"bustles" poems
*Rustles and bustles
Of a lovely morning breeze
That shines crystal rays.*
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
She worked in the market
She sold flowers and jewellery
but, nobody there knew her name
With fifty young vendors
Of flowers and jewellery
Each teenaged young girl looked the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
She was hitch hiking home
From the market one night
A car pulled on up for a ride
He told her he'd take her
If she needed a lift
It was cold, so the girl got inside
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
No one has seen her
She's been gone for three days
She never arrived at her home
Nobody saw him
All cars look the same
And besides he was travelling alone
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
The market still bustles
With sellers of flowers
Where everyone looks, shops or buys
But, something is missing
A young girl is gone
The girl with the smiling blue eyes
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
On the end table by the bed
A tiny Styrofoam cup
Full of unwrapped candy
In child’s writing
All caps and struggle
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
I AM SORRY
MOM
It is hard to stay angry
When you have an imagination
I picture her at a round table
********* a hospital bracelet
There are other people with her
Some have construction paper
Some have glue
There is glitter
And painted fingertips
I still get homesick
For places I have never been to
Sometimes miss people
I never even knew
There is a city inside my chest
It bustles
Pre pollution
But ***** is still legal
I have made homes there
You have a home here
In a city with
No hospitals
No graveyards
Just a cul-de-sac that starts at my throat
And double loops along my lungs
So many streets
My chest x-rays look like upside-down trees without the leaves
And when you leave
There is a house
Inside the city inside my chest
That stays empty forever
So much left behind
There is no room for anger to stay long
It exits like forgiveness
When you’ve given up all hope
When you can only reimagine so much
Some of these homes are condemned
Though it is hard to stay angry
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
.
night streets and scars of light
scarves of light
moving subtle bustles of shadowed light
carvings of royal light robes of velvet light
make out expressionist doorways
strobes of light fink and fit in protest
coding behind enemy lines
captured light fires colourful snakes about
in flaring curved science tubes
flagging the bartering night flogging the
urban night
we've made apparition in honour of daylight
and out of the theatre fear
of our own bogged nature
synthetic ghosts of light
charge away ghosts
electronic noises scare away
the horrifying lull of the dead
(a dead we don't believe in)
twenty four seven behaviour
to busy away the very spirits we have hungered
and to plot against
all that unnecessary sleep business
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC
As a rainbow sends down a colourful hue,
a wasp swirls around in a puddle of dew
and lost in the hollow...somewhere within
an imp practices magic his planning to spin
an ocean of flowers bow down in their praise
as a dung beetle carries his load through a maze
and far in the distance a nightingale sings
happy in the warmth that the sunshine brings
a giggle of fairies and Will o' the Wisp
a dragonfly makes his way through the mist
a butterfly dances on the wings of a breeze
a waterfall hides behind the shade from the trees
a ladybird whistles about as she plays
a squirrel bustles through the place where she stays.....
...yet in all this beauty and clandescent touch
it's lost on me ~ I've grown up too much!
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
Scintillating atoms, a world all a glow
Energy in motion as it bustles too and fro.
A drum and beat all it's own, every living being just marching in perfect tone.
Electrical impulses and frequencies high and low.
A ferver of vibrations this earth that we know,
Time progresses onward, life ebbs and flows.
Energy neither created nor destroyed, only changing form.
Maybe life is more a circular pattern than a linear path of time
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
Maniacally,
The days and nights
Bleed together
Into a time frame
The insane
Tap into
That's a lot like infinity.
Vampiracally,
The years of
Infinity
Bleed together
Into an abysmal
Spiral
Of insanity.
Supernaturally,
Are our states of being.
How well
We blend in
With a dismal
Arrangement
Of plain people
In trains,
Checking their wrists
For the time
As they travel
Physically.
Naturally,
The three of us
Are bound to meet
At some point.
Tapping into
Hidden goldmines
Of psychological
Nuggets
That gleam
With prosperity,
As everything
Melts together
Again.
Everything is sacred.
Everything is connected.
Mining
For hidden connections
Ought to excavate
Feelings of wonder.
The caverns filled
With complex crystals
Of energetic
Freethought
Have long been
Paved over
By trains and
Linear brains
Improving on their
Transistors.
Maniacally and
Vampiracally,
The days and nights
Bleed together,
While the world below
Bustles about;
We appear to be
Just like one of them.
We may even check
Our watch.
Our conditions
Are congruent
In that they are
Nothing less than
Supernatural.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
~
A crowded city street,
strolling a narrow sidewalk,
your hand in mine
Pastel neon lights paint the buildings
in soothing colors,
softening sharp edges,
creating a wonderland
on this warm summer night
A small bistro, street side tables
candle light and tablecloths
tiny dancing flames on white linen
igniting your smile as we take a seat
amidst the din of taxi cabs
racing to find the sunset,
lover’s fare put to good use
in backseat desires
Two glasses of Pinot,
fine crystal offerings
as are your eyes, glistening,
dark chocolate petals
calling me in, hypnotized
free falling into your heart
as I drink them in slowly,
tasting every tantalizing gaze
A toast to us, touching glasses,
touching hearts, changing lives
as I wonder what I have done
to deserve this dream, you and me,
no one else exists, the city bustles
unnoticed as we sip the fruits
of our love on an enchanting evening
hoping it never ends…
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
She’s swinging from a different home plate
Our dictionaries don’t have enough words for her
She needs more
But not from here
Cause she’s not from here
She’s from everywhere we’re not
And when she writes
We are well aware of it
She spears me through the heart with her lines
But the last word never fails to politely cauterize
So her poetry leaves a mark
Fascia tattoos from Planet M
Messages sinking deeper in
Underneath everything human
Into the soul’s skin
That’s the reach of her pen
(Down below the circus of our understanding)
She lives down there, and sends postcards up
In the form of poetry
Dear so and so,
“there is a hole in your belly.
this is where those precious things fall that you drop”
Dear Mariah,
I know, I know
But I can’t seem to keep my hands dry
Knowing she will just sigh
And keep writing her poetry post cards
Postmarked “upstairs”
As the circus bustles and bangs above
I am sure she takes breaks
And comes up
For cotton candy
(blue/orange - yellow/purple)
of course
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
The car rattles along and the cityscape comes into sight. The city bustles with life and I watch the never-ending whirlwind of characters in a motion picture show. The flickers of city light diffuses and casts a shine on the photographic opportunities.
I see you and how you are oblivious to your own enchanting and radiant soul.
You are more stunning than the stars, yet also unattainable and heartbreakingly beautiful to gaze upon. I hope someday you achieve your goal of happiness and that you meet someone truly worthy of you. All I want to do is embrace you, ease your pain, carry your sorrows and share your joys. However, I know that I will never have the privilege.
I sense something on the horizon that beckons and pulls me in. Do I resist or investigate the call? I hope that in the future, I don’t instigate a further parting of ways. The only thing that would compel me to do that would be if that I were to cause you great harm emotionally in some way, intentionally or not. I will endeavor to the best of my ability not to. But like everyone else I’ve ever known, I might still push you away.
You are so wonderful to me but how am I even worth of being a part of your life? I don’t understand and I’ll try not to disappear. Honestly, you would be better off if I did.
In the future we might walk right past each other and in a flash we become strangers again. Sadly, all of our history and time together have ceased to be. Of course, I will inevitably be the one to blame. Oh Darling but it was worth the while.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 5:00 AM UTC
An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
•••
*City sounds, city lights
Chaos, hustles and bustles
Amidst the busy street
I saw you, only you
In a world of deafening sounds
And blinding lights
There was you, only you
And in a world where people come and go
You choose to stop and stay
You ask me to stop and not let go
And in the name of love, I did*
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
His spring was short, and he wore it
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.
His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.
His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.
His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
The billboards advertise it;
The mental pollution
That's obtained in a New York minute
Is mind-blowing.
A fast-paced world bustles by
Outside a taxi cab window.
It's rush hour,
And the car horns scream pleas of chaos.
Busy bodies litter the streets.
As they dissipate, they are soon replaced
Like the car exhaust
That's always lingering in the air.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
The world outside bustles
As everyone rustles
Through their busy lives.
She sits outwardly still and calm
But waiting for some balm
To come soothe her tired soul.
Soothe the sting and burn
Of having to relearn
How to live and go on.
Soothe the fear and pain
Of having to refrain
From saying what she wants to really say.
If only they knew
If only they saw
The little child
That hides within.
If only they heard
If only they sensed
The trembling babe
That cries at night.
But a grown woman
Has perfected the art
Of painting on masks.
The lines, the colors,
So perfectly drawn on
To hide the imperfect reality.
So the world bustles
With everyones' rustles
Of living their own lives.
And she...
She waits, paralyzed.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 6:10 PM UTC
I hope you know
I always choose
to miss a couple of hours of sleep
just to make our timezones meet
and get a glimpse
of a pixelated you.
I hope you know that amidst
the rustles and bustles of bicycles
moving and flying around
my playground
I sneak into a quiet spot
just to send you a text message to know how my day is going.
It's my choice to make you feel like I am just there :)
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
*
*Wine flows bright and red
From daybed, she hears Pisa
Her kingdom bustles*
*
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 1:37 AM UTC
The light dims and the dead raise their glasses
To the wine of wasted, blood-streaked tears
That permeate my mind. I lift my hand and reach
For them, but I am left with dripping dark
As the spirits of my dead emotions seek release.
As freelance feelings take their leave, am I human?
The thought of thatching shattered glasses
Brings back the dead, their forming tears
Mysteriously absent. And so they reach
The clammy, clotted, ****** hands through dark
Eyes; I scream that they might release.
But will the cold hands pity, and me release?
The light has fled the black irises: inhuman
Fusion of animation and empty glasses
In their eyes, like mine. Dry, lacking tears
That life gives. She bustles in the kitchen, reaches
For the saffron. But their souls remain dark.
And my sorrowing saffron soul is poisoned dark.
Let me go! I sigh release.
I am not human.
I am broken glass.
A fading fear of tears,
A soul outside my reach.
I am no fool; I do not claim to reach
Outside the world of dreaded dark
In which I live without release.
The creeping hands of Death are human,
As I am. Cast aside my riveting rose glasses
That rivers may run swift in my trailing tears.
Finally, the tears.
My own icy hand does reach
And wipes away the shifting dark.
The dead, as always, seek the just release,
But they are not human.
They do not wear my eyes, my glasses.
So raise the glass to my trying tears,
I reach and find no dark.
My feeling now released, I say that I am human.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC
Sitting at the station, smoke fills my lungs and drifts away like memories of you.
Waiting for the train to peak around the never ending bend of tracks, I wait for not just a train but an escape.
I wait and wait until the rise of the moon.
I have places to go and plans to make.
One step at a time, isn't that how the saying goes?
I couldn't tell you, my steps are never going anywhere, it seems.
I wait for signs of trains and I wait to see the steam.
The big iron black, as black as the night you left.
Now I'm leaving too.
I look across the tracks and see inside a dinner.
The couples drinking coffee look nice, but baby, we were finner.
All that is behind me now, like the train tracks that are spit out as the train bustles me anywhere, everywhere, hopefully away from myself.
At least I'm leaving you, my dear, I'll pretend I was never left.
I await this train, it's down the track, you'll never stop me now.
I climb aboard, the engine roars and the conductor blows the whistle.
I flick that cigarette aside.
Never coming back.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
for all the things labeled
in the exterior mirages
of turpentine reeking layers
worn lavishly by red lipstick
and silver tailored suits,
light illuminating marble counter tops
dusted by the next-thousand-block immigrant
the mother of four beautiful children
she clashes with the detriment of money
which filters back to champagne of that red lipstick,
the silver tailored suit a million floors above
encased within their own skeleton
they peel their skin so not to feel a thing
stuffed in a daycare tabooed because of its door handle
touched by mothers working wage to meet end's meet
children skipping their shoes
on the stains of the concrete underneath their feet
and not realizing a thing
the mother bustles through
alone but surrounded by grease
seething into the cracks of her heels
while her children grows by the tick
into the template configured by society
the smear of red lipstick
the wrinkle in the silver tailored suit
the system of trickle down economy
have gone down the throats of so many lives
as a diluted joker waving a flag sewn with white
this age of decadence
chooses to blind its kin
reality has been remodeled
into a Hollywood basement
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
a lonely nightingale
laments tunelessly at midnight,
a stiff tone echoing in this empty shop.
the metal resonates with sympathy.
outraged by her clamouring:
bribed her food pellets for silence.
she croons less unbearably now,
but with the same wistful eyes.
she beckons with her broken beak,
she longs for life beyond a cage,
watches my relenting eyes,
the sympathy residing in me.
to free or not to free this child?
i think her life deserves much more.
with a tinge of hesitance and of worry:
a lonely nightingale i free
she bustles in the shop with freedom,
her wings still unaccustomed to air.
her croon has sprouted into an anthem,
she circles the cage and bids goodbye
until she reached the window ,
and is re-greeted by cold metal grilles:
reminded of endless entrapment…
she finds herself still contained.
the way i see it,
she will never be free
until she lies
in the arms of death.
sympathetic human i am,
i picked a nearby tool of freedom,
plunged it into her heart,
and freed her eternally.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
There's no such thing as incognito
(I + Outside = Eyes) when
Beetles stall with headlights like lamps
And street-bustles are littered with head-lights.
(colours x two = terror)
Current thoughts buzz hidden by swarms
Of awkward car crashes on side roads.
(specimen + street = analysed 'I')
Skin stretches tight dried out under
X rays and equations.
(expressions as such hit like irony
a certain lens is needed = answers)
my answer is not incognito.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
****** on by bonny dogs
and soaked by the fog
that clipped back the grass round its base
and the face of it
was a lamp that lit up the dark.
Standing soulfully lame
with a name quite generic
and in a cobbled street so specific to the
Lancashire town.
As night comes down across the Pennines
and the lads on the late shift go back down the mines
the warm light remembers more times than it cares too
now old
past its prime
it stands a monument to the time
when ladies in bustles
bustled past
casting shadows it seemingly grows
or is that my imagination?
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC