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I've been wandering around, like a waltzing matilda.
From Fife in the lowlands, to the cliffs of St. Kilda.
Carrying my life, and all that it wills
Appalachia and plains, to the mighty Black Hills.
Trekking so far, exploring the Earth
Miles away, from the place of my birth.

From the land of the Scots, to the land of the Sioux
From familiar homes, to the places so new.
I'm wandering around, with so much to do.
In the land of the Gaels, to the land of Lakota,
I'm slinging around, like a waltzing matilda.
Lately, I've been trying to find a way to celebrate both my Highlander and Lakota ancestry, and I decided to try writing a poem about it. I hope you all like it
Up in the backwoods
Of Michigan, lives the
Traveling man name of Tim.
He's in a band, with a million fans, and I think it is a sin, that he's in better shape than I am, and I'm ******* younger than him.
Ever since he got bit by that possum, he will never be the same again.
I had a great conversation with Traveling Man the other day, he's a great dude, and this ode practically wrote itself. Long may he live
V Aug 25

An hour to midnight
     low lit lights
     gentle undertones

    stained clouds of moisture
in a glass of wine
as thick
         as ripe layers of fog.

hums of symphonies,
          swells of low pitched voices,
              crescendos of conversation.

     murmurs, whispers of fine China
      and the newest editions of
       oil paintings from Italy

                                      Midnight at the gallery

clear glass, stained with
lipstick and breath --
     Laughter, light and
     undertones of ripe berry
lingered on the tip of glass.  

eyes wandering
over canvases of
lavish art
While stained clouds
of  moisture

are as thick as
ripe layers of fog.
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
robin Aug 6
i have never traveled farther then where i lose myself in your eyes, tears of happiness rolling down my cheeks as i realize
there is no better place then right here, no more love in the world then the hot summer air that hangs between us
and you know,
who needs a plane ticket anyways, or those crazy friday nights
you are my one and only destination.
there is no better sight then your little blonde silhouette crumpled into a twin mattress, no greater joy inside of my heart then hearing you call for me in the morning and give me a warm hug.
anyone who ever said i ruined my life by having you early, was so very wrong.
you are the best possible place for me to be, my everyday adventure and my biggest sun ray of happiness..
you are my heart
and i am yours
when you are older and can understand what it means to hurt and to struggle i will tell you the stories of how i built this life for us
me and you
and when you hold me at night a little closer because you are afraid of the dark i will tell you there is nothing to fear
and when you tell me you love me
as you drift off to sleep
i will 
stroke your head softly with a smile
and tell you

i love you more
Mike Chigo Jul 12
I miss packing my bag the night before...
I miss the open road…
I miss the journey…
I miss the airport announcements…
I miss calling Nnem Omma before the flight takes off
I miss the beauty of the clouds from above them
I miss waiting for my luggage to come through
I miss asking for directions
I miss the hotel rooms
I miss the ****** food

I crave that high when the plane leaves the ground
I crave new sights, new smells and new food
I crave a town where no-one knows my name
I crave saying hello in a new language
I crave new wonders and adventures
I crave postcard-worthy pictures
I crave the journey yet to begin
I haven't written anything in so long...Rusty me! The pandemic won't let us travel as we want, so this piece is an outpour
Take me to the train station
To the moonlit tracks
With waves upon the rails
And spitfire cracks
Let me rest among the passengers
In their blue, tired seats
Spun by frayed end threads
Wilted in the streets
Take me past foreign, foggy neon signs
To the western, wild call
When the whistle bends into the wind
I’ll know I’ve seen it all
I walk along the gloomy beach with blacks and grays
Flooding the ghostly sky like ink pouring into water
Lighting slices through the mass; god's holy sword
The waves of the sea seize my calves in ****** rage
This is the devastation I call home  

My feet long to dance beneath the Eiffel Tower
To feel the grass tickle my toes with pleasure
My pale face yearns for the sun's hot kisses
To feel the heat linger on my white cheeks
Like after a passionate kiss shared in the dark

My eyes wander to the dock up ahead
Tied to it is a boat with a little old man in it
Even from afar, I see the stars in his eyes
The stars of which don't appear in everyone
Only in those who dare to dream

He calls out my name,
"Son! Where ya headin'?"

"Nowhere, sir.
I am just taking a stroll."

Fascination shows in his smile,
"What d'ya say we take a stroll across the world, aye?"

He is an old man off his rocker. But is he really?
He has a bag in his hand, and an oar in the other
The glimmer in his eyes hold a certain seriousness,
A goal he's been chasing after his whole life:
To smell every flower that grows in the Earth

Is that my goal?

I step closer to him,
"Where will we go?"

"Anywhere you want, son."

"I wish to see Paris, France.
I don't have any money, though."

He says money doesn't buy dreams
I've been told the opposite all my life
He reaches his hand out to me
And says, "come along"
With a voice dripping with tenderness.

I somehow find the courage to go
To leave this place so hideous and cold
I want to make memories worth sharing
Ones that burst with color and life
That don’t fade away in black and white

As we paddle against the angry waves,
The home I left grows small and distant
I don't feel bad, nor do I care anymore
My happiness is worth living for
It's mustn't be put on a shelf for a lifetime

Until it turns to dust

I can smell the flowers of Paris already...
I honestly don't know what to make of this poem. I am trying something different. A dream I had a few nights ago inspired me to write this. I hope you guys like it! Any feedback is appreciated!
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