"ambles" poems
The billowing sea
bows down dancing,
the cool one comes—
with love,
as if with a flute on the lips,
rising from the deep.
Listen to the flute.
Chorus clouds sing,
drifting down the blue river—
so mellifluous, into the sky they soar!
From the secret valley,
the punter sun ambles in,
carrying wonderlight,
as if it knows the flutist’s art—
knows the rise from the sea’s bedrock.
Every planet spins—
a flying bee drawn to the inner music.
Nothing pauses in the solar ring.
The Moon, waning and waxing,
in silhouette and half-light,
sways above the sea full of life.
It all began on this Earth, from our sea—
Him, the Sweet Creative Maestro rose from the midst,
and lifted the sun, the bumblebee.
All the stars in the galaxy
follow still—
they can't forget the ancient story.
Since then,
the sun, brightest in the band,
leads the mindful dance
enduring, homeward—
still following
the haunting, eternal tune, pure mighty
the one command: Qun. Be.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
Check back soon to resume and consume
every tight-lipped, slack-jawed fool in the room.
See, it's all what you know
as the fires start to grow
and the future burns slow.
Keep your eyes on the ceiling,
and your antenna feelers feelin',
for when your senses stop reeling,
you will finally start believing.
Kick-back to the basics,
not too far from the basement,
and close enough to show
that **** really isn't basic.
It's another mid-west, ******
******** freak show.
Another evening drinking whiskey
with the seedling's peep-show.
So, it's time to relax and relapse
into acidified broken synapse.
The lights keep flickering
and the couples keep bickering:
***** I am not above homicidal snickering.”
I steer clear of these diversions,
and wander past the sermons,
just to chew up all the crooked talk
and spittle out inversions.
I shovel mockery to hypocrisy,
pin-prick the empty *****
whose passions lack predicates,
and in the background, I'll be complexifying my medic-kit:
ketamine, morphine, ecstasy;
marijuana, mushrooms, LSD.
Watch those ******* jitter-bug college *****
procreate while sloppy drunk,
but keep an honest eye
on the flies that will rise above –
then fall back down in existential angst, like:
“Dear God, why must I be free?
Oh, God! Why is every universal eye on me?
I'm just another acid war veteran,
sneakin' through these gutters
with pestilence and bitter sin.
When they reach the promised land
of golden clouds and holding hands,
I'll be underground with the slugs and the spider band.”
Yet here I sit, sick of sippin' poisons with illiterates.
So, let the skies fall and the buildings crash,
as you stand on the wall with a fist full of cash.
I'll be on the front lawn,
picketing for dawn,
while the night around me slowly ambles on.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
I wrote a poem on a bus
but to hear it you must
climb to the top
of the bouncing metal stairs.
Slither snake-like
past the rail
and sit
on the rainbow nylon bench.
I'll be there
at the top of the bus,
reciting my rhyme,
written as we ride along,
past shops and houses
with musty nets
and peeling paint
on dingy doors.
There's the old woman who
lives in a house no bigger than a shoe box
who had so many children she didn't know what to do!
But they've all grown and flown now and she's all alone
with no-one to talk to but herself.
Look at that kid: grimy smile and mischievous eyes,
skateboard-scuffed knees,
darting out from the roadside.
Screech!
As we stop and angry words.
The kid glances back and tosses a vee
leaving just his smile behind.
The bus lurches on
at a snail's pace and stops at a stop
for a giggle-girl-gang
to chatter up the stairs
with a clatter of feet and voices:
weekends and boyfriends,
music and laughter.
The bus trundles and sways
past shops all shuttered,
old folks gathered by doorways
talking about people
dead and forgotten ...
except by them.
Into the town now:
a river of road-rage
as our bus ambles onward
toward car-parks and markets
and rat-racing shoppers
And stops by a brown pigeon-stained temple
of public philanthropy,
a gift from a long-dead civic leader
and now proud home
to dogeared tomes of PC persuasion.
Our bus, like some Trojan horse,
disgorges its riders
who spatter and scatter
like rays of dawn light
to shop till they drop.
So, just me and you seated
atop the steel stairway
and you say to me sharply,
“So where's your poem then?”
I look at you strangely:
“It's happened around you,” I tell you quite curtly.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
Love is the Beauty that overtakes
Our every sense of being alive,
The dew of Heaven that nourishes
Each new dream, enabling it to thrive
Love is the Beauty our eyes emit
As it rekindles the lambent flame
Cruelly extinguished when loneliness
Comes to inhabit our weakened frame
Love is the Beauty of eventide
When every star in the universe
Floods the sky with gold and silver orbs,
And the moon prompts poets in their verse
Love is the Beauty that ambles through
The desolate chambers of the mind,
Removing all the hopeless despair
That loneliness often leaves behind
Loneliness is the uncaring Beast
That laughs while our broken spirit mourns,
It suffocates our passions and dreams,
Laying on the heart a crown of thorns
The Beast of Loneliness is famine,
Whereas Love is an infinite feast;
To appreciate the joy Love brings,
They both must exist ..... Beauty and Beast
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
(Song title from Lightnin’ Hopkins’ catalogue, by Whittaker)
He stalks the parks; staring; leering,
Smiling contented,
Hiding behind his façade of walking his dog,
He reveals his true darkness,
As around the roundabout he ambles and strolls,
Looking at the children in their innocent poses,
We crouches by a boy alone in the shadows,
A boy who is happy to sit down and doodle,
He tells this stalker “let me play with your poodle”,
The menace moves in.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
Reach into the nothingness
Like a warm breath slipping into the cold night
Hands outward, eyes open, upwards towards the sky
Embrace the silent subtle voice
Which hides behind the daily routines
But is no less mindfully alive
Cast images onto the fog itself
Until you've seen the many dreams which you've procured for yourself
In this cloudy life
Breathe with the forgetfulness of evey waking step
As you amble through these miles set
With jawline firm and eyeline slight
Smile at the passing sight of another universe in tow
Which ambles by and out of view
As your inward story comes alive
And live not in line with every Crow on any high wire
But fly as if there were no tomorrow in your quiet sigh
Upwards and towards the sky
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.
Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.
Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.
Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.
Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.
As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Cacaw cacaw
sing the sparrows
to her tiny china toes
the shadows criss-cross
the cherry hardwood
like a board of tic-tac-toe
tick-tock! the phoenix
rises from her coffeepot
tickling her freckled nose
she scrunches her forehead
into a fan and pats her alarm
good morning!
ambles to the sparrows
sighs out the exhaust
and breathes it right back in
another day
another sheet in the reams of paper
of people
she purses her lips
into a folded envelope
seals it with a kiss
and slips it out the window
wonders if today
she'll be the one
lost in the mail
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:40 PM UTC
The evening star
at the sunset of Ramadan.
Mistake it not for a stellar
maybe an embroidery fell down
from the broidery in paradise!
What crosses in your mind, dear
fondly you look back
at this nick of time?
The twilight ambles down
with moonflowers on the hands
is about to wrap up
one more blessed day of Ramadan.
What have you come up with then
for the fasting person on your hand?
What a broad array
you stole the last show of the day!
Singing nightingales keeps musing
deeps down the rose in low light.
The first light shines out
amidst the dawn chorus.
What does it miss out
the nightingales disappears
in broad daylight.
Have you too leave the scene
with the rose dews
only to pour it off the honeyed petals
into the fasting person's glass?
So cool it tastes a sip of water
at the Iftar!
Apr 15, 2022
Apr 15, 2022 at 1:25 AM UTC
dear immoral,
salt
seed of
s
la
ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
gives callously
equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
each persnickety biochemistry
is the
longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
No content,
j
us
t web,
you
r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
agile
computation
today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
trembling
je
we
ler
confidant loves increasingly
languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor ***********
perpetual on my
quick
bible;
my psychotherapy roves
into a
bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
psychoanalysis's
preferably quick
psych
otherapy-
how
ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
he
unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
overshadows
his youth
so
that it is contemporary
grin
quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
into appreciated ca
mar
aderies
psychotherapies rove in
my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
grip
of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
on my quick bible;
my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
journey;
my
paralysis ambles
onto a
crazy hotel.
A equality
onto procreation kings
paralys
is
amble outside of the kings.
Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
The day begins when
moonlit sky
smothers the land in darkness
while sun
is shy.
I light
the hundred candles
slowly
gazing into each one
one at a time
time, the measure of
each flame.
Time is that length of stride
It is the path upon which
all life ambles
fighting the mysterious current
but unable
to avoid
the departure we call inevitable.
Each candle's light is power
it cannot be measured with the mind
we ask time of the flame's life
but
does the flame truly ever die?
I see a hundred flames and
from where did they come?
I imagine them as humans.
Does a man, born into darkness,
imagine the convenience
of sight?
Does a man, born alone,
imagine the blessing
of another?
Men dream of an afterlife
of a god
of an in-born purpose to one's life
so,
what is so impossible about that?
We measure the machine's intelligence
by its ability to think for itself,
but
surely the irony
is in what gave us such ability?
Or in whether thinking for ourselves
"is" life?
It is too much for a man
to give in
to imagining
the true power of creating,
when to create,
a man can only put carved wooden head
on carved wooden body
and **** the strings
in so doing, create life.
The atheist
will latch onto the popular reason
against a father
and will tell us that
we must not believe in anything ruling over us
believe instead that this made us
this
anarchy
luck
randomness
something
I don't know
lets theorize
let's not answer the question yet
let's not fool ourselves
let's not trust that book
let's make our own
let's make ourselves
let's change man to woman
let's ignore the conscience
we're not alone in that
laws are meant to be broken
when we can't make anything new
let's...
let's...
let's...
destroy the world,
because that's also an unbroken rule
and humanity
is already
broken.
I scratch my head.
What do I know anyway.
After all, I'm no one important.
The herd moves:
he who leads the herd, is no less the herd,
than he who worships the herd.
The first candle goes out.
My eye cannot measure its lacking.
Candle... after candle... and the next candle
snuffed in its own time.
It is only when the tenth candle goes that I notice the difference.
The room grows darker, like a misguided world.
When the last candle fades,
I feel the shame of destruction weigh heavy upon my soul,
but,
then I see it,
reaching beneath the door.
I ****** open the windows
and a wondrous dawn's light floods the room.
Yes, I forgot.
Where does the flame come from?
I will never know,
but I know, whenever it seems darkest,
something will catch fire
and the world will be illuminated
once more...
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
The night never runs dry
the full moon is super cool
so are the bubbling stars
on the banks of the sea rivers!
The next stop is starry fair
but there is a catch to hop up there.
You got to do that
meet the condition of the night:
Ambling like it down the full moon
with blindfolded eyes!
You can ask how long
but ask not why.
For the length of time
think of walking it away
until the nightingale chimes out
upon the rose bottoming out of the night.
And for not asking why
because the Moon in the dark
never loses its sway!
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 5:46 PM UTC
The blind man slowly rises to his feet. Bending over and momentarily fumbling for his walking stick.Finding it propped against the flat topped boulder he uses as both a table top and chair. He takes the usual 27 steps to the mouth of the cave.Just before reaching the opening, he feels the slight breeze freshening his cheeks while gently tossing his beard about. As if nature were trying to comb his his coarse and weathered ****** hair.
At 28 steps, the sun greets his skin with an early morning warmth. A faint touch of dew washes through his nostrils, reminding him of the brief rain shower that woke him just before the break of day. Justifying the stiffness in his joints. Yes, best to sit a spell and allow the sun to warm the marrow. Perhaps keeping his movements spry and youthful for an hour or two. Carefully measured to a bit arduous after that.
Now, the morning unfolds before and below him in the high mountain meadow that provides him most of his meager needs. The stream to his left, babbling it's way across the rocks and tickling his ears. Then, rushing outward and downward, diagonally across the meadow. Slowing on the far right side before narrowing and winding it's way into the hardwoods. His memory still strong, long after his sight left him those..... how many years ago now?
The cry of an eagle pierces his ears. No doubt a rodent or rabbit is in peril shortly. Not a fish he ponders. Just across the stream,not too far, maybe forty to fifty feet, the sudden scraping of hooves against the small pebbled bottom of the stream. Preceded by the hollow plunk of the nervous steps of a fawn as she slowly lowers her head to quench her thirst before bedding down for the day. Doe is nearby watching her, listening intently for signs of danger to her young one. Yes,there it is, a rushed deep and anxious breath tells him so.
The old man ambles back into the cave to fetch his hat.
Now, tell me...Did you see what the blind man saw?
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
My grandmother’s fragility sinks under the blanket
like a ship on its final voyage, when it becomes sea.
I picture this as she sips sugar water with parted lips.
I watch her in silence from a small, faraway room
because the door is slightly ajar, and there enters a light
from her window that comes to rest humbly on her pale eyes.
I start to wonder what they must be thinking, her eyes,
as they begin to close, slowly, and lashes become blankets.
Do they fear the heavy, trespassing breath of darkness that smothers light?
Or do they smile and find comfort from the warm sea
of prayers that wash up on the shore of her room
and carry with their waves the whispers of my silent lips?
My mother ambles through thick air, talks with dry hushed lips
to her sister, who understands. My mother’s eyes
wander like sad gusts into the emptiness of my room.
They tell me she wants to bundle me in a blanket,
place me in a basket, and let me float away with the sea
until I become the constant water of her veins, pure and light.
Tired minutes pass, and the sun is coming down; the light
that had rested on my grandmother’s eyes now sleeps on her lips.
The glowing sun reflects in my face, and the sea
in the sky changes wistfully from a sad red to a soft orange, like the eyes
of my mother, as she sits next to her and strokes her blanket.
With the dimming of day, I begin to feel colder in my faraway room.
My sister sits down with me on the couch, but there is no room
so I rise and walk out the door, moving towards the light
that silks through the window and trickles onto her blanket.
My feet make no sound and my breath waits patiently behind lips
as I see my mother, her solemn eyes
more profound than the deepest sea.
I look at my grandmother as she floats in the sea.
Blue water enters under the crack of the door and fills the room.
It starts at my ankles, rises to my neck, and stops just below the eyes.
I see my grandmother sail and sink like a light
ship on her last voyage. The water kisses her with blue lips
and embraces her in a warm blanket.
In my room I put on a blanket because I am cold like the sea.
Light has fallen, and my glass eyes
crack like the tremor of lips.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
sound of horn heralds-
bedecked bull ambles along,
a world gone, returns!
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
The crippled bull has yet to live Another Day
It proudly ambles on Year to Year
Its discordant song
Triumphant
Is an iron sword that clefts, rips apart The Age
Four hundred and thirty-two thousand
Times over and over
Gutting the
Detested coward and honored brave alike
‘Tis the stench of war and of hot oil
Quickly seeping o’er the
Horizon
With the armies aflame and howling for battle
Crimson red bloodlust and scarlet wrath
‘Tis the jewels that adorn
The tyrant’s
Crown, gleaming and fiery with authority
‘Tis the wedding bed of the wretch’d *****
Defil’d, soil’d, forsook
No man can
Deny the captivating, luxurious tune
O mighty bull, your song may last from
age to age, and you may
Hobble on
your single leg
Bellowing
and roaring victory
and dominion o’er the nations
But even you must fall down, bow, and come to rest
At
the feet of
A humble
Lamb.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
I lie sprawled on the dead crusty grass of Winter,
breathing in the frigid night.
A passing car ambles by,
headed for destinations unknown,
a mystery on wheels at this hour,
its eyes ripping the velvety shroud of darkness.
I lie in the darkness
beyond the periphery of its piercing gaze,
until it rumbles by and on until it is gone,
and darkness settles once more.
The wicked wind whispers
soft lilting nightmare lullabies
that float through the frozen forest branches
into my numb ears.
I lie in the darkness,
entranced by the bitter breeze’s melodies,
until it blows by and on until it is gone,
and hushed stillness falls again.
My body shakes
with deep rustling tremors,
to defy Winter’s icy kiss or maybe just
to break the mesmeric silence of the night.
I lie in the darkness
as the cold steals the breath from me while I tremble,
until it gusts by and on until it is gone,
and a modicum of warmth returns to my bones
and I am still.
I stare up and away into the night
until my eyes water and freeze and blur
as I stare at one star and the rest disappear
into the folded shadows of the sky.
I lie in the darkness,
a creature of the frigid Winter night,
enfolded in its quiet embrace,
oddly soothed by its anesthetizing touch,
lost in its starry splendor.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
Tombstone a home for some.
A holster
gun
some ammunition.
Rob the bank bring to fruition
history
more ammunition.
Up on boothill
down at heel
how can you feel so cool?
Earp's no fool he'll shoot and hit
then spit
as death chews on your bones
More empty homes in
Tombstone.
A lodestone
a rhinestone
everybody's got a bone
to pick.
Another hick ambles into town
gunned down
blown away
a tombstone day
not much I can say
about that.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
I met a void the other day
He speaks in stutters and rolls his tongue
Talks in slang, then ambles away
And later when I pondered him I wondered
Why both sides of my pillow are soiled
And my journal tastes of salt
I lace these minions with my love
Pull each apart
Too occupied to face my bare heart
So littered and heated with old despair
And for as long as he cares
The void is there.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 3:38 PM UTC
An old boy's philosophy, ambles up
arrow in one hand,
strung bow in the other…
Aim at nothing,
you cannot miss.
I watch this idea, nothing more, no thing,
a thought…
nock the shaft, draw back the bow,
but
not as I expected, not
as I saw ahead, not
aiming at the skies, outmost limit…
no,
this arrow aimed at me.
Or was it you?
Mustabin you, or nothing, as intended,
I was aiming at nothing,
to prove I could still hit it as easily as once,
when I was young,
and at the brink… of next, laughing
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 3:11 PM UTC
The Author,
Having said
What is to Say,
Submits the Text
And Steps Away...
What's to be Read
Or Heard
Or Seen
Is Said and Done.
Then Comes the Fun.
The Reader
Ambles In shuffling,
Struggles In fighting,
Bumbles In stumbling,
Forges In determining,
Skates In gliding,
Rides In on a horse named Fluency.
The Reader wears the Text:
Tries it on for size,
Shrugs before Self's Mirror,
Stretches,
Shrinks,
Dyes,
Preens,
Thinks s/he sees the Whole,
But cannot even see the back
For lack of some connection,
Then ambles off to share
The Text with others.
Later, at the Readers' Circle,
Each wearer of the Text,
Each Poem Creator/Holder
Whose individual Poems differ
After putting on the Text,
Compare.
And though they twirl and dance,
Though they stretch and pose,
Though they must adjust,
No one wears the Text
The Same.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
How low lies the line, the thin
Separation of Earth and Sky, far, far,
Beyond the bending ambles, the
Solitary gables, where descending pylons,
Unroll their cables, deep into the womb
Of distant cities.
Bellicose clouds in league with
The sea wind, wrest samphire fragments
From a sentinel peace, while folding
The hamlet in pitying glamours
Of harridan water on slate.
In Spartan gardens, Bu-gloss leans
Bruised petals hard, by rusted stanchions,
as bind-weed , knots the flaking perch
Of tumbled gantries, in a throttled
Slew of searching.
Melancholy anthems, quiver and hail
In the breeze-plucked tune of loose
Slung wire. Pleas of long gone mariners
Mutter and choir through salted gorse,..
..
Hurry inland to rattle at doors of
Norman churches, as if seeking
Some last sanctuary.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
She plucks feathers from the tiny hole
in her comforter, handing them
to my trembling hands as if she were
giving me pockets of conversation.
I crumble the feathers with my fingers,
feeling the softness and the lightness.
She gets up and ambles on to
the bathroom, as I drop the feathers.
When she is blow-drying her gorgeous
black hair, I step outside the house
and onto the patio to smoke
a cigarette, knowing she will not approve.
I sip on black coffee, hoping my breath
will reek a little less. After I finish
I come back inside and she walks
into the room, telling me she smells the smoke.
I feel embarrassed. I look down
at the carpet counting all the black
and brown spots, then I come across
the feathers, so white and immaculate.
I move closer to her and run my fingers
through her hair, feeling the knots and
the curls, leaning forward to kiss her lips,
thinking that it will rectify the situation.
She pushes me away and asks "Are you
trying to get cancer?" She crosses her arms
and huffs, narrowing her brown eyes
at me as if I were a suspect in a crime.
I put my hands on top of my head
and try my best not to shrug, but I
cannot help feeling indifferent. And
that feeling makes me think that I'm careless.
She shakes her head and taking a step,
she scoops the feathers from the carpet
and shoves them back into the comforter.
Glancing back at me she asks, "Why do you hurt yourself?"
And I do not have an answer for her.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC