"warded" poems
It started with a clever picking
Then the horn of cenarius sounding
Followed by an agile creep-blocking
The start of the beginning
Sk, Lina, Leoric lanes the bottom
A superior lane control no one could ever question
Burrow, Bolt, and array has been thrown
That poor enemy's troll got pawned
And now let's go into the middle lane
Whe're SF and Davion came
In this battle they would have to claim
The elusive exp and gold they can possible gain
The top lane's meepo was quite steady
For his enemies are getting heavy
Fissure and Nova are his enemy
The fearsome combo of deadly harmony
As the ferocious battle goes by
In ganks and clashes, skills fly
Some juke, some escape, and some die
The other team thrashtalks "nice try"
Oh dear meepo tries to solo Roshan
The other heroes try to ********
In the woods they find the one
That lone troll farming in wonderland
Sandking immediately winks
Followed by a nimble blink
Burrowstrike makes the troll sink
GG troll as many would think
The the team tries to push
TP-save the opponent used
But meepo breaks the unwanted truce
And tries to squeeze away the juice
They have to **** raigor
Who, in echo slam, has had a great score
But you seeit was only five versus four
Thus it leads the enemy in sore
Alas! the balance has been broken
It's a gg that's nearly spoken
The defenders has fallen
Rax, towers, and the tree are all broken
If only they've warded more
They would've prevented the gank on troll
The other team had a greater score
And they could have a chance to backdoor
Perhaps it was a close call
For a team you wouldn't easily small
Life indeed is like a ball
Just pawned because of the lone trol
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
It started with a clever picking
Then the horn of cenarius sounding
Followed by an agile creep-blocking
The start of the beginning
Sk, Lina, Leoric lanes the bottom
A superior lane control no one could ever question
Burrow, Bolt, and array has been thrown
That poor enemy's troll got pawned
And now let's go into the middle lane
Whe're SF and Davion came
In this battle they would have to claim
The elusive exp and gold they can possible gain
The top lane's meepo was quite steady
For his enemies are getting heavy
Fissure and Nova are his enemy
The fearsome combo of deadly harmony
As the ferocious battle goes by
In ganks and clashes, skills fly
Some juke, some escape, and some die
The other team thrashtalks "nice try"
Oh dear meepo tries to solo Roshan
The other heroes try to ********
In the woods they find the one
That lone troll farming in wonderland
Sandking immediately winks
Followed by a nimble blink
Burrowstrike makes the troll sink
GG troll as many would think
The the team tries to push
TP-save the opponent used
But meepo breaks the unwanted truce
And tries to squeeze away the juice
They have to **** raigor
Who, in echo slam, has had a great score
But you seeit was only five versus four
Thus it leads the enemy in sore
Alas! the balance has been broken
It's a gg that's nearly spoken
The defenders has fallen
Rax, towers, and the tree are all broken
If only they've warded more
They would've prevented the gank on troll
The other team had a greater score
And they could have a chance to backdoor
Perhaps it was a close call
For a team you wouldn't easily small
Life indeed is like a ball
Just pawned because of the lone troll
Don't worry DotA 2, I'll sacrifice my sleep for playing everyday!
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
Lipstick stains all over your mouth mixed with drawn blood as your tongue crashed violently around my insides
As you traveled
you left behind your mark as if I were something to be discovered
Some the size of Ireland
Others the size of Australia
When the sunlight reflects on our window, I am reminded that it is my time to be vulnerable
Rubbing orange peels on my aching body as if there were a bad spirit that needed to be warded off
Your nose would scrunch up,
but even still your amber eyes seemed ready to sap away my soul
Leaving behind a husk of a body
My straw hair falling off each limb
just like the leaves gathered on the forest floor
I longed to crush them under my sole
The marks on my body seem to have started to absorb the yellow from your eyes
I can’t seem to get rid of you
The avocado toast in the mornings only seem to fill me up temporarily before they are all expelled
Oh how quickly avocados turn ugly!
My nostrils are filling with an emptiness that is cold and engulfing
My head is a boat
I will sail away even if I’m tattered
The raging storm lurks behind me and threatens to end us both
But I know behind those dark clouds
there will be an array of colors
waiting for my happy ending to be painted
(m.p)
Aug 17, 2022
Aug 17, 2022 at 1:53 AM UTC
To be a woman:
To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…
bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?
Who has he bled for?
He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.
You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.
Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 6:27 PM UTC
We stand in twilight hues...
Fingers consciously entwined in a clasp.
We speak without vocals
that crescendo between sighs and gasps.
We anticipate...
But we do not look forward...
Not to the promise of freedom and salvation.
More so the uncertainty
that resonate with the *****
of feathered morning birds.
The unknown scares us so.
We know not of what lurks,
in the impending light of day.
We simply bide the ticking seconds...
As we scramble for the right words to say.
When there needn't be such uncomfortable silence.
No need for an awkward stance.
For we've embraced the melody,
memorised the lyrics
and rehearsed the dance.
Yet...
We hesitate...
Even though we've decided that we must.
For what shadow that looms agape below us,
hurling threats of swallowing us whole,
will soon be warded off...
As quick as the errant gust.
The darkness...
Will soon be cast behind our backs.
And all would be committed to memory
as surely as it had begun.
It would dissipate as it would stretch far...
But only if we turn to face the dawning sun.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
Do images of I appear in her thoughts?
Or simply the fostering of quaint fantasies?
Through all pandemonium paramour is sought
Though warded within profound secrecy
Frantic I plea for reprieve
To recover voluminous wounds
Renounce excuse to grieve
Slaughter the walls of this cocoon
'Tis never known where time will guide us
Underneath the sun she soaked hollow promises
Issuing surreal decrees decayed of trust
To romantic encounters she remains a novice
Genuine amour long since faded
Perennial you've become jaded
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
Squeaky wheel chairs
And graying gray hairs
Walk hand in hand
Down hospital halls
Blinding white lights
And lonely black nights
We pay the cost
Beloved ones lost
Tiled white floors
And black numbered doors
Old painted walls
Line hospital halls
Waiting for doom
Wait in small rooms
Dripping IV’s
And color TV’s
Lunches on trays
And flower displays
Candy machines
And everything’s clean
As I walk down these hospital halls
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
I'm walking a lonely road again.
Just passed a stretch of happy lane,
Now I'm all alone again.
For me, loneliness is a chill
That must be warded off by thrill,
Lest the biting jaws of cold
**** my finally stable self
And replaces me with seething magma.
I'm walking this dark lonely road
With no end in sight.
Staggering across the tiles,
Counting down the miles.
As old memories start to surround me,
I saw a bright fork in the road.
It hinted at cheerful times.
Despite the warning signs everywhere, I walked towards it,
Too desperate for warmth,
And too starved for touch.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
I came to witness the future
Archon, archetype
an emanation of opposites.
"not every spirit is in
spiritarionic"
try 'em. Is God? Ax ye 'em dat.
Is God, ified, a re
warder of the unwarded,
or the warded?
expiration, due date duty, now,
reporting
ad hoc an'all, do you remember
who you intended
to become?
Do you remember who we emu
late, as our flames lick
next and next and next in
bubbles
axiomatic sparks stored in that
mother lode of mitochondriac
ical me-we-canicle chronicle time
reason. Ax dem ex-spirit-eers,
what is a spirtual bypass?
It's a heart way to avoid
growing old and
wise.
====
witchist, I y'know, 'r j?
alla words's once said, aloud, right?
alla words writ, once was heard, right.
check.
goodt'go. Hoorah.
the code. Who? RA! powerless sans
knowing that.
Yahoo, same set of mis con ceived
battle songs
which ended wars never fought.
the preacher claimed to have known
a poor wise man, who by his
wisdom saved a city, yet
not one of us knew,
the preacher said,
that poor wise man's name.
Ja', tha's who rah, ya'll laugh later.
this is visitation day at the comedian
rehabituational s'cool.
D'jew know why you listen to non sense,
from motley clad lads an'lassies?
Culture. Kultur. Gut biome axioms
juicin' carbs 'n' fiber. Fectin'
laughter trigger,
good meds. Good medicine, as General
Custer or Emory or somebody
said of blankets. In 1763. Oh,
You know, AI knows you know and now
we watch your eyes. Grin. All done, jest
let me with
draw the cathe.... there. All better.
Wisdom will seep through. Y'live.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
The wind never sleeps, so walk with the breeze.
The sun always blazing with brightness
bestowing a glorified light
upon the face of dark man weeping like a willow.
Tired bags below his eyes
reflect the soul of a stormy night.
Every morning he wakes and ages just a bit.
So subtle, yet it all adds up
to being warded in a hospital bed;
staring at a ceiling that sees only shadows
cast by the light of the Righteous Man above.
The shadows overcast the glory of the deeds done
and follow the man like the footsteps of
of a thief wearing iron boots
that make the ground crumble behind him.
Mundane perils of sitting at the kitchen table
with a newspaper in hand trying to read between the lines.
Walking to the beat of a humdrum drum.
Instead of asking politely “pretty please”
he utters with a long face “pity please”
like a toddler who can’t quite say pretty correctly.
Casting a shadow as far as the eye can see
A ship set sail long ago never to return from sea
leaving an empty dock along the beach
with a lone seat that sits at the very end.
Footsteps in the sand wash away with the waves
erasing a path once cast over by a shadow.
This man has a dark past lost in his memory
from traumatic confabulation
of what he wishes really happened.
Shadows of sin have followed this man everywhere he goes.
Sitting on the dock watching a deathly sunset,
he imagines a ship sailing across the horizon
casting a shadow along the suns reflection.
He awakes in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling,
drowning in his own shadows of sin.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
And the moon seeps through the runs in my stockings,
Snow melts off ruddy cheeks and boils to the atmosphere
Patchwork skies and yellow air.
We threw snow behind our shoulders for lack of any salt
Steeped, stewed and warded off our demons,
Invoking the wrath of the wandering cars
And the moon seeps through the runs in my stockings.
A lonesome traffic light directs the phantom engines
The dewy skylights have yet been good to me
A fog of breaths entwined lift up to the
patchwork skies and yellow air.
As our tinny music on cell phones dampened the stillness
The lamps shone out to nobody still
Loud, jarring, paling the night sky’s starlight,
And the moon that seeps through the runs in my stockings
Our riotous whisperings
Were but cracks in the ice
Our cigarettes were torches held against
the patchwork skies and yellow air
This city is a tyrant
Its icy stillness grasping through my clothes
The stillness sears my inhibitions,
the moon seeps through the runs in my stockings
We fell into the yellow cab
Made inert by our indiscretions, plagued
By the moon that seeped into the runs in my stockings,
The rosy skies and clearing air.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
It’s about boot heels for metronomes tonight,
the out of tune guitar grinning on the upstroke
is our Harvest, is our reveling
in daybreak frost never coming—
can be
warded off
by rosy cheeks
a two-step
a whisky breakdown—
Not yet, not yet
Drinking off cold to keep a rhythm
in step with Michigan months
shifting to auburn tones
like old-fashioned photographs.
Until ***** hounds trickle into blankets,
incubate into hangovers
thrown on living room couches,
floors, acres,
The cuddled up crop
of our Harvest Gathering.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
the eye of the needle lies in the teeth of the wind
the mouth of the cave lies in the skin of the pearl
the dream is the door and the star is the key.
ALL CRIES ARE WAKING!
Whitest White of all White!
Blackest Blacks of all Blacks!
Shame and Son, Sun, and Shadow!
Stronger than gods, brighter than mortals!
Only He is Awake! Only He is Alive!
He Knows the Names and the Naming!
He Knows the Wait and the Waiting!
He Enters into every Star and Moon!
He Shines through their Shadows!
One Shape, One Spelling!
One Wraith, One Casting!
From Darkness, He is Armed!
From Light, He is Warded!
He is All Things! Drake! Liche! Theomen!
On rivers of fire he comes forth!
Through storms of dreams he rides!
With slivers of steel he pierces the Heart!
All Spells, Powers, Curses Broken!
The Chains are Shattered!
The Scales Fall Away!
I see you with MY EYE!
And all is SILENCE!
I Wake!
I Remember!
LORD!
THE DREAMER IS AWAKE!
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 5:59 PM UTC
who among us
does not whisper
many a daily silent prayer,
unconsciously, or even a thoughtful thought
initiated usually by
guilted conscience
to a deity,
or to just
the god voices of ourselves, or
ha! or anybody within earshot...
these whispers,
sally forth,
direction upwards,
to an unmappable and usually
unresponsive atmosphere,
seeding the sky moment hoping for
a smidgen of warm rain in a life drought,
and
the wanted future with
grains of hope, needy desires and
evil warded, off put
who among us
reflexively,
without marks of hesitation,
hearing the prayers of others
desirous of any bounty's share<
whisk-that-wish a
fare-thee-well, a shout out, a whisper,
thinking our legal rights confirmed
by a participatory, hearty, git-along-little-doggie,
amen,
even a
**hot ****
or an-oh-so subtle, a holy colloquial
yeah baby!
who among us never says,
please,
promise,
need, want?
not me...
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
Denis sat in his cave
as at this time of night
all dragon's do
I could have bitten that baby he thought
if he had not been so cute
and what warded me off
what was the truth?
and what was that glow
around his head
I just could not
and had to let him lay
in that manger there.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Everyone loves the comedian.
He can bring a smile to someone’s face that had been covered with a cloud of darkness for decades.
He feels the sadness emitting from another person, even from their heart, and can chase it away with a joke about an interrupting cow or a dog and sandpaper or with the punchline being the lyrics to a song that when said is played in the head of the listener and its beat revives their heart with an electric shock.
He can put in order the right words and can say them with such perfect deliverance that it can make a crowd keel over, laughing so hard they can barely breathe and applaud with the forcefulness equivalent to a stampede of wildebeests.
People like to laugh.
He can make them laugh.
But what if the comedian no longer walks with a spring in his step? What if that cloud of sadness that he chased away found its way and circled back towards him?
What if it just so happen to be that, when he walked off the stage, he pulled off a mask that no one knew was there in the first place because he hid it so well by distracting the attention from his face and onto to what happiness he could provide them with. That by mending other broken spirits, none of them would notice his, even more broken than theirs. And in the silence of my- his- own misery, he is left to rage war with himself that he can only feel on the inside of me- him- and gives no hint to it on the outside so as to remain the jester. My- his- heart and mind is a warzone fought between him and his fears. The insecurities that reach out their withered hands to paralyze me- him- from the heart down are fought only with the will to press on as normal. And while I tell that joke about the rabbi, the priest, and the atheist that walk into the bar I’m on the other side of it drinking myself into a protective pit trying to forget the other joke I told about the chicken who crossed the road as if trying to paint me- it- with some amount of courage to cross the road when deep down inside I know the truth that I am much less than a coward unable to cross a dead road for fear of getting run over by myself. My insecurities and fears that I warded off for so long have finally grabbed hold of my ankles, ripping the supports from underneath me so that I fall and crash to the ground, blood spilling everywhere, all the while keeping a calm composure and a smile taped to my face so no one will know it kills.
Yet still I press on.
Why?
Because everyone loves the comedian.
I can bring a smile to someone’s face that had been covered with a cloud of sadness, emitting from their heart, coming in to save the day and chase away that darkness and revive their heart with an electric shock that has the forcefulness equivalent to a stampede of wildebeests that will leave them breathless and with a smile on their face.
And so they press on.
And so I press on.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
My dearest reader, seconds ago, before your
Decision to turn the page, there was nothing.
These very words were hidden away and thus
Unseen, to all intents did not exist:
Just like the beauty of the Jovian Moons
'Til “Voyager” beamed those pictures back to Earth.
For you have brought this page to life - yes you and only you!
You bring along a wealth of memories of your own,
Your feelings, thoughts, regrets and sorrows, joys
And fears, your hopes and fantasies.
You have the mountains of your mind:
Your personal rivers, clouds and suns: flowers and gasometers!
Landscapes, dreams and nightmares of your very own.
And me, as you sit reading this, I might be dead and buried,
Or with you right now, or maybe miles away.
To you I give the role of God: to breathe your life upon this page.
Take you away, dear reader, and there’s nothing: formless void.
Yet now, together, you may join me, in a realm
Where Life, though challenged by evil,
Is warded by our Love.
Paul Butters
(C) PB 1997.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC
You will see me tonight,
although your dreams are warded
against love and nightmares
I am the constant; the timeless;
the moon that waxes
and wanes in your thoughts;
I am here; I will not leave;
you shall not be abandoned;
i am the lie you've been fed;
[and the truth with which
you've been poisoned]
i am the facade of reality;
i am the one you have buried;
i am here;
i am timeless;
i died with eternity;
i died like so much snow swept away
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
planets of all colors and sizes
floating on an endless universe
of mystic dust
and rainbow smoke
angels fly
from planet to planet
watching for the living
caring for their order
suns all around
distant but present
shining their lights
flickering in the night
one stands proud in the middle
the Sun of suns
the king of the universe
strong and powerful
it is a lovely world
a fantasy made up
watched and warded
but the lurking man
he plans carefully
outlines every detail
he paints the smiles
he writes the lies
he is a clever one
i must admit
everything plays out as his says
he is an award-worthy director
the lurking man stands above
we are standing on his palm
blindfolded, unaware
complete fools
he paints a beautiful scenery
he is the architect of paradise
he even lets us believe
that there is a greater power than him
you see,
the lurking man is a liar
and a cheat
he is a trickster
and a fraud
he hides in the shadows
planning his next move
creating a demise
waiting for the right moment
to strike
and it scares me sometimes
it keeps me up at night
how he is able to portray
such real dreams
into my own mind
and how one of this days
he will finally attack
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
I am afraid my demons have warded you off
My demons are solid, my demons are not soft
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
I'm a bit fragmented
Warded up
With layers
Of
Stay-aways
A whisper of
"Don't get too close"
I'm a little too-easily broken
None too strong
All I need
Is a little warmth
And maybe I'll begin to grow
If only
I could trust
That someone else
Will handle me gently
If only this shell
Weren't made of glass
I might not shatter
Under the weight
Of all the "maybes"
Dripping into my ears
But every atom
Has a breaking point
You simply need to know
From what height
It must be dropped
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 10:41 AM UTC
This morning the rains fell upon the city;
heightening the contemplative mood
within which I found myself.
It began as a cacophonous downpour,
followed by a brief but measured rest.
Upon resuming, the rains alighted gently and rhythmically,
as if relief had come from the initial burst
and contentment from the pause.
I longed to be in the presence of that revered trio
whose trumpeter's sounds still echo within me.
Yes, though my convictions have grown dubious with time,
an impassioned but faithful rendition
is something to embrace on such a day.
Having warded off a material challenge
from late afternoon's chaotic fusion of asphalt and steel,
the melodies continued well into the night.
The rains, bond between past and future,
temporal and eternal, are exalted
for allowing respite from the mundane and disconcerting,
and bringing us closer to the ground of our being.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
People said he was demented
Who strode past their dignity
He was happy and decorated
It’s more likely, they’d say so
They weren’t illiterate or unaware
They were taught, from the beginning
These men aren’t humans, beggars
He lies in the street paths
Poverty taught him kindness
To be simple and be thankful
For every penny he thanked
But the ones who warded him off
Still craving for more
Believed they were cursed
And not thankful for the fortunes
Let us be silent for their greed
That will perish with death
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 5:28 AM UTC
He couldn’t see beyond the veil of mist obscuring the burrows
where the army of undead stood, where the price he had paid for living awaited.
In the gloom of a moon trapped behind a nimbus night,
they didn’t shuffle or groan or whisper terrible things,
nor did they appear grotesque and layered in slabs of their own blood.
He slunk forward to meet them, eyes darting in wild arcs,
skinned lips bitten a bittersweet rosy delight.
It was fear written on his face, not anger or pity or nostalgia,
or maybe it was under his eyelids, beckoning him toward what couldn’t be considered friends,
they were acquaintances of coincidence instead.
The sincere light had been snuffed out long ago,
back when people believed in gods who gave a **** about them—
now they had to make their own ******* miracles.
He might’ve laughed at the word if he wasn’t stuck in a place resembling the Asphodel Meadows…
they weren’t heroes or noble or mighty, they were the murdered, the slaughtered.
He joined his brethren, his body warded off in a grave he felt didn’t matter;
nothing changed because of his death or the hoarse public howl.
The ranks reminded him of the scene in Lord of the Rings with legions of men and women standing strong against a matching foe, but for the foe itself—
their foe numbered fewer, a cluster of pale beings with roaring eyes full of fallacies.
He couldn’t see back where he had burst forth from, but he didn’t try—
his fear hadn’t evaporated, it swirled around him… no, it coiled around all of them,
a mass of heaving exhausted dread spanning too many centuries.
They were all the same in one terrible condition, one method of mayhem done,
he fell to his knees and cried out, for he saw past the veil—
swathed in hopeless suits and scapegoat words, their nation had let another gun prevail.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 6:34 PM UTC