"spouts" poems
There’s a girl with curly brown hair
Whose sense of humour is so rare,
She leaves people baffled,
Their simple brains addled
As she spouts one-liners with flair.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Mother Nature
(Poem by Serenus)
Mother, Oh Mother
You’re such a woman scorn
Your children mistreated you
And now we’re caught in your storm
Your womb, birthed the earth
And from the earth, we were born
We use to be so close
But now we’re just a family torn
Smoke stole your sweet scent
We scorched your beautiful hair
Your skin sealed in cement
Suffering from thirst, but we didn’t care
We force fed you poison
We put a price on your head
Taking your gifts for granted
And we left you for dead
But Mother, Oh Mother
You have come back
With a vengeance!
Your temper is heated
With no signs of forgiveness
Your touch use to be gentle
Tough-love, but modest
But your backlash has been brutal
The judgment of a goddess
Hurricanes, acid rains,
Monsoons, tsunamis
Droughts, water spouts
And quakes that sneak up calmly
Blizzards, floods, tornadoes, and wildfires
And we never cried for you Mommy
Now our situation is absolutely dire
We are begging for a day that’s balmy
To protect yourself from your people
You are fighting back
And all we can do is stop our evil
Reflect-and stand back
But Mother, Oh mother
Can we be saved?
Or have you sealed our fate
For the way we behaved?
…Before she can be her children’s savor
Rescue us, from our own bad behavior
She must save herself "first
So don’t blame her
She’s a mother
Protective power
Is in her nature
She said she’ll get back to us later
…First she has to communicate
With “The Father”…Her creator
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
Underneath the window to the galaxy we sat,
Basking in the warm red glow of the fire that burned brightly before us.
Swarms of Mosquitos nipping at whatever piece of skin they could sink their spouts into.
The wind roared, causing hot flare ups of the firewood sending us swinging backward batting away embers which had taken flight.
Sipping our drinks, smiling too widely, laughing with our friends.
Sharing unforgettable moments and making priceless memories;
All while the sky unfolded it's beauty above,
Holding each of us in our little places in the universe, so completely.
Pondering the vastness of it all.
Sitting under the Milky Way,
Making new friends and growing closer to the ones you've always known.
This is the magic of Hecla;
Hecla is part of us, forever.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Good morning is what I say
when I reach my office at night.
All my friends and colleagues
look cool and bright.
Till 2 o'clock there is
work, gossip and fun.
After 2, the clock stops
and everyone peeps out for sun.
Bright shining faces
now changes to dull.
Changing environment
makes many lull.
My fatigued eyelids
becomes so heavy.
Now computer appears boring to me,
a computer savvy.
My sleep becomes wild
and starts playing game.
All my efforts with my
sleep goes in vain.
sleep wins the game,
I start my journey from hell to heaven
But a ghost interrupts my journey
with a shout all of a sudden.
I open my eyes to see my TL
who appears so cruel.
It seems he is going to burn me
with fire and fuel.
I put down my head in shame
and wondered why it happened to me.
I remembered, I used to laugh
at a bird who was wild and free.
I was sure it was
the curse of an owl.
It was result of my deeds
now I cannot cry foul.
After sometime sleep decides to play
with TL the same old game.
The result was no different
it was known and same.
My TL falls asleep while
browsing some computer files.
All around the floor
there were giggles and smiles.
All of a sudden he wakes up
as if he has seen some ugly ghost.
In dream TL's boss must have offered
him cockroach sauce and toast.
TL saw my smiles and his glasses
couldn't hide his murderous glares.
He looked at me as if I was a cactus
and made me sit upstairs
I was very careful because
very close TL's boss used to sit
He was a man who never smiled
and was very strict.
A young girl sitting beside me
had frog like bulging eyes
She was very quiet,
looking tired, dull and shy.
Poor innocent girl
repeated the same old mistake
Sleep tricked her,
she couldn't keep herself awake
Next moment there were
scoldings and shouts.
Hapless girl stood stunned
hearing boss's spouts.
If Allah Almighty can listen
to prayers of a bird
Prayers of an anguished heart
is sure to be heard.
Cunning sleep walked
knavishly on the floor.
All around the floor was
audible boss's noisy snores.
Entire floor stood up
to look at him with surprise
He woke-up abruptly
looking around with disgraceful eyes.
The shame was too much
for him to ignore or digest.
Hurriedly he took the keys
of his maroon car and left.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
The clouds hid the red sky that day
Amid the wind and rain
No red sky meant no sailors warning
The waves broke high and hard
They passed the breakers and the kegs
They missed the red sky morning
The ships out on the water
From the shore to the Grand Banks
Were helpless in the coming storm
No choice to turn and run
The best bet was stay put
There was no port to get warm
The skies were filled with nothingness
the clouds like a sharks eye
Shades of black were all they saw
The icy waves of winter
Broke the calm of the early morn
For red sky in the morning is an unwritten sailors law
The Captain closed the bar down
On the Digby ferry crossing
The doors were being opened by each wave
They couldn't see the white caps
Only sky and see was all
And the souls he had to save
There were fifteen boats in transit
When the storm came bearing down
Most were halfway home or so
Now they all were stranded
In the journey between heaven and hell
Which direction they were headed only God would know
Turn sideways and you'd flip it
Just sit still and you were dead
You had to ride the water hellish ride
Hatches all were battened
Windows sealed and doors shut tight
Sailors tried to stay inside
Water spouts were forming
Off the stern and then the port
Navigate the safest spot and keep low
The door to Davy Jones' locker
Was opened and ready to accept
Any boat who made the choice to venture down below
On shore the coast guard were all scrambled
Planes were sent out just in case
More to recover than to save
Families awaited word by radio
The lines from all the ships were down
Some lost to a watery grave
Each year the ocean opens up
Mother Nature takes some back
It's just the circle of life at sea
Prayers are said at the Mariners Hall
Bells are rung for the dead
The sailors soul belongs to the water and it never can be free
Are you one that lives on water?
You know one day your luck will end
You knew this fact from the start
Sailors know the sea's a minefield
It's a war with God each day
You have to fight with all your heart
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
Rainy days are full of clouds and many say they’re sad
I think rainy days are special, in fact, they make me glad
Maybe it’s the sound of rain, the pitter, pat-pat-pat
Maybe it’s the cooler tones that make me feel like that
It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a sprinkle or a pour
All I know is when it stops, it leaves me wanting more
So bring me rain in the early morn, let me wake to it’s glorious sound
Bring me rain on tin rooftops, let it rush down the spouts to the ground
Wet the leaves of the forest and the blades of the meadow, make the ground soft for the flower
Wet the roads that I travel, fill the sidewalks with puddles, every moment an umbrella hour
Now I know there are things we can’t do outside when it’s all a big muddy mess
But what can I say, the clouds make me joyful
Rainy days are the best!
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 8:38 AM UTC
I’m lying down in the ground
as the sun shines its rays
right inbound
on me.
hounding me
(surrounding)
Without a sound
Or is there?
A ringing
or dinging
a pinging
maybe a constant stinging.
I wouldn’t know.
Could be the blood pulse
or the sea dulse wrapping
the seashells doing their sins
or
a pair of siamese twins
trying to
dance and
lance and
advance on my grave
(how brave! how brave! i hope they cave)
germinated spouts
and terminated doubts
with exterminated outs.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
it drips from the bottle
and into your
mouth
which spouts words
with no regard for my
feelings
that you don't know how to address
without alcohol kissing your
lips
that form sentences
with a mind of their own
uninhibited by their flattery of me when they were
sober.
it agitates your face
as it rests in your
hands
that used to hold mine and it
glazes over your
eyes
that used to light up when they saw me
or when they heard my
name
that you can hardly stand to speak
without alcohol
dancing on your
breath
that doesn't render sounds
without cheap courage summoned
up.
it depresses your
mind
that I used to find intriguing
as it was paradoxically
kind with a quick
wit
that no longer aims
to make me laugh
but is now restrained by the liquor
label
that you plastered to yourself
without concern -
would you even stop
if your own bottle said
please?
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
The screeching sound of the metal tin can,
Pulls up around the corner of desperation.
Hair flying, adulation from fans,
You know its nothing but imagination.
Howls from inside echo through the sheet,
Music to the ears, and she gobbles it like nectar.
The door opens, and you're looking at her feet,
"Don't move, lest it should fester."
She speaks in an exotic tongue,
Like the animals in the wild.
She places a strong hand on your lung,
While your breathing goes mild.
The tool, ah yes, the tool,
She wields it like a paintbrush.
"Sit still, you pretty fool.",
She spouts, with an excited gush.
The lion's face peers at you,
From the far side of the room.
While a peculiar broth begins to brew,
And a dark mist begins to loom.
The rhino looks helpless on the wall,
Its horn standing out in the line.
" Oh, be calm you sweet little doll,
This should do just fine."
You can smell the taste of the wax,
And breathe in its visual splendor.
While her pleasure has reached its max,
Through the willing gifts, you lend her.
At last, its done and dusted,
And your face adorns the wall.
Wondering how on earth she could be trusted,
But alas! You cannot resist the caravan's call.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets,
machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk
canvases, and he stops under the sky
and raises toward it his joined clenched fists.
Believers fall on their bellies, they suppose it is a monstrance that
shines,
but those are knuckles, sharp knuckles shine that way, my friends.
He cuts the glowing, yellow buildings in two, breaks the walls into
motley halves;
pensive, he looks at the honey seeping from those huge honeycombs:
throbs of pianos, children's cries, the thud of a head banging against
the floor.
This is the only landscape able to make him feel.
He wonders at his brother's skull shaped like an egg,
every day he shoves back his black hair from his brow,
then one day he plants a big load of dynamite
and is surprised that afterward everything spouts up in the explosion.
Agape, he observes the clouds and what is hanging in them:
globes, penal codes, dead cats floating on their backs, locomotives.
They turn in the skeins of white clouds like trash in a puddle.
While below on the earth a banner, the color of a romantic rose,
flutters,
and a long row of military trains crawls on the weed-covered tracks.
2k
A leitmotif of your average smug **** is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.
You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-fucking-Do-Ku.
Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.
Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.
In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…
The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
Where Phil's ship set sails
With the biggest whales
His legend has tales
And he spouts no fails
In the depth of nails
His hammer has gales
With winding winds of hales
He keeps to his trails
Leaving quests that impales
Five consecutive NBA finals scales
With LeBron and Leonard's pails
He fetches more water to rescales
With Lakers, his thirst now flails
Bringing hope his ship prevails
Logan Robertson
7/15/2019
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Marble black bark grow bed sheets of parchment attached by
strings. Spillage of pink arises from the abdomen. Fused clothing fibers substitute layers of bark.........
The vivid aroma of rot and feasting maggots harmonize...............
A cadaver drilled by burrowing insects. Beetles, flies, pismires, and parallels. A carcass crammed with 200 seeds. Bulbous seeds in the nose. Deposited bulbs rooted in brain tissue. Thick specks of white nuzzle into flesh emerge. Squirm out of the cubicles. Insects feasting simultaneously............
A figure emerges from the edge of perception. Routinely gorging the cadavers vital delicacies. Amid spouts of fainting spells.......................
Grabbing lumps of brain matter. Shoveling it towards his gaping hole. Ravenously consuming the bland ashen chunks. Gripping the cranium and sipping the diluted ***
Sliding two slippery marbles into his gullet. Then suddenly publicizing his medals amid his fangs. Deteriorating into slush immediately........
Piercing the stationary ticker with talons. Shortly guzzling the dense scarlet metallic droplets. Promptly the sticky liquid cerise matter slithered into his craw. Hurling the white speckled rims simultaneously in glee. Than consuming the exterior synthetic.........
The corpse is convulsing..wheezing..........chest withering in pain. Man devours his own living corpse, neglecting to swallow his toes. A daily phenomenon……to devour yourself.
What of the toes? Looted by a motivated businessman the next day. “Oh the painstaking horror of humanities hunger,” the motivated businessman then asserted into thin air.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
I cannot speak for desire's fiery touch, nor can I speak against it for who listens to a hypocrite's tale and feels anything other than tired annoyance.
I will not offer any advice aside from the weary words of the twice, thrice, ofttimes fallen, yet who cares to hear the yarns of those that tried and failed.
All I can do is spout sad knowledge disguised as nonsense with the practiced ease in which Dylan spouts poetry and hope that you glean some semblance of the message therein and take not this crooked path of mine.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
Azure panels fade; shed golden mane
Black, celestial portents mail links chain
Windows of heaven shaded darker strain
Foggy panes availing beams do disdain
Billowing, gray folds gilded tapestry doth stain
Burgeoning spouts brackish bile to drain
Reverberating drums strike dolesome refrain
Streaking bolts o'er tumult wax then wane
An eerie whistle howls announcing the careening train
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
He walks around
his mind
a hamster wheel
turning on the same
pivot of thought
His life is monotonous
and it grieves
him deeply
So he talks
and spouts
the same tired verses
and tries to
make amends of his
terrible life
by means of
dealing derision
But try as he may
his words will always
be as sharp
as a month old
regularly used
razor blade.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
I fear I've become
formulaic and dishonest
though honesty has never
flown freely when I bleed.
I instead inscribe
insolence, decadence
dolled up in demand and
hand picked participles
to show my snappy wordsuits
down this two dimension catwalk.
I've tasted the fraudulent freeverse fantasy
and washed out what I've done
years past, former lives,
servitude to scheming rhymes
and tracking down the feet
meter by meter.
See!
I own the jargon,
jot it down freely
with a casuality undeserved.
Read carefully, cause herein spouts my effort.
Slink back to default,
once in whiles,
show them that you
got it still.
Baring teeth or
gleaming smiles
differ at souls'
windowsills.
And simply so, it seems again
like pox against my aching skin
I simply substitute some time
to rhyme and let it all begin...
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
oh its not what it spouts
the obscenity
rancor
its the way that pearly(ish)
perfect parabolas
glean with the best
that almost-yellow can do
the swear and grin get more
mileage than could any "line" ever
nothing of this is intentional
i dont really need to be persuasive
but i could stand for a lesson in etiquette
shaking hands and dictating something direct
this is how it should happen
you say this and ill show you the pearly(ish)
but what are you
and what could we be
im talking about a power team
if i drew you a picture
it would be on a sidewalk
in 32 colors
i would be *****
and you would be laughing
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
In the house of the unsaid
Tears are glass beads that drop
The ***** on the bone china
Blood spittles the lips, hair
Raises the dead the cut
Rosary roils and dents
Harmony’s rumour spouts
In the sink. The clock’s twitching
Strikes a mongoosed hour.
And the scattered stations run
The rude wood splinters
As the unsaying are floored
Clouded eyes pain the glass
Outside the house, bare
Trees are leaved with ravens.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
neon simple lights littered street
well glowing;
deeply
purpl.e
tired bodies roil
clustering
for warm liquid spouts)
they don't ever stop
summoned by loose
whim of smooth youths
to dash their minds on wet rocks.
what shallow indulgents
those
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
Falling freely into cascading commotion
Sound and scent engulf emotion
[Not everything is as important as it seems]
Cars creaking find their way to houses heaving
Daily doldrums of amorous ambition
[Not even love guiding can prevent loneliness]
Streaming spouts leave rusty rings
Shoes worn short between dreamless dozing
[Not entirely awake are you?]
[Not every day do bluebirds come]
[Not every day do miracles come]
[Not every day does vision come]
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
In the house of the unsaid
Tears are glass beads that drop
The ***** on the bone china
Blood spittles the lips, hair
Raises the dead the cut
Rosary roils and dents
Harmony’s rumour spouts
In the sink. The clock’s twitching
Strikes a mongoosed hour.
And the scattered stations run
The rude wood splinters
As the unsaying are floored
Clouded eyes pain the glass
Outside the house, bare
Trees are leaved with ravens.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC