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Nigdaw Sep 2019
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.
William Marr Jun 2017
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..
alasia Dec 2015
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...
RH 78 Jul 2015
Covent Garden.
Revellers and tourists combined.
The market is heaving.
Last trains are leaving.
An eclectic mix to broaden the mind.

Covent Garden.
The place is pretty quiet.
Pubs have closed.
Clubs.... God knows.
The tourists have frozen their riot.

Covent Garden.
A drunkard stumbles by.
Flood lit shops.
A rickshaw stops.
The backdrop against a reddish

Covent Garden.
Blokes lurk down Langley street.
The glint of a blade.
A blur in the shade.
Lava tip of cigarette falls to a strangers feet.

Covent Garden.
Commuters emerge from underground stations.
Workers prepare.
Visitors beware.
Pick pockets attracted like gravitation.
Spent a night shift at Covent Garden in London people watching.
adis g Apr 2015
Thank you, tourists

For pausing.

For capturing
Every moment.

Your cameras draped,
Quivering below your necks

Your necks rosy
with sun.

Sunscreen scents
Swarm the air

But the air bursts
Diverse Dialects,

and Dreams.

Thank you
From a resident,

A student,
A visitor,

A wanderer.

Thank you
For immobilizing
Glorious minutes

For impeding time
Just for a moment.

For acknowledging-
So that those who neglect to notice,
Once again realize their riches.
Thank you

For your quiet grins
As you regard
The world.

Thank you, travelers.
inspired by my life in granada, spain.
Poppy Dec 2014
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?

Jenny Oct 2011
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 —