"unwary" poems
spring omnipotent goddess thou dost
inveigle into crossing sidewalks the
unwary june-bug and the frivolous angleworm
thou dost persuade to serenade his
lady the musical tom-cat,thou stuffest
the parks with overgrown pimply
cavaliers and gumchewing giggly
girls and not content
Spring, with this
thou hangest canary-birds in parlor windows
spring slattern of seasons you
have ***** legs and a muddy
petticoat,drowsy is your
mouth your eyes are sticky
with dreams and you have
a sloppy body
from being brought to bed of crocuses
When you sing in your whiskey voice
the grass
rises on the head of the earth
and all the trees are put on edge
spring,
of the jostle of
thy ******* and the slobber
of your thighs
i am so very
glad that the soul inside me Hollers
for thou comest and your hands
are the snow
and thy fingers are the rain,
and i hear
the screech of dissonant
flowers,and most of all
i hear your stepping
freakish feet
feet incorrigible
ragging the world,
10.8k
A snowflake blowing in the wind
A faint being travelling under the wintry sky
The songs of a foreign world
Landing and kissing the head
Of someone who was expecting nothing of this sort.
An idea.
Rare and complete,
In full bloom,
Premature.
For the bright days of spring have yet to gift this idea life
But it sticks still
Deep in the mind
Of the unwary girl.
An idea,
Individual and unique
Much like the snow that falls.
The stars whisper secrets of the universe
To comfort her premature feelings.
Ahead of her time,
Aged beyond years.
Catching snowflakes meant for someone else.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
paper air planes made out
of tiny pieces of a torn up heart
they are red
but they have these streaks of black in them
it is a terrible blackness like rotting
thats unhappiness
it is poison
paper airplanes
tiny paper airplanes
he folds them quick and quiet at the stone wall
end of the driveway
at the bus stop where little old ladies dither away
long summer afternoons
tiny paper airplanes dogfight in the air
watch one go down in flames
made of the ripped up pieces of a broken heart
they are red
like fire trucks for the burning desire for her soft flesh
like alarm bells to warn off the unwary
they are red
tiny paper airplanes
one slips free
sees a cloud high up there where no paper airplane has dared
so far up in the wide open sky
none have ever even dreamed such a thing
he slips free and climbs
faster and higher
he climbs
free
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
consequence has no face
but he has a voice
speaks so loudly in the lives of the unwary
i can hear him now talking like misery in the
background of her eyes
her loves are empty
her love will only last till the sun has ground down
the lion of your beautiful moments
look at his once proud mane matted with
the dusts of your life of compromise
its consequences handiwork illustrated in sorrowful colors
a lover of the feelin fleeting and vain
a stealer of the better things
a child of her consequences
bitter is her joys
in her sour smiles
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
*We bask in light when morning comes, yet tremble in the night.
Halloween must be the cause to give us such a fright.
Ghosts and goblins haunt the streets where moans and chains abound.
Ghouls and vampires lurk in shadows, scared of holy ground.
Werewolves stalk unwary victims. Frankenstein is loose.
Ogres, trolls and spectral zombies hanging by a noose,
Gorgons with their "stoney" eyes and bats with leathery wings...
Mummies wrapped in yellowed cloth with rotting flesh that clings,
Pirates, gangsters, space invaders, just to name a few,
All in search of "Tricks or Treats"(or just a head...or two).
Beware the time when darkness comes. Be sure the door is locked.
But most of all .... to just be safe ... keep lots of candy stocked.*
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
A baby clutches his mother’s dress
Unaware of how it will save his life
Unwary of the saving grace that will come to rest
The child is soft and clean
His name is Eugenius, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a babe, no bigger than an infant can be
A toddler clutches his mother’s dress, the hem
Unaware of tragedy
Unwary of the Horror that awaits him
The child is frightened and shaking
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a little one, no taller than Mama’s knee
A child clutches his mother’s hand
Unaware from behind her skirt as they are herded
Unwary of the disaster to come from the cart
His name is Genie, the second of three
Before Mikey, after Richie
He is just a child, no higher than Tata’s knee
A boy holds his brother’s hand tight
Unaware of the danger he is in
Unwary that the coin from Mama’s skirts will save his life
The boy is healthy and strong, though not for long
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Michal, after Richard
He is naïve, but soon to grow up prematurely
A prisoner holds his own shirt, unsure
Unaware of the pain that is coming
Unwary that he shall walk away nevermore
The prisoner is hurting and ******
His name is “Gefangene,” the second of two
After Richard, before the crimson mess
He is crying for a ****** towel carried by
A handicap clutches Mama’s leg
Aware that he cannot cry as she shuffles him out
Wary that outside her skirts is the hunt
The handicap is hurting so badly
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before the new bump
He is unwilling to believe
A kaleka holds tight to his brother’s back
Aware that he is a burden
Wary that he is a load
The kaleka is waiting, waiting.
His name is Gene, second of three
After Richard, before Theresa
The kaleka is ready for release
The dziecko holds again to Mama’s skirt
Aware that he is now free to leave
Wary that he will never be independent
The dziecko is elated and mourning
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Theresa, after Richard
The dziecko will never be the same
Sixty five years later
Gene holds Rosie’s hand tight
Aware that he is old now, having lived fully
Wary that death is imminent at last
The great-grandfather is peaceful and content
His name is Tata, Grandpa, Gene, husband, and more
He is the last one left of his war
The survivor is ready to reunite with his family
He gives thanks to Hattie’s skirts
That kept him alive though the hurts.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
rain love fell a dream tonight
you were not there, but felt close
seeing nothing in mist of trouble
walking cloud of forgotten shrouds
no one, dank street, cruel houses
no dry place no cats about
wearing red and yellow slickers
long while cats hidden entire
wandering one wet world
slick pavement sky so asphalt
empty windows gaped calling
out deceptively catch the unwary
windows, concrete, no trees
mother's voice laughs soundlessly
no signposts, no streetlights
oddly forlorn, my hometown
unmarked, without direction
darker than hell's moonless night
this is my town, my place
one learns, find a way
feel the way, march in tyme
crawl slowly out the pier
knowing bay so full tonight
use poet radar
you will not
fail
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
i.
The atlantian theorists, of the Masonic order,
Wanted a new world, ****** indigenous quarter's;
They came by their ship's, to conceal native truth's,
Only coming for a plunder, to giveth satanic rule.
ii.
The warrior-painted faces, naturally painted by ash and red,
Sawest their shores, being broken by it's door's; mad-men in
Shiny silver, hand's open, yet were fed. Sachem prophet's
Bellowed the harbinger's long afore, now all hast come, these
aborigines weren't dumb; they prophesied this long before.
iii.
The wigwams, longhouses, teepees and lodges, were uprooted from their sacred ground's, the creator's meek were ravaged; as giant bones were taken while found. As hidden beneath the surface, the haut monde made none sound; playing dumbed with Gun's, they ran their fun, fabricating lies, under the America's sun. As tis they gave the world alibi's to be one, O' what hath they done; O' what hath they done.
iv.
First the viking, with dragon ship thunder
came to conquer,pillage and plunder
taking lives without a thought
unwary of the cruelty they wrought.
v.
Then pilgrim's progress seeking new land
would have starved if not for the "savage" man
onward, westward, did they go
killing for profit, pleasure little did they know.
vi.
Grandfather, earth mother and spirit of wild
they watched as the white eye usurped the child
and still, no lesson has been learned
the people grew fat, their culture spurned.
vii.
Most of the tribes are gone away
and America has come to stay
but in my native heart i yearn
to see the Indian nation return.
©Brandon Nagley \Wolfspirit duo poem
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Indigenous harbinger's revealed
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Lifelines spiral past the unwary conformist
conforming to a type they read of in the papers
and now preaching someone else's mind as gospel
while their own was lost so long ago in an ocean of stereotypical.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
The staff, who are stuffed full of paper,
stapled, on white,
are to be circulated with minutes,
full of minutiae,
but only the chosen staff will receive such chaff,
intricate, in triplicate,
and the others will have to wait for memoranda,
definitely not grander,
on subjection, objection and rejection
for the weary and unwary.
The brochure on staff conduct
will be grosser,
and superannuation won't be super.
There will be no more staff resolutions,
no revolutions,
so that managers can preserve the status quo
and hasten slow.
Talent is banned,
promotion is underhand,
ass-kissing is in,
no sin,
and perks,
no jerks,
are for the executive few.
***** you.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
walk out the shopping mall
its a twenty four seven
given that you will spend
all of your money in time
take a break from carriers
all that plastic to suffocate
unwary and the very young
need to learn this lesson
calorie cake coffee new look bargain
you can change your reflection
just for a season look wonderful
walk in with no money
walk out knowing freedom
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
1)
I have long wondered
of the tri- in trickery
(those of you privy
to the arcane secrets of etymology
will know
tri- is three, as in trinity
and triple and trivium)
and so I have many aeons meditated
on the 3 in trickery
2)
and recently
on a trip (what’s the 3 in trip?)
to the *University
of Matters Ancient and Abstruse*
I uncovered this manuscript
that reveals all the 3 in Trickery:
*“It behooves him who will master Trickery
to attach himself to a Teacher
so he may be Trained
(which is the first of the 3)
And so he may be Trimmed in thought
to focus on the act entirely
(thus the second of the 3)
And last comes the Treat
wherein the thief Treats himself
to the victim’s property;
and thus in these 3 stages
do the cunning ever shift
into their own pockets
that which belongs to the unwary”*
3)
And thus, dear readers, was the mystery
of the 3 in trickery
resolved for me
as I hope it is for you;
but you might now want to see
if the money is still in your digital wallet
for - keeping you distracted,
and unknown to you -
I have just practiced all 3 in Trickery
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
On the flipcharts and billboards and boardwalks where cash talks and greed stalks the unwary and where the darkness is scary,
huddled underneath moonlight that fades into the long night and holding on tight to their bedrolls along with the soup and the bread rolls and the mission bell tolls for the end of
round one.
'On top of the world ma'
look how far we have come,
and the nanny state looks after its favourite son but as the sun sets on Wapping and the 'mint set' go shopping
for some the world's stopping.
(I want to alight)
The sun sheds some light as the night flicks away and for those who would lay in the doorways of shop fronts,who we think of as stunt men,the cut off,truncated and blunt men another day starts.
And in Whitehall they call for the tea trolley at nine.
A fine time for some and the nanny state looks after its
favourite son.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
Fear waits upon its prey
where the light is a shamefaced girl
wind is a fragmented guest
where silence fools the unwary
to chirp the birds forget
where the baiter might be the bait
the hush is not all white
as in that ever ruling night
blood is spilled without sound.
Forlorn as the lovers' lost track
meanders the creek
in moans for the lost
shedding its sighs to the tides.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Alone and drowning with curiosity
The little moth played around the fire
Warm and bright, the moth felt gay and free
But too close it got
And a little closer
So dangerously close
The warmth turned to heat
Bright it was and blinding
Still welcoming
But slowly killing the unwary thing.
The moth felt it
The scorching pain
But its nosiness won
Against all intuition to bail.
It was the first time the moth felt happy
For such a moment
To have quenched its thirst
To have followed the sweet beat of curiosity
And the fire
Danced joyously as the moth
Deceived, unsuspecting
Flapped its wings one last time.
But lucky it was to have survived
So close to tragedy
Face to face with reality
The price paid for innocence
The price almost life
The price more than life
The little moth
Now stripped its former identity
Wounded and destroyed
So close from the past that the feelings still linger
Yet so far from it now.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
There is a strangeness in fog
that is palpable
and perhaps it is the strangeness in me
which responds
It is no accident I know
that I was raised
where fog is legend
and so remains
a cloying fact of life
for coastal Sunny California
is coldly blanketed each morning
six months of every year
in chilly dampness
What once was familiar
now changed
hidden within soft billows
of clouds brought to earth
the monotonous drip
from the leaves of the trees
the eaves of the roof
the rocks on the hillsides . . .
stars and planets obscured
only the mysterious moon
peeks through the diaphanous veil
lighting her shroud from above
now moving
now shifting
a glimpse of . . . something
caught
only to disappear once more
deep within the flowing haze
Yet where others find in fog
a thing to fear
I find in it a pleasure
seldom found elsewhere
for me familiar comfort
in the heavy grey mist
enveloping me
as a blanket of spirit
or ancestors
And perhaps it is this
the others fear
for the spirits of fog
can be cunning and cruel
hiding dangers
from those unwary
or disrespectful
But I miss the fog
laying low upon the cliffs
turning ordinary landscape
into otherworldly and strange
I long for the lonely cries
of the foghorn at sea
and should the sea monster come
I pray it finds
the love it seeks
Cori MacNaughton
19Jan2007
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
I often wonder how anyone
Can scam other people and call it fun.
How can someone dupe others and be
Content with causing adversity?
What is it about them that makes
Scammers act like cold-hearted snakes?
They hiss, "Honesty be ******
How would they like it if they were being scammed?
Like hungry snakes they lie in wait
Until their prey land on their "plate."
They spring as soon as their targets come near,
Before the poor victims can even show fear.
Failing to notice the forms of disguise,
The unwary victims are caught by surprise.
It doesn’t matter how victims feel
Since the snakes’ focus is their next meal.
Scammers and snakes are slimy; that’s true.
But maybe we shouldn't equate the two.
Perhaps it's an insult to snakes to maintain
That they and scammers are in the same vein.
Having no conscience, scammers are ****
Their minds are selfish; their hearts are numb.
They do not care which rules they subvert;
They couldn't care less if people get hurt.
If I believed in hell, I would say
That that’s where scammers deserve to stay,
Though fire and brimstone and all that stuff
Would NOT be punishment enough.
-by Bob B (1-11-22)
Jan 11, 2022
Jan 11, 2022 at 10:46 AM UTC
Oh how I love Thy holy Word,
Thy gracious covenant, O Lord!
It guides me in the peaceful way;
I think upon it all the day.
What are the mines of shining wealth,
The strength of youth, the bloom of health!
What are all joys compared with those
Thine everlasting Word bestows!
Long unafflicted, undismay'd,
In pleasure's path secure I stray'd;
Thou mad'st me feel thy chast'ning rod,
And straight I turned unto my God.
What though it pierced my fainting heart,
I bless'd Thine hand that caused the smart:
It taught my tears awhile to flow,
But saved me from eternal woe.
Oh! hadst Thou left me unchastised,
Thy precepts I had still despised;
And still the snare in secret laid
Had my unwary feet betray'd.
I love Thee, therefore, O my God,
And breathe towards Thy dear abode;
Where, in Thy presence fully blest,
Thy chosen saints for ever rest.
1.6k
On the gentle slope of a green and waving hill, vibrant with the life of spring, flowers fall from the outspread limbs of trees, an ocean in their sound, and fall gently to the earth, soft as a mothers kiss, upon a child's tender brow. The wild flowers are spread out among the grasses, bright spots of changing color, amidst the flowing green, waving in the springs gentle breeze, light glowing through the blades, shining in the sun, the scent of life and growth and change arising, slow and overpowering as the years to come, as ages gone. Underneath the spreading trees, their leaves give shade and succor to those who fear the light and hide from its revealing rays. A fox rustles through the underbrush, coat burning orange, a rushing flame in the green light, filtering down from the canopy above, dim in its softened form. Ahead a hare, leaning down to drink from a cool and quiet pool, looks up as a ray of light, pure and golden, falls from the heavens, as the light of God himself, admitted by the wind rushing, parting the woven branches, above, beyond the trees. The leaves spin and sparkle, sighing also in the breeze, and so a harmony ensues sighing leaves and rushing wind, in that tranquil, quiet place. Dust falling, innumerable motes of glowing light, they drift downwards, minuscule, as snow made all of light, dim and golden, like the shining sands of heaven, swept down to fall to earth, and dust the earth with heavens bounty, and let its light sparkle for a moment, an age, in the quiet of the world. Far above the wooded hill, beyond the rustling grasses, and the colorful blossoms in their midst, high in the cold of the infinite heavens, and the currents of the flowing wind, an eagle soars, and so in mastery of the world below, the world above, does swoop to take unwary prey, in claws cruel in their curved dimensions, and the sharpness of their edge. But below in the world of quiet peace, though blood may drip from pure sky, and so enrich the flattered earth, all is yet still, and calm prevails, and if blood does fall, sprinkled from the heavens as a cruel rain, macabre in its crimson gleam and scent of severed life, it falls unknown, unmarked, to soak into the warm earth, receiving as it gives, and so is added once more to the cycle of life at the beginning, from which in time new blood will flow, through veins new and delicate, frail with the tender youth of new things begun, and so new life be born from death.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
There is no peace at all for the wicked.
Stinging, ruthless words that pierce through mind and heart
Swiftly, precisely, from lips of clay depart
Arrowheads dipped in green poison find their way
To an unwary target, without delay.
There is no peace at all for the wicked.
The tongue is a sinister, crushing weapon
Who dares resurrect one fatally bludgeoned?
“He deserves my verdict!” Rage seethes in defense.
“He smashed my fortress with the least reverence.”
He is without excuse.
Yet the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…”
He with the sad, compelling eyes
And nail-scarred hands offered gently, steadily
To a soul vanquished by frantic, chaotic “I”
He whose dazzling raiments from the throne hang
unused
Willfully submits to slight, beating, abuse
As leather sandals cushion dusty, wounded feet
He weeps; Fallen creatures smite head and side–they bleed.
Still the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…”
Now, therefore, beyond excuse,
Man is guilty.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Blossom like the stars of night
So distant they keep, so bright they shine
Bloom like the beauty within
Which is yet to flourish, yet to claim mine.
Explore the world, so sleek and still
Slither slowly through the wonders of life,
Like the green eyed snake going in for her ****
Like the dogs of night struggle and strife.
Trust the moon, stare into it's eyes
Lie deep confided in the chamber,
Where secrets have been kept and replaced by lies.
Where the buffalo runs with fear.
As you guard you insecurities from the people around,
Know that howling wolves guard your dreams tonight.
The fox struts forward towards that one,
Who in dreams and reality shows you the light.
Know the only cries to shed this black sun,
Are those of the unwary and those of foes.
And do you dream like me?
Does your head wonder away from pain?
Do you try to make what's night come day?
Or do you leave things all the same?
I am trapped in the reality of night,
I came here and I stay.
I dared to go to new heights,
Won't you come with me and play?
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
As he lay waste her bed , her
Body, body-bed, bed-body
As he lay waste her cushions and
a saree unfurled
As he lay waste in a haste
To **** the marrow out of her
Lay waste her blankets,
And entered the bed which
Wasn’t one of Matrimony
But a bed raised in pursuit of mammon
To sort things , the easy way out
He entered a bed and she too ,
Was entered
Body-bed , bed-body,
As voices cooed and quivered
As flesh writhed and squirmed
Tamed flesh
As pleasure heaved itself
And guilt oozed out
Somewhere, unwary children shouted
Finally, oh finally , passions routed
And people fled , a temptress left
In the temptress’ lair
And though the bed still lay waste
The pillows had a lot to boast,
A reward for the magnanimous host
Young tongues savoured dead flesh
On the largesse of a bed lain waste
In a temple of flesh.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
A holy day it was
When the dark skinned gathered there
Under open skies unowned
On the land of their forebears
They met to offer forth their prayers
They entered the walled space
Through gated entrances five
Mixed mass of gender, age and creed
Unarmed they gathered, unarmed strived
Ruled by white Lords, to keep culture alive
From a raised bank, he watched
Fair general and his native troop
When the time was right, dropped his arm
Unleashing bullets on endless loop
Laying waste to unwary group
Swarming mass in open tomb
Clamour to protect all life and love
Mother crouched encasing child so soft
A man holding his wife, a flapping dove
None spared from cold end reigned from above
Hot metal darts indiscriminate
Sliced through humid burdened air
Muting wails of the sentenced helpless
Piercing flesh of the souls stripped bear
Earth wept with weight of blood spilled there
Thus ebbed the day of the massacre
Beaded sweat trickles down Generals brow
Blood and meat lay heaped at exits five
Shrouded in questions of the why and how
That such slaughter could one man and his arm allow.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC