Best Spotter Poems
Spotter to my left, we're covered in camouflage.
Objects appear in front, some moving others mirage.
Distinguish what's real, and what image is fake.
Knowing when target approaches, the shot to take.
When decision is made, after targets been found.
One shot, one kill, target laying upon ground.
Bring out your white, bring out your red,
Bring out the grapevine's daughter,
Enough to fill a waterbed,
We'll drink it down like water,
Pour it cold, pour it cool,
Pour it a little hotter,
Fill the glass - the golden rule,
Sobriety to slaughter.
Like rivers flowing with the tide,
Wine to soak the blotter,
Wine to fill the oceans wide,
Wine to drink like water.
Toast your sainted mother sure,
And toast your alma mater,
Pick up a wee dram o' the pure,
And down the hatch like water.
Whiskey smooth as ermine pelt,
Or mayhap that of otter,
Here me lad, let's have a belt,
We'll take it down like water.
If you want a hearty brew,
Then I will be your spotter,
Quite a lineup will ensue,
We'll pound 'em down like water.
Leaning on a beggar's crutch,
The merest rabble squatter,
With glass in hand I thirst as much,
As any kingly yachter.
Whether 'tis crystal with golden rim,
Or clay from the local potter,
Fill that bad boy right to the brim,
Then it gets my imprimatur.
Set the bottles, and set me a glass,
I'll mow them down like excess fodder.
Nectar of the gods or cuvée crass,
I'll knock it back like water.
The thirsty man with teetotaling wife,
'Twon't be long before he's fought her,
Serve the liquid love, avoid the strife,
He'll drink it down like water.
Scheme to take my booze away,
Ye righteous little plotter,
Ye may pay, and ye may pray,
But it's going down like water.
I'll slug it back - the sweet, the dry,
Enough to weave and totter,
Tomorrow I'll wake thirsty, aye,
And probably need some water.
Harry Styles from One Direction has corrected a fan's punctuation...
Harry Styles is really great
He knows how to punctuate
And he learnt to spell at school
Harry, man, you're really cool
Better read than Harry Potter
A rarer breed, a comma spotter
Tell us, Harry, in your pop
What’s the point of a full stop?
by Gail
Del Boy Trotter
Money making plotter
Sells dodgy bent gear and smokes a cigar
Drives a yellow three wheeler T.I.T company car.
Rodney Trotter
Del's little brother, sidekick and cop spotter
A dipstick, a wally, a plonker or Dave
With two GCEs he feels like an under-paid slave.
(Trotters Independent Traders) (T.I.T)
Only Fools and Horses
Clerihew 2 Poetry Contest
Sponser Joseph May
Written 21.10.21
Breathing underwater
Deep in the arctic
Yet my skin grows hotter
Bench pressing the weight
Of the world without a spotter
No creature is scarier
Than the human monster
Been told to go kill myself
By my own loving father
Hated and despised
By my own blood brother
Now you know why I'm
Too much of a renegade to act proper
Razor blades and grenades
Underneath my pillow covers
Can't wait for tomorrow
And see what I'll discover
Bumble bees buzzing hard,
A little girl plays in the yard,
Ivy running amongst the trees,
Don't you smell her disease?
Igloo fit just for two,
Hot chocolate in remembrance of you,
Fourth of July's between the blinds,
Now I can read between the lines,
Siamese cat taken off to jail,
Cadillac car that had to sail,
Brother in law at the door,
Everything was such a chore,
Weight bench, a spotter, and tape in the deck,
Watch as the weather brings on this shipwreck.
By: Sabina Nicole
SNIPER
A yell “ man down;” then zing, pock, pock,
pock, pock against the sandbag revetment.
Down on the plain is a man in a spider hole,
he is well hidden and armed well enough,
smokeless powder provides no clues.
Binoculars and spotter scopes range and scan.
The wounded soldier moves arms weakly,
asking for help, hands exploring a bloody chest;
each attempt to get to him more whizzes and
pocks follow the movement of desperate men.
Zings and pock, pock, pock of sand bags hit,
in the distance a light echo of a rifle report,
a light pop reverberating from every where.
81-mm mortars inside the defensive perimeter
fire volleys of patterns mushrooming dust,
some air bursts for downward shrapnel,
these metal fragments might penetrate shelter.
The dust cloud shields medics and helpers
dragging this first victim to relative safety;
the dust-off flight already hurrying inbound.
Soon APCs roar by, their armour impervious,
tracks clanking the treads tearing ground;
carrier troops dismount and walk searching
investigating odd bits of clumps and weeds.
Nothings found he is too well hidden,
how did he ever dig in under watchful eyes,
how did he hide the signs of digging.
Now everyone moves about with this new worry
each movement cautious with little exposure;
careless soldiers leave trails of pocked sand bags,
one fellow gets ripped along his flack jacket,
too close a strike earning an unwanted souvenir.
Mortars continue to pound patterns on open ground,
this all to find a veritable chaffing grain of sand,
a grain that throws an inconvenient hail of bullets.
Our snipers and spotters set their own lairs;
hunting scopes by day starlight scopes at night.
The days are long as this deadly duel continues,
nerves are sensitised, some are shattered;
each move brings a buzz or whiz of near death.
Then there are no more shots, no more shooter,
perhaps the mortars got him or the gun ships,
perhaps he earned the NVA version of R & R.
Still every one walks, heads hunched, hair on end,
one sniper with a few dozen well place bullets
keeps one company sized position neutralised;
a good example showing us the fine art of war.
I am no woebegone capon peon
for forks and knives to come upon,
no, I am a busy rooster father
in serious need of a duty roster
to ensure my hens and chicks prosper.
I cannot falter as enemy spotter,
I must sound my distinctive alarm
when a predator intends us harm.
I also work hard watching the yard
and any rooster with a cocky saunter
who nears with intentions to conquer
will soon leave as a featherless trotter!
My hens depend on my blend of clucks
to direct them where food is stuck.
As an indispensable rooster general
who keeps up with so much busy stuff,
I am unable to relax nearly enough.
If my nap roosting suffers too many gaps,
I may suffer a sentinel general collapse!
It would be incredible if now and again
I received some gratitude from the hens ….
... CayCay
July 16, 2019
I’ve been called an inequity spotter
(although some will just call me a “rotter”).
Names are biased for sons:
yours and mine — everyone’s.
I propose to make JohnSON — JohnDAUGHTER.
A monochrome of boho days
segue one another surreptitiously.
Endless pantomimes of idle chatter flutter by.
Cantilever bridge, a one stop halting site for gossip and suspense.
Small talk, bespoke winged creature, Combe of pleuron.
Turin shroud spotter in the mise en scene melting pot.
The spirited stride of pavement strollers prompted by
agenda.
Metatarsals on the march.
Street vendor’s spooky cry with banjo beating busker at his side.
Dirt pan bellow and brittle strum about the
orange alert ahead.
Crowded car park, careening bus, frustrated taxi driver rank and file.
Backstreet Barney or kerfuffle on the lawn.
Swing sign overhead, a pawn in every trending breeze.
Office block malarkey cutting capers for the press.
New age ante-fix, the cover tile for corruption.
Whistle blowing wag inside the
city centre fault line.
Brass neck
reservoir of hoodwink high and low.
Harassed mother, barefoot beggar
nervously extends her rusted tin.
Guilt edge coin as bandage to our shoddy scruple.
Bag lady on the fringe of some haute couture complex.
Stasi-like security whose bluff veneer belies an inner
bludgeon.
Crouton salad diner has his finger on the pulse but not his pulse rate!
Tycoon in transition with an open brief!
Teflon tyrant
back to the future.
Ambulance chaser …. legal eagle…..with fortune in misfortune their calling card .
To the limit and beyond like an offshore Ansbacher.
Noonday bell
interloper at the scuttlebutt tavern.
Seconds out,
moments out,
hours in a hari kari haze.
Sensei’s of the left filling void with vacuum.
Laboured diatribe against dynasty, trite slogans, empty rhetoric, mannah from heaven?
All this from the cadres of social despotism!
Passage, the
pollinating insect of aroha.
Behind the rhythm of the grind a broad leaf grain of hope may sprout.
Green shoots of bounty.
Latent sidewalk bloomer.
Blossom by default or tender impulse
I will arise and go now, and go to St David's Head :
A picnic I will have there, with tea from a Thermos flask;
And I will walk the coastal path, and by this path be led,
A cloudless sky is all I ask.
And I shall watch the choughs there, for choughs are a native bird;
With spotter 'scope I'll watch them, as they spiral in the sky :
In fascination of their flight, I'm almost lost for words,
And envious, wish that I could fly.
I will arise and go now, to that jewel of Pembrokeshire,
To hear the cry of sea birds, the lap of the restless tide,
To sit alone on springy turf where nature now is near;
In welcome peace I'll there reside.
*Image of the enthroned Roman goddess Ceres provided by Pixabay.
Ceres, Goddess of Harvest: The Pact
Birthright rules they are Jupiter's sisters,
Hera, Vesta, Ceres, whose names glisters.
Ceres, the goddess of crop gathering,
whom the gods treat the best, no blathering.
When Ceres was sad, the harvest did die,
and the people did ask all the gods why?
Pretty Proserpine, Ceres daughter,
picking berries, her uncle did spotter.
The uncle was Pluto, and none other,
whose desires chokes empty minds to smother.
Pluto was the god of the underworld,
who had kidnapped her to his netherworld.
Proserpine met needs, kept in a dream,
ageless her stay be Pluto's fated scheme.
Jupiter sought out Mercury for aid,
a messenger god and smart son, think trade?
Proserpine marries, in turn, he must,
let her return for six months, would be just.
Pluto, Ceres, and Jupiter agreed,
six months growth, six months none, was then decreed.
2021 April 23
HMS - 10 syllables per line & RZ - exact rhymes checked
Cok the hammer, drop the blotter, And we will swim through muddy water
Just drop all your defenses, Don't build fences, blur your senses
Watch the corner, your my spotter, We'll walk right through the bloody slaughter
Cok the hammer, point the pistol, Pull the trigger, unless my fists full
I can ex you with one squeasy , I'm so greasy killings easy
Cok the hammer, kill the chatter, learning is the only thing that matters
I side step into a shadow, I got your money I am sad though
Been winning, from the beginning, Past by you all while heads were spinning
Remember when we were falling, I cut the rope and started calling
Lifting pane, I felt the wind blow, And you pushed me out the window
It's ok though, I just did blow, Ground felt like a feathered pillow
Cok the hammer, pull the trigger, let us run towards the grave with vigor
I side step into a shadow, That placebos too big to swallow
I continue with a caution, There's no wind inside this coffin
Now i'm trapped in here not knowing, Which way the winds of change are blowing
Cok the hammer, pull the trigger, I side step into a shadow
Cok the hammer, pull the trigger, I side step into a shadow
A SNIPERS TALE
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
My spotter and I form a highly efficient crew
Dedicated to eliminating those menacing you
We take up position under the cover of night
Then search for the sniper hidden from sight
Scour the terrain for any sight of his presence
Find him first, for he finds us, requires patience
Searching for any movement, any change of hue
Same warning applies to us, avoids, a fatal miscue
Suddenly there is a glimmer, a reflective light
His concealed location is now completely in sight
Now to sit and wait for him to make a mistake
This constant monitoring, so hard to stay awake
We instructed the unit to put a lure, a bait
The sniper responded there was no time to wait
He exposed himself totally within my sight
Squeezing the trigger, he dropped out of sight
Mission accomplished on to the next assignment
Doing my job without personal involvement
Someday when I’m older and wiser. I may wonder
Was this carnage necessary or a lethal blunder
Had I been the loser my mother would be stricken with pain
The snipers mother surely reacts exactly the same, in pain
Young men killing each other, humanity’ shame
Rainbows are made of droplets of water
Refracting and reflecting the sun's light.
Anything more depends on the spotter,
In how one perceives this natural sight.
They arc through the waves of every shoreline,
And bend with the mist of a waterfall.
Some call them bridges to kingdoms divine,
But rainbows are not supernatural.
How does one see such a fanciful sight,
In colorful crescents crossing the sky?
Why so much wonder in refracted light?
What is this whimsy effecting the eye?
Answers are found in the inspiration.
Rainbows are made of imagination.