Long Watcher Poems
Long Watcher Poems. Below are the most popular long Watcher by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Watcher poems by poem length and keyword.
I see it now
flying low
over silver-spumed waves.
I am a watcher
I can enlarge the picture
zoom in
look into bright midnight eyes
as if it were I
that propelled it.
Spreading bright foils
catching the billowing blows,
a clean swell-rigged clipper
sky-sailing sailor
tacking to gypsy winds.
Within its avian breast a magnetic compass
on a pivoting gimbal,
soon to make a terrible landfall.
For a ship came upon it
a craft arrayed in the guise of a cruel crocodile,
snagged from the air it snared the voyager.
A ship blighted by its own wake,
a very flowering of evil.
A wandering navigator brutishly used,
deckhands bundling broken wings
bound it as if a flopping fish,
gaffed its body open
to a hollow of hope.
I also recall a monstrous time
inside a crocodiles smile,
a time when poetry
was cut from my lips.
Yet here I am flying
in an airplane looking down
upon England,
following an albatross
only I can see.
Few crocodilians in London
yet more perilous reptiles there,
I shall have to take more care,
plot a fairy-tale revenge
with Peter Pan’s time-frozen statue.
At last to Paris
a windborne glide tracking a dream
of slow rowing wings,
there to dine with a restless ghost
who knows well enough
how dangerous monsters
can be
on land and sea.
There to restore myself
with Baudelaire.
to remake over
an imagined albatross of a life,
return it to humanity,
should it ever want to be
that flightless.
~~~~~
“Often to pass the time on board, the crew
will catch an albatross, one of those big birds
which nonchalantly chaperone a ship
across the bitter fathoms of the sea.
Tied to the deck, this sovereign of space,
as if embarrassed by its clumsiness,
pitiably lets its great white wings
drag at its sides like a pair of unshipped oars.
How weak and awkward, even comical
this traveler but lately so adroit -
one deckhand sticks a pipestem in its beak,
another mocks the cripple that once flew!
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
riding the storm above the marksman's range;
exiled on the ground, hooted and jeered,
he cannot walk because of his great wings.”
- Charles Baudelaire
I escaped to a quite place to meditate
But as soon as I got there an old man in a red cap
with a wretched look on his face invaded my quiet space
I have noticed him perpetually prowling around the park
with his long range professional camera shooting from the dark
Today my spirit got crossed and I came face to face with him
I labeled him a stalker but he quickly denied and
and confessed that he was a habitual bird watcher
I felt a sudden vexation brewing and with deep sorrows inside
I took my bible and sat on the damp grass and
read a psalms from the depth of my heart.
The rain came down suddenly wetting the pages in my bible
And forcing the bird watcher to close his despised windows
His conscience started screaming at him and in a few
minutes he hurried away from that place.
Something compelled me to leave that spot too
so I rode my bike along the wet trail leading to a muddy course
and a man riding in the opposite direction crossed my path
I attempted to get off my bike to let him pass
but he said aloud "I will ride in the muddy part"
As soon as I reach around the tired bend
I pounced upon a sign which reads
"road under construction, closed"
The broken swampy road perishing from inside
with heavy equipment blocking the route kept everyone away
I felt extremely happy
I parked my bike along the broken track and walked on
a board that connects both trail and continued on the track
I kept walking until my spirit led me to a peculiar place
A tree on the river bank with roots swelling out of the ground
with no soil to cover it's body and veins running all around
caught my attention
I made my way into the bushes
and sat on the root with my bare feet dangling
above the slow moving water and flat rocks gazing at me
as if they have something urgent to show me
I kept looking all around still there was nothing to be found
But right in front of me the hidden mystery was staring directly at me
There it was in living proof five trees standing on the river bank
four trees leaning over the river in a cluster
with one almost falling to the ground
But the fifth tree separated from the cluster was standing upright
looking healthy and strong sucking up the energy from the four falling ones
I photograph the living image of the four trees
collapsing over the big dirty river.
A hiding place, a warm and darkened room,
A lit doorway, bright against the dark,
Cold against the warmth, a frame for odd
Assorted stranger-forms whose faces loom
As quarrels over (what?) convulse and rend them,
Leering laughter giving in to vicious
Sneers, bared fangs, silent snarls
Of wretched, clutching, atavistic mayhem,
A terror once removed. Inside that hole
Distant from the proximal horrid window
Where twisted evil shadow-puppets fight
Peculiar faint amusement seems to roll
Like waves around the cave, detached and born
Of safety via distance, of certainty
That out would never be in, that warmth was safe,
That war above, so far away, forlorn,
Could be watched as from a languid seat
Far recessed in a darkened empty theater,
Nestled snugly, listening to the voice
Which comments on the raging battle heat.
From somewhere up, behind, not left nor right,
But from the center, voice and fight both
Directly sensed, as if they each occurred
In a vacuum, touch and smell, sound and sight
Being interchangeable and void.
The fighters jab and poke, madly gouge,
And neither gains advantage, being justly
Matched, as both are faceless, the man
At left pitted fair against the shrewish
Plot of his opponent, evil woman.
Both in turn appeal for judgment, turning
Away from fighting to glare and wave and hiss
Silently for a verdict on the ghastly driven
Feud which now has stopped, as it began,
Abruptly, and receiving none, for in
The silence no answer can be given
(Besides which, being taken by surprise
And overcome by sudden fear, aware
Of change in circumstance) the watcher is mute,
The murderous woman lunges at his very eyes
In deadly assault, bent on maiming, killing,
Groping fiercely at his open throat
For no apparent reason; and the comfort
Of the soothing voice utterly halts.
Words without sound fly like spears between them
Accusatory fingers gesture madly
And spittle from their half-crazed livid mouths
Wings through air in visual acid anthem
To this grisly deadly tandem fight
That seems the worse being set in relief
By the rectangular hole that serves as both
Window and door, divider of dark and light,
No protection, as threshold battle threatens
Him within, as blind hatred rages
In deft slashes of lengthy fingernails
While foe from foe extracts macabre debt.
Am I a waiter or a warrior, a visionary, or wall watcher?
Am I a strategist or fighting activist?
Sometimes, I feel that I'm just a nesting dove.
Perhaps at any given season, I'm all the above.
If we care enough to share in the intimate places with
God, we must dare to breathe that great and rare air of God. .
Come with me to a world of questions and mysteries.
Allow me to muse my way into some unpleasant places;
Places of craving for the face of God but finding no trace.
I speak not of people wearing holy halos or holy Joes.
I'm talking about Ordinary Mary and Everyday John going about
Their routine lives with a longing desire for a God-centered life.
You may not concur; yours may be a different world,
Or perhaps you've never ventured into the murky waters
Of your soul as have I. Anyway, this place is real.
On occasions, my soul longs to see, to hear, to feel,
To touch and be touched, to sense and taste God
In unusual, yet Biblical ways. That longing, that deep
desire of which I speak is not always or should I say, is seldom
reciprocated. It could also be that I get distracted and fail to
recognize God's reply. Am I making sense so far, or am I stranded
On an island alone? Anyway, the sign I long to see is a 'no show',
And it seems that God hides himself from me, for my good of course.
It's when the voice, the sounds I expect to hear are not there or so faint
and distant as to not be useful. Or when God is silent, or so it seems. Or
when I do not feel Him or His Presence, and/or in fact, none of my sensory
faculties are in tune sufficiently to benefit. My best guess is that we are in "a trust only zone" where we feel at our lowest, but in reality, there is that side
of us being informed that we are experiencing our finest hour. I tell you, this
present muse was inspired by a conversation last night with close friends.
We concluded that we, whether dove or warrior, are always benefactors of his love because God is faithful, and in His time, he makes all things beautiful.
092720PSCtest, Completely Your Choice(33), Brian Strand
Contest entry11220, HM's and NA's October 2020, C. La France. 2P
Judged and NA on October 26, 2020 by Brian Strand
A true Nigerian is brave like the Lion,
He is courageous, hospitable and kind.
He never shies away from responsibilities;
In his hearts of heart he controls all within him.
Through faith, he moves without stopping;
Even when there are many road blocks, he conquers.
A true Nigerian is patriotic and loyal,
He is not a gambler nor a fraudester.
He walks to achieve a common goal; unity.
He sees black as black and white as white.
He is the eyes that the country boast of home and abroad when he brings home the glory of love.
A true Nigerian never discriminates among his people.
A true Nigeria is a good leader in his home and country, he sees beyond looting of money and
Embazzlement of public fund in his trust.
A true Nigeria is perfectly perfect in perfection,
He is not dubious as you may think and have in your
Wrongly wronedg mind of mind towards him.
A True Nigerian is never lazy and idle like they say,
He is hardworking, goal driven, dreamer and doer.
He knows his rights and obligations in his society.
A true Nigerian is a true African decorated with an
Unfading black blood in his strongly strong vein.
He is honest, gentle, courageous and easy-going man.
A true Nigerian is a poet because he sees beyond you.
A true Nigerian is holy not fanatic fool in the church.
A true Nigerian believes and hope in the land of his forebears that goodness shall spring out from it.
He is educated, intelligent, world class citizen and
A thunder that strikes to destroy evil among his people.
He looks right into your eyes and tell you tomorrow.
A true Nigerian is a reader not a watcher of event,
He is a researcher, world class entrepreneur.
A true Nigerian obeys the laws of the land,
He is a goal getter among all in the World.
Show me a million succeessful men around the world and; I will show you thousand of Nigerians among them.
We are blessed in many ways, nurished with a talent of gifts; Nigerians are blessed and uplifted.
We believe that If something that was going to chop off your head only knocked off your cap, you should be grateful and when a girl has beauty without Brains, the Private parts suffer the most.
We are Nigerians, we are proudly Nigerians.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
when she gets home
after working a ten hour shift
he is sitting in a chair in the living room waiting for her---
on one hand he wears a white glove
it is still clean,
and he smiles at her,
telling her that she has passed the “glove test” once again---
yes, she was able to dust the rooms so thoroughly
that when he traced the corners & all the nooks & crannies,
not a smidgeon got on his pristine white glove---
she did well,
and this is the man she swore to live the rest of her life with.
she is told to make dinner &
the dinner she makes for him & the baby is different than the one
she is told to make for herself---
his, bears flavor & taste,
making nourishment a joy---
hers, is all part of his “strategy”
to make her thinner,
to make her look like she did before the baby,
to make her appealing to him once again &
she follows his “program”
because he hasn’t touched her in a year---
she hopes that if she gets thin enough,
that he will.
she is permitted exactly four hours of sleep a night,
because she has to be up early to take care of the baby,
as well as make his breakfast &
her breakfast---
if she coughs, kicks, or even makes a sound while she is sleeping
in the same bed with her,
he tells her to get out of bed
until she can sleep right,
“like a normal person.”
he came from a strong christian background
which is one of the main reasons she found comfort in his presence
after a ballistic first marriage that
did not produce a child,
and therefore, as far as she is concerned,
did not produce a reason for her to stay---
having given birth to his son,
she knows that there is no way out,
for her own family,
her church & all the community that she
functions in,
would cast her out into “hellfire,”
if she believed any different.
and she remembers the night that he told her
that after his son turned 18
that he didn’t care what she did,
that “she would be free,”
but that he would never give her a divorce---
he would never allow her to escape the feeling of
psychological possession.
all the while,
the watcher learns how to be a man---
at age two and some months now,
the little boy sees how his mother is treated,
he sees how his father treats her &
in these precious, vital
formative years,
the mold has been made---
there will be another.
Can you see the radiance in her smile? That beautiful row of white goodness that makes me forget there are other people existing in the world. Can you see the sensuousness of her skin? That caramel chocolate sensation I love to drown my thoughts in... I know you can see the way her hips sway with such perfect synchronicity, the image alone conjures thoughts loving in perpetuity. Can you see her hazel eyes? Twin pools of perfection to cool this body on a hot summer day. I am but a watcher; if I were a collector of beautiful things I would spare no exertion to have her be mine.
Can you smell the scent of her femininity? An aroma so intoxicating that I will never want another high. Can you hear the sound of her voice? That calming husky baritone that brings waves of peace to my conscious mind. I know you can see that lovely mane of hair, that black hair with the specks of gold and red to entrance every eye. I am but an admirer; if I were a man of means I might have the courage to speak to her.
My eyes avoid catching hers in a moment stolen, so afraid am I that she will see the hunger brimming therein. I look at her and see everything that I am not but everything that I need. I see laughter and that carefree nonchalance of youth and brevity that I so crave but that elude me. I envy the water that gets to cascade down her body when she bathes. I envy the wind that gets to caress her long luscious legs as she dons that skirt that invokes feelings in me that are not easily suppressed. . I envy the sun that gets to warm her body when she is chilled. I envy the moon that watches over my sleeping beauty as she dreams of people she does know. I envy the man who gets her sighs and knows her dreams. I envy him not only because he is all she wants but because he is all that I can never be for her.
While my heart is the one that loves her with the fervour of a thousand fires and the intensity of a million lifetimes; he kisses her, touches her and holds her and she loves him to a place beyond distraction; he is all that she thinks she needs, he is her man. I am left to watch and admire from a distance. How can I compete? After all, he is the man of her childhood fantasies; all that I am is a girl who fell in love with the wrong goddess.
—A Prophecy by the Last Watcher—
Beneath the veil of sacred land,
Where prophets walked on golden sand,
The iron winds begin to blow—
Saturn speaks, and Rahu glows.
A land once blessed, now marked in red,
Where ancient kings and seers once bled.
The trumpet calls from Persia’s shore,
And knocks upon the Lion’s door.
Iran shall rise, with fiery eye,
Its atom heart shall touch the sky.
The shield of stars shall twist and bend,
And empires crumble in the end.
The eagle’s wings, once proud and wide,
Shall falter in the storm and slide.
Allies flee, no hand shall save—
The mighty fall into their grave.
Jerusalem, O sacred flame,
Shall echo not its holy name.
For half thy walls will turn to dust,
And prayers be silenced in their trust.
From out the West, division wakes,
As brother from his brother breaks.
Civil fire and shattered pride—
Each state a nation, carved and wide.
The House of Stars shall bleed apart,
Its beating drum a broken heart.
The dollar dies, the markets choke—
The dragon laughs in crimson smoke.
The bear shall feast on fading meat,
While Persia plants its throne in heat.
A robe of black, a ring of light,
Will crown the East with silent might.
And those who once did rule by fear,
Shall see their end come drawing near.
The hunted rise, the hunters fall—
The stars will answer to them all.
Netanyahu, cast from thy land,
Will stand before a foreign hand.
No robe, no shield, no sword to lift—
But judgment swift, and fate as gift.
The halls of glass, where nations met,
Will echo loud with deep regret.
No more the UN’s solemn vow—
Its flag shall burn, then fade somehow.
And from the smoke, a shape appears,
A new world born from ancient fears.
Not East nor West, but boundless air—
A voice unknown, both just and fair.
But sorrow comes before the light,
And darkest is the final night.
The karma sown in wrathful pride,
Returns like tide, none may hide.
For Rahu turns the wheel unseen,
And Saturn balances the mean.
The wise will fast, the fools will feast—
The meek inherit last, and least.
But hush—O Reader, watch and wait,
The stars have locked the final gate.
And though the fire may burn the page,
It leaves behind the Golden Age.
I am
Still I wonder
Who I am
Am I who
Am I what
Am I where
Am I here
I am
Yet I am not
My words travel beyond myself
I am made up of small and large
Sometimes broken discarded pieces
I am not
Who you think I am
I am one who lives between the spaces
Of those words you choose to describe me with
Perceptions gleaned
Through abbreviated sentences
Those moments I bored you with my existance
You were too busy being yourself
How could you ever know me
I am the one who can see
For I am a watcher
I am present in the silence
I am quiet
Do not confuse silence with weakness
I am who I choose to be
I am not a slave to the trivial
I am not one confined by convention
Those things I am supposed to strive for
They hold no allure for me
I am a free man
Free to think as I think
My thoughts remain my own
For your questions rarely greet my ears
When they do
I answer
I am willing
Yet you are unable to hear
For you think
You alone hold the answers
So I smile
For if nothing else
I am pleasant
I am polite
I am not thought of as bold
I am to you
Who you think I am
I am
For a time
What I want to be
Other times
What is expected of me
Sometimes
What confuses
What limits me
What shrinks
What trancends
What I hope is good for me
I am selfish for generous reasons
I am willing to give lavishly
I am what and who I need to be
Today I am different than yesterday
Yet at my core
I am still me
I am where I've been placed
For the time I'm needed here
I am at the intersection of belonging and alone
I am temporary and eternal
I am living where angels fear to tread
For I am human
I am flawed
I am willfully questioning God
I am on the verge of disappearing
Only Jesus truly knows who I am
He knows where my thoughts travel
How I have used who I am
To coerece others
To see me
As different than I am
More perfect
Less fearful
Confident
Insightful
So I say
Here I am
Naked
Exposed to your elements
Willing to risk it all
Here and now
Will you look close
Ask me your questions
Reserve your judgement
I am meant to be
Here and now
For in knowing who I am
You can begin to discover
Who you are!
For Frank Herrera's " I Am" contest.
Another place
There is another place, where all things are possible,
All words may be said, all thoughts brought into the limelight.
A place where emotion is welcomed and judgment takes no sides.
It is a place where you and I, who until now were but strangers,
Meet and become as intimate as lovers or long married friends;
Although we are intimate, there is a space between us;
This space, here, enclosed by a sweep of the hand, that
Encompasses us both, but keeps us apart. It is your space,
To walk your past, present and future, as an explorer searches
The landscape for sustenance and riches, and sometimes reason.
Here, in your space, I am lover, father, mother, sister, brother,
Daughter, son, vixen friend and foxy foe, to be loved and reviled,
Hated, and feared, adored, respected, dismissed and accepted.
I am the stranger who haunts your past, the face in the crowd,
The gagging smell, the shuffling footsteps or squeaking door.
In this place, in this intimate space, you may weep to wash clean
Memories long hidden beneath the prim tidiness of your mind.
You may laugh and laugh at the irony of your situation,
Or shout and scream at me, the mirror to yourself, the
Tour guide to the truths in your fears and fantasies.
Yet I may not be touched, nor your thoughts enacted except
In word and speculation, as though I am a phantom actor.
Always, I will remain apart from you, no more than a façade,
Mystery behind, unrevealed, another life, yet human still
With kind gesture, a smile, scarlet blush or furtive tear.
Here you are safe, cradled in the boundaries that both bind us,
And make us free. Safe from the world of distant memory that
Haunts you, when fear crept into your bed by night and the search
For love and soothing filled your day. A place where formless
Loss is given shape and substance, finally to be laid to rest.
And I? I am the watcher, alert to the half spoken thought.
I am your mirror, that bends and shapes your reflection
To reveal secrets that you hide, to give them meaning
And substance; a shaft of sunlight penetrating murky
Waters, that they at last be set into place in your life.