"thrower" poems
Certainly not the intention
Nobody wants this rodeo
Sudden crisis intervention
Apologies to Tokyo
Like most things it started out small
I now feel like Pinocchio
Seems like things ran into a wall
Apologies to Tokyo
Now perhaps we did overfeed
Seems to enjoy finocchio
That doesn't explain the stampede
Apologies to Tokyo
Next time we will take it slower
try use less braggadocio
keep close by a grenade thrower
Apologies to Tokyo
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Palestine
The blank screen is watching me
to say something about flower and the landscape
I refuse to oblige.
My thoughts today go to the suffering Palestinians,
Who had their country to pieces by a horde from Europa
claiming it was their land as promised by a Jewish scribe.
They were pushed away from their land and cities
and mercilessly sent to exile, the survivors were given
a piece of land by the invaders, who called it the West -Bank,
There is no county by that name.
There is Palestine, the people there although outgunned
resist the invaders it is a David and Goliath fight
and we know the stone thrower won.
It took some time for good people to see the catastrophe that
befell the people of Palestine, but the world is
catching up, and no longer listen to the what a fake
state's propaganda says.
I'm old and will not live long enough to see it, but
I know Palestine will be free.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
Reading the paper kicking back with a few big boobie maiden's
He Man sit's and reflects after flexing his muscles for the maidens to giggle over mmm He Man loves the maidens.
Well after He Man's moment of deep thought he flushed the toilet
and beat the evil toilet demon back down the drain.
looking on the net and not just at **** He Man saw that evil Skeletor
had yet again erased yet another acount the master of the universe was mad so after wrasslin with the servant girl mmmm He man loves the servant girl.
He man called up Skeletor cause it wasa long ride over there and
and gas prices were a *****
One bar! fuck you verizon dam cellphone overpriced ****
He Man smashed the cellphone against the castle wall and cut that useless ****** head off cant hear me now huh ******
Man at arms build me better phone now!
mmmm He Man like a man in uniform.
After man at arms fought off He Man mmmm thats okay
he'll have to sleep sometime.
Man at arms built he man better phone with string and tin cup hello?
Skeletor Yorkie Speaking **** seems to be the problem.
Mmm talk slower He Man likes Skeletors voice.
He Man dam you leave me alone im busy with my life partner playing catch and hide the weazel.
Homegirl you better stop erasing accounts or im gonna get medevil on your **** He Man said in his naughty man voice.
Promise Skeletor replied.
BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL WAIT WHATS THE REST OF THIS?
****** it been so long I cant remember who gets tied up first.
Wait what was i talking about?
I like ice cream mmmm ice cream.
Just then the line snapped it was cut by that naughty meat puppet
dam you Skeletor this battle has just begun.
Dont miss the next really weird *** episode of HeMan.
Todays lesson.
Well children never play with matches.
Cause they sometimes dont work so go out and get this
years sure fire hot **** seller toy.
The He Man Flame Thrower yes little Timmy wont have to take **** from that bully anymore just light his fat *** up like a christmas tree
and if this offended you get a life mmm He Man like life and *******
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 7:37 AM UTC
In schooldays my aim was terribly perfect
add to that an attitude unfair
a soft teacher was an easy found target
not one bald head was allowed to be spared.
The moment the poor man turned to blackboard
his baldness shined as a gaming site
the sleeping devil woke up and deep roared
dispatched were chalks on windborne flight.
Only a few did land on wrong place
but found mostly their rightful targets
and bore no qualm the thrower's face
when cheered by the fellow classmates.
As the victim turned with ire's full steam
nursing stings that came with good force
we in the gang were such an honest team
never revealed it came from what source.
It went on smooth till luck failed one day
has to end all games one once starts
a traitor midst us the secret gave away
memory of the thrashing badly hurts.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
In John Green’s book “Paper Towns”, the main character believes that every person gets a miracle. A single miracle, a gift to you, possibly from God, that allows you to feel like you might actually be a lucky human being for once.
But this statement is not true. Because everybody in this world doesn’t get “one miracle”. I mean sure, you can get one miracle, but that doesn’t have to be it. You could get millions of miracles if you were just a little more patient. If you waited just a little longer.
Miracles can come in different shapes and sizes, different people, different amounts of money, different words, or sights, or stars. You, yourself can be your own miracle.
I believe that every friend I’ve ever had is a miracle to me, every song I write, every word I speak, I am shouting miracles at you, even if you’re at the back of the room my voice will make it to you if you just wait a little longer to hear it.
Some miracles happen more than once, like a boomerang coming back to you, you keep getting something and you pray as hard as you can that every miracle you ever got comes back to you.
And every boomerang will come back to its thrower if you just wait a while.
Now if your miracle is a person, you must be willing to be the most patient you’ve ever been in your life. Because people will change direction, this boomerang sometimes decides it wants to take control of its path before it comes back, and it will come back. Just wait a little longer – Just wait – because if you leave you won’t be there to catch a miracle you knew the joy of having.
God has sent me so many people. So many boomerang miracles, and I’ve been waiting for too long. But nothing can move me, I am rooted to where I stand, I will wait for as long as it takes for my person, for my miracle to make it back to me.
Sometimes I doubt. I consider walking away, and maybe somebody else can catch my miracle, and call it their own. But if I believe that God sent you to me. And I’m the one walking away, then maybe I’m the next boomerang, but I promise I’ll make it back to you – this is all I know how to do. I have been waiting, for so long...
Please God, I need these people to come back to me. They mean so much to me, more than they will ever know.
So I wait, and I will keep waiting, until God sends you, one of my many miracles, back to me.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
I’m a bystander
In my own life
I should’ve known better
Then to think that I’ve changed
That I can grown in my skin
And be truly happy
At the end of the day
It all comes back
To one definite conclusion
That I am a passerby,a fading memory
shoved into the back of the minds of others
Rotting ,smothered and suffocated by the dust of ignorance and the bliss I don’t experience
I watch
All I can do is watch
I was born to be a helping hand and it’s all I can amount to
My poor parents
They didn’t deserve
What did they do to deserve
A child who would not amount to anything more ?
A child who’s importance is limited to
‘et al’ and not the proud glorious name that overshadows it in front, sitting like a trophy on pieces of paper
that
control
And hold power
Over judgement calls and hierarchy
The subtle hierarchy we pretend to shun but really
We adore
And we praise
Because it keeps the inferior in place
So the confident exceed
the socks shoved underneath your bed
The very ones which offered warmth
In the darkest chapters of your book
Sob silently
As they stay still
Alone
Unnoticed
Confused and left feeling used
and *****
As they realise
That you
You’re perfectly fine
Without them
You never needed them
That they were a mere stepping stone into the future you contemplated ending
Of course you didn’t spare a thought
To them
It was wrong of me to think
That I could ever amount to anything
That I could build a name for myself and be happy
Feel what it means to be alive
Smile like a Cheshire Cat
As I lay in euphoria
Happy relationships and having friends who know so much about me
I realise I don’t have to suffer alone
But it’s a facade
Behind the scenes
They all draw lines
You’re just another figure to add the picture
You make their social life look stellar
You’re just someone who helps them grow
But what do you get in return?
You’re recycled, battered and tired
You have twisted and turned
And sobbed uncontrollably to yourself
At night
Contemplating to end it all
But no
You wake up
And manage to smile
And lead them to victory
As you burn into ashes
the ignorant flame thrower who
who forgot who helped ignite the flame
who bathed in glory
ran off
as you
a simple bystander
never got the chance
who could only dream of being happy
withered
and burnt
to crisp
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
SOMEBODY loses whenever somebody wins.
This was known to the Chaldeans long ago.
And more: somebody wins whenever somebody loses.
This too was in the savvy of the Chaldeans.
They take it heaven's hereafter is an eternity of crap games where they try their wrists years and years and no police come with a wagon; the game goes on forever.
The spots on the dice are the music signs of the songs of heaven here.
God is Luck: Luck is God: we are all bones the High Thrower rolled: some are two spots, some double sixes.
The myths are Phoebe, Little Joe, Big ****
Hope runs high with a: Huh, seven-huh, come seven
This too was in the savvy of the Chaldeans.
1.4k
Even your abrupt gesticulations
the sudden motions that should destroy serenity
enforce the curvature of your fingers
the delicacy of great strength contained;
Not even Adam, in reaching for his creator, can compare
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
new words for an old day that’s just begun
even I, author of the conundrum above,
confused but let us sort it out as we
descend into the elixir that is our combo
of noises, prejudices, limited vocabularies
time noted, not even the nine o’clock mark,
so the day qualifies as new, but it’s an aged
sun rising, skills displaying, historical precedent,
ancient practice, adjusted for atmosphericals
the lawn is speckled, mottled, as light ray guns
through the defending battalion branches and
platoons of leaves facing up, to a certain death
later than sooner, no killing fields till September
the oak tree generals, wisdomed experiential,
prepare plans, take light a prisoner in sufficient
quantity to nourish the troops, yet, not too much,
for the sun can be fickle, a flame thrower machina
all that vision leads me to this pronouncement:
*Oh Lord, bountiful be provided, beloved, inscribed,
this day, its mega-millennium predecessors and
successors gifted precision amounts needed, then,
**Cast me gently into morning,
For the night has been unkind,
Take me to a, a place so holy,
That I can wash this from my mind,
The memory of choosing not to fight.**
Sara Mclachlan “The Answer”
9:18am Thu Jul 9 ‘20
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 9:29 AM UTC
I mentioned Monty Hall
In what I thought was casual conversation.
Maybe I interjected,
...yeah, like Monty Hall.
But still,
A woman taking a drink of ***** gurgled,
A fella rolling a spliff snickered;
Even the dart thrower stopped;
They chorused in unison, Who?
**** Monty Fecking Hall.
Door #'s 1, 2, 3?*
The few listening were confused.
Maybe it was the tone I used.
One face had a glimmer,
Almost a gesture of recognition
Tracing his pierced eyebrow.
*Really!
Monty Fecking Hall.*
One day, in the not too distant future,
They'll hear,
What's a Fecking Jedi?
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
The seeker the loner the lover the keeper
The thrower the catcher the leaper
The believer the stoner the beater
The busser the cleaner the waiter
The water the sinker the caster the bleeder
The runner the stunner the teacher the preacher
The heater the steeper the meeker the feature the
Sliding the slipping and sloshing and
Crawling and creeping and cutting and kissing
Dishing and wining and dining and hissing
Looking and seeing believing and breeding
Heaving mashing heaping seeding
Feeding flooding fretting keeping
Shining a lining flowing and flipping
Tripping sipping showing shipping
Beating the beat of the poem of the people
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
I took one look at the moonlight
I had been filled with guilt and shame
Without even realizing I had turned into water
Without even realizing I turned into rain
I trudged on through the broken lines
Looking for an answer
******* gasoline on your fallen dreams
They will make such a good fire
I trudged on through the broken lines
Picking up answers here and there
Waiting for sunrise
To lift her shirt in the east
So I could feel the horizon
Without knowing I turned into to fire
Burning up in the clouds
Licking up moisture
Betwixt the legs of winter
Looking for some quiet time
Hoping for the better
I trudged on through the broken lines
Digging through grass and the rubble
I saw my name on a cigarette
Half-smoked on my funeral pyre
And I asked if a policeman
If he knew your name
And I asked if he would take me
To a warm night with dreams
In a jail cell
So dry
"I kinda dig it here"
So I tattoed those words
So I could never forget
So I walked behind street cleaners
Feeling like ****
Wondering when sunset would
Break her vows with me
I stayed up all night searching
For a quiet place to sleep
Until I found a place in an empty lot
Far away from city streets
And I woke up in the afternoon
To the sound of heated rain
Falling on a tin roof
Yelling out my name
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 2:21 AM UTC
i was just a boy
when your hands
chopped me up
and left rivers
of Ancient blood
create a
confluence down my neck
my groin was the freshet
my father told you
and i were meant
to be together since
you always had surgical hands
with the precision
of a knife thrower
each knife cut away my mold
and i shed into a new
identity
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
Don John Shaughnessy
Tamer of the beast
Crasher of the party
Spoiler of the feast
Always in the gallery
Never in the dock
Don John Shaughnessy
Roller of the rock
Don John Shaughnessy
Burster of the bubble
Terror of the timid
Beginner of the trouble
And who's that conducting
Directing at the back?
Don John Shaughnessy
Leader of the pack
Don John Shaughnessy
Rouser of the mass
Thrower of the bottle-bomb
Header of the pass
Never leaves a fingerprint
Never any clue
Don John Shaughnessy
Turner of the *****
Don John Shaughnessy
Keeper of the keys
Lender of the loan shark
Breaker of the knees
Driver of the getaway
Watcher of the coast
Don John Shaughnessy
Drinker of the toast
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Tyrant vandal Belly buttons born from tongue toy hammer whack shameless pantomime gold-digger jezebel ***** archetype bad product off food witchy fingers green fluorescent pink yellow ray of backwards twist mother truckers flat wheel tyre engine fire engine whoop weep tear tears down ripped up feeling face straight up to ceiling baby crib our tired little limbs break against the tide I want to swim away from here place island Caribbean holiday at Christmas I don’t want to be here when I get back lead trail hike walk up the stairs followed my shadow tie me up to lamppost dead flowers bouquet take give taker giver relationship spit out the blues by Benny and The Jets riddle saxophonists up walls and silly laughter clown faces you are a good morning stream streamer party thrower down sink lob me up pipes plumber broken loo place to sit and ponder on my **** think too many faces cherub fat little smile me a river bend down here we build a fort like kids and you’re home for ***** sake safety traffic cone orange still scares me to death bobby pins left on windowsills I chuck the memory out back it makes me sick pummel the cheekbones down flat face two face baby feet get into bins bin trash bag split when I picked it up I’m covered in rotten courgetti hipster you’re a stinking mess I hate your stupid shoes walk in a straight line you drunken ******* skip home with me hop scotch decanter glass slips off side crash pop Rice Krispy cereal noise white noise rain playlist through the walls
I push through in pure stubbornness
I
leave us be
lots of love,
distance.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
Tides of change are like the tides of the ocean
Tides of the ocean I watched on an island off the coast of Charleston SC
Cemented in my childhood memories as a scene of holy simplicity
And like the ocean, these tides can bring forth
Great waves of progress
Hunter Thompson speaks of the great San Francisco wave of the 60s, and how it surged, raged, but could not make the journey farther than they peyote nightmares of Vegas
And still in dreams at night I hear Woody Guthrie singing how there's "a better world a-coming"
If you listen closely
In the alleys around trashcan fires
Or in the last of the occupied boxcars
You can hear the same thing
It's coming
It's coming
Yet tides come in and then recede back
And in the roar of the ocean I could hear it telling me to be calm
The better world is coming
But there is still much more time to wait
I don't like to be a pessimist about such things
But all one generation can do is reap and learn the last generations harvest,
And then go and plant their own
In these reflections I realize why I can't write exactly how I feel about politics or progress
I am not a warrior
I am not a brick thrower or speech giver, though both have necessity in their own respect
Like Hunter and Woody
I am a teller of stories and presenter of truth and life
I can spend endless nights and days writing of experiences
But the future is beyond my grasp
Yet when the times come
When blood is spilt and windows shatter
I will be there
I will experience every moment
And I won't let the effort be forgotten or in vain
For the tides come in
Then go back again
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
by Michael R. Burch
Tallen the Mighty Thrower
is a hero to turtles, geese, ducks ...
they splash and they cheer
when he tosses bread near
because, you know, eating grass *****
Keywords/Tags: child, children, boy, thrower, throwing, bread, turtles, geese, ducks, grass
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 5:15 AM UTC
he told her it was just for them
between just he and she
but as soon as her hands
were tied up in bands
he brought in the rest of the we
little spirits, tender fire
a lock of human hair
she took a sip before the whip
dark presence in the air
the room was tiny and dimly lit
and the altar looked centuries from new
but how many demons within it did fit
though the bodies were up to only a few
but strangely the room began to expand
with the waxing volume of the living vapors
and a cackle arose from her smoldered left hand
now she knew the intent of her devilish neighbors
and she twirled like a dancer
a flame-thrower, flame-breather
the hot light in her eyes
looked for help or compassion
but her seeking proved in vain
for she hadn't seen either
and her body took up the form
of the demon's last ration
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
A stinging sensation
Similar to that of a bunch ats having their way with you
A burning unscramble itch
Simlar to that of a couple bee stings
The uncontrollable feeling of anger
Like acid meet metal
Fumes and bubbles
Smoke everywhere
Ready to ignite watever comes close
This burning hot feeling
This uncontrollable yearning for something that someone has
Could it be?
An ordinary morning
Noise everywhere
Not wanting to get out of bed
An errie feeling crept up to me
Like a sense of dejavu
Telling to stay down
Dont get up
It felt like a thousand bugs
Crawling under my skin
Wat i opened my eyes to
Is this the reason why u shouldn't check your phone in the mrng?
Could this feeling be wat i think?
Wait.....it could be it
But why
I hve no reason to be
We never had anything to begin with
Then why does my heart feel like this
Like a rag doll..... bound in twine
Untill the thread is almost cutting in
Then like a yoyo
Thrown around only to come back to the thrower to be thrown again
Like a soccer ball being passed around teammates
Only for the striker to give it a more powerful kick
Every second i looked
The string got tighter
And as i closed my eyes in thought
I could taste blood in my mouth
What irony
My head laughed
But only the sound of gritting teeth could be heard
As i endured the tugs froms my hrt
Yes this was it
Its the conclusion i came to
Yes indeed
It was jealous
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 4:52 AM UTC
Prove, prove, prove
think, think think a little think at
thought speed.
Build me a death star, you shall not surely die.
Ah, hero, take your role. This is your page, this age
of informing
of outsides
of mobiusish objects we make
using imaginary morsels of
stuff,
the substance of things
hoped for.
Science of space and times remembered,
Hopf-phor uni-ometry in our augmented mind,
forming forms, take shape,
form in the image of "the cloud"
where lay the
base of con
science
con
carne values.
Meatmind, the brain-gut-outer-inner portal
from which flow
empty thoughts from
the pineal core click sig
drawing measurable infospheres
from at-most-fears,
using big ears
as a bit of an esteem antenna on boys who
saw themselves as goofy a rascal as Alfalfa
and Alfred. E. and Barrack, the drone thrower
of the twenty-first century, one of the
last to unbelieve the reasonable
lie behind war,
per se. Disperse the leaven, dust in the wind,
Alls we are, all ye, all ye, ours in free flow
fractal feeder of new knowables as we ever learn
time as a tool empowers our progress to next, that's all.
Remember con
sistency, sub
sistency, in
sistancy, resist the urge to wield words worn smooth
reflecting any context, as if it were
known,
now, the meaning in the word. I say pray, you say "Our Father"
I say ask, you say what. I say, For the answers you hope to have
being as you are. On Point. I made a point.
Or arrived at this point.
con
science,
with knowing,
the tree of knowledge is at least as fractal as an oak.
Inside out being in the jello universe of knowns,
good and not, all jigglin' in time,
sort it out.
Start where your treasure is. Nullify the evil clinging to
your horde 'pon which ye sit,
sweep the ashes from the last burnt bridge
over this edge, to the flow below.
You sweep slow in jello, but sweep into d'flow
is what is done wit ashes here.
Pile some stone here. Then give 'em all yo bitchinmoans,
for the peace their balancing at your finger tips
gives you, in real life,
take it. Now, go be.
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
Tuesday, marked four years.
Four years since God ripped away someone
someone very precious to me.
Heaven did gain an angel,
but I lost so much more.
I lost one of the only people I have ever trusted.
A mentor, an inspiration.
Mere words cannot do him justice,
but an ode of recollection might suffice.
May 20, 2009
Regional track meet,
bright-eyed freshmen thrower
excited to show he belonged.
First toss
scratch
Second toss
scratch
Then a phone call.
There was an accident.
Her stifled sobs
echoing through the speaker.
Third toss
didn't come.
Tears splash against the pavement,
then thudding from the Converses
as the feet try to take him away from the arena,
from everyone.
May 22, 2014
Today.
Broken.
Directionless.
Clinging to what was passed down.
Interests shriveled.
Seeking to fill a void
that just keeps growing.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Suspending moments
above this spindle stretch,
the rope tugged tight
under his shifting feet,
his eyes catch the spotlight
shining on ring one.
Transfixed by the knife-thrower,
he too is strangely thrown,
hands leaping endlessly
through a somersault sky;
hands to head, hands to chest,
then to thigh,
while knives turn quickly
and a liquored mob shouts:
voices breaking
against the freak show tent.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
I was plugging your woman,
see she was the socket,
And I was the one that gave
Her the charge.
She was the amp, I was the watt..
Arching her back,
like I'd electrocuted the g spot.
You were a one use battery,
dead on the first use.
I'll recharge her when you at work,
earning the bread.
But I'm buttering her with my tongue..
spreading it even.
She needs you.
Wants me.
The reason that you don't
have a florescent
bulb in your bedroom.
It would be like shooting stars
across the sky.
I'm the javelin thrower,
you the tap drip,
drip,
dripping in the bedroom.
A Rottweiler growing, you the poodle.
But don't worry,
not here to ruin you bro.
Just to ruin her wet spot,
And I'm already thirsty.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 8:02 AM UTC