Ethan Lima May 2015

He follows you around
He watches your every move
He reads your every letter
And he's listening to you
He knows exactly where you are
And everything you do
He's a stalker some may say
But they haven't got a clue
So if you think your being watched
And spied on in your home
Remember to thank the NSA
For watching you everyday

There is a big movement going around trying to get the patriot act recalled, so I wrote this poem to support it.

I watch myself
watch myself
watching their dance,
my action is actioned
by panel and plan

Significant thought
to trivial task,
I find myself missing
that which I've hatched

Impromptu I can do,
in scrutinies stare,
replayed ad infinitum
pretend I don't care

When waiting has waited
and I dare to break free,
will the watcher be waiting
or will I be free?

Don Moore Feb 2016

Part one – The Hedgerow watcher.

He is almost obscured by the Elder branch, which laden with fragrant summer flower heads, casts a shadow on his cloudy features. Nearby, small birds chatter in a hawthorn bush, completely unaware of the figure sitting in quiet deliberation; only his eyes move beneath his darken brows, as he ponders the small animal traffic in the verdant river valley below.

And were you to be hurried, or impatient, and not look too carefully, you would never perceive him at all, so well hidden is he. You would have more chance, if you caught a glimpse of him sideways through the corner of your eye, and even then there is the possibility, you would not believe what you had seen...

His eyes light with golden flecks, as the late evening summer sun, ensnares sparkles off the languid river surface and directs them upwards into the unhurriedly darkening duck egg blue sky. He watches intently as a young female Fern bear snouts her way through and across the lush emerald green grasses just inches away from the river bank, where water voles play, creating tiny V shaped furrows across the shallow stream surface as they cruise the nearly mirror like silver face.

He notices’ that he can see the smoothly pebbled bottom and the rainbow spotted  coloured sides of the almost motionless trout as they hang fins fluttering awaiting the last daytime midges to perhaps drop down and furnish them with one last gulp of dinner.

Native birds flit from branch to branch on the overhanging trees o’er softly trickling water, their tiny songs much muted by the distance, and up above a Buzzard floats on browned wing his eyes trained downwards to impale a darting field vole, which seeks his own dinner of scurrying iridescent Beetle.

A flurry, as a black and red Moorhen jumps onto a small sandy beach at the corner of a turn, long wide toes and even longer legs, carry it up under the curve of bank, as it returns to its night time roost in haste.
A flash of instant Kingfisher cobalt blue and a small fisherwoman arrives upon a twig, her anxious beady eyes blackly spearing the dashing minnows, which with silver sides, play amongst the reeds and gently waving flags.

Part Two - Reynard the sly.

A ripple runs across his hairy back, as upon the delicious breeze, he catches hint of reddish skulking, sulking trickster near, and then from edge of pupil gold, catches merest glimpse of tail held low, as Reynard makes his courtly bow. Neither twitch nor tremor, the watcher makes as deviously this prince appears, his fetid stench announcing him to creatures far and near.

Then slowly as he cowers, the Fox glides by and down the steepest sides, to hope of careless rodent or of bird on nest, that might bring him windfall of instant feast that he may carry for his cubs that play at home beneath the staunchest tree, a woodland Oak of stout and height. They chase their tails in this perfect evening light, but learn of fear and flight, as horn does play upon a Sunday Morn, and colours bright which chase and catch them with some baying dog, not far removed from their much scary plight.

And all along the bottom of the wall, as laid by hand, a hedge pig snuffles for a slug or snail, his attention close upon the leafy mould, and then a surprising squeak as rippling back with reddish fur and chest of white, a family of the weasel exit stone built home and hurry for their evening hunt of beetle, vole or mouse. They disappear amongst the tallest grasses as a damp mound of freshly risen earth ejects the black velvet mole, which sniffs the air before he enters home and tracks the juicy worm back to his lair.

Little by little, so slow in fact, that you would not suspect, the watcher turns his face and looks with wonder to wooded river far, where branches bent create a vault, for shining, winding river run, and there in this, the darkest greenest place he spies a glint of hope as Dragonfly darts its wings a blur, and Mayfly dances beneath its many cathedral branches.
And further still above the trees a line of deepest blue meets lighter blue as sea and sky become no more than one, and smell of salt in distant climes come hither across this idyllic vista...

Part Three – Watcher revealed.

Dog Rose crawls its way across the bushes of the hedge, mixed with twinning convolvulus of purple hue, light green stalked, white capped cow parsley, groups in fading sun, with ragged Robin and dark pink Campion standing proud along with other flowers. Behind the silent Watcher lies a different guise of manmade meadow topped with crop of corn, which yellow in the fading sun, has bread like smell, significant of fresh warm loaves, and Man the farmer, is carrying all his toil, for the harvest of his many labours.

And in amongst this very yield, wild life is binding shoot and ear, as weeds are flourishing with the golden head, but make a pretty sight instead, for walking couple, who do not fear to tread, where woman glides as though a cloud, and pulled along upon her path, a little man who wishes he, was all alone, but must follow in his mother’s stately wake.

Towards the hedge she makes her way, and life goes still and much less vivid, but Watcher never makes his move, whilst beyond the wall the light is dropping further still, he rests his hand on object dear, but still refrains from moving forth.

And just before the barrier itself, she turns her stride and looking north, then moves away along a path, which chosen now will pass all sight, of secret ancient valley. The little man he cannot see what lies beyond his ken, and worries if he misses this, which might be very grand and maybe just beyond this very land. He tugs and pulls his Mother’s calloused palm, and as she continues on her elected special way, for she is old and cannot see, this wonder all around.

The lady now cuts back towards the way she came, and like a ship with boat in tow, she cuts a swathe through sea of golden grasses, and when perchance the little man would look behind to see, if there were aught that he had missed, of life beyond the that wall.

And then, as if on cue, the watcher stands, for he is proud with legs astride upon that hedge, no longer still but raising up, as he does stretch towards the sky, and then with no delay but still with yearning, he lifts up to his lips his instrument of all his learning.

The boy’s eyes are all of shock, for he has seen the Watcher well, half man, half goat, with shortest curling horns upon his almost woolly head, and listens in near rapture as Pan the woodland God, plays a merry breathy tune upon his pipes of river weed. The song is fierce and strong and as the boy pulls hard to stop his mother's walk; he looks away, in hope that he may, in attracting her closer assessment of the apparition, which he has spied in gay abandon, will be more than just a fancy of his dream.
But when he turns his head to take a further glimpse of this sudden ghost, who would be dancing, playing away along a valleys edge, he catches nothing, but the song of bird but which whilst trilling strong, is nowhere near as long as tune in moment gone.

Then in the middle distance church bells as the practice for the Sunday first begins, with peeling clap and stinging ring, and then as if he fears, that he shall never ever see again this horned guise of natural thing. He peers more closely yet again, but all is gone, and though he will return on summer nights, when man not boy he seeks a God, he never ever meets again, the edge to freedom and a God glorious not but never ever vain.

Timothy Brown Nov 2012

There is a man
whom I do not know.
He watches me in the
spare time of his day span.

This man is always dressed the same.
Black fedora hat  and the collar up
on his trench coat to cover up
the lack of light in his frame.

I first noticed him though,
along a fence early one morning.
As we stared at each other
through my bedroom window;

we spoke not a word.
We just stared.
I decided he was marking my soul.
I became perturbed.

I have always been to afraid to approach.
For his presence rattles my bones.
I know that as time passes
it is my essence he will poach.

I saw him a second time
on a midnight stroll.
He was at every street corner
while I engorged on tequila and lime.

I let him go about his day.
As he does mine.
For the day we will meet
It shall not be as hunter and prey.

Part 3 of Kutisha. "Kifo"
© November 27th, 2012 by Timothy R Brown. All rights reserved.
Dawn King Mar 2015

I walk into the prime RF wave
Where the space is thick with fraudulent motives
I see him there
Sorting out the wreckage that remains
He sits upon a white couch
Window dressed with precedent navy blue drapes
While his anguish takes egress
He greets me with open arms
And takes my hand to dance
He whispers to me as we sway
His message is quite clear
“The apocryphal is a high castle wall
The infallible fathers the fall”

tread Dec 2012

I hope I see the moon in the British Aisles
So I can imagine myself staring from home.

I hope I see the moon from Belgium
as I imagine the old lover I will never forget gazing, exhausted, from Uxbridge.

I hope I seee the moon from Paris
so I can imagine the millenia of poets and I-love-you-till-it-kills-me romancers gazing from French cafes, sipping on their
wine, coffee, tea

and I think of great friends in Victoria, glancing towards it from busses 9 hours later on a commute to Uptown
what town?

I hope I see the moon from Vancouver
so I can imagine child-me watching the white of the cheese-like craters wondering nothing
but so, so very curious.

I hope I see the moon from Toronto
past smog and spring-time city shadows
so I can imagine the short-lived friends I made in Ottawa looking to it with awe and smiles
grasping the fingers of a loved one.

Everytime I see that great omnipotent orb I imagine
Marcus Aurelius in the court of Rome
Julius Caesar on the battlefields of Gaul
Charlemagne crossing the Rhine
St. Augustine marching through the desert
Micochondrial Adam tossing a spear into  the heart of a boar
Soldiers of the American Revolution
the British war for South Africa
the Prussian Empire
the Third Reich

Siddhartha and his son
Li Po hugging his moonlit reflection
Han Shan on cold mountain
Kerouac in San Francisco
Burroughs in Morocco
Snyder in Japan

Thomas walking to work
Brian out on a stroll

My future life lover
future girlfriends

all gazing at that wonderful omnipotent moon
the same moon
that gazes so still

so patient

as far as
I'm concerned.

Rosie Walker Jan 2014

An observer of life
You notice
The small native flowers
Sprouting by the roadside
The skink sun baking on the rock
At parties
You find a group in animated conversation
Hover at its edges
Nod, smile
Appearing to join in
No keeper of small talk
Taking it all in
Making a mental note
Of snippets worth bottling
A discoverer of ideas
For words to come together
In a dance
Within the privacy of your own pen
Silently you turn them into
A melody
Into poetry

For poets
Wuji Aug 2012

I am the third person,
The narrator of it all.
Watching all the people,
Live, laugh, and love.
Silently I stare,
Ease dropping.
Do they even care,
Or am I truly alone?
I hope that if I walk off,
Someone will come follow me.
I dream that someone cares,
For me as a being.
I want all that bullshit,
That everyone wants.
I want that sappy romance,
A girl in my arms.

Blaaaah blahhhhhhhhhhhh

and that's the thing about nature,
it gives away every secret to the one
who's watching

spent some time outside, soaking up the sun and laying in the grass. It was a good change of atmosphere. :)
kaitlyn audrey Aug 2010

Like I said, I don’t want any trouble here.
Remember when I promised you that I would
Watch out for you? I still hold to that,
My dear, consider me your Spirit Guide.
When you wake up you might not remember my vow
My dear, the oath that I keep for you.
I won’t take any away from your quiet ascension.
Latently you know that I was me who kept you safe.
Your success is mine and I ask for nothing in return except
To maybe keep you in my pocket, I’ll
Keep you for my amusement for I love
How you rarely tread quietly, softly, never softly.
For my benefit, just for me.
For as long as you remember, for my pleasure,
To bring rouge to my full and uplifted cheeks.
Just for me.

katyaudrey ©

Sentient twas breeze on nights chilled whispers,
In the magic of moon and darkness,
A slip of silver cast her wing tips,

I watched told by those, whom lay with stars,
Athena billows near perching oak and tree,
Harbinger of spring hungry yet not starved,

Deceive thee, ah tis bane silent thoughts to hear,
Into the darkness of souls inspiration dances near,
Teach I shall be done by voice fire and silent air,

Listening to subtleties, I carry the hidden,
Many see my repose,
Malevolent mine eyes I can tear,

Standing near thy window I Athena
── Am owl peering near

© ASPAR (Arnay Rumens)  2014

Do not stay idle nor linger for fear

There is great peril for those who wait here

And do not be merry, nor chortle with glee

For The Watcher at the window points his finger at thee

His face it is gaunt, flesh numb to the bone

He acts with great malice to those who stay alone

Do not stop!  Dear Traveller, saddle up your horse

And be silent as you leave or be filled with remorse

Make haste and be solemn, don’t look back upon depart,

For there is blood on his hands and grief in his heart.

Tivonna May 2015

The Watcher Watches,
As the two-masted
Schooner 'Le Raye',
Leaves its shores

Sailing southward,
With its gentle winds,
And billowing sails,

Towards the end of the land-horn,
Maintaining its shallow waters,
As it always has in the past,
The land always in sight.

The sun's descent shimmers
On its waters .....West
Of 'Le Raye's' glide,
Until it rounds the land-horn

Into its western horizon,
And the sinking sun,
Clipping into stronger waves
As the wind now blows from the East.

The Watcher is Watching
As 'Le Raye' leaves,
Taking its small crew,
Into its fateful unknown

Of rapidly darkened skies,
And increasing water swells,
Now forcibly splashing
It's wet frothy foam into its Bow!

With fearful shouts from its mates
To take down its sails,
Anticipating a negative outcome,
While trying to maneuver horizontally

To ride the swell of each rise and fall,
The Watcher is Watching over the Storm,
While Hearing its ravaging laments,
And human wails from on board.

For  within the Heart of 'Le Raye'
And its deepest protection,
Hides a little girl
Curled into a tightly knit ball,

A fetal position of comfort,
While trying to lay in her bunk, remain its hold,
Feeling its threats

Sending her wails
Into the darkness,
And ongoing sounds
Of the raging waters.

Yet The Watcher is Watching,
As  'Le Raye' remains upright,
The ocean's swells decreasing
And slowly guided  

A very small land mass,
Where a Beacon shines
Its Life Saving Light.

The Watcher Watches  'Le Raye '  
And its approach to the Light,
Not seeing massive land rocks,
Within this blackened night.

So close for 'Le Rayes' existance,
Now it shatters upon the rocks,
The Watcher Continues its Watch

Over its Life remaining Souls,
Rescuing its Survivors,
While continuing.....
To Watch Over 'Le Raye'

© Copyright 2015 by Tivonna.  All rights reserved.

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