"territorial" poems
Human directives, veracities unverified
Bellies belching with anger, murderers
Udders dripping hate, foundling banters
Hunters striking the hungered, unfortunate
Glare sight to seek the truth, hold me lets sink
Tear motions and debates of inequality
My Dafur, the realm of the fur, demise
All armed in Sudan, the arid, a battlefield
Emergency alarms sirens from 2003
The indefinite complications and hunger
A land of the displaced, starving nomads
Hear me out in these non-dissolving conflicts
Guantanamo bay detention a prison vicious
A base for “war in terrorism”, reciprocal laws
Inhumane human interrogations persists
A breach, a revolt, the hunger riots devolve
Force-feeding, torturous measures applied
All undressed, humiliated, genitalia exposed
A Rwanda slain in divide and rule
Civil clashes, mashes, all trashed
Swaying war rapes, tapes, the raves
Machetes slashing necks and hands
A lust of power, a genocide slaughter
The Tutsi slewed and unsewn from a patch
Autocratic regime boring divisions
Territorial ethnic cleansing, a holocaust
The oppression of Jews, Romanis, Poles
Homosexuals, the disabled and mentally ill
Indifference pooled in pits and camps
The institutional social indoctrination
The honor and killing to expose shame
The violation and dishonor of moral fabric
For what is “good”, “bad”, fixated moral values
Buried waists and head, awaiting stones to hit
Confessional secrets of only what lays within
A torment watching witnesses, all dangling
Marxists calls ships to stow ashore
Masses kidnapped, confused in deceit
Invalid contracts awaits signatures
The white immigrants to be enslaved
All aboard, now abroad to revolve labor
Wage packages taken to pay for freedom
Humans bought and sold to be owned
Slaves yorked and counted as assets
Bounded to serve plantations and homes
A human, non human, a chattel, a slave
A debt ******* offended and *****
Untamed and made to obey a master
A falling global strings unturned
Tunes strumming hate, war and pain
Human trafficking, violence, inequality
Child abuse, civil conflicts, capitalists
Commercialism, zero hour contracts
For if we have no rights, I have none
For if we have no peace I have none
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
From the woodlands of Madagascar
To the highlands of Ethiopia
Dwell nine species of lovebirds.
Their genus name is Agapornis,
From the Greek agape (love) and ornis (birds).
The French call them Les inséperables
While affection between compatible pairs
Can be a joy to behold,
Lovebirds can be quite territorial
And will defend their nest.
Sexually dimorphic they mate for life.
Like all parrots they need to be well
Socialized and taken care of.
They are very vocal, making loud
High-pitched noises, especially
In the early morning time.
Stocky little birds
With short blunt tails
You can hold them
In the palms of your hands.
They love to snuggle,
They love to preen.
Happy birds: together.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM 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
What do you like about her?
For some reason, I could not decide what to say. When someone asks what I like about her, my mind goes racing so fast that I get caught up in my words.
She's the type of girl who would force the secret out of you if you refuse to tell it to her.
She's the type of girl who doesn't care about what other people think, she lives her life without anyone dictating it for her.
And her curves. God, if I could, I'd trace her curves all day.
She's the type of girl who gets jealous, even with the littlest of things. I thought at first it was normal to get jealous, but this is different. She'd get jealous not because you're breathing the same air as the other girl, but she'd get jealous because she's territorial-- she wants you all to herself.
She's the type of girl who never stops talking. If talking were a sport, she'd be an olympic medalist! But no matter how far off her topics would be, you'd never get tired of her, ever. You'd probably even drift away, lost in her eyes, and she'd have to snap her fingers in front of you to come back to your senses.
She's just mesmerizing, like you would probably touch her arm just to make sure that she's real. She's the full moon on a starry night; God, how could such an amazing person exist?
I'll admit, she's not perfect. Perfection is overrated. She has flaws, and that's why I fell in love with her in the first place. I fell in love with her flaws.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
Resilient?
***** resilient.
I don’t feel resilient.
I feel alone, confused.
I feel pain.
I feel pain now as if I had never felt pain before.
I feel my lungs, aching to cease movement being the first thing I notice every morning.
I feel the way barbed wire tangles itself around my ribs and pulls in.
I feel the tears on my face when I wake up in the middle of the night, panting, as though I’ve just been submerged in a lake of ice.
I feel the memory of you.
I hear the memory of you.
You are in every call my phone receives, every text that comes in.
You are in every place I go.
Things you’ve said.
The way you laugh.
The way we were.
I remember the first time we told each other we loved each other.
And the hiding us from our families.
I remember the late nights and the ungodly early mornings.
I remember falling in love with you.
I remember all of the arguments, the eye rolls, the times apart.
I remember the way you made me feel like I didn’t want to want to die anymore.
The way you could make me smile with just a sigh.
The way you turn me into putty.
I remember being yours.
How territorial you get.
How you always listen.
I remember the plans we made.
The life we wanted.
I remember us.
The couple our friends were jealous of.
The fairy tale story we wanted to tell our grandchildren.
I remember who I was with you.
Who I wanted to be.
How you made me softer but somehow stronger.
How you taught me to love without being scared.
How I loved you and I wasn’t scared.
Because I had you. And it was us.
So no. I don’t feel resilient. I feel battered and broken. I feel tired.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
I am emotional, but I am fearless
I am stronger among the pack,
yet I prefer to be on my own path
Sometimes I am the swift hunter,
sometimes I am the cowardly scavenger
I can be loud and ferocious,
I can be quiet and submissive
If I wish, I can make my presence known in an instant,
or I may stay invisible.
I avoid conflict when I can, yet I am fiercely territorial
By day I am the lazy dog,
at night I am the vicious predator
I am your best friend, I am your worst nightmare
I'm not always a monster, but I will **** for what I love
It is possible to discipline me, but its no easy task
And you'll never take the wild out of me
My soft fur hides my fangs
I am the Wolf
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....
She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!
She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.
And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.
Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!
Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!
There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
the lion pack traveling side
by side, though not evenly;
colliding shoulder to shoulder
territorial and instinctual.
trying to tame the manes
beneath logo-baring headgear,
hoping to hide soulful eyes
behind dark shades of plastic.
clothing loose to make up
for skin too tight, laughter
bouncing off cement and
rubber sneaker soles.
that musky scent of male
mingling with each individual
mixture of hopes and dreams
hits me in full force, leaving me
at a standstill long after the last
of you has passed me by.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
Triumphantly raised colorful flagpole insignia dynasties
of this country and that country and other country
destroying each other territorial
like rabid animals and house pets.
Atomic bomb cat food will feed us full
in fallout by the end!
Meeeee-oww!
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Jazz history teacher scattin about
swing
Now, war on drugs ****
wait, kansas city night clubs
Territorial Deviants howl the blues
dragging themselves bar to bar to jam
Teach has jeans and a black long sleeve
shows off his impressive gut
27th and manhattan, playin for pete
everynight bald head shinin
bass thumpin, saxophone whinin
count bessie, chick webb, rotating stage
Bothersome lesbian
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
Hershey, black satin, as long as my torso
Diamond green comforting eyes
Velveteen curious nose
Tongue like a pumice stone
Her elegant but waddling stride
Powerful, confident and territorial
Sitting like a queen on her throne
Cat of mine, mother to be
Tuxedo, black and white, bow tie and all
White sock covered feet like satin gloves
Long white elderly whiskers
He reminds me of Fred Astaire
Quick calculated light on his feet
Shy yet debonair
Patient, watchful and full of pride
Father to be
Oreo, friend and foe
White as snow, black face and tail
Large circular patches of black
Fearless fence and roof climber
Youngster full of mischievousness
Paws in the air, tummy exposed to the sun
Purring so loud she vibrates
Kitty of mine
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
Up , in a long wavy personality .
Waking the morning with my commitment to it's day .
Way too slight to storm the day .
Open the door to a gray cloudy breeze .
Slip out with ease onto the concrete leaf .
A page out of my very own book .
Liking the very way the ink bleed ;
Write off the tip, a pen that would rip right through another's book.
Soft to the touch, you fell cause you might slip right through .
Although the heart felt tipped utensil causes you to breathe .
With all the wind in my atmosphere, a tornado caused .
You to turn and run .
Opens my hidden twists, up with a given gist .
Like an autumn oak tree, letting go isn't so uncommon .
But still a shipped away surprise, .
So many unforgiving goodbyes .
A tear without anyone to give it a cry / /
Such a subtle generosity, so much so .
You might forget all beauty ever existed .
Me and memories go together,
like mine was an aggravated death .
Worth killing to a Saint ,
And none of the happiness was great .
Out of the blue, and only for another shade of green .
Jealous and out of the way,
So they faded navigated away.
Orange and ravenous red .
Foundation for success,
Paved a walk way for a street walker like hiss..
Step away and porcelain eyes .
Pierce once again .
Follow the haze with outa braze .
No touch, glass chimes.
Together once , noise of fine dining .
Couples and territorial squint .
Soothing child , for a partner for life.
Love for the second child in the other .
Like a bad photo shop .
No edit, just chop , black dot .
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
I learned something new about myself
I hate when boyfriends talk to their ex
The claws come out
I'm territorial.
Maybe because I'm short
Maybe because I have history with boys cheating
I hate these emotions
They control me
I will protect my territory
And *****
I'll **** you up.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
I am not Indian. I am Gitxsan
I belong to a territory, I am Gitxsan
Like my ancestors before me.
Before contact with people from other lands, We are Gitxsan
I do not know this word Indian
Maybe the word is from faraway lands
Maybe they will be proud to be called Indians
Like I am proud to be called Gitxsan
This land is Gitxsan, She cares for her people
We are Gitxsan
Who are these new people
That accept that title of Indian
From someone far away that doesn’t see,That they are Gitxsan
Their territory is 1 mile by 1 mile , They live by their territorial rules
Given to them by eyes that do not see
That they were once a proud nation
Of Gitxsan
Give me a card that says, I am Gitxsan
And I will be happy
Let my children of mixed blood Also be happy to be
Gitxsan
It is not for your unseeing eyes or uncaring heart to say
Who in my family is, Gitxsan It is in their hearts to be Gitxsan
Gitxsan is not just a word
It is the land, the people, the language, the animals and the spirits
I stand proudly beside the Hopi, the Apache, the Sioux, the Cree, and all other nations labelled Indian.
I am Gitxsan.
Wogalwil
Edward Green
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Bernie frames the TV
between his feet--
left hand remote,
beer bottle balanced
by his right—
clicks through half-time shows,
clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer,
a death-ray secret weapon,
clicks just to do it, an idiot’s
smile faint on his face.
he sees only noise
Emma tends her stamps,
perched on the plain board chair
she upholstered herself—
its arms worn, warm,
warmly welcoming—
her back to her husband,
her life as wife and mother
coming to a languid close.
she tastes some regret--
yet spicy with passion--
where life has had its way with her.
The rug’s bright stew of colors
can’t hide everything
children spilled
when they were young--
juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears;
little dreams,
tiny heartbreaks,
minor crises
ground into the weave;
all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs,
blood and sweat and nightmares congealed
into solemn patina--
I see protects it from time.
These solid objects—
stout, no-nonsense chair
wearing gouges, marks,
discolorations of use
and years like badges;
fat, chunky, cigarette-burned
BarcaLounger, drunk
from drink spilled
on every surface,
handle supple
as a young girl’s wrist,
swirling a territorial aura
around its microscopic
sphere of the universe;
and the rug…
unassuming, proletarian,
handmade and honest,
each scrap of fabric
chosen by the weaver’s hand,
now useful again,
reveling in redemption—
these solid objects
invade,
infuse,
invigorate
otherwise empty space,
squeeze meaning from the world
around them,
same as the hand of the artist
sculpts love from her heart
to give them life.
The children have moved away
Old friends are dying every day
Stamps no longer can be licked
There is no way to interdict
The Jets are losing again
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
I never wished for a sibling, boy or girl.
Center of the universe,
I had the back of my parents’ car
all to myself.
I could look out one window
then slide over to the other window
without any quibbling over territorial rights,
and whenever I played a game
on the floor of my bedroom, it was always my turn.
Not until my parents entered their 90s
did I long for a sister, a nurse I named Mary,
who worked in a hospital
five minutes away from their house
and who would drop everything,
even a thermometer, whenever I called.
“Be there in a jiff” and “On my way!”
were two of her favorite expressions, and mine.
And now that the parents are dead,
I wish I could meet Mary for coffee
every now and then at that Italian place
with the blue awning where we would sit
and reminisce, even on rainy days.
I would gaze into her green eyes
and see my parents, my mother looking out
of Mary’s right eye and my father staring out of her left,
which would remind me of what an odd duck
I was as a child, a little prince and a loner,
who would break off from his gang of friends
on a Saturday and find a hedge to hide behind.
And I would tell Mary about all that, too,
and never embarrass her by asking about
her nonexistence, and maybe we
would have another espresso and a pastry
and I would always pay the bill and walk her home.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC
I look deep into the mirror
And I notice I have aged before my time.
I see the caverns in my eyes
Pasty skin and sleep deprived.
I can count the lines upon my forehead,
Etched deep by years of surprise,
Of frustration,
Of surly indifference
And I am only through a score of years.
I could go to bed sooner,
For it is not down to an enterprising purpose,
Or a creative flair
That I am awake until five every morning,
Stubbornly refusing to
Fall
Into another twitchy sleep.
The dead of night is rarely punctuated here;
Only by another sleepless soul,
Just looking for a reason.
For what?
This peace is only ever broken
By the sounds of the birds
And their sweet melody
Of territorial threats,
Both for the safety of their nests
And for your intrusion upon their time.
They sing: “go to bed, go to bed, a dreamless sleep if you go to bed”.
I know now I will not feel fresh when I awake,
But in these bleak months,
I see nothing to feel fresh for.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
We have seen your greasy lips
Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish
With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics
A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill
And crafty navigational sail
Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated
With your sparkling craft of vile crypt
Across regions, tribes and locales
Of your fangs that foiled good governance
But this time…
Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf
Shall experience a firestorm of rejection
Your emissaries across territorial divides
Shall be hounded to delusion
For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur
To the abyss of dishonour
For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom
Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement
Of abysmal invasion
We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain
Of your permutation in levitation
For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition
Your raging mist on this cloudy night
Shall encounter a violent tussle
Prepare for war!
The scarlet venom from your cruel camp
Shall cease with instant visitation
From the warhorses of this fearless infantry
Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress
As you dispatch your foot soldiers
Of monsters and Leviathans
To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox
Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall!
Let the music begin…
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
The hours before dawn
are as much a territory
as moments in time
Alone in a darkened world
listening to sounds the
morning shares with me
and I alone
A rustle of a small creature
settling more comfortably
in its bed beneath frozen branches
within a pine-straw burrow
The creak of ice-burdened limbs
high in the loblolly pines
The crack of ice breaking loose
to land on frozen deck
like an echo of a rifle shot
from many years ago
The pecking of small pellets of
sleet upon my glazed blue
tin roof with dragon's teeth
icicles hanging above my head
This is my territory
and my hours
before the
dawn
r ~ 12Feb14
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
I'm so lost.
My surroundings don't feel real and
I'm so scared.
The skin on my fingertips is sliced
in patterns created by anxiety fuelled
compulsivity whilst I'm sat around an unfamiliar kitchen table.
I'm so lonely.
Interaction is only manageable after the sour taste
of ***** shots have seeped into my blood stream and
I'm so sad.
Do they know where I disappear off to?
Do they realise that I leave the room, unable to cope,
just to slash at my thighs in a desperate attempt to feel grounded?
I'm so sore.
My body is bruised, tiny constellations that
only remind me of home, of my mother and her hobbies.
Of skies no longer tinged with the bitter sweet brassiness of city lights
but of unadulterated and divine decrees.
I'm so wistful.
My body shatters at the thought of home, of comfort, of love.
The fragments form a barrier around me,
a territorial wire with thorny thistles ready to attack.
I'm so divided.
Half of my mangled mind grasps onto you,
your memories and your love.
The other detaches, similarly to the way in which my mind
departs from reality.
I'm so disconnected.
Yet this feeling is sewn strangely into my wounds,
tied too tight to let go.
Maybe if the thread was to be loosened,
I would fall apart forever.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
in the wild, there is nothing mild,
oh sure, there are sedate centipedes,
bobbing butterflies, owl calls that
echo along forest walls, even the plants
can supplant your will to live,
but today
a different sort of experience,
they showed their teeth,
the puffed and snorted,
I didn't dare retort,
and did not make eye contact,
then on the streets,
some physically assault,
some slink in shadows,
take out hockey moms,
and eighty year women
with purses, curse these cowards,
but today,
surrounded in a confrontation zone,
my heart beat wildly in my chest,
my arms and legs felt heavy and tired,
I prayed for protection in this test,
of wills, they flex their muscled limbs and
are not alone, while I flew solo,
at ground level, staring bared teeth,
and territorial ownership at stake,
I was looking for two dumbbells to finish
my work out
©DWE012014
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
I'm cold cold cold.
My parent's house is not the escape I was looking for.
I lock myself in here without the heat to prove a point.
What point, you ask?
Well, uhhhh, I don't know.
I dug out an old sweatshirt from 6th grade basketball.
It's still too big.
If I stretch my arms out towards the lack of sky
My tiny, chubby, baby hands peek through.
They are very cold.
I wonder if our babies will have my hands or Javin's.
I could never be a communist.
The theoretical kind of communism, of course.
I am very territorial.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
This slight bird
so oft alone except
in spring when pairs
will flightingly court
in blue-belled woods.
Passerine bird
erithacus rubecula
a thrush-like fly-catcher
diurnal except on
moon-lit nights.
Mr McGregor’s friend
and never to be harmed.
He in winter sings,
she in summer warbles;
both fiercely territorial.
Legend says its breast
was scorchéd red
when fetching water
for those poor souls
dead - in Purgatory.
When the Eternal Christ
was dying on the tree
a robin to his side flew down
and boldly sang to ease
our sweet Saviour’s pain.
And evermore retained
the mark of blood
upon its once-brown breast.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC