Best Projectiles Poems
Your words,
are projectiles
dripping with Arsenic
and aimed at my heart
spitting out darts and swords
that expertly find their mark
and draw blood
Your words,
when aimed at others
are carried by Pixies
and sprinkled
with honey and sugar coatings
that melt in their ears
and taste of confection
Your words,
cloak me in pain and guilt
for undone atrocities
and imagined factors
as your blame
riddles my soul
causing it to
prune, wither, and crust
Your words,
accusing, spiteful, degrading, malicious
paintings of what I once thought
was an indestructible bond of Love
that no one
should be able to destroy
and yet
you do so
with your words.
I've no soul left
no appetite for your touch
no desire to want for anything
except
to become deaf
so I will no longer
have to listen to
your words
I have a memory-
of going with father to see fireworks
we brought folding chairs and warm blankets
it is a magical recollection
the neighbours gathered with anticipation
it
began
with whistles and flickers flashes and snaps
a continual assault of pretty colors falling
clusters of lights moving
and dissipating
strobes flashes bangs cascading waterfalls
glittering
trailing
projectiles and sometimes quiet glitter
father held my hand
stars hanging in the night sky and drifting slowly
down and then spheres of stars glowing
oh
it is truly
a wonderful memory-
_______________________________
June 7, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/The Firework Display
Copyright Protected, ID 16-798-185-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Fireworks For Me
sponsor, Julia Ward
First Place
The sylvan landscape stretched for miles
reached across golden fields by stiles.
Leaves carpeted the ground like tiles
whilst branches lay in gathered woodpiles.
Ancient venerable trees lined the aisles
that wandered willy nilly like juveniles.
Along the river's banks were basking reptiles
with mouths that upturned in happy smiles.
In the midst of the rushing water were isles
that rose up high like big projectiles.
And trees marched up the hills in files
giving shelter to the fox and his wiles.
The peace of the woodlands beguiles
within its tranquillity there are no exiles.
Boys carry their snow sleds
up, up
to the highest peak
scaling risk
their voices pitched
chattering noise of expectation
frozen giddiness on snow packed hills
boys belly flop onto plastic sleighs
bubble-headed jauntiness launches them
lunging down, down
bewildering "swish" of speed
smashing white drifts
projectiles scattered
boys tossed in snowbanks like pizza dough spinning
baked together in joy
pushing the balance of extreme
runs repeated
brash, blunt, bold
epic span of freedom
ignoring downfalls from ill timed moves
in a lost sense of direction
gleefully tired
snow flecked
boys wheeze the icy air
make their way home
their talk clotted with bravado
beneath it, the unspoken promise to never tire
of boyhood
in twilight, the slopes gleam
gouged by sled marks
that clear a path for growth
targeted direction
and if boys fall from the path
are there souls
who'll notice?
when ruts threaten
when sleds teeter
in unruly spaces
Poem composed February 2, 2022
Words,
a mouthful of sonic projectiles,
little payloads of hurt,
rage-tipped,
enough pain
to stop any assailant,
ready to explode into the
few feet of air between
you and the target,
punch through,
expand.
No entry wound,
no exit wound,
all internal trauma,
capping verbal crossfire
in a little
domestic drama.
Split-second decision.
Do you pull the trigger,
claim victory,
and concede a kind of defeat?
Or do you uncock the hammer,
knowing there'll be
casualties,
one at
each
end?
Take Two Bullets
Take two bullets orally with gun powder dry
Loaded water as a chaser can shoot them down
Some cinnamon for flavor to encase the rounds
Ensures the procedure is correct, is profound
Torpedoes are too difficult to swallow
Something about their shape and size
Avoid bazooka breath when you digest
The aftertaste is hollow and benign
Keep projectiles away from children
Who creep up from behind
Stir things up with barrels of a pistol
Two bullets is what the doctor ordered
But not as suppositories
If all goes well with the original directions
Fragments should come out intact about the other side
We can project that these projectiles
Will have a happy healthy outcome in the end
Keep extra ammunition by your side in bed
Always check the expiration dates
Take your bullets every day to stay alive
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
It greets its own kind with an expectant wail
They may well converse and they may form a pack
But what do they keep in that very small sack
There’s others that come bearing more heads and limbs
And some that appear when the light of day dims
Its plans for a peaceful encounter can fail
Often the culprit has foreshortened tail
Quite unlike what might occur on the X-files
It doesn't spit fire but does hurl projectiles
It then splits in two, it knows where each one lands
And rushes them back to its other halve’s hands
It’s salvo continues ’til someone cries ‘ouch!’
One half then watches the other half crouch
It scans its surroundings to feed the small sack
Wherever it’s from it’s then time to go back
But first it must visit the red hi-vis bin
The small sack, now loaded, deposited in
Its travels may take it up hill or down dale
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
*
If you don’t get this, your minds full of fog
Or your brain just went south on a train
It’s only the tale of one man and his dog
So why don’t you read it again?
Without fiery passion,
there is no poetry – Oh,
there are jingles of sorts!
jingles of naughts –
Limericks so on, and on
and on – Rhymes two
three and four, or as many
more; but, for a lyric to
soar, or heavily sink to
depths fond hearts dip
and taste-tally together
explore...there must be
great passion, smothering
smoking, burning passion
or nothing at all:
passion above, passion below
as well as within – to the core
of earth-center while breaching
sky tall...or the poet's words,
the vehicles of his being
the reasons for his feeling
the scopes of his seeing
without such divine-juice
his soul-output sputters
and stalls – spent projectiles
from
conforming
passionless
balls –
Swollen eyes trickle of tears
Swells of pride hence denied
Cry me mo tears shed me mo light
Shots raining out
Nowhere to run nowhere to hide
Ballistically speaking
Blown away by projectiles
Plunged deep within
Multiplying seeds of corruption
seeds of death
Whom do we trust
whom do we look up to
LAPD ,NYPD
Or perhaps Mayberry RFD
No way Jose so she'd me mo light
True true no doubt no doubt
Guns and roses is the tune
Let the procession begin
All Mourners expected
the bugle sounds
Time is here
So stand up
Led the tabernacle in
Sing sing a song sing sing Mo blues
Cry me a river cry me a river
Cry me a river ...
over you
cosmic dust spirals,
supernatural storms born
the Goldilocks zone
Free verse ~
A quadrant of marble missiles born
Ever since,
A dream catcher catches dreams
Jupiter catches meteorites and asteroids
Super-sonic projectiles pass Jupiter's gravitational shield
Shoots like V-1 rockets, destination is Mars
Seeded life exists there, nevermore
Saturn survived
The Red planet bleeds from beneath its crust
Lava flows from its core...
graphite composite, carbon spheres, laced with crystal ice
Craters and gorges are created kilometers deep
Cave creatures hibernating,
awaken from nocturnal sleep
Catastrophic events unfold...
the moon impacted by brazen bombardiers
headed for the new frontier
The moon takes mega-hits
The Earth tilts on its polar axis
Crimson tides flood marshlands and lagoons
Place prehistoric creatures roam and graze
Cosmic dust particles of the moon
chokes earth's atmosphere
The sun's torch extinguished
Like an eclipse
Demons from the core escape shackles
They tear the invisible rift, mimics paper ripping
Chains can not bind Lucifer's legions, anymore
Bat-like winged creatures with horns
Gargoyles
Such astonishing-force!
10,000 volcanoes erupting simultaneously
There's no haven to hide
Only deep sea creatures survive
The brontosaurus, T-Rex, raptor...
vaporized in minutes
Solidified into petrified rock - place they once stood
Invincible creatures extinct
Scanning the horizon and extraterrestrial skies,
I ponder... what if another catastrophic disaster happens
The volcano erupts ever so, many -- many moons
A supernova, two stars colliding, has triggered this domino disaster
A man of high quality
A man of the people
A pioneer of borrowed language
A man of bombastic projectiles
One with pride
And boastful charisma
Run-on-lines never cease
To exist in his speeches
Off-points are his best friends
Over-speeding is his motto
I don't care attitude is his logo
An idiot of no imagination
A half-baked speedy typewriter in human form
A pimple-faced nymph
Manufacturer of words
A man of brilliance
And excellence
He was my lecturer.
Deep purple passion, green garden glory, with a scent remarkably rich,
Like the haunting, full October moon, that hardly ever fails to bewitch!
Lilac lovely, violet and voluptuous, in gilt daytime, and evening's ease,
When soon cosmic skies are colored, like rubies, cardinals and cherries!
Admired like amethysts, or glistening grapes, or plump, plentiful plums,
Or like beauty marching down every lane, to a beating of festal drums!
Lilac like lavender, spreading redolent secrets, over scenic, sunlit miles,
Until sangria nights of fuchsia fervor, and fiery, shooting star projectiles.
Written on 6/1/2022
For: Purple Flowers Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
I Call My Ten-Year Old
I call my ten-year old
Hidden and secluded
Alive in death’s grasp
Unseen yet hovering
Unconscious, subterranean
Felt but not heard
Needles prick chin’s pincushion
Screams echo through
Heart’s tormented chambers
Images flash
Blood red, avatar blue
Not on film’s cellophane
But in cones and rods
Fear in technicolor
My ten-year old answers
Amygdala-like screams erupt
Bubbling through blood and bone
Are lava-like projectiles
Tooth-some daggers that
Pierce night’s skin
Fear’s heavy drapes part
Secrets, once knots, in cavern’s pits
No longer fed by silence and fear
No longer guarded by anger’s blade
Arise transmuted, transformed
Hush, my child
What was no longer is
Shed the snake’s skin
Feel the warm underbelly
Of love and acceptance
Neath its cold cloak
Is the peace you seek
I am a wall
Not the brick kind
The wall that separates
Babies from adults
Dogs from children
Dens from kitchens
Hate from love
An inner wall
Neat, my plaster
Smooth my paint
Hollow my insides
Held together by nails
And sometimes pictures
Pictures that show families
The good times, I suppose
I represent you
Run your hands
Down my appearance
You’ll find flaws
Like bumps or dips
All from life’s little oops
Yet fixable
Everything is fixable right?
I hear it all
The laughter, the parties
The pain of loss, the screaming
The crying, the dying, the wailing
I’m there, to lean on, to grieve on
Strong and dependable
Until
Bodies are slammed against me
Fists are put through me
Gunshot projectiles permeate my outer shell
Objects explode on me, liquor bottles, and beer bottles
People, who don’t care, write profanity on me
Beat holes in me and expose my insides, set me on fire
Leaving me open, vulnerable, charred for life
Eventually, I am no longer a wall
But a fly that used to visit
The villagers look silently on.
What good would it do to interfere?
They watch the young man as he pleads for his life.
The policeman in the black mask reluctantly shakes his head.
He tightens the string that secures the man.
The villagers – mostly women – join in.
What good would it do to interfere?
They slowly pick up rocks.
And the projectiles are off, whizzing through the air.
One hits the poor man in his head, spurting blood.
The villagers cheer when the man is hit.
What good would it do to interfere?
Yet a young girl hides between her mother’s skirts.
She silently cries for the poor man.
These happenings would cease in her time.
The villagers break away from the little girl.
What good would it do to interfere?
She stands up, and walks to the front.
She shouts her dissent.
Rocks pelt down.
The villagers hit her as well.
What good would it do to interfere?
She falls next to the man.
Shallow breathing emerges.
Both hoping for more.
The villagers walk silently away.
What good had it done to interfere?
She should not have done it.
The child is dead.
And the police are happy.