"errands" poems
Mr. handsome stranger
He’s coming after
Desperate like a last request
Frantic delusional lunatic
Unhinged fragile losing what’s left
Self serving sadomasochistic
Easy on the eyes but doesn’t quite fit in
Playing it cool in social situations
His intelligent banter he claims as his own
With somewhat smart comebacks he practiced at home
Trying so hard that the sweat beads down
Onto his stressed wrinkled furrowed brow
the stories he skillfully misdirected
Carefully darting unwanted questions
Mr. Indiscreet can’t blow his cover
Disarm the girl of his unrealistic dreams
How quite average and normal he can be
Mr. Stalker walks over to the Girl
works up the courage and talks to her
Strikes up a witty conversation
With his movie star smile and education
Using the words that he pre rehearsed
Says all the right things and compliments her
Looking past his rather peculiar behavior
And when politely asked gives up her number
He rings her up the very next day
With a romantic scenic picnic date
Under the shade of a lush green tree
Upon a blanket with wine and cheese
Playing the part of the handsome boyfriend
Gains her full trust and faith in him
Joking in a effort to make her laugh
To put her at ease and follow his plan
Jealous of her ex boyfriends
Knowing their names and full address
And when he drops her off at home
Tracks and follows her every move
Knows all her weekly kept routines
Threatens and blackmails all her friends
Studies everyday mundane errands
Unaware of his decent into madness
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
For too long I've worked
Run errands not shirked
I've obeyed the rules
Done with work, down tools
Almost end of day
Yaahaa! It's Friday!
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
Look, stranger, at this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.
Here at the small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam, and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the ****
ing surf,
and the gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.
Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands;
And the full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.
10.8k
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone;
Let your motivation shine through creation,
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
I’ve passed up jobs, errands and even the unknown,
To reminisce on maybe lost elation;
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone.
To hire is to lay desire prone,
Motionless, emotion deviation;
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
Thrice I’ll repeat, for urgency was shown,
Like no vacancy for meditation;
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone.
If a lesson is to be learned and known;
As Dad says, “Honor. Appreciation.”
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
If ever I am lost, misled or thrown
Off my path, I’ll pave with no duration,
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone.
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 9:43 PM UTC
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QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
Like a meme of activism
This women's coalition
Mothers
Sister
Friends
Pioneers and heroines
There's courage in their convictions
A guild of collectivism
They hold luncheons in their kitchens
Talk of abolition
Mysticism
Feminism
Of heroes and magnetism
Seduction
Love
Eroticism
They scream like banshees at a crucifixion
About injustice
Dereliction
Terrorism
A tradition underwritten
With symbolism
Drums
Violins
Musicians
They may be sitting
They may be knitting
Baking muffins
Folding linen
Running errands
Stuffing chickens
A juxtaposition to their ambition
Of inspiring the unwilling
Turning derision to optimism
Their fire and brimstone
Will have history rewritten
Freedom of reproduction
Liberalism
Animism
They have wisdom
Intuition
Rhythm
They are fearsome
This women's coalition
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Were I a companion, in playful heart
To thy aery errands, carried there
As a dead leaf, by the spirits of the wind.
That this rocky cleft, and its blue dress of dew
May tell my senses a murmur, a tale
That faith in wonderous things may faint,
And unravel what belief dares not paint.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet,
And whither then? I cannot say.
5.4k
*she just shakes her head
she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance,
in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night,
I greet her with words semi-adventurous -
“come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company”
to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve
lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some
kids appear, a surprise omen as they come
trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving
the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer
in his native Bangla
she asks “what’s that he’s saying?”
“Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and
may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune”
she just shakes her head, from side to side
emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”
she asks, “who is that?”
“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’
she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where you buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”
but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side
I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house,
the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop
a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment
a secret elevator which is under the direction of
Bimal from Nepal,
who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor)
I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys
now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging,
she just shakes her head, from side to side
later she says:
“let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise,
some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue,
known for its aphrodisiacal powers
afterwards,
you must tell me each dishes name,
in its tongue’s nativity,
but much, much later,”
and as she speaks, grinning,
she sticks out her tongue,
while she just shakes her head,
but this time,
up
and
down
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
Before sleep I knot a paper tag
to my big toe with baling twine.
Sometimes I think of stapling it -
ritual wants a clean edge.
She tolerates my oddities:
a posterboard of errands above the sink,
tea mug with its brown ring I refuse to clean,
I stand too close when the train arrives,
or climb ladders with one hand full.
Last summer a rogue wave flung me under;
I surfaced broken, collarbone split,
came home wrapped and aching.
She kissed the bruise and laughed,
as if I’d slipped the ocean’s grip,
as if the sea had lost its claim.
I call them accidents to sleep easier,
yet I flood the stove with gas,
strike a match, laugh at the plume,
convinced the fire means I’m alive
even as it scorches my hand.
At night she circles the bed,
tugging at my toe tag
as if it could bind me to her,
carrying me into the cabin,
a weight she won’t release.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 1:44 PM UTC
Letting off your despair,
looking ever so lovely today.
Let me run errands with my fingers
throughout your entire hair.
Those afro and curls,
how can I make you my girl?
What I see is what I get.
And once I have it, I won't regret.
Let go, and let go of your hair.
Seems wild to others, but tame in my eyes.
Running thoughts running in your hair,
telling me what's on your mind.
Going round and round with words,
tying knots to an issue with your curls.
Always to get on your nerves,
for speaking in vein of how I'm in love with your Afro & Curls.
Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
Late for work.
That annoying person.
Errands, here and there.
Chaos.
Temperance.
Pressure...more pressure.
My head is spinning
Deadlines and challenges.
I want to give up.
I step outside to run from it all.
I am still seething with anger.
Silence.
Then I see your face.
Your hand in mine.
And everything just fade into the dark.
My sanctuary.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.
List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing
An’ close thy e’e?
Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.
2.6k
Alone with this desk,
And a notebook chock-fulled with paper;
Endless.. he chomp everything away.
Things truly aren’t easy,
The silence makes it harder.
Hey music, fill the air;
For not all truths,
But laughs of frauds may break out.
Just like the old days.
Just like the lady boss,
Just..maybe.
There should be dancing all around,
Where crowds should chip in
And take things in stern.
Errands were not decors –
Trespass! Like mini ciphers,
Digits, letters, they knock the drill out.
Only a couple more days left,
But in ignominy,
This generation may fall;
How pitiable..
With such marks and inkblots,
The source remains unrecognized.
They’re used to seize papers like that,
Although such are committing theft already.
Left were words,
Can’t spell it unerringly;
Yet the hearsays divulged its address,
So now, it’s time to slam this tome;
End the toil that has always been the crook!
Go outside,
For the sun’s rays are there!
Goodbye to this aged chair,
And to this notebook full of nicks,
With new freedom,
We shall embrace..
Everything.. “Ciao” to what’s new,
‘Coz this is the real world!
Oh college days!
(7/25/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
At what point
would I take for granted
those crystal waters
and those consecrated mountains?
Yet there are days still spent
dreading sundown
or the sleepless daybreak
of a grieving city
Does escaping your hometown
make you a coward or
shall I die a martyr?
Might I pencil in a visit to each grave?
Or would you like to deliver
the flowers
for me?
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC
It was the early days of the organic food craze
and my wife, ever a slave to the latest fads
(which disposition sometimes benefitted me pleasurably
but mostly cost me dearly)
made me run on an errand
(like: “Fido – go, fetch!”)
to get some organic vegetables
and arriving, I blurted out to the produce guy, stumbling:
*“Some ****** for my wife”* –
and that wise guy, Oxford-educated as he was
(though a failed Professor, so ended up at the greengrocer’s)
he said: *“That you must induce or encourage in your wife, Sir;
I cannot and will not be of service in that connection.”*
And I slowed down and I said:
“Well, dear fellow – for my wife, have you any organic vegetables?”
And Oxford-educated as he was, he did not understand such fads
having mostly a sedate and Classical demeanour
and he pointed his most English nose to the air;
and so I attempted again to sensible-phrase my inquiry:
*“Are your vegetables -
and this I ask on account of my esteemed wife -
sprayed with poisonous chemicals?”*
And the Oxford guy apprehended now, and he pronounced:
*“Poisonous chemicals for your spouse
you must procure yourself, Sir”*
Now, that was an idea. I knew Oxford-educated guys
were smart in some way or other.
And since then I have been free of my wife.
I have no need to run on errands for no baby, no more;
though I do have to count bars,
limited as my numerical skills are,
as is my verbal proficiency.
And the Oxford guy, meanwhile, I have it from the grapevine,
has set up an ******** Food Chain Store*, worldwide;
I knew he’d go places, sooner or later, far and global
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Tottering across her farmhouse floor,
Fixing breakfast,
Baking muffins,
Frying liver and onions,
Caring for her "boys";
Sitting on her purple walking chair,
Asking how the cattle are,
And what I'm going out today to do;
She's crippled up, but she's not through.
She barely has the "oomph" these days
To lift her legs into the truck,
Her body hunched over,
Head barely at the window level,
To ride to town to see the doctor
Or go to church and wait
While I shop and run my errands,
Before we head back home again.
Things move slowly now as time grows short;
The walker crawls across the floor;
Simple tasks become her tedious chores,
But still she cooks and cleans between short naps.
She worries more, but I have watched her praying,
Sitting by her bed, hair up in a cap,
Squinting hard to read her Bible,
Lips moving as she goes to prayer...
My name and many others whispered there.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
The climate in the
World may change
But it will never
Change me
not for a moment
I truly have the most
amazing life ,
Couldn’t be any better
I get up every morning
Next to this gorgeous
amazing woman
Get my morning kiss
Maybe a few morning kisses
in my open mouth
If you get my drift
Cause you know I’m in love
Sit back in the back patio porch
Listening to Mother Nature’s
Performance
while reading hellopoetry
Few minutes later
I told my lady I had to
Go run some errands
Not realizing yet
What’s up ahead,
Arrived and
While in line at Chrispy kreme’s
A little boy about 5 years of age
Loosing his mind over some
Chocolate frosted
Mother and father told him
They couldn’t afford it
They were only there for coffee
Little boy started
crying hysterically
My Heart Cries out for him
And chivalrously I’ve waited
in line right behind them
Just couldn’t allow
That to take place
I told dad if it was okay
I would love to buy the boy
a dozen chocolate frosted
He accepted and gave
me a hand shake
Mom teared up and dad
wouldn’t Stop thinking me
I hate seeing good
People like this
But anyway,
What an awesome moment
A moment of love sharing
And here’s the most
Amazing part of
my early morning outside
Of my morning kisses
I got the longest hug
From the little man
A handshake
From dad
And a kiss on the cheek
From mom
What can be any better
Than the life I live
I do what I want
And it’s mostly
Helping other people
That’s all that matters.
Having meanings in
Other people’s lives
Fulfills me ,
And what more
Can I say ,
My perfect
Morning
I live life
For the inexplicable
Moment
Life is love and love
Always gives
ALWAYS
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
House of cards,
Little space.
"Draw the curtains,"
Happy place.
On the swings,
Gentle push.
"Touch the sky!"
Fleeting whoosh.
Running some errands,
Busy afternoon.
Grocery store music,
Catchy tune.
Quiet back alley,
Stabbing knife.
Laying on pavement,
Doubting life.
Cold storm strikes,
Washing away.
Sigh after sigh,
Feelings betray.
Dreary minutes pass,
Eyes blear.
Urge to cry,
Prisoner tear.
Ghostly vibe pulsates,
Hopes high.
One last breath,
Say goodbye.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 9:38 PM UTC
If you have never seen a baby dream,
you know nothing bout longing;
About missing a divine place to come here.
Such innocence swaddled in such a small body without control.
They communicate with God
more effectively than any prayer I’ve ever heard.
So take a lesson from babies and children
to learn how to really be men
With a racing heart that should be in a marathoner,
he struggles to open his eyes and wake.
Their heavy breathing is the only sign of the errands
they still run in heaven.
They quiver their lips as if to tell you a secret only God knows,
but has been dying to share – he just needed more innocent lips
When their eyes close they revisit that heaven they just left;
seeing more than our eyes could ever tell
In their inexperienced bodies their eternal spirits struggle to move
Even as my arm goes numb
he’s the only thing that I should be holding in that moment
His sweetness makes me want to be a little bit... more
As I think “what will you be one day?”
I realize it doesn’t matter
That today he makes me a little better
The first time he squeezed my hand I knew it was God
who picked us a millennia ago
to live this life as uncle and nephew
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
the sun rises
birds sing
cars ignite into life
sky lightens with the dawn
could be rain could be shine
people populate streets
work calls
school and errands to run
a day like any other
except today is my birthday
when this whole miracle began
the sun rising
birds singing
cars revving
sky lightening
people to and froing
for the first time
in my existence
a long time ago
it is all still a miracle
just now I don't notice so much
because it is getting closer
to it's end
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 8:25 PM UTC
Our fleeting presence
Across this cosmic path
Life’s enormous
We, but minuscule travelers
Running errands
One destination, many situations
Challenges and trials
New visitors, ancient places
Unknown fellow travelers
Learning and unlearning
None of us aware
About the origins
Pursuing relentlessly
For answers that elude us
Our errands shall end
Our presence will be
Wiped away by the winds
Nature’s being
Shall return to nature
This cosmic enigma is constant
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
After dropping her child at school
the day was a dream only hers
when she could make her own rule
follow it for all those hours.
She would sit on some house terrace
see the busy steps passing by
trying to gauge from their pace
the errands written in their eyes.
She would watch the life of birds
amused how they labored for a nest
and when falling day drew homeward
folded sunned wings into rest.
Spread her eyes beyond the concrete
above the trees far into the haze
where young kites were taught flying feat
by mothers circling the summer blaze.
Everyday all things were renewed
seasons rolled a movie before her
all that even though already viewed
was never bereft of a sense of wonder.
How her hours flew was not known
days turned to years as a rule
her child in no time was grown
no more she needed to go to school.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC