"bustle" poems
Behind your eyes I see lions
And you know them well
And you fear
Roars resonate in your tortured mind
And you regret being bizarre
You want to stay in line
But the bustle in the crowds won't accept your direction
You're an infection - peculiar
in a derogatory sense.
The howls from the people let you discover
That this place is for hyenas
You cower
Lest you be ripped to shreds
And on your panicked escape
You leave a lioness behind
The one you had named Unique
and her cries are of a dreadful kind
Claws feast into your weary soul
They are your own
As you keep under prison guard
The character given by God
Desperately you cling onto branches
Not sturdy enough to hold you forever
but you'd do anything to avoid being trampled
By the hooves of the many
When you have but a few lions left
The rest were dropped as uncertainty clouded your vision
Until your cat eyes
Did not even benefit in the night
But you are forgetting
Should you choose a weak road
At least chase the antelope
Heaven knows
You were meant to run wild
Not Climb
But when you become stronger
as lions always do
You will run before the hoof beats
Because you are extraordinary
And when you realize
They will have no choice but to
And the mass will part
The moment you roar
And when the herd is separated
Blind or awake
You shall find your lioness
As she is running home
Let her meld within your heart
Let her be part of your masterpiece
Until you recognize the majesty
of your lions
And without fear
When you love yourself
You will see the beast in mine eyes as well
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F
~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green
it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual
"record breaking warmth"
yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen
traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived
so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day
"record breaking warmth"
for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night
indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
That genuine smile of yours delicate and mild,
Can soothe senses and tempers gone wild.
A raging storm with ease you can calm,
That smile of yours is ever so warm.
It takes you only a few seconds to flex those ****** muscles,
To brighten the days of millions amongst all the hustle, bustle and tussles.
Your smile is so priceless and pure,
For it all pain one can endure.
It’s like the rays from a billion suns shining bright,
Dazzling and sparkling like the brightest light.
It gives that extra glow to your face,
Making everyone’s heart beat race.
It’s like the most pricey jewel one could admire,
Among millions it could spark a burning desire.
Every smile you pass is like a treasure,
Making the few lucky, millionaires for sure.
But when you frown in the saddest of ways,
It’s like the happiness in the world has gone out of gaze.
Dark clouds fill the overhead sky,
Rain starts pouring as the heavens begin to cry.
It’s like the world hits a note so low,
Their happiness takes that heavy blow.
An empty feeling fills the hearts of those,
Who once with your smile happily would rose.
So smile because the world smiles with you,
Cry and the world sobs with you too.
Times may get you down in life,
But don't give up the strife.
Don't let those pearls from your eyes fall,
For someone or something who wasn't worth it after all.
So keep smiling day in and day out,
And brighten the lives of those you move about...
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
the hustle and bustle
of the morning shuffle
it's just enough
to keep you up
the stations and terminals
are coated
with sleep walkers
and sleep talkers
waiting for the inspiration
to come to life
that they always find
at the bottom
of empty coffee mugs
and tea cups
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
When the wind blows from the front,
You'll feel the nostalgia,
Hear the hustle and bustle of fishermen,
Crunching cockle shells under their boots,
Smell the sweet smelling tobacco from pipes,
The toil and hardwork heavy in the air.
Knocking you from the moment,
A faked tan man with a chihuahua,
Hear the cackle of faked laughter,
Clattering of stilletto heels upon cobbles,
Smell the alcohol laced ***** spilling from mouths,
The fruits of labour heavy in the air.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
i was far from bright light bustle
far from humanity pressin in on me
florida's paradise night neath the summer moon
came to dreamin on a pretty girl from my long ago
came to dreamin on true beauty's name serenity
that long ago far far away
i was busted flat end of my rope
didn't see how i could go on
had fallen to the darkness consuming my sight
when she gave me the courage to breath again
with her kindest of words she saved me
carried me forward to hearts truth
she saved me
never could stand to see any hurt in her sweet eyes
never wanted to see her cry
call it love...call it knowin true beauty's name
and the wild winds pick up a serenity dream
carry me forward to knowin hearts truth
that such special woman she is to me
argue no more the light and dark
she gave me the courage to see
she gave my life back to me
no matter the miles
no matter the years
i will always know true beauty's name
serenity
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Hustle and bustle is where we meet
The integrate city is what we greet
In the morning when we rise so early
In the evenings as we descend from glory
The day is long and hard,
But from our jobs we dare not part.
It is to pay a bill,
Or to keep one still.
An idle mind is free to its own devices,
in fact through its deeds might still surprise us.
We keep rather still.
A waste of life saved from living
Our dreams are worth what we've all been giving.
A restful peaceful night has come
And after one sleep again it is done
And once again the hustle and bustle is where we meet
And the integrate city is what we greet
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
Rainforest rustle
Clink and chat
Cook and clean
Hustle and bustle
Think of this and that
Look at what it means
Experience the everyday wave
And inertia of now
It flows through my head
With a manner of somehow
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:19 AM UTC
What has become of us
Amidst the hustle and bustle of city life
When did evolution condone us to regress into a state
Of uncalculated caucus
As we meander our way through the rapids of life
Rapid
Is hardly a best-fit descriptor
For we are past the point of speed
We mill around like headless horses
Buzzing bees
Stinging roaches
Fallen leaves
Roaring lions
Try to lead
But fail
Like cottons fighting breeze
Is this all we are?
Is this what we were made for?
To quickly climb the climb
And await the graceless fall
Parachutes prepared for praise
But our pride prevents and prevails
Till the day I climb the ladder
Shall I not attempt to see
What the view at the top might be like
I fear it enthralls me
But then reality strikes like a maddening blaze
And suddenly I see
That I'm well on my way up the hill
As I swing from bridge to bridge
Is this the way to live?
Uncautious steps with kleptomaniac ease
As we take what we desire
From our capitalistic divider
Though we hate to be the same
Not at all do we differ
Are we not all blinded mice
With a tetra-human vice
Spiders apt at spinning lies
Banking life on Friday highs
All around me boring beasts
Lost to whims, to say the least
What I fear most is the day
I give in and join the race
Is the day I eat my heart out
Just to enjoy the highest gaze
Till then here trapped in the zoo
Enclosure encasing truth
Finding fault with every human till the day I conform too
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
bare, bud, green, going
winter claims the land
with a skeleton hand of bare trees
writing its stark song upon
the white white snow
in shadows
long, thin, black, and sharp
bud, green, going, bare
the spring sends small green spies
to see if the earth is ready
ready to try again
to shake the sleep of winter
from the hopeful eyes of spring
green, going, bare, bud
summer crowds the world with green
filling in all the spaces
like a child coloring outside the lines
full of life
and bustle
overflowing with the thoughts of eternity
going, bare, bud, green
the leaves are a kaleidoscopic scream of color
the land rages with its dying
showing all what will be missed
the last bright light of beauty before the
long white sleep
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
Hustle and bustle is where we meet
The integrate city is what we greet
In the morning when we rise so early
In the evenings as we descend from glory
The day is long and hard,
But from our jobs we dare not part.
It is to pay a bill,
Or to keep one still.
An idle mind is free to its own devices,
in fact through its deeds might still surprise us.
We keep rather still.
A waste of life saved from living
Our dreams are worth what we've all been giving.
A restful peaceful night has come
And after one sleep again it is done
And once again the hustle and bustle is where we meet
And the integrate city is what we greet
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
...
Mystery;
Such that you were to me
But nervously I swayed in your direction
Curious;
I couldn't help but catch
my breath as you spoke of this
dismal city and your photography
So caught
in your wishes to escape
back to your summer adventures
to the hustle and bustle of Tokyo and Seoul;
it was then you felt such anonymity
So it was then you had felt free.
I look to you again,
piecing you in these things that you
dare share with me; so easily,
eagerly.
Quiet now, you look to me but
I apologize, I didn't know quite
where to begin.
Mist and fluttering snow
Clouding over our concrete city,
We walked below the looming
Buildings until pausing,
to take a picture of me.
It seemed, in this hour, it was
only us who
chose to walk through these
deserted snowed-in streets
You suggested something then,
offering to take me up to the top
of the sleekest buildings,
to your rooftop sanctuaries I longed
to see
until it was only in my view-
small specks of life below me
where I could only see my sodden shoes
dangle down
to nothingness, to air, weightlessly as I
taste the mist upon my shoulders and
frozen hair.
In awe I would laugh
at the beautiful sight before me- to
Skyscrapers that cut above clouds
in the glint of the sun reflecting back to
our eyes, and
our cheeks who also felt the bite of
winter's winds.
Shivering,
Soaked in hair and feet
and
Again I turned to face you
but here,
with glittering eyes,
... wondered where
You would then choose to
take me
on our second date?
P.K.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family’s in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice—
Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do—
And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo.
So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers—
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.
4.2k
It hits me in moments
sometimes in the silence of the night
sometimes in the bustle of the day
others in the middle of a laugh
The truth?
She's dead
gone
She won't hear about the long list of firsts that will eventually happen
first kiss
first date
first love
My only sister is gone and I am alone
That word, suicide, has been forever changed
Every time I hear it I flash to that cold December night
to everything I saw
I have no questions
My day goes on
but I know there's that little empty hole hidden behind a filing cabinet in my mind
Should it be bigger?
It will never be filled
If I could ask one thing,
It wouldn't be why or even comeback
It would be...
Are you happy where you are?
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:42 AM UTC
Confined to the skyscrapers
Elevated mechanically
To the secluded corners
Flights of stairs are daunting
The bustling crowd is distant
Parks and kids nonchalant
About the lonely resident
Prisoner between cozy walls
Blocked in the secluded world
Heart yearns to join the bustle
From the rooms of skyscrapers
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
the pitch dark symmetry
of spiral engraved
glossy jet black
vinyl
the ***** claws
and webbed spiders;
graced with impeccable
scratch
words come back around
from dog day afternoon;
entwined in ritual
beatology
technique absorbed in prowess
dedication assimilated by passion;
human form and synthetic resin becomes
overlayed
polyvinyl chloride or
unsaturated hydrocarbon radicals;
a derivative by any other
name
I'll leave that nugget for the pub quiz
and relax, post-Christmas stress;
the street scramble bustle,
embrace a pint of
black magic
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
I listen
and let you take me along
always yearning, wishing
hoping that I might land, wondering why
I even need to find my footing.
I am a complex soul,
I keep telling myself that,
while around me,
in the active bustle of a sidewalk cafe,
I see faces,
so many lovely minds,
untapped but directed,
finding their own place,
their own quiet destiny.
~
I hear the winds of 'winter's
discontent.'
Remains in my mind,
always knocking in silence,
my pulse awaits a shift,
some opportunity to tick lasting effects,
define my confusion,
while you journey me on,
music, my violins,
I listen and feel pain,
then resonant delight.
I am alone,
inside a quiet dream of human interaction.
yet, where am I supposed to land.
I can at least, count on you,
the rhythms of my soul,
to take me along on a quiet journey.
Please remain discreet,
lest those around recognize
I may be incomplete.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
OH!
What feeling compares to the warmth inside these bones
when I awake at Dawn to a still house,
and comfortable bustle awaits
There is none!
no other mornings compare to such
what with floating voices and metaphoric hugs
a sunday to its monday; disparate
and i'd make the hours stretch if i could
like a Dough prepared for
round laughter
to be enjoyed with glasses of
tall bliss
every Eye i meet glimmers
Glimmers!
with amity to spare
and the Earth around is brimming
Brimming!
with wonder I cannot describe to you
in words
an ode
to sundays worth living for
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
I cower in your shadow,
shivering despite any acuity of my own.
(your words are like loaded icicles,
beretta rounds fired through my false logic
and fake religion;
it scares me.)
The truth is I'm not fearless,
I'm pale and lily-livered and only so heathen as the other stars.
(maybe it's good you're in college,
it's closer than you were growing up.
when we were young,
you were short yet rough.
I was the younger,
and, my shepherd, you were faithful;
I only got lost 8 times.)
I don't think I ever really knew you
in any possible perception.
(I know I knew the talk of you,
the hustle and bustle at home and abroad
of your mighty intellect,
your crushing wit,
your driving polities
a war machine and
your gleaming smile
its patron god.)
How could I ever compare, though,
to the goddess of mind and body, brains and war?
(the truth is I am but a defiant priest,
crooked nose and
ashy eyes.
I think the reason,
even today,
for all my insecurities was due to you.)
Appeasement was a method used by the vain and weak
to protect against the humble yet brilliant.
(I feel your ********** take me over,
I feel it acid-wash into my skin,
de-porous my bones
and my imagination structure.
I feel it sink me up to the top,
drowning me in your air,
in your sky and your perfect chemistry.
your burning gold catches me,
smothers me in hands too big
for such a small person.)
How is it you are so tall
when you come up to my chin?
Why is it that I shiver and shake at your light foot falls?
Answer to the shadows
and my cowering will not respond.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 11:07 PM UTC
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.
There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.
Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is starting hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her arms,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her ******* of hard tin.
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings."
"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they'll find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight."
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feelheir horses come."
"Let me by, my little one,
don't step on me, all starched and white!"
Closer comes the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.
Through the olive grove
comes the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.
Oh, how the night owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child by the hand.
They are crying in the forge,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is viewing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.
3.4k
If my thoughts are my eyes and my mind is Paris,
then you are my Tour Eiffel
penetrating that flat sky line of the buildings all the same uniform height, without change or dynamics,
you protrude out of the flatness, the beautiful change of scene, the epicenter, of wonder.
my wandering eyes always find you
no matter where I am, who I am with,
or what I am doing,
I can always find you above the bustling city
a separate entity
Of hope, and love, and change
Before, Paris did not have the tour Eiffel, but continued to bustle as any city does
still the city of love,
It was missing it's determining factor, it's monument that stood out from all the rest
The landmark that completed the city, that created a place of wonder to surmount all the world, a watching over every building, every garden,
every thought
The last thing I see when rest my head on my pillow,
your shining light fills me with wonder and inspiration as the moon rises in the sky: creating wishes and hope for the future
You always penetrate the corners of my mind
My shining Tour Eiffel
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Poetry is my getaway
Every thought that comes to mind
Has a story to tell
At the end of the day
When I make time for poetry
It takes my mind away
Away from the stress
The worry
The hustle
And bustle of the day
It allows my mind to slow down
To rest
To rest for the next day
Like a train route that runs all day and night
Busy working
Getting things done
Then it’s time to wrap up for the night
Or like a water machine,
Filling everyone’s cup
And not until the last person comes for a cup
That you notice that you’re empty
Did they notice?-
Did they care to refill you?
But at night when I snuggle up
I grab my notebook
I escape
It soothes me
It’s refills me for the next day-
Off I go
To my poetry getaway
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 1:12 AM UTC