"stockpiles" poems
Grand edifices, seem pretty nice
Hoarding up money, such a heist
Pockets full, everything to boast
All that luxury, all that toast
Curtains of wealth, over those eyes
Trapped in such a state of vice
Stockpiles of silver and gold
Deal, a sign, everything sold
Wealth in reality, zero a price
Counting em, this year x thrice
Pretending to be above n bold
The stiff heart you couldn't mould
Crawling over body, ants and lice
Scorpions too, it's nothing nice
Shivering with fear and cold
The pain, agony, all foretold
In the grave, horrendous mice
Game's over for the rolling dice
No one to tell, weren't you told
To that paper now grab a hold
May it be Burj khalifa, all those malls
The huge tall towers, everything falls
Sabotag shall suffer those proud walls
(Awaits!)
The vast stage, superior than all halls
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC
You were born in the cold black heart of the Cold War, under the fist of
Eisenhower, under the satellite eye of Mother Russia—1960 America.
Chinese Year of the Rat. U-2 Pilot Gary Powers forgot to **** himself.
Space Race Baby looking up at stars she does not comprehend—
the world is big, the sky is bigger—Shhhhhhhhhhh: huddle under your desk in case a big, black, bomb falls down and burns you so bad you feel nothing but cold
cold cold;
huddle inside yourself in case your plane is shot down over Soviet soil
and everything turns to red, turns to blood, turns to your fingers shaking and your eyes stinging, and you think about that time when your mother told you about the Year of the Rat being associated with white,
with the Chinese color of death. You think: This is it. There is where it ends,
but this is not it; this is not the end. You will die in a hospital bed
in 49 years, so just give it some time, alright?
Khrushchev and Eisenhower can play Tug-of-War and
Vietnam can burn in the meantime.
Mother, when you were born you could not breathe. Mother,
when you died it was because you could not breathe. Mother,
when you are not here I think of Gary Powers not having time to press “Self-Destruct,” of the Year of the Rat
choking to death on
Lily of the Valley,
of learning how to talk to the 58,286 dead Vietnam War soldiers. I want to
know what it is like to look up at the sky and fear a missile strike smack in
the middle of winter. I want to know how cold the Cold War felt to you in
the Chinese Year of the Rat, and what he felt when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers
fell like
Lucifer
into the arms
of Mother Russia.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
**** that **** This is poetry now. Can you say it isn’t real? Can you say my lowbrow barbaric mind doesn’t express itself? Can you tell me these words aren’t art? **** that. This outcry is whats comin next.
Them burnt cars and bullet scars,
***** boots and tittie bars,
forget to bathe, **** the shave,
my pillow case is made of pave-ment,
twenty years late on that first pay-ment.
I asked the question but got delay-ment,
on what the **** has this all meant?
My colours just distract, them smiles just an act-
you think I’m tokin and ******* and happy go-lucking,
***** im drowning in the bills I haven’t even seen yet,
throwin off the debts as the horse that rolls the best bet,
and don’t forget,
every second you lay down to lie them eyes and theorize,
youre just getten burglarized,
want a burger and fries?
Twenty years off your life- oh and the change too.
Twenty seven ninety-five,
thirteen plus the years I’ll spend,
locked up with nothing to tend,
no garden, no fruit, no love to loot,
no wide eyes to fill and no breeze to shoot,
just a chain gain filling my ***** with soot,
stabbing by the next poor guy,
jabbing by that suit and tie,
the key is not to fit it right- so that every turn reminds who you belong to.
And this is what I wanna do?
Hold up- I pay for that ****
Now I understand suicide you nihilistic gits,
taking hits while the rest picks up the bits and the red runs the slits but no one sees the slip.
Topsy turvy sliding down the grassy knoll,
the heads tumble but the dough will never roll.
No.
Its busy ******* me in, me and my ilk,
like me too much an *** to be thankful for robes of silk,
mommy’s milk, eleventh hours and the stockpiles of the dowry.
Soft as a baby,
never ****** on the sour but the sweet,
pink feet,
earned on thin green sheet and the red as the man is beat, beaten and burned,
turned spurned despite his age and whats learned.
What is learned?
If only I could tell you.
We’s on the same track , don’t ask me whats gon spell true.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
Parents – They mess you up
Choices – let me make them.
All your voices I can only condemn.
Knowledge is wasted on your youth,
When all you tell me is what to do.
Choices – I choose to ignore,
All your advice because I listened before.
All I now own are things I hate;
All those choices I wanted to make,
But you corrupted my every independent thought
And all those things I bought for me were yours.
Choices – do parents ever let up?
All those opinions masked as love
And yeah it may all be from a good place,
But now every single miserable day I have to see my miserable face,
In the cheapest looking mirror known to man
And stockpiles of soap for one face and two hands.
Oh my God! They know not what they do!
These people I love have not got a clue!
Give me a choice and hear my voice,
My will a tortoise unwilling to move in case of upset,
But please, oh please, get out of my head
And replace the terrible bed you advised me to buy.
I hate it so much I just want to cry!
I have to sleep on the sofa now,
Because on that stone I can no longer lie.
So hear my truth, I do love you,
But if hate your choices for what I should do
And all the extra bits of food which I do not need!
Please! Stop giving it all to me!
It all just goes straight in the bin,
Because I never asked for this!
Why the Hell do you think I have a shopping list?
I hate the way you are so bothered about money.
Let me enjoy it, it could be funny,
To do something fun and waste cash on that.
How the Hell would I know? You never gave me a chance.
I’m sick of working hard to make my money,
Just to have you spend it for me.
I’m sure there are other things I hate,
But it’s getting late, so I will sleep in the bed I made…
Not the one you made me buy.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC
I looked under the desk
Beneath the bed
Ransacked the refrigerator
But came up empty.
I lost myself again
And finding me is always
The hardest process.
Maybe I should wear
A bell around my neck,
A fashion forward
“FIND ME” noose,
In preparation for the next time
I decide to disappear,
So that way my soul
Can’t scamper too far off
From my self.
Last time I was lost,
I was taped to the backside,
Of an upside-down penny,
Long forgotten on the sidewalk,
Rusting in the rain,
So copperized,
I was changed.
But now I’m a wearied traveler,
Craving comfort over building character,
And much rather just staple up signs:
“LOST: Five foot three female.
Brown hair and black holes for irises
That **** up all life in hopes
Of soaking in the aliveness.
HUGE $REWARD$ PROMISED!!”
But life isn’t so simple;
Inner peace is a cultivated growth
That sets it’s own pace.
…
So maybe I’ll feel like myself tonight
Or maybe I won’t feel whole for a year
But either way whatever
Smiles and scars my soul stockpiles
Becomes an extension of my existence,
An incorporation of my earthly-bound story.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
i remember childhood
like i forget most moments,
something
is always missing
like every autumn
i'd go upstate
to pin ornaments onto trees
like they were war veterans who lost their feet
and rake
stockpiles of leaves
(i can hear their tiny spines breaking)
the ground crackled
because i walked on fire
it was easy
it smelt stale
i recall the fall
in mounds.
i never landed .
i remember floating.
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 12:19 AM UTC
When he caught you staring he would smile
and say that everything was fine, meanwhile
he hid drawings made by a blade under his sleeves
and had stockpiles of "magic" pills, more than ready to leave.
It wasn't until he departed this Earth that everyone recognised
they should've known he was lying, if only they'd realised
every time that he said he was fine,
he was dying inside; oh so confined.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
As tears fall from his chin
He looks down to see,
This life drip out of him
One drop at a time.
Colliding with his tears,
Down his body to the ground,
Collecting in the mud
His broken heart lies.
His world once vast,
So full of love and optimism,
Now is reduced to a slow painful fading.
One so agonizing, it tears him.
A warehouse once filled with stockpiles of hope,
Is abandoned now, only storing a frigid chill.
A chill that no blanket could heal,
No heart could survive.
It was that very chill that pierced his heart
By taking the form of hope, and lurking it’s way in.
His heart was instantly infected,
And it was more than he could bear.
It was just a splinter of hope,
No louder than a whisper, no more dense then a midnight fog.
A faint breeze could have blown it away,
But it was powerful enough to make him collapse.
His legs beneath him buckle
Dropping him to his knees
When he lowers his eyes to the ground
He finds the hope lying there.
His heart which has felt so much,
Once bound by an infallible determination,
Now only feels the rain washing away the infection
And replacing it with regret and doubt.
As the beats become slower, the tears descend faster
He is slowly fading to gray.
The voices from within his soul
Cry to him as he screams out in agony;
“Why will this pain not subside?!”
This infection, this plague
It once looked so promising,
But it is now grabbing him by his throat.
Coughing, reaching, gasping
Each breath shorter than the last
He becomes weak and useless
As his face collides with the mud.
The sound of the rain is deafening,
There is no one around to comfort.
His blood becomes diluted, so that no one can see
The truth behind his gray eyes.
Gravity is pulling him down,
Sad, dreary eyes hung low.
As he fades away
He slowly pulls in one
last
breath
“Goodbye my Love.”
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 12:49 PM UTC
The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.
The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.
It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.
Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?
I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.
At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.
Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!
It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,
our lives.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
I was born under great open skies,
Brought up with the smell of coal-black smoke
Hovering over the family farm.
I grew as distant sounds of whooping
Echoed like thunder across the land
And I was raised on bias, which clung
To the white men of the Black Hills like
Their guns, their religion, and their homesteads.
Those Hills are no place for me.
Look at my multi-colored dress, the
Multi-million-dollar stage, the
Multi-colored lights hanging over me.
This is my home. I thrive in this place.
Gone are the chiefs and their headdresses.
Gone are the dream-catchers and stories
Of battles between Unkthei, the
Serpant, and Wakinyan, the eagle.
Gone is Crazy Horse, always wily
Like the winter fox.
All cast off for a new life of bias.
I make the formula that nurtures
Bias in every little kid’s mind.
Every day’s the same. I spew my words,
My angry, petrol-soaked vitriol,
Which deludes their minds. They’ll be
“pigs” in the not-too-distant future.
In a way, this life disappoints me.
The trailer homes of Indians were
Run-down and forgotten about.
They lived lives of quiet desperation. No
Spotlights shined on their struggles.
The men who killed their kin were immortal.
But pow-wows in South Dakota were
***** dingy, and dark, yet they were
Attended by many a native.
The farms were barren and gray,
Stockpiles of grain long gone, given to
The plutocratic hands of Washington.
Aunt Ida clung to this world.
Aunt Ida is dead and forgotten.
I was raised on bias in the Black
Hills, and I will stay biased for the rest
Of my days. Why would I give it up?
Joseph, the great Chief, never know
Such a life.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
Dark stormy unspeakables
form eclipses of the shining sun
and the sarcastic ecstasy of a drained emotional high, of cutting veins
while scathing shards of soul
are struggling against the unearthly cyclone,
in conjunction with dirt so mundane
form a manifesto of fire
to drag the heathen into hatred
scorch the earth to raise
a plagued farm of scuttling scarabs
beneath the morphing skin
of diseased brain matter
splattered on canvases.
The cosmic cantatas of hope's celestial voices
coldly calculate into oblivion
while hordes of thunderstorms
in calamitous cacophony
set fire to the wilderness
food to fuel the demons
that crawl into our eyes and retinas
moving our nerves like we're marionettes
severing the stockpiles of memories in our psyche
forcing forgetfulness and ignorance
upon our fretted, filtered minds
and make us fail to recollect
those sunny days
hiding behind the army of darkness
singing etudes to unknown questions
praying to the eternities
or maybe begging?
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
The nuclear scientists all say
Before the Biblically revealed Armageddon
Is tragically brought into play
The world believes that a madman
Has his hands on the nuclear codes
And frankly other leaders are worried
Because of what that forebodes
We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
According to the nuclear clock
And people all over the world
Are frankly expressing their shock
At the talk of building up stockpiles
As a necessary and clear deterrent
While furthering an insane plan
That isn’t at best coherent
We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
And some are abandoning hope
Others are still optimistic
By holding tightly onto God’s Rope
But whatever side you may fall on
The potential for disaster is real
When the head of a powerful nation
Operates by how he may feel
We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
That’s’ a sad but salient fact
With all sides worried and wondering
Who’ll make the first strike attack
Instead of reducing our stockpiles
They’re hell-bent on building them up
Take the time to look at their profiles
You’ll discover that most are corrupt
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Dark souls within garbs bright.
Elegantly attired men in white.
As if politest creature on land.
Travel miles in verdure or sand.
Palms joined before the *****
A traditionalistic Indian custom.
Faces with unending smiles.
False promises in stockpiles.
From street to street in clusters.
From door to door like beggars.
Their words like song of psalms.
Red or black, color of their palms.
But all are like seasonal bugs.
Many amongst them are thugs.
Their actions draws intense flak.
Tis a choice 'tween red or black.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
Scattered through the mists of time
Ancient bells echo out their rhyme
Swirling dust clouds rolling through
Whispered echoes of the things once true
Raindrops spiral downwards gather pace
Bringing life to dry (wrinkled) creek beds face
Erasing fissures in long dried mud
Drought it breaks and turns to flood
Straddled now aboard fates train
Each day seeing how we lose the pain
Of places once held treasured deep
Where once we did just stand and weep
As changes flowing on life’s tide
Mountain streams feed rivers ride
To replenish stockpiles once deplete
Fate to destiny’s chance we meet
Cloaks their gathered against the cold
Reaching now the things we hold
Warm light floods the way ahead
(More wonderful than that book you read)
Remembering now the things you said
(GE2014)(C) Reserved
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
FROM BIG FIVE BANK INSIDER-THIS INFORMATION WAS
DELIVERED ,THAT I WAS INFORMED ABOUT YESTERDAY.A
PENDING SYSTEMATIC CYBER /HACK ATTACK IS SCHEDULED
TO TAKE PLACE WHEN "THE GO' ORDER IS GIVEN:CYBER
ASSASSINS WHO HAVE INFILTRATED BOTH TIER 1 AND TIER 2,
BANKS IN AMERICA, AMERICAS LARGEST BANKS, ,ARE
WORKING FEVERISHLY TO INITIATE THIS ATTACK WHEN THE
'ORDER IS GIVEN’.AS THIS ATTACK WHEN IMPLEMENTED WILL
CAUSE THE WORLD'S FINANCIAL SITUATION TO BECOME DIRE
AND A 'FINANCIAL DOMINO LIKE' MELTDOWN WILL TAKE
PLACE,ONLY THOSE COUNTRIES PRIMARILY RUSSIA AND
CHINA 'WHO HAVE AMASSED GREAT STOCKPILES OF GOLD
WILL SURVIVE AND COME FORTH WITH A NEW CURRENCY
WHICH WILL BE BACKED BACKED BY GOLD! THE WEST WILL
CEASE TO BE THE FINANCIAL DRIVER OF THE WORLD'S
ECONOMY AND RIOTS WORLD WIDE WILL EXPLODE-I WOULD
STRONGLY SUGGEST THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE CONTACTED
ROSS POWELL AT (SURVIVAL401K.COM) PROCEED
IMMEDIATELY IN YOUR ACQUISITION PURCHASES, THROUGH
YOUR SELF DIRECTED 401K PLANS THAT ROSS HAS SET UP FOR
YOU, TO TAKE POSSESSION, OF YOUR PRECIOUS METALS POST
HASTE- THE COUNTDOWN CLOCK IS FULLY UNDERWAY,AS THE
MIDNIGHT OIL BURNS HOTTER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE, TO
TRY AND MITIGATE THIS CYBER HACK/ATTACK THAT IS
WAITING FOR THE GO SIGNAL! THIS WOULD ALSO BE PART OF
THE REASON FOR JADE HELM 15 WHICH IS SUPPOSEDLY
STARTING IN JULY ,BUT SEEMS TO BE UNDERWAY ALREADY ,IN
SOME STATES-"81 DAYS TOO EARLY" IS BETTER THAN ONE
SECOND TOO LATE!
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
guy fawkes was a man from many years ago
and the house of lords decided he would blow
with stockpiles of gunpowder hidden down below.
guy fawkes he got caught when his plot was found
gunpowder was discovered hidden under ground
now he is an effigy that we set alight
that everybody celebrates when its guy fawkes night
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
I lay here alone
as my work stockpiles up-
imagine it done
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC