He walks the end of the pier, alone
No home to go to,
A ghost in ragged clothes
Passing among the crowds,
Unseen and unheard
But he always feeds the gulls,
Their noisy raucous squabbling
Over a few scraps of bread,
Reminds him of how unhappy
All these tourists really are,
Pretending to enjoy their holiday
Kidding themselves they are free.
off the view
a tree stands in mute amazement
watching beside him
another group of tourists
devour the scenery
with flashy teeth
Daily walks would lead me down
The tourist laden streets
Where people from all walks of life
Would congregate and meet
Buskers, singers, ne'er do wells
Would work throughout the throngs
But in back of Giannis restaurant
Sat an old man sharing songs
He didn't sing so much as talk
His voice was hoarse with age
But a milk box and an orange crate
Were his table, chair and stage
His instrument, an old guitar
Scarred, battle worn and black
His guitar strap was as old as he
An old potato sack
He sat and played to nobody
He just let the words be there
His audience could be a hundred deep
Sometimes it could be air
His music was his lifes blood
It was everything he had
So he shared it with the people
And the people....they were glad
The tourists, stayed away though
They were more attracted by the flair
Of the buskers and the jugglers
Not this man who wasn't there
He never left to join the crowd
And to sell his songs to those
Who really wanted nothing more
Than to hear some manufactured prose
The people who he played to
Were just others from the street
They worked the bars and restaurants
And at night they'd find a seat
In front of this old bluesman
Sitting by his orange box
Playing his guitar by candle light
Taking in his songs and talks
He sang songs from the heart, I guess
About those who'd he'd met
He'd sing about a dozen songs
That would constitue a set
Then he'd open up his silver flask
And ******* two gulps down
"This here's just my medicine"
"My past lives just to drown"
He sang of Truck Stop Beauty Queens
And of Walks out in the park
He sang of people living life
Not just hiding in the dark
He sang of things so real you'd see
Their pictures in your mind
He'd sing of places and of things
That others would not find
But tourists, they just stayed away
Near the buskers blowing fire
While yards away this old man sat
Just like an old town cryer
His audience would leave a bit
of change for their free show
He never asked for anything
For this was his row to ***
At two though when the street shut down
He closed his show down too
But he always had an extra song
A special one for you
His music came from in his heart
He shared it without fear
For once it left his throat it was
A sound that was so dear
The tourists went to hotels
Once the buskers all went home
But he just moved his crate and box
He slept out here alone
He sang his songs of characters
Who helped make us his life
His words were sometimes gentle
While others cut you like a knife
His world was just that orange crate
And his music helped unfurl
The melodies in this mans mind
It helped him share his world
He knew some things and people that
Would take rather than give
He sang about the street people
Because among them he did live
His home was just a cardboard box
Behind Giannis bar
And if you want to see a real good show
You don't have to go far
It's just a little beaten path
Away from tourist fare
Where this little, old, shy
Bluesman sings to hundreds or the air..
I do not believe I could ever love anyone enough to make them my home. My home will always be red dirt and oak trees under the best sunsets in the entire sky with potato patches and country dirt roads, fumbling through sticky tourists on steamy days and letting the salt water feed my skin on the beach I spent all my summers at. My home will always be raspberry cordial and late nights in lovers lane with Canada days in crowded parks and childhood pictures with cannons, my home will always be drunken sidewalks and midnight Chinese, dancing in my drive way and smoking on my back porch. I could never make home in a person enough to follow them away from the place I love...
To be continued...
Revellers and tourists combined.
The market is heaving.
Last trains are leaving.
An eclectic mix to broaden the mind.
The place is pretty quiet.
Pubs have closed.
Clubs.... God knows.
The tourists have frozen their riot.
A drunkard stumbles by.
Flood lit shops.
A rickshaw stops.
The backdrop against a reddish
Blokes lurk down Langley street.
The glint of a blade.
A blur in the shade.
Lava tip of cigarette falls to a strangers feet.
Commuters emerge from underground stations.
Pick pockets attracted like gravitation.
Spent a night shift at Covent Garden in London people watching.
Thank you, tourists
Your cameras draped,
Quivering below your necks
Your necks rosy
Swarm the air
But the air bursts
From a resident,
For impeding time
Just for a moment.
So that those who neglect to notice,
Once again realize their riches.
For your quiet grins
As you regard
Thank you, travelers.
inspired by my life in granada, spain.
Thousands of lights shine the way
For ardor tourists who've come to play
Legendary skyscrapers wave hello
The jaw-dropped crowd stand frozen below
With bulging eyes they whirl around
By noon they've memorized every inch of the ground
When it’s time for bedtime they’re busted into confusion
(New York never sleeps!) But the tourists are ready to state their unsurprising conclusion
“It’s true! They chant. New York’s a jewel!”
“Their iconic hot dogs make us drool!”
“All Broadway musicals deserve standing ovations.”
“We’ll definitely include “The Yankees” in baseball conversations.”
They can't stop loving, singing, praising!
They can't stop thinking, "New York's amazing!"
This is my first poem! I know I ended it too briskly, but I wasn't sure what to write after the chanting. Comment?
Update: OH MY GOSH. I GOT 14 VIEWS. ASDFASDFJOASD
Rolling on by east west way
I could almost see behind me,
As I almost did yesterday.
In my right corner eye
I saw the sun shine setting
and on my left the ocean was swaying and swelling.
Rolling on by east west way.
The sand searchers toy store
was full and flowing more and more.
Yet while staring at it straight ahead
I only saw a light changing to red.
Rolling on by east west way.
So I glanced a moment to the setting sun
and to my right was the only direction
I could see the light.
But the sand searchers toy store was blocking the rays
and it only beckoned me to play.
Rolling on by east west way.
If only I could've rolled on by east west way
as the sun was rising over the ocean's sway.
Then perhaps I would see and stay
in the right light.
Not rolling on by east west way.
August 2008 thought of it while driving by a street sign called East West Way.
— The End —