Best Low Profile Poems
I have been called a sex god
It has been said that
I radiate an aura of pure sexuality
I stopped telling my friends stories of my exploits years ago
Because they don't believe me
For instance
My last lover was a 54 year old paraplegic actress
I once gave a girl dozens of orgasms within a single minute
And can reproduce this feat at any time on any woman
Every inch of my body is fantastic
Like a machine fine-tuned for sexual pleasure
My sex drive is monstrous
Unending
Makes me crazy
I only stop to smoke cigarettes once every few hours
And I don't have a refractory period
All this is true
I'm probably a nymphomaniac
But it doesn't matter
Because I hate people
Because I hate dating
Because I have nothing to prove
Because the cosmos are indifferent
Because economizing sex disgusts me
I'm generally quiet
Try to keep a low profile
But inside
a Martian sex dragon
Breathing passion and lust
Inside
Roaring madly alone, tortured
Clawing at my skin
Chomping on my bones
Gnashing on my brain like a chew toy
I pretend not to care
I like to think it doesn't have an affect on me
But it is me
And I hate it
And I love it
I love to keep a low profile
And avoid the limelight
Flamboyance is not my style
I’m fiercely loyal, fair and giving
Looking for ways to please loved ones
By subtle random acts of kindness
I wish I could grace the whole world
With melodious joyful entertainment
I even bought a piano once
Because I wanted so to learn
Only to discover as much as I love music
I don’t have one musical bone in me
I dream of leaving behind a legacy
Born of some creative bit of me
I’m struggling 'cause I just don’t know
If I’ll run out of time to finish off
Everything I’ve sketched and planned~
I dream to leave the world more beautiful
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~TO BE YOUNG AGAIN~ 2023
AP: 2nd place 2023
Afternoons the sky shuts down around the swamp's warning tapes
propped up with restoration piping and dirt leak fencing.
We’re fleeing toward the wild, seeking the names and shapes,
the same way the Cedar Waxwing flit and grip for berries tree to tree.
Canada Geese are easy, they lead off down the lane leaving residue,
Widgeons have green stripes and gold stripes, one American
the other European, and they’re all mumbling our family phew-do
they didn’t burn the kid, they can’t keep the house clean, drugs…
Blink away the cold wind tears. Forget all that, only remember
Shovelers have the long low profile and the long bill from studies
in New Zealand, like a deep breath, we set aside work, unlimber
spy the race of killdeer away from their guarding territory in gravel.
Our boss didn’t try to replace us, he ducked out to a new job
leaving the crime ringing in our ears like the police car roaring past.
Head down, we tunnel under the high way finding the dunk and bob
of mergansers and their hallowed or red heads,
remarking differences when the sudden scream of honking
mallards flee up river. Caught off guard, we wonder did we cause
all this pain? The rise and dunk flying goldfinch happily chirping
cling to the thistle, their favorite waste near the waste water
ponds where all the Black River water flows for cleaning
spilling into the nesting lower stages of the tertiary treatment.
That’s all this is, treatment for the shock wave week riding
current events on our shoulders, almost like the red-tailed hawk
that screams and skims our head, rising up to the setting sun
turning the sky purple and pink and bruised. That’s when wood
ducks skim into view, our breath captured and then steaming undone
but soon the heavens offer confirmation, blue angels
with their huge oversized wings soar in pairs down as gift.
We hold each other then, let screams silence, detail enriched.
It's fall
the end
winter it's just
days away
last leaves
fall around and die
sending wet invitations
for their melancholic funeral
calling all the angels
to come
but they're gone
maintaining a low profile
waiting
for the next spring
late may
when the little flower
will born
again
and again will bloom
through tearful eyes
the little maroon
flower...
Never, Always, Sometimes
Stretched across the years of time,
memory plays hide and seek.
In the foggy daydreams, shadows find
early life rarely has a voice to speak.
Hidden in the quiet corners
low profile is an easy escape.
Never stepping boldly forth, always the loner,
and in hanging back it is best to hesitate.
Sometimes though, some inner spirit rises
and takes the dramatic leap forward
Voices shout speaking what the world despises
of life, liberty, justice is not just words.
Never do the masses speak in unison
always there are protesters an dissenters.
Deep in the thoughts of freedom lies the fusion
sometimes we only see the adventure.
Never is such a negative aspersion
drowning hope and dreams of life.
Always is too much an elaborate excursion
holding back for fear of the daily strife.
Sometimes, now there’s thought and possibility
that success can reveal it’s way
Sometimes then, there is less futility
in being self and loving every day.
I’m a love ambassador of Love
A chosen representative of
the One King, Alpha and Omega
I’m a love ambassador of Jesus Christ
A lowly person who was elevated
to be a devout Christian diplomat
I’m a straight truth talker,
I ain’t got no time
for listening to unrighteous souls
murmuring and lying
I’m a love ambassador of peace
A highborn scribe of humble integrity,
who was assigned a low profile ghetto identity
It was the first job on my spiritual resume,
to undercover report, give an eyewitness account
Record all the oppression, video file the pain;
audio loop the happy times of possession
Archive every act of degradation and shame
I’m a crooked liar stalker,
I got nothing but time, a lot of precious time
for following the tracks of predatory souls,
who be killer preaching, assisted suicide spiritual dying
A repentant personal life got me promoted to my last job;
a no-title ghetto ambassador,
who opens each forum the same way:
If you don’t know, God is Love
But if you wanna know, you gotta pray
I’m a love ambassador of Jesus Christ
An angry person who has since mellowed out,
now have a perfect Holy Ghost statecraft
I’m a love ambassador of Love
A predestined human agent of
the One King, Alpha and Omega
I like to keep a low profile and a lowlife profile.
Written By: D. Collins 3/1/2016
It feels good omitting adjectives and verbs.
And, stepping right into soul-shaking words.
Not penning drama, but getting right to the root.
I love being able to pen only the truth.
Cutting every stanza to it’s imp-degree.
Keeping the reader active in the story.
Because deep within it, there’s a bit of vintage wine.
The education I received, and secrets only mine.
I love doing this, passing along history.
Showing young people how to get as old as me.
If they paid attention and kept a low-profile.
I guarantee, most of them will live quite awhile.
I love doing this. Getting in a “Young’unz” face.
Showing them how to exist among the human race.
They may not like it, or may not wanna be pressed.
A man dressed in knowledge, is dressed at his best.
The city doesn’t need any elevators
Or escalators or anything to push people up
There are no clouds in this brightened city
no bourgeoisie emancipation, no atypical beauty
silicon bosoms out on the overstretched skies
mechanical tirades of the undiluted selves
the cubicles at Grande elevators are full of
lowered shallow spaces of begotten lies
should the company now start manufacturing soaps?
or narcissistic pleasures of the condescending physical realm
and illegal sex tapes with real orgasms?
But would any of these have any upsurge
On the emotionless lonely workers
who have thrown people up all this while
keeping a low profile in this profane job
the crowded elevators do not inspire any orgy
or clichéd electricity failure induced seductions
there are just too many of them (not the orgies!!)
the office of Grande, meaning big and great and great as desolate
is densely illuminated with the low intensity money saver bulbs
waiting to die their organic death as they are un-switchable
the products, by the way, are now “auto maintained”
the elevator which doesn't work well
changes itself
the one which is an escapist shoots itself up,
beyond the last floor, turning into precarious ash
the loneliness in the office, which is on the ground floor
is only equal to a fugitive bird
without a pinch of shelter in this extended, tall,
gyrating and syrupy city
In November I'll keep a low profile
Humans kill my kind so I must use guile
If I gobble to a mate
I'll be on a dinner plate
I detest living this muted lifestyle
I am a North American Wild Turkey
Thanksgiving Day is freaky and quirky
Try some cock-a-doodle-doo
Put chicken on your menu
My meat is too lean to make good jerky
Last year I lost my buddy, Fatso Fred
Saw tail feathers fly and knew he was dead
Chosen cuz he was plump
Got whacked on a tree stump
Had his stomach stuffed with yellow cornbread
In a few months I'll have to be wary
Being a turkey is very scary
With thanks I'll be toasted
But fear I'll be roasted
Served with yams and a side of cranberry
I am a bird - Personification
Tania Kitchin - Sponsor
Date Posted - July 22, 2020
keep that low-profile my little one
sky is contaminated
with fat black spots
their weightiness is gonna be dropped
on everything known
eyes are drained
turned to glass
it remains incomprehensible
what have you done
and
who's sending those metal birds
engineering shadows
over your
stuffed animal keepers
keep that low-profile
they are on rescue mission
playing mini golf
with calculation
how to convert your misery
in fifteen minutes of fame
their perception is detoured
just keep that low-profile
whole nation
sent on the road
fragmented into
disdained ethnic particles
soon they'll be fighting over conveniently flagged stamps
revitalising otherness
another Shoah
has been set on the scene
no one is left
to call them a mother
to name them a father
to recognize them as a brother
no one
but you
keep that low profile
maybe someone will have civility
to collect your
crumbled parts
the way you're collecting
that bread crumbs
on tormented path of your shelled being
keep that low profile my child
He keeps a very low profile,
afraid of the the horrible secret he hides;
hooked on a daily dosage of cocaine...
seeking an instant relief from his acute pain!
His cramped den is the stench
of smoked substance bought on drug-infested streets,
and filth is the undeniable evidence:
one can surely tell that he lives in Hell...
red devilish eyes and sunken cheeks;
a wasted mind and body meeting their end!
Restless young man without a name,
wary of the destructible consequences
that stunt your unremorseful conscience;
and what price will you pay and whom will you blame?
Restless young man without a name,
you only existed to fulfill a destiny of shame!
Day-time is so detestable to him,
more than the viciousest enemy;
night-time changes his personality...
and he searches for dope down-town,
where the houses are so run-down...
occupied by the crack-heads of East Main!
A limping kid, from nowhere, hands him
a small bag and he exchanges it for some green;
and what started the urge within...
is a deep wound, which can never heal!
Restless young man without a name,
intoxicated by the poison that destroys your life and health;
you can't be aware of what distorts your weak senses...
until you are helpless and run out of breath!
Restless young man without a name,
guiltless and indulgent...you allow death to happily dance!
Imagination…
To a Buffalo is a bizarre aspect,
Cause he cares not
Who is going to taste his meat,
Fried, Roasted or Grilled.
To a Lion is a matter of mean
Stance and low profile,
As he hunts, mates and rules
His domain on his will alone.
To Flamingo is a disgrace,
When comparing her voyage,
The thousands of unfriendly miles
Over the desolate seas.
To Cuckoo is against her audacity;
By tradition has her eggs hatched
In cosy cage of a crow’s toil
That demands not any repute.
Even to a blind fish is
Imagination an aspect inane ,
As waters, mud flats, river banks,
Are blessings of food and shelter.
A polar Bear or Eskimo dreams
Not an absolute weather transition;
From frozen white winter
To a sweating sore summer.
No mention of a Mango’s wish
To taste like an Apple ever found
In timeline, Nor vice versa,
As nature in her rules is so sharp.
Only Man is not done
With What and Who He is.
Something that subsides the
Desires of an edgy heart, who
Silently perching on idle seat is
Mastering the art of imagination
By browsing, posting and reviewing
The fallacies and faculties of the
Fascinating human factor;
Which he considers a boon,
But in fact is a curse insidious
That lures him into the blank
Voids of answerless questions
And irrational interpretations.
Hands and feet shackled
You are traped and can't get out
Doing time away from me and our son
Love, god,and our son is making you strong
You are in place you don't want to be
I miss you like crazy
The life we was going to have we will have in time
You are sick of that place
You have to keep a low profile
How can we deal with this
I'm not going to cry because I can't anymore
I am going to be strong for you and our son
I feel like my hands and feet are shackled too but not in that way
I am in love with you and in the love prison
Think about a special place and me
We can be in the love prison together
We will be together in time in the love prison
I can't wait til you get out of the other prison
I still love you
I have your back til the day I die
I am not going to leave you
I am never going to leave this love prison that we are in
Prison Song/Love Prison
Vanessa Brown-Woodberry
For my Husband Antwan Woodberry I love you Baby
Silently he moves about,
Searching for easy prey.
An expert opportunist,
His game is not just play.
Often using a disguise,
To blend with his surroundings,
He keeps a low profile,
Until he's got his grounding.
He's a real chamelion,
A shape shifter for sure.
Whatever suits the current mode,
He'll shift to change his lure.
Moving freely with the pack,
He makes all the right sounds.
A wolf amid the dozing sheep,
Until his mark is found.
Friend or foe, it matters not.
He'll do what must be done.
Some sacrifices must be made.
Some fall before the gun.
Beware the friend you know little about,
But knows you far too well.
The friend who says not much at all,
But hears all you will tell.
Like the shark, he's silent,
Seeking what he may find;
And like the shark he's ruthless,
Preying on his own kind.