"byways" poems
This salt
in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a broken
voice,
a mournful
song.
In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.
12.3k
High on the mountain,
I’m all alone,
Sittin’ by the river,
Water splashin’ on the stones;
As mornin’ fills the valley
Where before, the night was hung,
I wake up from the wine
But the pines block-out the sun
And the rain ain’t pleasin’,
And the cold is on the ground,
And strung-out on the byways
All the highwaymen stand round;
And above the crooked timber,
All the whippoorwills fly blue,
And they sing a song so lonesome,
Can’t you hear it comin’ thru?
Or did you decide
That you’ve gone deaf and blind
And I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, you just sigh,
As I wonder why I keep on
Tryin’ to get to you;
it’s no use…
There at your window,
Leanin’ on the ledge,
Y’got ‘em tryin’ to beat the blade
With a nine-pound sledge;
Y’got ‘em workin’ on a building,
Ev’ry carpenter in town;
Well if I had it my way
I would tear that building down
But it won’t get done
All I could ever win’s been won;
And I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, you won’t cry,
But will you try, if I die
While tryin’ to get to you, to
Bury Me in Georgia
Next to you
After all that I’ve been had
You’d think that I’d go mad,
But my anticipation
Outweighs my lack of patience;
‘Cause I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, so
Bury Me in Georgia
Next to you
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.
late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation
purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight
all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven
My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.
a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan
She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.
pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma
It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven
my love brought
me tranquility.
my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan**
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Here is a voice that soundeth low and far
And lyricvoice of wind among the pines,
Where the untroubled, glimmering waters are,
And sunlight seldom shines.
Elusive shadows linger shyly here,
And wood-flowers blow, like pale, sweet spirit-bloom,
And white, slim birches whisper, mirrored clear
In the pool's lucent gloom.
Here Pan might pipe, or wandering dryad kneel
To view her loveliness beside the brim,
Or laughing wood-nymphs from the byways steal
To dance around its rim.
'Tis such a witching spot as might beseem
A seeker for young friendship's trysting place,
Or lover yielding to the immortal dream
Of one beloved face.
2.3k
*Contemporary
some youth are wary
of the claims of
professions out there..
these seem to wrap
handcuff and chain..
a desperate need
for gifted tutelage
to locate precious
solitude..
knowing then that
each profession's byways
spring from this
place...*
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
down the main drag of our town
the thundering sound of motor bikes did resound
folks in our town rushed out doors
to see what was making such an almighty roar
the bikers were on their monthly charity rally
they stopped at the local pub owned by John O'Malley
they partook of a ration of ale
whilst filling their donation pails
after an interlude in our small township
they straddled their chrome plated Harley ships
to ride along the country byways
on this most magnificent autumn day
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
To you,
Where your smile meets the gaze
Of blizzard-still byways -
I'm scared of losing you somewhere along the lines.
To you,
Buried barriers trickle moonflower skies
Two years apart from being miles away -
I'm scared we'll fall when it's too late.
To you, From me,
A friend who wishes the very least,
To spend a little more chapters in your life.
I'm scared we'll be over before we even start.
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 2:51 PM UTC
Long broken lines
Not even straight
Honk the sound
Yech the smell
The pace is maximus haste
Mr. Earl sing Speedo
Yes indeedo
Death to the left
Yes death to the left
Stay out of the fast lane
Splat
Skid marks abound
Churned rubber flares
Bend and fade to nowhere
Get to work
Do the deal
Shop your brains out
Think not at the wheel
Byways of life
Filled with strife
Where does it lead?
What does it mean?
Lord!
Mercy
Mercy
Merci
Music Selection:
The Cadillacs, Speedo
jbm
GWB
NJ/NYC
10/84
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
What no ears have heard nor eyes have seen
Peppermills and pancakes
Love
like no other poetry
to perceive
the beauty
in life
in pain
in darkness
in sin
What no mind can see nor hearts can hear
The secret
byways and highways
Untold
Unkept
In allways
I've not met you
I've not known
Yet,
in noways and nothing is everything in you.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 9:00 AM UTC
I'd traveled the distant vessels
of many an emptied lake
Sojourned fallow desert paths
praying for ancient rains
Great clouds in graceful conduct
Danced their lonely lover's gait
Quenching thirst of other grounds
With such a timely rain
I found upon a poesy
hidden in the shade
Took them gentle to my breast
to kiss away their pain
In creatures here the loss is felt
In summer sun the byways melt
No place for sacred waters run
When Her decisive motion's done
Placed beyond this bowl of stone
The ordered clasts of city grow
On mausolea of daffodils
Her voice forever ceased to know
The glow of sun in zenith speaks
To Her and me through haze and dream
Through knotted rock and speckled sky
I came undone in Her sweet eyes
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
© 2013 (By Jim Sularz)
Every human knows it’s spark,
a gentle tug, a singing heart.
From unknown isles, an alarming ring,
raining unseen feathers from flailing wings.
An abiding guide, a forgiving strum,
from a single note, to a louder drum.
Along it’s journeyed byways, high above a thorny sea,
is a gilded road followed – to one’s gloried destiny!
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
Fall is an empty street in Rome,
Of byways of dry-leaf stone and moth-haunted hours,
Of market stalls with their over-haggled and fingered rinds,
And melons moiled over and palmed and bruised.
The light blows like once-told ripeness from the basket of fruit.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 9:29 PM UTC
highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams
cry, hopeless woman with desperate voice
fly, sweet freedom and blessed choice
love, loveless loser of selfish means
above, dove-less skies are so unclean
highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams
grieve, gentle child with much remorse
leave, grievous man without recourse
shout, silent heart with much to say
about, hordes of hollow heroes lay
highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
Why do you scurry along life's unlit byways
Your head bowed, fists jammed in your pockets?
To avert calamity? To guarantee success?
Did you miss the turn-off?
In your busyness and inattention
Did you forget to read the signposts?
Lift your eyes from the ground
Slow your pace and stretch the kink from your neck
Do you know where you are?
Unfurl your empty grasp and consult your inner compass
You will find a map etched on the inside of your heart
Do you see the way ahead?
Yes, I thought so.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:21 PM UTC
Up on a hill, I saw a light
In bitter cold December gloom
On frozen roads of windy night
Past avenues of graves and tombs.
I carefully walked, strickened with dread
On rocky paths of ancient years
To byways of the lonely dead
Where midst the trees, they shed their tears.
The winding trail, it took me high
Toward Moose Hill’s haunted mystery
I heard a woman’s eerie cry
That like thin smoke, flowed down to me.
In misty dark, I made my way
And came upon a thorny hedge
On broken paths, as clear as day,
A stone house on a craggy ledge.
She smiled at me beside her door
With sparkling eyes and scarlet hair
A face that made my fires roar
Voluptuous beyond compare.
She bade me then to come inside
And through that door, I quickly raced
White candles glowed on every side
As flames danced in her fireplace.
This spectral siren of the night
Right next to me, her body ******
So mesmerizing with delight
It stirred those burning flames of lust.
The fire in her eyes, it gleamed
We kissed and then she gently spoke
But disappeared, twas just a dream
And in my bedroom, I awoke.
Next morn, I climbed that steep terrain
In hope I'd find her by her door
A pile of rocks, all that remained
Of some old house from years before.
A weathered gravestone stood nearby
I walked to it and then I saw
An epitaph from years gone by
Its worn words shook me to the core:
"In life, they called me Lizabeth
For years lived on that ledge above
Though turned to dust, conquered by death
My spirit lingers here for love".
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
atop merlion at sentosa park
revelling upon the map of singapura
george boole mutters
ditch the crude decimal byways
as he pointed to the binary hi way
atop merlion at sentosa park
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
Wedgwood blue , ethereal body of
my Spring temptress .. Sacred byways of her southern lacustrine dweller
Mourning dove wail , Muscovy duck banter
Shore cherubs prattle in the cattails , zephyrs filled-
with lake whispers
Smooth stones skipped over the kelpies
looking glass
Invisible helpers slay the lunatic bastardization
of day
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
Walking on highways
Lighting as byways
Smiling with sourness
Eyes held distress
High on pills
Dancing on heels
Way is too hazy
Eyes are too blurry
Suffering to self
Squealing to cars
Back home tardily
On bed sadly
Waking up greasy
Back to routine as daily
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC
We shifted speeds on the overpass and spiraled forward into the future.
But I mean, where else would you go?
The byways turned into highways that turned into skyways,
and I fell out of the car every time Id blink.
Open swiftly and the terminal second was subliminal past,
lives Id never known yet felt so full of.
In the car I was whole
human
and heart beats and
didnt need anything
but the wind in the
window
and the lights past
buildings in a
blur.
Somewhere else I was traversing through fate,
guiding lights towards Atlas that he may drop his burden and see.
-P.S.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
License plates...lettered ones that form
words...numbered ones that also form
numeric words.
It's travel amongst years/light years...
so if you are literate, the master will come
to the student that's ready...read!!!
Language as numeric value is confounded
to consensus sweeps...read everywhere!
Language as linguistic value is confounded
to consensus sweeps...read everywhere!
How more ***** can an alien landscape
become?
** highways...and byways!!!
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
You may look for me on Oxford Street
At dawn or dusk or night.
Or downtown where the down-and-outs meet
To drink and sleep and fight.
You may catch my shadow lurking on the curb
In the rainy middle-class suburbs.
(You’ll be chewing on the cud and on the curd,)
And they’ll all think you quite absurd,
And pass you by without a word
Without a care.
You won’t find me.
No, I’m not there.
You might get a glimpse at sundown
Of me and The Sundance Kid,
Riding onto Cape Town,
Or sliding through Madrid,
Or stealing through the byways of Turin –
Winking at the bottom of your glass of bitter gin,
Breathing through your window, on your skin,
Guessing what I think, just like a twin
But I swear,
You won’t find me,
No, I’m not there.
Chase my name to the horizon
Or the shores of Timbuktu;
Just be sure to keep your eyes on
Those two feet in-front of you.
I’ll be biting at your heels,
The stinging citrus scent of the fruit you peel,
The whirling hub of your bicycle wheel,
The hassock you fall upon when you come to kneel
In prayer.
But you won’t find me,
No, I’m not there.
Do not think that I will answer
When you ask or shout or call.
The figure of the folk dancer
Will not be me at all.
I’ll be the one that you’re not looking at,
Sitting in the place where you just sat,
Wiping from my face what you have spat,
Sleeping in every dark empty pocket of every new coat that
You wear.
Oh, you won’t find me,
I’m not there.
In every crowd and every gathering
You will turn around to see
That where I am not standing
Is not where you want to be.
Somewhere between you waking and your sleep
I swim the deepest secrets that you keep,
Silently catching the tears you weep,
In the kitchen cooking the food you eat
Minding what you sow you reap!
I am one step ahead of a sentient sweet
And fair.
But you will not find me.
I am not there.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
The harried life of truck driver ..
An eye witness account of kinetic America
Of supercell thunderstorms , Winter blizzards
The lonely byways of Texas , Oklahoma
Blue ridge mountains of Kentucky and West Virginia
Cornfields of Ohio , Shores of North Carolina ,
the turnpikes of Florida and Pennsylvania ...
To roadside eateries , bob-tailing at six a.m. ..
To family gatherings , special occasions minus a hard working
provider in the picture , running hot , enroute to Baton Rouge and
all points west , trying to make a decent living ...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
There are many "you's" out there, on the highways, byways, freeways. Those that put others in harms way, excercising their egotistical need to be "first in line", "head of the class", so to speak; **** the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" is their rallying cry.
It makes no difference what "YOU" are driving, old vehicle, new vehicle. Perhaps an overly powerful pickup truck, or an SUV, that makes YOU feel IMMORTAL. Ice, snow, rain, dark of night, makes no difference to YOU. Inconsiderate, rude, careless, makes YOU, dangerous. Today is no different, its "all about YOU." Speeding, weaving in and out of traffic, no need for signals, tail-gating, trying to get that vehicle out of YOUR way, because YOU are being "INCONVENIENCED!" YOU, don't care! For this morning, like any other morning, "its all about YOU."
The lights are a bit glaring, as you begin to emerge from that state of unconsciousness, laying in that hospital bed, wondering where you are, who, and why, are those strangers standing around you.
They are the doctors, nurses, first responders, investigators, preparing for your reaction when you're told that the brains of your spouse and children had to be scraped off the pavement with a snow shovel.
You should be proud of yourself. For today is truly,
"All about YOU!"
copyright: richard riddle April 03, 2015
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
In the house of death the old ones chant
strange couplets & mysterious narratives-
that like the tumble-weeds wisp through the picket fence....
& flows, sweeping down the dark byways & pathways.....
echoing out over the empty lawns-
they hold sway, beckoning otherworldly beings.
& on the porch my girlfriend sits
swinging on the lover’s seat
with her long glimmering hair radiant
more luminous than fireflies a glorious raiment-
& as she swings the floorboards creak their own riddle.
A unicorn from the world next-door prances up the gravel road.....
& places his soft enigmatic head upon her lap...
& as she strokes the snow-white curls of his mane.
carresing his horn with her long fingers.
The unicorn closes his eyes & falls asleep-
Trusting in their affinity........
The elms & chestnuts sing
as the stars & moon skinny-dip.
In the throats of their branches
the limbs of the trees begin to leaf....
Surly the world is coming to an end.....
As the huntresses pull up
in the driveway in their pickup trucks.
Humming with their sharp spears:
“so many unicorns from the world next door
are eating up the antique roses of civilization
in the flower beds of providence
Unicorns are emptying our dying fountains.”.
They whisper through the spaces of their teeth....
& as the sky unfolds with alien constellations.
the brook behind the house cries itself bitter-
the bulrushes & the tangleberies,
the rumpleleworte & rhubarb wither
next to the apiary of treachery
& then our the fountains die.....
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC