"benches" poems
during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment
and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
141.9k
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore
the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect
children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn
the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge
harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light
cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
The fateful universe has chosen
With a six billion year explosion
With a bond that is this unbreakable
Synchronicity is quite unmistakable
We are Brothers,
not by choice, luck, or the same seed
Different mothers,
But souls undeniably the same breed
If there comes a time for war
we"ll be joined together in the trenches
No matter what the game score
We"ll play, while they ride the benches
When it comes to the sacred brotherhood
Please, let this one thing be understood
No matter where you are, or whether you"re blessed with children or a wife
Your brother"s never too far, and just know you"re my dog beyond this life
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god.
We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away.
The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze.
When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes.
When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die
We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”.
When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime.
With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some ****** gall,
at 71,
my brain cells eaten
away by
life.
rows of books
behind me,
I scratch my thinning
hair
and search for the
word.
for decades now
I have infuriated the
ladies,
the critics,
the university
suck-toads.
they all will soon have
their time to
celebrate.
"terribly overrated..."
"gross..."
"an aberration..."
my hands sink into the
keyboard
of my
Macintosh,
it's the same old
con
that scraped me
off the streets and
park benches,
the same simple
line
I learned in those
cheap rooms,
I can't let
go,
sitting here
on this 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down.
Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1992
8.6k
My bones became the
benches for the feeble.
A sparrow’s flight could
Take me off my numbness.
At least my bones are not
That brittle.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
“What do you think
The bravest drink
Under the sky?”
“Strong beer,” said I.
“There’s a place for everything,
Everything, anything,
There’s a place for everything
Where it ought to be:
For a chicken, the hen’s wing;
For poison, the bee’s sting;
For almond-blossom, Spring;
A beerhouse for me.”
“There’s a prize for every one
Every one, any one,
There’s a prize for every one,
Whoever he may be:
Crags for the mountaineer,
Flags for the Fusilier,
For English poets, beer!
Strong beer for me!”
“Tell us, now, how and when
We may find the bravest men?”
“A sure test, an easy test:
Those that drink beer are the best,
Brown beer strongly brewed,
English drink and English food.”
Oh, never choose as Gideon chose
By the cold well, but rather those
Who look on beer when it is brown,
Smack their lips and gulp it down.
Leave the lads who tamely drink
With Gideon by the water brink,
But search the benches of the Plough,
The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow,
For jolly rascal lads who pray,
Pewter in hand, at close of day,
“Teach me to live that I may fear
The grave as little as my beer.”
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I entered a church
Or perhaps it was a cathedral?
But it does not really matter,
Because its all the same to me.
I am not particularly religious,
But I believe in a God, and a Devil,
And Souls.
I like the stories,
And the smell of church candles and incense and hope and guilt mixed together
With the tantalising intoxicating feeling
Of having all your sins spilling out of your throat and every
Single part of you.
All is seen.
So looking at saints and windows and benches
And the colours that filter through and leap and dance
I sobbed.
Because I am scared
And because I have sinned
And because every moment I am thinking
Do I want what I have been given
Or am I ready to leave everything behind
In the search for divinity.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
often, i picture us
holding hands and watching movies
sitting on benches beneath old oak trees
hearing your laugh throughout the day
and catching you smile
when you think i don't see
and all i can do is hope
that when you close your eyes
your mind is filled
with thoughts of me
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
the benches i always sit at are as cold as ice.
their metal structures scream at me to get off of them…
to leave them be and let them rust in silence and in solitude.
and i oblige to the request
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 7:20 PM UTC
Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre ***** —
Warm and soft and sleepy *****
Cozy, warm and lovely *****
****** cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, ***** hides —
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride —
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died.
4.2k
Maybe people did not realize what they had done.
The ****** of the people and their hope.
Africans are no different, so why were they treated as such?
It's better now! Tables with no signs that say,
"White Only."
Benches for everyone to use. One drinking fountain instead of two:
One on each side of the building.
One in the same!
And college, striving for a better future
Is an option.
Now, was that so hard?
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Beast surfacing, the geyser blows
sea-spume that sudden, broaching, slows
to blue, then falls, no prim fountain
or ticking clock, Leviathan counting
decades at formal intervals.
On benches over rising thermals
that reach to roast us, faithful, waiting,
we cheer the act of hesitation
before the final curtain -- though, see,
the trick's just heat, just gravity.
Almost enough, I hear you say --
this tidal flame, this awe-filled day,
as mists dissolve and quick steam clears
and cools and sinks, for years, years.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
Pieces of
our past.
Wondering how we will
Patchwork
them back
together,
in the days
of the weeks,
the months
of the years ahead...
as you disguise
yourself,
on benches,
in corners, alleys.
Hidden in woods,
underpasses
of freeways.
Tents, cars
of strangers.
Filthy trap houses.
You disappear,
to find
comfort in
the only place
left to heal.
The Deep Depths of Sleep.
Oh how I
worry about
you my love.
You suffer so
for this journey
you have embarked on...
Oh, how I
hurt for you,
yearn for you,
love for you
and cry for you.
Your pain
so deep
keeps you away,
to dwell in the
terrifying place that
encourages
the need to
Self implode..
Obliterate all ability to feel.
Even the
true sense of Belonging
Of being
unconditionally
loved.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 2:04 AM UTC
Walking along the narrow track,
parents shepherding ice cream kids,
making way for pushchairs, making waves.
The lakeside watch on ducks and swans.
The nodding smiles and genteel grins,
like a 50's Sunday promenade,
while walking sticks wait by benches
dreams die when mobiles chime.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
I’m walking up hilltop, two men pass, one says,
'Fuck the French, they never have the bottle for a fight’.
To have got here they passed the old Cathedral.
Did they glimpse it as a relic - exploded by incendiary,
ostracised in dubiety, seen fit to feature
only in the focus and snap of foreign tourists?
It is two days before Ramadan. Tonight Tornados
will tear between the Euphrates and Tigris
to illuminate Babylon... live on CNN.
At the top of the hill I pause,
staring at stained glass fragments
still suspended in the apex of frames
and view snacking office workers,
seated upon the benches that have replaced the pews.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 12:30 PM UTC
Painted walls
Colored windows
Wood benches
A man on a podium
Talking right and wrong
The boy with the piercings and tattoos
Front row
Kneeling hands folded head down
The collection gets passed around
Judgement being passed around
About this boy with the piercings
A lost soul looking for a home
Trying to forgive and forget.
Trying to repent and receive forgiveness.
"Go in peace"
People start leaving
Talking to each other
Giving thanks
The boy with the piercings remains
Head down, hands folded, front row.
Giving another prayer up
A prayer of acceptance with these people
He's just another lost soul like the rest
Trying to find his home
Amen
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
pigeons are so unappreciated
being the rats of the sky
they overpopulate the park benches
waiting for a crumb food supply
yet if you look at the bigger picture
isnt our species just the same
over populating social networks
waiting for a supply of attention or fame
and i use the word 'species' quite lightly
is human even an appropriate label
because most of us are so inhumane
compared to pigeons we are the unstable
pigeons just want food to live
humans live to want more
yet we are the ones shoo-ing them away
when they are the ones who deserve to be adored
i mean yeah they seem to be everywhere
but take a minute to look around
we are the ones causing the destruction
stuck on this filthy ground
they deserve this earth
and so do you and i
so next time you call any creature filthy remember
you are stuck on the ground as they are in the sky
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
The vivid grass with visible delight
Springing triumphant from the pregnant earth,
The butterflies, and sparrows in brief flight
Chirping and dancing for the season's birth,
The dandelions and rare daffodils
That touch the deep-stirred heart with hands of gold,
The thrushes sending forth their joyous trills,--
Not these, not these did I at first behold!
But seated on the benches daubed with green,
The castaways of life, a few asleep,
Some withered women desolate and mean,
And over all, life's shadows dark and deep.
Moaning I turned away, for misery
I have the strength to bear but not to see.
3.1k
The forgotten umbrella
Fretted
Did he get wet?
Cry because it was missing?
Would his mother have given him a beating?
Benches and desks
Are cozing
The board still retains
The day’s remnants
Night came,
The umbrella was in tears
Rain rain
Umbrella umbrella
Said the rain outside
Only the umbrella heard
His voice was raining over the shower
“my darling umbrella”
Crying itself to sleep,
Headmaster’s room
Came in a dream
Question papers, canes
Maps, globe, skeleton,
Chalk power,
Fat lady teachers,
Farts and baloney
Startled itself awake
No, it is not light yet
Through the darkness
Nothing other than his embroidered name
Still you forgot me!
Other umbrellas came
And sat on either sides
Didn’t you get wet yesterday?
Didn’t you go home?
How can it be said that he forgot me?
There he is!
Umbrella closed its eyes
Let him come running
Give a hundred kisses
He didn’t come even after the bell rang
On opening the eyes, saw
His new darling umbrella
Hasn’t put it down..
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Among trees i rest
and wander through
scriptures of olde
pouring over ancient
words of grace and peace
of love and compassion
where can this be found
outside my leather bound
at a green picnic bench
i read and marvel at
the words of Peter and Paul
two thousand years removed
in my semi-secluded sanctuary
just off the bike path
among trees i rest
and wander through
the works of Ezra Pound
language beautifully poetic
but nothing is found
to my liking except
of course
a line or two scattered
with no anchor
that is how my
mind rolls you see
gathering bits of inspiration
followed by digestion
which gives birth
to a renewing of my
mind and soul
refreshing as i ride
my bicycle down
the path of enlightenment
aided by the words of
poets, prophets, and priests
culminating in fervent
meditation
among trees i rest
and wander
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.
You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.
You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.
You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.
It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."
I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little girl on the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC