Jun 2013
turning..turning..turning
how it ever
turns
1.
they all pass me by
everyday
and no-one says a word
to me
the earth moves
one more time
and it all
starts again
2.
on their way to work
high-heels totter
they chatter on
birds in smoke
hardly aware
from the evening subway
attachés whisk past
looking so important
eyes down on text
talking into boxes
streaming... streaming
endless
onto the bus
a struggle
a pram is lifted
distant cries of a baby
an echo of an old man
in a park nearby
sitting, lost in thought
counting the arthritic joints
of his fingers
skateboards
in such great haste
as on an almighty trail
somewhere
footfalls go
some clackety-clack
a thousand by the minute
by now
I lose track
of the number
3.
they look my way
and they don't really see me
not anymore, anyway
I'm just there
but I hear it all
the steps..
they clack-flash across my ears
the words..
they flaunt over my silence
the secrets..
they furtively long to share with someone
the awful rush..
they long to shed
the frustrations..
they find no space for
the dreams..
they ache to realise
4.
only *the mendicant traveler
comes by
once daily
with a battered Coke can
to sit and keep me
company
just for a while
a little while
leaning against me
I smile inside
to think
I can still be somewhat
useful
or the occasional trolley-lady
who guards all her assorted treasures
a bric-a-brac of unrecoverable dreams
all neatly piled neglect
reflected in
society's abandoned grown-up child
then, that funny visitor
comes by
to bestow on me
hebdomadary gift:
his customary ****
too lazy for a WC!
5.
I am just
what I am..
on a wall
as pretty as they come
yet half-invisible
and
I am here
how
I keep track
of
all the beings'
coming-and-going
as the busyness
of life
keeps
turning..turning..turning
(once in a while, though...a new pair of eyes may flash upon me and love me for my worth.
then again...just for a few seconds...but it is enough: I may be peeling now, but I am such the fine burgundy-and-green masterpiece, of a rather stunning bird, caught in mid-flight.... that once was the great love of my esteemed master, the eternal artist...long, long ago.
and I can smile...inside)
I dare to smile, yes..
how the earth moves
one more time
and it all
just
starts again
S T, 26 June 2913
how it ever
turns
1.
they all pass me by
everyday
and no-one says a word
to me
the earth moves
one more time
and it all
starts again
2.
on their way to work
high-heels totter
they chatter on
birds in smoke
hardly aware
from the evening subway
attachés whisk past
looking so important
eyes down on text
talking into boxes
streaming... streaming
endless
onto the bus
a struggle
a pram is lifted
distant cries of a baby
an echo of an old man
in a park nearby
sitting, lost in thought
counting the arthritic joints
of his fingers
skateboards
in such great haste
as on an almighty trail
somewhere
footfalls go
some clackety-clack
a thousand by the minute
by now
I lose track
of the number
3.
they look my way
and they don't really see me
not anymore, anyway
I'm just there
but I hear it all
the steps..
they clack-flash across my ears
the words..
they flaunt over my silence
the secrets..
they furtively long to share with someone
the awful rush..
they long to shed
the frustrations..
they find no space for
the dreams..
they ache to realise
4.
only *the mendicant traveler
comes by
once daily
with a battered Coke can
to sit and keep me
company
just for a while
a little while
leaning against me
I smile inside
to think
I can still be somewhat
useful
or the occasional trolley-lady
who guards all her assorted treasures
a bric-a-brac of unrecoverable dreams
all neatly piled neglect
reflected in
society's abandoned grown-up child
then, that funny visitor
comes by
to bestow on me
hebdomadary gift:
his customary ****
too lazy for a WC!
5.
I am just
what I am..
on a wall
as pretty as they come
yet half-invisible
and
I am here
how
I keep track
of
all the beings'
coming-and-going
as the busyness
of life
keeps
turning..turning..turning
(once in a while, though...a new pair of eyes may flash upon me and love me for my worth.
then again...just for a few seconds...but it is enough: I may be peeling now, but I am such the fine burgundy-and-green masterpiece, of a rather stunning bird, caught in mid-flight.... that once was the great love of my esteemed master, the eternal artist...long, long ago.
and I can smile...inside)
I dare to smile, yes..
how the earth moves
one more time
and it all
just
starts again
S T, 26 June 2913
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Do so love the use of metonymy.
sub-entry: 'pictures etched'
1.
a fine day for rain, it is
soaking into earth
warding off all noise
but the gentle
pitter-patter
of half-born
ideals
2.
such grasping images
come
all attentive
and
tremors unaware
ensconced
by
pictures etched
deeply into psyche
they sit
slow birth
of
some very
powerful
ideas
3.
then, write a heartfelt note
and lick a stamp
post it off
in a spiffy new
London-red box
and
wait..
distant destination
4.
final score
no parting
break down the wall
and
rescue that light
Do so love the use of metonymy.
sub-entry: 'pictures etched'
1.
a fine day for rain, it is
soaking into earth
warding off all noise
but the gentle
pitter-patter
of half-born
ideals
2.
such grasping images
come
all attentive
and
tremors unaware
ensconced
by
pictures etched
deeply into psyche
they sit
slow birth
of
some very
powerful
ideas
3.
then, write a heartfelt note
and lick a stamp
post it off
in a spiffy new
London-red box
and
wait..
distant destination
4.
final score
no parting
break down the wall
and
rescue that light
