darkened walls, her bed
a stage draped in velvet
curtains of disassociation.
Incessant spinners,
spiders embroider
forsaken moonlight
into feathery pillow talk.
I am an audience of one.
When her monologue
is done, I blanket the bed sheets
with bouquets of bloodless roses.
Ashamed, I wait for more.
Her dreams scratch
at the face of the moon,
inscribing an encore.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
With the third test in the series, now fast drawing to a close
The Australian team is ahead, by a veritable elephant's nose
This last session of play, they've scored the more than a run
Which has not filled, the Indian side with a stump load of fun
A substantial lead, has been built by the Aussie side
They've held their nerve, on the MCG's cricketing bide
Each ball they've faced, has not made them cower in any way
No Indian spinners or quickies, have yet put them away
After this match, there's sure to be a question put forward
As to why India ne'er got, that prized win on the board
Though they did attempt, to pepper Australia with mace
They weren't successful, with their bowling or batting grace
The series of five test matches, is no more alive and kicking
As our Australian side, weren't on the pitch to take a licking
India put in a supreme and gallant effort, during the game's play
But the Australian side, were out to unmake their day
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
There he stands.
He stands where the crows refuse to land
and the tumbleweed tumble around.
Where green is a foreign concept to the flora
that rises from the ashen ground
and the whole field has the atmosphere of a dead place,
forgotten by time.
He stands like a scarecrow that has outgrown it's post
Where most would fall, he stands tall,
like a lamp post, that provides no light at all.
His expression is aloof, but not in an oblivious way.
As if to say that his stoic-ness portrays a tortured wisdom
that makes his knowledge look more alike
to a ball and chain than a virtue or asset.
His composure is limp as if the glue that bands him together
is weeping away and the heavens push down upon him
with both hands.
His palms are loose, his shoulders are sails that he no longer flies.
His hair hangs loose and grey, framing dead and bloodshot eyes.
His jaw hangs but his lips remain tightly knit,
never to part and split their seams
lest you learn anything at all from him.
He has no jouyous thing to share with you.
No pleasant memories that he would care
to cast upon the wall like the beam of a film reel.
The insights he has to teach the world are ones
that would be massly rejected out of repulsion or denial.
You gain nothing from letting this man, most vile,
teach you about the world or society or anything likewise.
You lose something instead.
You lose the peace of mind that you take for granted
as you go about your daily grind.
You lose your ignorance, but only by using it
as the altar upon which to sacrifice your bliss.
He learned much and he certainly learned this.
He eventually started to learn about the things that matter
and by consequence he learned that in credence with them,
his life was a lie by comparison.
He learned that if we are woven by the spinners of the comos
than we will al be found threadbare.
And so, by lack of care, he pas payed the toll.
Filling the spaces of his mind,
and emptying the contents of his soul.
He is the Hollow Man.
He stands far from us in his distant field
knowing well that such a mind
is a much more dangerous weapon to wield.
If you see him whilst on your way,
at least trust me when I say,
that you do yourself a service by staying
far, far away.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
I feel the need,
the need to cast and wind;
for the fish to feed,
and bite upon my line.
From the tiniest of perch,
to biggest largemouth bass;
as long as my line will lurch,
each time I make a cast.
Crank baits, worms or spinners,
I really just don't care;
as long as I catch dinner,
and a few more for fun to spare.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
New poems are written from old tragedies.
Oh I appreciate the selfishness of poets,
stealing death to pocket life.
Life for their sons and daughters
Post secondary tuition.
Life for retirement.
Life for life's own sake.
Let's turn on the TVs and hope
For another war.
Government storms countries for oil,
Parading rifles and bombs to the
Children without education
And the bearded spinners who can't
Afford a break.
Poets claim to be romantics and meditate on dreams of peaceful Eden.
But what poets in recent times have written in yellow ink?
Cynic and Poetry both have a simple
Y.
Y
Y
Y?
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
It’s all smoke and mirrors
one-liner head spinners
it’s a good job I’m a thinker
so I could think better
than to waste my days
on a half-baked, head-fuck love.
It could never be quite the same
as what I had in mind; just trust
that if you won’t pick me,
then I won't pick us
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 6:48 AM UTC
I may go sit outside. With the spiders that weave.
You're not my inspiration today, as pretty as you may be.
Lies laced inside and out, in between each other they play.
Heart strings to strum on and everlasting beats to serve my day.
I turn my headphones up so that I can stay out of your mind for once and live in mine.
It has been decades since I've spent a moment in here, cobwebs and spinners cover every spine.
All the spines to the books I haven't written.
Nothing to write tonight while you're so smitten.
I'm afraid the hope in your eyes is too overwhelming.
That spot next to you is always so welcoming.
The goosebumps on your skin tell me too much.
This average life we lead is putting me under.
The sensations you cause me rush like thunder.
I want you to stop. I can't focus when you put so much heart into what you're doing.
You're voice over powers mine and...
Itching like crazy, I'm thinking just maybe, this is way too much for me.
I don't know how to say no. It's impossible to say no when I'm following you wherever you go.
I don't mean to turn you off.
All I do is mix things up.
You're crying for my hand, I can't give it up.
Keep playing hard, just try to call my bluff.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
There was a hegemony on the stage,
There were listeners downstairs,
And the latter were Et Cetera.
The stampede killed the Et Cetera,
Not touching those on the stage,
Sparing the spinners of yarn.
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 8:17 PM UTC