Del Maximo Mar 2010

beautiful blackbirds
ebony adorned from head to foot
camouflaged for stealth
in shadows and night time sky
sleek sateenic sheen
iridescence of well oiled machine
efficient avian predators
ruthless in their call
attacking nested eggs and fledglings
with never ending caw
boldly bantering by day
foraging in parks, parking lots, streets and alleys
searching for food with eerie, ethereal, slow motion hops
seemingly phasing, at will, out of sync with time
ancient spirit travelers to another plane
they watch the world with weary eyes
spying and recording the day’s events
atop skies, trees and telephone lines
then whispering into the ears
of gods and poets and cornfields

© March 26, 2010
Wanderer Oct 2013

She walked through the window
Stumbling and reeling
I called out to her hollow
Have a care for the ceiling!
She turned bleary eyes
Smiling crookedly at me
Her face one of several
At the same time three
Amber liquid in a crystal glass
Sloshing over the brim
The newly mopped floor
Whispered sternly and grim
We are only watchers here
Sitting silent and long
As rocks often do
Listening  to a  stream's running  song

Amanda Goodness Feb 2014

I don't think I've ever heard my father
Tell my mother that she was beautiful.
I'm sure of it.
Never.
There wasn't any positive comments on her appearance.
"Fix yourself up a bit!"
"When are you going to lose some weight?"
"I don't like your hair that way."
When I was sixteen I wrote her a note for mother's day
Telling her that she was genuinely beautiful.
And she cried.

I can't think of any positive comments on my appearance
That either of them spoke to me,
That didn't revolve around losing weight.
And then was only when I was throwing up on a daily basis.
Pocketing lunch money,
And measuring out one cup of cheerios every day
That I eventually stopped eating,
And starting storing in gallon bags hidden under my bed.
"Are you losing weight, good for you?"
It wasn't even that I looked good.
Or that I looked beautiful.
Or even that I looked healthy.
Just good that there was becoming less of me.
And to keep at it.
And I'm sorry sometime I try to fight you when you say you like my stomach.
I was always told it was unsightly and needed to be smaller.

My little sister listens when they call her fat, that her ass is big, that she needs to lose weight.
Constantly.
Not other kids.
My parents.
She asked me why she didn't have a boyfriend.
She's 15.
She thinks she is fat and doesn't like the way she looks.
I try to corner her every once in a while
And tell her not to listen to our parents.
Tell her that she is beautiful.
That her hair is soft, and her eye brows are flawless, and her tummy is gorgeous.

There has to be someone there to do that for her.
Someone to counter the words of authority.
And tell her that she is gorgeous.
So she never has to meet Ana or Mia.
Because she was average to below average weight
When she was in preschool,
and I in elementary school,
And were put on weight watchers by our mother in the summers.
Maybe because she was never told that she was beautiful.
And it poisoned her.

You're not supposed to hate your body so much that you want it completely changed.

You're supposed to love it so much, that you'll work to make it radiate the love and goodness that you put into it.
PrttyBrd Mar 2014

Sun cracks the moon
Light fills shadows
Blinding the onlookers

10w
30514
Q Nov 2012

The watcher of night
hid from the day
and fled from the light
because she could not stay.

The watcher of day
saw this sweet sight
as they played this new game
and he ran from the night.

But the watcher of night
did not want to run
so she ended her flight
and stood in the sun.

The watcher of day
was soon full of fright.
Should he, too, stay
or cower in her might?

So the watchers both stayed
and they faced on another.
The night wasn't afraid
so she stood with her brother.

As the night and day blend
Death come for the watchers
and one life did end --
and that life was her's.

A new watcher of night
now runs from the day.
She flees from the light --
She is forbidden to stay.

The watcher of day
is not pleased by the sight
but he still plays the game
and runs from the night.

121

As Watchers hang upon the East,
As Beggars revel at a feast
By savory Fancy spread—
As brooks in deserts babble sweet
On ear too far for the delight,
Heaven beguiles the tired.

As that same watcher, when the East
Opens the lid of Amethyst
And lets the morning go—
That Beggar, when an honored Guest,
Those thirsty lips to flagons pressed,
Heaven to us, if true.

meekkeen Feb 2015

I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social vomit; now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…

Out damned spot! Out, I say!

I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!



….

…God?

…Hello?

         …Is it too late to become

…plain?

In the first Book of Enoch, God sent the angel Gabriel to kill the Grigori, the sons of God, and their offspring, the Nephilim, for the Nephilim had learned too much.
David Barr Dec 2013

Who are the seers of this world?
Oftentimes, their perceived sense of safety is fenced-in by their very constraint.
Dare you be different in the age of minimalistic conformity?
On our own heads be it, my delicately-dancing friends of eggshell walkways.
Seasonal variance has already begun, despite our willful resistances.
In our perceived safety, we have mismanaged a nest of rich paupers.
But our administrative denunciations will crumble in the state which dwarfs individuals for the purposes of cultivating docile allegiances at a cost that no words could ever articulate.
Thank you, my postmodern travelers of continuum.
One more thing - have a good night.

Sarah Wallace Apr 2015

I watch interactions
I hear the words exchanged
To me they mean nothing
Simply a way of making conversation.
One thing I learned is I cannot live on the surface
I cannot watch this moment
It doesn't seem sincere
Everyone is living already
And I sit here
In this place I am a watcher
Of my own life
Maybe all writers are
Maybe I've become a mirror
Reflecting everything I see
Maybe I'm no longer happy go lucky
And maybe I have to be okay with that.
When I know someone
I want to know them all
I want to hold their deepest fears in my hand and let them fade away
I see people looking at me
Judging others only by what they see
I cannot bare living
In these confined walls
If I walk a million miles to find something more
And it's within me I know
But this mirror wants to see
And mirror the beauty back to me.

phocks Oct 2013

Time's up for the watchers of the big black box,
Who sit and trip away their days,
Who wine and dine till they're feeling fine,
Who pine and whine before they take what's mine.

Theirs is the land of greed and power,
For what in the world can topple the tower,
When the dreams of men do not shake the foundation,
How will we possibly be able to move this mountain?

All who delve into the works of society,
Are bound by the love of liberty,
And try to live life as though we one day could,
Be bound together through eternal brotherhood.

Send down all the clowns that are playing for you,
The tears in the midnight that you never knew.
Alone he cries with a smile on his face,
Always wanting to make his great escape.

Petal Feb 25

We watch, report
Write it out
Then contort
Watchers, poets, writers, scribes
Feel too much
Wrenching, inside
Its our job, not to sleep at night
To think too much
About life's plight
One watcher, will be drawn to another
All akin,
Sisters, brothers, lovers
It's what we are
In ancient times
They called us,
"The Scribes"
Old souls,
We everyone bare
It's a hard business
Not at all fair
But it's our job, chosen or not
To see, to feel,
To "watch" every plot
Our thoughts, can drown us
Or perhaps, heal
But with every action
More is revealed
For we are the "watchers"
With purpose, we live
And with our words written, spoken
'Tis life, we all give

My gramma tried to tell me when I was but a sprite. I didn't listen. Now, I see. I see. As do You. And when you can't sleep, know this, youre awake for a reason. You're a watcher. Its hard business. Be well...

Every child knows there's monsters
Hiding in the closet and under the bed
But, I have a secret each child should know
And it's about a Galumpher instead....

Galumphers are watchers
They help keep the peace
They help keep the monsters in line
With three eyes on the closet
Three on the monster
And three more...did I mention they've nine?
They watch where you're going
And they keep out of sight
And you can sleep through the night mighty fine.

Galumphers aren't dangerous
They live under the bed
They eat socks and the occasional mouse
But, the one thing that's certain
With a Galumpher, well fed
You won't find bedroom monsters in your house

If you believe in those monsters
You'll believe in these too
They're as real as the monsters you fear
Just remember Galumphers
Are there eating your socks
And with them, the monsters aren't near

I've never seen a Galumpher
But I know they're real
I know this, because I once was a kid
My dad checked my closet
Before he'd turn out my light
Because I knew that's where monsters all hid

But, one night he told me
Of the Galumphers that watched
With their 5 ears and nine eyes to see
And as my socks all went missing
And the mice disappeared
The Galumpher became a friend to me

Should you meet a Galumpher
Out from under the bed
Just smile and pretend not to see
For he's probably out
To get the dust bunnies off
And to go and have a long pee.

This is for my friend Emmanuel, for his two boys....once they get old enough for the monsters to be there....until then, Emmanuel...know the Galumphers are on guard.
Livingdeadgirl Oct 2014

I watch them
They stare at me
I don't want to listen
I don't know why
I just don't care
I couldn't care LESS
I want to be loved
I want to know me
I want to run
I want to scream
I grew up in a rough life
I just sit back and take the pain
I put my head phones in
I blare them and listen to my music
I relax and go numb
I smile at them as they hurt me
They don't know
I laugh at their uncertainty of me
I stare back at them
I watch as they back away
I keep listening to my music
I finally walk away

No one will ever trully know me, because everyone is too afraid to, so even though you read my words, don't think this is the whole of me.... I've just started writing and letting go what and who I am....... So if you think you know me, try again.... I don't even know me....

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