Joseph S C Pope
Joseph S C Pope
Jan 22, 2013

Last week we bought a bottle of epilepsy to share
at a party made to crash on dinner plates
rolling down uphill battles.

The clustering warm anticipation set to pounce falls short
with talks of who is late and who can't make it
because someone in the family disapproves.
Who cares about the bitter salt cakes in the dust of fossilized crustaceans?
The polar bears march to beautiful, pointless noise beating off the living receptacles.

The locals are scars in the conclusions deep in the visiting sounds—almost forgot but still murmuring.
The first citizens of noise.

A tourist's brain is a most terrible thing to taste
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

A tourist's brain is a most terrible thing to taste.

Cannibalism
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannibalism
.
under a tourist's sun,
Samantha Richardson

my eyes are filled with wonders,
my heart is filled with spirit
like coffee for the soul
gelato for the brain,
travel makes me sing,
zambia, mallorca and spain.

mother and my friend,
embracing, reuniting
tightening the over stretched
ropes that bind
a mother and
her daughter

under a tourist's sun,
upon white sand beaches
luxury at my beck and call,

i will recover from this
third-world hell-hole

to be conflicted, engages,
happy and bitter-sweetend,

all of this and more, i
am acutely eager to live through.

come on, june 1. you can run to me faster than this.

Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

Have I missed telling you about the endless rains?
How clouds cling heavy to London's streets.
And uniformed children splash puddles in the city lanes.

I scoped the East End immigrants and Kensington elites.
Seen the National Gallery and Wallace Collection finery,
Not to mention ClueQuest, HinHunt and other such treats.

I visited a preserved 19th Century sugar refinery.
Went off the beaten path to the Wimbledon track
And dropped by a tasting at the Bellamere Winery.

I've only seen England through the smallest crack.
Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
You must know now it was all a diversionary attack.

You see, what I missed telling you and neatly omitted
Is that I'm Jack the Ripper, never caught nor outwitted.

tourist's favorite love poem
Ana  Leejay
Ana Leejay
Sep 8, 2014

when I think of you
i think after rain smell
sky scrapers and bridges
tinted by fog, the busy streets
empty yet filled with grey
you carried yourself
like your body was a
tourist's favorite love poem
nothing but a weekend
for foreigners, your soft spots
were man made and
your spine was cemented
so it's easier for people to
step on you
I cared for you
after the tornadoes hit
when your oceans were hallow
and just sand
I did not resort in you
you were not five stars to me
you were constellations

I wonder where you are now
off being someone else's city
when you could've always just been
my home

Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

Have I missed telling you about the endless rains?
How clouds cling heavy to London's streets.
And uniformed children splash puddles in the city lanes.

I scoped the East End immigrants and Kensington elites.
Seen the National Gallery and Wallace Collection finery,
Not to mention ClueQuest, HinHunt and other such treats.

I visited a preserved 19th Century sugar refinery.
Went off the beaten path to the Wimbledon track
And dropped by a tasting at the Bellamere Winery.

I've only seen England through the smallest crack.
Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
You must know now it was all a diversionary attack.

You see, what I missed telling you and neatly omitted
Is that I'm Jack the Ripper, never caught nor outwitted.

on display for the tourist's show,
Tim Knight
Tim Knight
Jan 22, 2013      Jan 23, 2013

Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.

The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.

Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.

Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-hom­e-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.

He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.

Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.

We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid virgin building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.

facebook.com/timknightpoetry
But now it had a place in tourist's heart, the town

The old fishing boat shiny, worn yet proud
Had many an old fish bone scraped across its deck
Heard stories that would make your hair curl
and had seen weather at its worst but what the heck.
Had seen all the fish available from all the seas
nothing would surprise this old girl anymore.
Had the strength to carry on whatever the gale
Grin and bear it or go as you have gone before.
Its engine, had seen some time in its old life
struggling through seas as high as waves could get
Through ice as thick as an island so as to speak
and the new fishing boats wince if they get wet.
They would not last five seconds in conditions
like my fishermen have served thought the boat
Well if it could think that is what it would think
They look delicate and I dare say they would float.
But now the old fishing boat was being admired
stroked lovingly by tourists with cameras and tales.
Ice cream accidentally smeared on the deck
With its worn polished look and ragged sails.
But it was proud, and so it should be
For the fish it has fed folk, fishermen it had sailed
But now it had a place in tourist's heart, the town
It was admired, photographed and now emailed.
A buyer with plenty of money and hope in his heart
had bargained and won his bid. It was now his dream
to sail the boat with children on board and parents
sightseeing on board complete with a holiday team
Dressed in navy and white striped with straw hat
No fishing lines, nets, poles just an orange float.
With a sign that indicated the price of the trip
A retirement, a nice little trip for the fishing boat.

German tourist's language, accent repels me
Robert Ronnow

This autumn morning with the birds waking up
and the leaves changing is Election Day. I meet
Jane Trichter on the downtown subway and discuss
Henry's upset. Her skin is soft especially her cheeks
and she is intelligent and sensitive. The subway riders
do not recognize their representative.

All day, at the office. I accomplish nothing substantive
but I keep the aides and interns working
and cheerful. On Tuesdays there is always a wave
of constituent complaints, by telephone. One woman's
Volkswagon is towed and the police break in
to get it out of gear. Do they have that right,
can they tow even though no sign said Tow Away Zone?

It is an interesting question but I try to avoid
answering it. The woman persists and succeeds
in committing me.

The people at the office want to bomb Iran. A few Americans
held hostage and therefore many innocent women and children
pay the postage. It may be good classical logic to hold
      responsible
the whole society for the acts of a few, however, then
I must begin to expect the bomb and the white cloud that
      waits.
Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but we are more likely to thrash the earth to within an inch of
      its life
than scorch it to charred rock.

Corner of Church and Chambers,
German tourist's language, accent repels me
although I wasn't alive 45 years ago
and many sweet, great Germans opposed the crazy Nazis
but lately I've read Primo Levi's If Not Now, When?,
seen William Holden in "The Counterfeit Traitor",
have followed the argument started by revisionists
who say the Nazi atrocities never happened.

War brought many shopkeepers, bookkeepers close to
      their earth,
weather, seasons, death.
I see daily life as low-intensity warfare
as my father, the World War II vet, did.
Off to work we go. What is war?
Population control, mother of invention, diversion
from the work of making life permanent.

Today is Election Day and because it's a day off
for most municipal employees, the City Hall area
has been quiet and easy to work in. Henry and Jane
hold a press conference on teenage alcoholism.
Leslie, the other aide, who I'd like to draw
the stockings and clothes off of and feel her whole body
with mine, goes home with her mother, leaving me
standing by my desk with my briefcase at the end
of Election Day.

www.ronnowpoetry.com
#war   #death   #society   #people   #question   #argument   #right   #bomb   #city   #office  
 
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