"tactical" poems
Are you listening to the whispers? are you feeling scandalised?
Harbouring ***** little feelings that you wanna sanitise?
Walk through the swinging doors of a catholic franchise
Ask em for that sailors knot a black-n-white man-ties
To the pairs of prying eyes his practical rebuke
Is a marital disguise and a tactical puke
Throw the garter ‘mongst the pigeons, the voluntary victims...
Whose single minds are filled with matrimonial conviction
Paired up poets pool their miseries; the price of art
Each miserable synergy - the sum of its parts
Did he swear that he’d hold you ever dear to his heart?
To love and to cherish til your knees did part?
If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?
There she stands on ceremony all silk and sinew
While the vow evicted from his Adam’s apple continues
To stutter as the panic builds like stifled farts
Til it splutters its devotions on her lady parts
Her eyes sentence you to sit though your neck-hairs stand
She’s the ****** ****** written in the lines on your palm
Old scores squeeze sideways through her gritted teeth
And he takes on the debt of every promise she believed
Hide the love-bites in a polo-neck, your love life in a Rolodex
When the ***** hand of happen-stance runs its evil down your keks
Cos like the indelible digits on your bathroom mirror
Love is for life until you dress it with liquor
If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?
We are but experiments, seven billion shades of wrong
The clever ones stay celibate, the others pass it on
That’s an easy line to settle-on in present company
Single-riders in the peloton to pick up the debris
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
Your Style Can Not Dominate
Not Being Crude, Not Spreading Hate
I'm Just Spreading The Word, Going To Radiate
Even Without It, You'd Probably Meet Your Fate
Taking You Down Has Become My Mission
Going To Split Your Mind, Sanity Fission
And Your World In Two, Territorial Division
I'm Coming At You With Insane Precision
Not Going To Rush, Going To Be Tactical
Make Sure My Plans Are 100% Practical
Attacking Aimlessly Would Be Impractical
Give My People A Show, Theatrical
I'm Flawless, You're Flawed
When People Hear My Words, They Applaud
When They Hear yours? They Call The Firing Squad
I Don't Think Inside The Box, I Think Abroad
I'm Guessing By Now You Must Be Hurting
You Coming To Me, Asking For Some Kind Of Converting
The Topic Kills You, You're Diverting
To You. I'm Quite Alerting
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Tell me what it is that you can't do,
or become,
tell me what it is
that is too insignificant to achieve.
Life is not worth throwing away
just to please certain people by
forgetting the truth and essence of life.
You don't want to die for another's believe.
Using your death to **** their assumed
enemy means you are one too.
Blowing up yourself is an abomination.
Anything unnatural that could cause
anyone's death is not worth anything.
Avoid it like a plague.
Hide yourselves from it's way,
when it comes with fury to meet you.
Close your ears from it's path,
as it uses subtle words to cajole you.
Guard your heart from the troublesome
tempest of it's bait as it keeps knocking
on your door to convince you,
using all kinds of manipulative
crafty intimidating tactical
techniques to woo you,
just to send you to your death.
Don't buy their ideas for it has nothing
to do with your vision.
Death awaits anyone who does not listen
to the secrets offered by wisdom.
It may look so strange and simple,
but it carries within it the age old beneficial
heart warming truth that has time tested
safe haven to keep you alive.
Heed to it's invitation to live.
Cowardice is not courage,
it's only an end to your beautiful life.
If there's truth in dying to prove your cause,
why are the initiators don't die
first to prove their case.
Can't you see that it's all for nothing.
Be wise and say no to their call.
Your lives matter.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
I wasn't sure what to make
of this intergalactic space war.
With flying soldiers in old tobacco tins
and bullets made out of fingers.
I took it upon myself, I suppose
to conscript to this chaos,
upon the fluffy terrain.
Some sort of tyrannous Tyrannosaurus,
with a purple top hat
had taken over the bunk bed fort.
I'd made up my mind.
The only thing for it was a straight "Neeeeee-owwwwwwww"
into the back of the villainous lizard.
My comrade in arms however,
felt I wasn't quite suited for this rampant combat.
Although, his reason I didn't quite agree with;
"You're doing it wrong" he said, rather patronisingly.
I guess my little cousin is less of the kamikaze type and more of the tactical warfare nature.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
He was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech.
No one else, but he, stood to face the onslaught,
The terror that charged forward,
Toward where he stood and held his post,
Where someone before had drawn a long line on the ground.
No one there to help, all had fled,
Intimidated by the imposing, closing threat
That was coming near.
All, but he, had run, and the time and the foe drew closer;
Making a last stand was not even on his mind,
Resisting was not a choice,
He would do what he could,
What must be done, until he could do no more.
Death took the defender that day,
But not easily.
He fought until he had no more blood to shed,
With a final gasp, onto a bloodied ground he, at last,
Fell dead.
His enemies, his foes, stood in awe,
At the red-stained, battered corpse,
With sword still in hand.
After much deliberation,
The horde decided to turn and leave.
If this one, lone sentry had courage such as this,
How much more an entire army that probably laid in wait.
Tactical retreat was the best option, and,
With that they turned about,
They left to conquer other lands.
His comrades came; took his body;
Pinned medals across his chest;
Said a few words reserved for heroes, and
Laid him to rest.
They glanced into the distant, disappearing dust and thought,
What cowards they must have been
To have let one lone soldier frighten them such
That they turned away.
There was only one, that day,
Standing alone to fill and gap the breech;
One soldier who stood the watch,
Who did not retreat.
Armies are made of
One soldier at a time.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
This town is famous
for pretty faces,
broken legs,
and misplaced names--
A sentence penned,
An Oxford comma
dangling off the edge of pages,
setting off appositive phrases,
lighting fuses--accidental--
phasing out of view and staging
tactical retreats
The winds of February mark off
intersections
Dow & Broadway
Midnight laughs echo off stratos
then fall back--
snowstorms at midday.
Caught in the rain on Sunday evening
this place don't stay awake so late.
Except, perhaps, for pretty faces,
misplaced names, or broken legs--
But forget the Oxford comma
retreating, drenched, off of the page.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
When on a modern battlefield,
You shouldn't wield a wooden shield.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 9:08 AM UTC
Consisting of grown, persisting as shown and unknown. Insisting entities, rivalries and sworn enemies! Deformed, forewarned, formed, informed, mourned, performed, reformed and scorned. Dates of great storms! Family tree of hate, horns and thorns. My family tree of gore, horror, more, poor and sore. Perhaps of mishaps galore. Briefly sit
back! I’ll roughly take you back… Heck! Back to a time of attack,
blacks, slacks and whacks. My family tree of practical, tactical, methodical Aztec. Some beckon and reckon in seconds. A family tree of crime, grime and rhyme. A nation of communication, dedication,
dissemination, motivation and procrastination. The splendor of sin
of my corruptive, disruptive kin. They rely more on the color of one’s
skin. My family tree of abuse and misuse that misuses and seduces! Family tree of warfare and welfare legalities, moralities and family-prodigies. Picture this scriptural twist! Some assist on a kiss. I insist
some are idealities in social technicalities. Alcoholics, diabetics,
****** exotic, fantastic, Catholics, eccentric, horrific and poetic. I persist… some gnomes, some roam, some in poems, some with no homes. My family tree of adventuresome, awesome, handsome and troublesome. My family tree of beautiful and bountiful! Some are a
handful some handicap some locally and vocally-rap. Some slap,
gift-wrap and yap! Some are snuggly, pretty, witty or ugly. In my family tree, some crippled, some with pimples, some with freckles
and some that heckle. Some belittle and little, some wrinkled and old. Some are bold and pray to the lord! Some are Frio, meaning cold we
were told. Some I say, are poor with no Amor. Some are here no more, in my family tree of Amor.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
I see through your atoms.
I collect data on your likes
and engage in tactical warfare.
I dedicate my hours to spotting weakness,
then hop-jump-skip over them.
I crawl at the feet of great folks
who approach the world at full.
I become inspired.
Anti-protons and protons.
Nuclear particles that make up
the billions of thoughtful questions I have,
all without a voice.
Or an answer.
I exist in something like a game
but I never learned the rules.
I hopped scotch because its all I know.
I fight against the gravity that I create
and instead I choose to orbit
small moons and elegant stars.
I crash into lakebeds
and leave everything dead and gone.
I am Man,
or at least some guy,
and that’s a good enough title for me.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
dancing on the sands of agony
to the saddest song of apathy
standing behind tactical amnesty
with no chance because we lack capacity
we can't advance in fantasy
in rampant mankind's laxity
this land is ****** by strategy
a lack of sanity and demanded voracity
a stance of disbanding amity
we enhance the mass audacity
with plans deteriorating rapidly
we only last for a chance at catastrophe
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
The epitome of greatness, a mark in history
Of discipline remarkable, a stellar victory
Defeating the unbeaten, knock and break the mould
International heavyweight of Olympic Gold
Strike in quick succession, opponents retreat
Delivery duration, a knockout of defeat
Tactical ability, step into the range
Catalyst created, set for further change
Of the highest calibre, man who beat the man
Delivery on target, a humble champion
Of opponents outclassed, discontinued bout
Dominant performance, within and without
With athletic excellence, distance travelled far
Gym of daily training, cardio and spar
Professional perspective, stood to set the pace
Dedication, boldness, motivate, embrace
Influencing globally, rank of the elite
Rapid combinations, uppercuts repeat
Powerful formation, readiness of stance
Daily preparation, practice over chance
An honourable service, magnificence abound
Celebrating victory, crowding to surround
Continuing the greatness, strength and stamina
The world is truly grateful, Anthony Joshua
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
On this one bit I will not yield:
When on a modern battlefield
Where not one thought can be concealed
As hidden things can be revealed
You Shouldn't Wield a Wooden Shield
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 11:38 PM UTC
Buzzing emerald jungle swoons—
hip kitty soul eyes embrace the red wanderer.
It’s a tactical chess game,
both aware of the other’s presence.
Nebulous black perched in shadows,
desert red fool skips like a rock.
when eyes eclipse each other
an electric hummmmmmm buzzes
as their hearts start glowing like a peridot ember
the wind whizzes and twists
through their perfect curly hirsute
rushing luscious aurora energy pulsing
to and fro like giddy hearts exchanging notes in class…
Their blurry bodies bound forward
fox scorching ground while panther burns branches
lightning leg movements paws calls thunder
sun red hot fuzz lunges up
midnight cool moon goddess panther slams down
colors collide and crash and cling and clap
spines ignited in tye-dye holographic rainbows
their claws singe each other’s skin
their eyes swirl black holes
holy howls and breath coalesce
as one love
as one sight,
all encompassing
mythical tail told to all
through campfire gypsies and artists canvas
panting the dancing fox and panther
the bhavacakka.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
Case Spadet!
Look at all of the beautiful stars,
(yea, get a flashlight, it's too dark)
Look at the way I float so high up!
(the affects will wear off soon enough)
You are my chief of tactical officer!
(I'm also on your own, that makes two of us)
We are rank 2 divisions finest, and this smore's for you!
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Musclebound masked man
maniac mangling most everything he touches
Suicide squad serving the League of Shadows
Venom infuses his insane frame
Villainous tactical masterminds
should never be able to snap spines
and smash skulls
a faceless hulk
surgical tubing and tanks
delivery systems for his calcium crunching extremities
Every Dark Knight has their Bane
brash brutal backbreaker
Such a sordid past
a disaster
You're a slave to the Venom now
how do you live with yourself?
Scarecrow knows
the solace found in affecting fear in others
Poor Bane
insane and in chains
How weak you will become
when they take away your drug.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 10:31 AM UTC
Washington was the first, helped emancipate,
His skills as a leader, nothing less than great.
A founding father, during the Revolutionary war,
America's first general, British trouble was in store.
Crossed the Delaware, while the English slept,
On the Limeys army, his troops had crept.
This historic victory, both clever and tactical,
Thoughts of independence now were practical.
Now victory assured, not bowing to the king,
Colonists were free, here there voices sing.
George rule the colonies, we put you on a throne,
Let's start a new democracy, he said in a gentle tone.
Served as the president for eight strong years,
Loved by the voters, respected by his peers.
The next great man, to hold political reigns,
Was our counties leader, during the time of great pains.
Born in the woods, his character strongly built,
His passion for equality, never did wilt.
Families torn apart, North against South,
The Emancipation Proclamation, wisdom out of Abe's mouth.
The Civil War now over, abolished was the slave,
The social order of the States, beginning to repave.
Lincoln wasn't alive, to see freedom abound,
Shot by Wilkes Booth, the world mourned the sound,
Heard at Ford's theater, that fateful night,
His spirit is alive, it continues to fight.
For freedom and justice and the American way,
Both Washington and Lincoln are honored this day.
Visit poemsbypaul.com
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
alla u unsmarter peeps!
listen
because many of u may wonder why i have a PhD
cuz ido
have it like i have a shoe
i has a PhD
in everything that u can see
in medical
and tactical and
docderal
i has a fear
that ur a queer
i have a PhD
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
wooing/seducing: the where of the first kiss always
~for Robin Carretti, who loved it best~
‘tis true my battlefield tactical brought me
many victories
when that was fool-desired
no chain mail, walled armaments, arms crossing,
all failed
to the single softest siege engine in my possession
and the passing passionately poems read
back ‘n forth, non-negotiable demands,
vicious but viscous
red lines,
day remainders of the contusions of night's angry passions
and the
disputed but muted disparities of both
nothing, no, never broke the spell of:
the first kiss, always upon the neck
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
There’s a superhero protecting the city,
And when the sun goes down he fights
To keep his friends and family safe
On treacherous, deadly nights.
He uses his marvelous super strength
For lots of things, it‘s quite practical.
And he uses invisibility
To be supremely sneaky and tactical.
Each and every night he goes to stop
Bad people from doing bad things
The city loves their superhero,
And treat him as their king.
They know him well and they can tell
That he’ll always treat them with care
They know they can call at any time,
And that the hero will always be there.
But many long and sleepless nights
Begin to take their toll.
The hero’s getting tired
Night after night on patrol.
And the battles fought aren’t easily won,
The hero’s decorated with scars
From poison darts, and fisticuffs,
Falling from buildings onto cars.
But no one else can protect the people
Whom the hero love so dear,
So the hero cannot take a break,
Not one day off because he fears
That as soon as he’s gone the baddies will come
And wreak havoc on his friends
And the hero cannot allow that to happen;
He could never make amends.
Though he’s growing quite weary, the hero keeps fighting
Because that’s the way heroes are wired.
But his strength doesn’t work like it used to,
And his invisibility tends to backfire.
His strength only works around other people,
He grows weak as soon as they’re gone.
He’s invisible almost all of the time,
So people can’t see something’s wrong.
It’s now to the point where the hero dreads
The sun sinking into the west
Because he knows that once the sun goes down,
He’ll be put to the test.
He’s so tired and weak and he’s ready to quit
But he knows he must go out again.
Isn’t protecting the city week after week
Worth any amount of pain?
He’s reluctant to go out, and almost dares to do evil,
To show that he’s in control.
But he knows he never will, his reputation’s at stake,
And he prepares to go out on patrol.
The city is asking to be saved once again.
And he cries as the sky turns red,
Maybe the city won’t expect to be saved
If the hero himself is dead.
For the hero feels so very alone.
He knows he can’t go on forever.
How many more super villains and monsters,
He asks, can this poor hero weather?
The hero knows that he can’t go much longer,
That he only has a little while
Before the people figure out he’s hurt
But for now he saves with a smile.
Though his bones are weak, and his skin is bruised,
Off to save the city once more, he goes.
He’s pushing himself far past his limit
As he brawls ‘gainst countless foes.
He wants to keep his people safe,
Though he may be going to his grave.
For no one ever taught this hero
To save others, first himself he has to save.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:03 AM UTC
Arguing with disenchanted fractions of lust
Conserved in tributaries of fickle vestibules
Tactical pin ****** tranquilly distribute the crux of all misunderstood and demoralized charlatans
The levee enveloped in a felt like fabric
Dense and coarse
It had a mnemonic quality
Crafting a picture of my childhood bedroom
Mother would be oh so proud
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Visioned skewed and blurred beneath the masterful mask,
Completely collided mixtures of fluorescent folly and illness intact.
Crowned swiftly upon his truthful, yet tactical thoughts,
Who discovered the prolific promiscuity of his father's revolts.
Proud to be the lonesome star, who gleams giantly above,
Where the hungry telescopes are constantly searched and shoved.
Staggered toward emptiness of shine and fuel,
Left to float below, till becoming lost in the army of fools.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
Clumsy Gazelle Poem
10/??/2015
Dear Dad,
The last time we spoke, was spent walking down the sidewalk together in some metropolitan area. There was a tunnel up above, I guess we were in what you would call an underpass and a giant graffiti'd dumpster was awaiting our passage. You pulled on my arm with strong resolve and guided me into the street, as if the cars would dissolve in front of us as we inched farther away with our feet. I felt like a modern day Moses, it was magical. Once we reached the other side of the Chevrolet sea, you pointed out to me that our sudden death match with the traffic was a tactical maneuver. There was a gang operation being run no sooner than just beyond the trash bin... I woke up from that dream and immediately knew what could have happened.
I took a trip to Chicago this summer, the first of its kind. I felt like you were watching over me, keeping me safe the entire time.
I can't recall too many words you've said to me, but I have quite a few for you. Like to start, here's two. I'm gay. I wonder all the time, if maybe you already knew. You always called me by the nickname Cool. You told my mom that when I grow up I would be a ******* and a big drinker too. You got one-and-a-half of those right.
I inherited your hair and your goofy smile too. Neither of those are all that great, but I guess they'll have to do. I've heard the story from your poker pals about the time you won at pool. You got up on the table and in your most graceful pose and poise, the pool stick struck, and as the 8 ball sunk, gravity grabbed and you fell. Once you stood up, you addressed the **** up and said, "Like a gazelle."
I've made my own leaps too, but every gazelle has its gaffes. I've fallen in front of friends but made it out of every situation's extremes. It seems that when gravity pulls me down, all I can do is laugh. I'm glad I got that from you - I'd rather be a 'clumsy gazelle' than a 'graceful giraffe.'
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 7:32 PM UTC
Deployment confirmed, Flight Leader at ready
Mission parameters locked in the pipe
Target subsystem structures, hold the course steady
The last thing I want is a wipe
Miles of shrapnel, anti-drone hail
My brave flight cut down by a half
Magnetics engaged, we land on her tail
Free at last from hot metal and chaff
There can be no defense for this aft rail dispenser
Plasma torches will have out her heart
A soft spot at last on the tactical sensor
One final call and this party can start
"Flight Leader here, subsystem disabled"
"Prophet tactical, fire at will"
A surge of blue plasma, the deadly beam arc
We andrones must die with our ****
No graves will be dug for this 'drone flight destroyed
Disabling that aft rail smoke-caster
But our sacrifice bought what the Prophet predicted
Elegiac ion disaster
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC