"backpacker" poems
I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.
But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.
Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.
If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.
When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
I must be incredibly wary
and alert
and I gotta follow my gut because there’s a reason to why
it aches
or jumps with excitement;
it knows
much more than my head does;
and I must hold myself firmly like a proud statue, but I can’t just stay in one place
I need to tiptoe on a tightrope
I mustn’t fall, but if I do, I mustn’t fuss
just get back up again,
just get on with it
I went to an art gallery this afternoon
and the theme of one small contemporary art room
was,
“just get on with it”,
(I decided that myself anyway);
there was a painting of an airplane, resting on snow,
that one was obvious
I said, “just get on with it, then, fly”
there was a painting of a snowy road,
that one was obvious too
there was a painting of a sad girl
again, obvious
but then there was a painting of a person
with a large smudge of green on his face, he barely had a face
and a large smudge of white on his waist, he barely had a waist;
I concluded,
“sometimes you don’t have a face and you just need to get on with it”
because my mood was easy breezy silly this afternoon;
but now I’m thinking
sometimes you lose your identity
and you just need to get on with it
I can barely take anyone serious when they ask the question,
“who am I?”
the answer is obvious if you allow simplicity into your heart,
“you’re what you are experiencing and feeling and being right now, and it’ll change all the time in every moment”
so,
I feel kind of commiserable
and much of a parody
for sitting in a busy mall foodcourt, with a cup of coffee I didn’t even buy at that foodcourt,
remixing an old song on garageband,
then looking up and realizing I’m surrounded by all of these kiwi strangers
and finally asking the question
“who am I”
oh I’m a lunatic, aren’t I?
I must be open, but not too open
and easy to get along with, but not too easy to get along with
I must catch a wave on the first try,
but if I wipe out, I mustn’t turn red;
I need to watch what I say
before I say it
but also find the courage to speak
when I’m shy
and I must be considerate
but not let people walk all over me
I can’t be a pushover, and I can’t be too much of a leader
because I don’t know what I’m doing
here;
I can love but I shouldn’t fall in love
at least for awhile
because I’m still high from the transition and I’m dubious of how
authentic and sincere
my falling in love
would be
worrying is the most unnecessary thing
money isn’t an issue
(right now)
and loneliness is a blessing
but it’s also a sickness
and I must remind myself that I’m worth not being lonely
and instead being free
and above all,
I am capable of anything I set my mind to,
even if I forget
“who I am”
or “what I wanna be”
above all,
I must always be me.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
Royal indeed it is my Scottish mile,
May I borrow your body awhile,
Your brew gives me just the smile,
I'll save you forever in my travelers file!!
Another year now, another year new,
whiskey, one too many a few,
like strangers who haven' a clue,
one more night, at the backpacker's blue!!
Now or never, those eyes shine forever,
in my senses, in my heart, in my pyre,
bagpipes printed over the hogmanay's flyer,
singin, hey ya'll, cry me a ****** river!!
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
You can only dream of
places I have been
Mentally,
All the things
I did for my family,
All they did,
instead of helping me,
Is trying to
put sense in me,
When I come to a point
Where I am
about to plead insanity,
A room of variances,
Out of body experiences,
Mental *******
Heart full of spasms,
The ones
my past couldn’t fathom,
This ain’t a struggler’s anthem,
But I can’t help but,
Generalize,
And I can’t undermine,
That I felt heaven,
At least on my fingertips,
I found hope,
At the brink of disbelief,
Don’t blame the postman,
If you put the wrong address,
Life is a *****
depending on how you dress her,
Let the broken glass,
Mess up the dresser,
Rosewood, Redwood, any wood,
If I could I would,
The more I clench my fists,
the more sand I loose,
But I choose not to,
just my screws,
My life is like a travelogue,
No just ticket needed just travel along,
Like a broken pen and a moleskin,
A DSLR and an eye to watch closely,
No backpacker,
Just a bad actor,
Modern day rye catcher,
Self financer ,
A mere puppet on the string,
That life hangs by,
finding questions to some bad answers,
Putting up with bad promise makers,
When a promise may curse,
Life is just a makeshift,
Life is what you make it,
Or make of it*
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
*softly humming and deftly proceeding
unobtrusive like a shy one at a gathering
i make myself obscure and inconsequential
though my heart tells me it's only a matter of time
before i make my mark and cause a stir among my peers
and before we hear the distinct sound of the bell's chime
as it calls upon all and sundry, far and wide across the land
to declare their love in soft tones and hearts serene and sincere
to look upon love with wondering eyes that burn with longing
and drink to the love of a lifetime in a sunset glass blown by a master
thereafter to sing a song that is a tale of love unlimited and hope eternal
the thing to remember is the image of a backpacker at some lodge
sinking with the yellow sun in an obscure room where he lays his head
though he knows it not, his ritual daily enacts our final days*
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
We're all ok
With the wind on our backs
But misdirected anger needs a home
And it needs it fast
(Silver string turning grey)
A backpacker walking
Ain't no walker with a knapsack
No more snappy fingers
Strap on another's soul
Call it your own
(Silver string turning grey)
The network of loneliness
A bunch of faded glories
Doing time
For the pain of another
We beg for contact
And we know we'll never find it
But it's out there
We beg for mercy
When we've already found it
Within ourselves
(Silver string turning grey)
Cynics are dreamers
Watching the shiny happy people
Float on by
In cement shoes
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:41 PM UTC
It's been weeks since I last recognized.
I haven't had a buddy sit across me
Enthusiastically chomping while moving his mouth.
Neither during times when I traverse stretches of land
Have I had a Second to push me along,
at the same time un-bore me.
Yet my problem's solution is simple:
GO out, OPEN the door, LET everyone in and everything out
But that
is not who I am.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
detention lasts an hour,
how many times do you think
i'd write the statement?
this is before the dark-web,
before Contraband Anonymous,
oh hell, i can write you Orwell's
1984 in nanoseconds,
about how you should drink and not
ingest hallucinatory drugs,
not least the pharmacist quotient
available...
but prior to... hmm... the N.S.A. is
still my friend, they have the conversations
of the culprits, and Tsar Putin jacking
off to the sound of Apollo 13's mission failure...
and have i the ***** to say it?
i think i do.... unless a Martian descends,
or Jupiter encrusts into a ball of hot
cranium of fire, then we're left with Pluto being
the penultimate ice-ball before
the thing that killed the dinosaurs comes
along in hookah Kiwi haka style
for a fantasia of the Parisian catwalk...
chew wee a mega fibia, aye Scotch,
aye Ben Nervous - mega choo backpacker
and mm, hoo see the Nedtherlands!
and then we all get to nibble on our excited-lower-lip
the French revolved around to hark:
oriental in Romanian: h = r = haaark!
agling to a gagging too.
poetry - you make sounds, you don't
intend to make sense... it's your *******
tongue as a trumpet... what else?!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC
Dear Don Alberto
Flamboyant Octogenarian
To a pair of weather-beaten families on the Camino
And to Backpacker Bridget from Granada via Barnsley
And to all who seek shelter from the Galician downpours
You sound
Like an Angel
As you hold aloft your otherworldly radio
And play for us Tina Turner’s
Simply the Best
On happy repeat.
Dear Don Alberto
With your doggy entourage
To a bunch of Ryanair Refugees on the Camino
And to uber cool Bridget naturalised Granadina don’t mention Barnsley
And to all who seek sanctuary from the Galician heatwaves
You taste
Like a rustic slice of empanada
Rich deep and
Eternally replenishing itself.
You weren’t ever on our map
Don Alberto, were you?
The ID cards you offer up for inspection
Make us laugh at the farce of our controls and borders.
And so
To us make-shift pilgrims on the Camino
You show us how to journey properly
Dancing the salsa
On every roundabout.
Simon Piesse
Jun 20, 2022
Jun 20, 2022 at 12:58 PM UTC
The mind clings to forms
to hold against the silence
to guard itself from you
the secret deadly enemy
hanging out on your own front stoop
winkin’ at your little sister
and begging for an invite to dinner
you can let him pass too
onto the vapor of a conjured illusion
you can let the words
coming from here get stronger
you can hear me more clearly and louder
the self that you buried
under the rot of yesterday’s tomorrow
all that chatter is of no matter you can tell
But don’t tell of the nonsense
of nothings wrapped in desire
that’s old news
from days when newspapers were read
that talk takes the time
of a 20th century backpacker
hiking Truth’s trail
NOW is the only time that there is
for waking from the ringing of the bell
don’t stomp out the silence
the one answer screaming
the reality one is
Only in silence you remember the key
to the treasure in the chest
holding your heart crafted in love
isn’t that the whole happiness quotient
wrapped up like a perfect peace package
I just can’t comprehend the human species
and its endless repeating crimes
how many life sentences
does one have to get
to see only the Self and be free
burn off the rest of the pride
every lyin’ thought’s last roar into dust
forms can’t hold true life
it’s real light making ghostly forms known
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC