"fairs" poems
Small town people
Small town minds
Gossip turn sour
No secrets left behind
Small town girls
Small town boys
Turn off the lights
Lock up your toys
Small town crimes
Small town night
Light up the fires
Creeps into sight
Small town games
Small town sins
Newlywed murders
Takes it on the chin
Small town stories
Small town fairs
Drowning in the lake
Nobody cares
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.
It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.
Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.
So lucky am I having a ringside
seat, watching yet another family
generation ascend and grow,
Football and basket ball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.
Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.
Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.
All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,
my reasons for being?
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
I come from sunlight,
The sweeping of leaves,
South London streets,
Lurburnum seeds;
Hot semolina,
A spoonful of jam,
Hands full of gooseberries,
That's who I am.
I come from rose petals,
The sound of the fairs,
The smell of candyfloss
Mist in the air;
I come from warmth,
My parents hands,
Outings to parks,
Both small and grand.
I come from knowledge,
True and false,
From nursery rhymes,
And stories and pictures of God;
I come from gentleness,
A quiet afternoon,
From visions of loveliness,
Sewn on a spool.
I come from two worlds,
With different ways,
A threaded pearl necklace,
And sensible soles
A mother and father,
I think I knew,
I came and I wandered,
I looked at the view.
By Mary **
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
~~
The soft chill winds
a cloudy day
ah! what a feeling!
drifting with the streams
how the life instills!
Waves of song coming from the distant
white Storks flying as the fall guy
how the dreams come and go
between you and me
between the land and sea
In the sky rafts of white clouds
crafts the arrival of autumn
assuming the flame of Love
what a beautiful play!
what a fairs of tune!
~~
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
The end of summer is such a ******
The end of picnic's in the park
The end of Fireworks in the dark
The end of State fairs
The end of outdoor booths were people sell their wares
The end of camping and roasting Smores
All too soon we will back indoors
The end of outdoor Music Fests
Too soon to be replaced with books and taking tests
I hope what remains is some good memories of Summer to keep us warm all fall and winter long
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Pilsner cap switch blade
tie dye and piccolo
greasers and freaks
with platform feet
muscling in
on the bow legged hoofer
tapping
Bursey Hill Tram
Diamond tuft console
mullets n' ****
angels and saints
(unrestrained)
appropriately trimmed
as 3 mile wreaks havoc
on the nickers and
fighters of penn
Bangers and home boys
hookahs and sheiks
hostile geeks
breaking knuckles and jaws
on the caners and skinners
who are locked
and grinding the root
Desert boot foothills
boardwalk jeans
rainbows and sea fairs
and psychedelic dreams
(the platinum queens
jamming it hard
on the jade room floor)
8 tracks
and fender packs
the hottest summer days
psychedelic haze
center hall, graffiti scrawl
(sinister yet refined!)
covering the subtle
yet striking third ****
Brunswick cues
and red man chew
350 blocks
(on a solid Chevy - stock)
monkeys and beatles
and laugh in scenes
pastel dreams
from the long and coveted
velvet scroll
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
Your hair is thick and dark
evergreen branches that glide
against lilac petals
made of powdered sugar.
I wish your hands were not so rough,
when you mold my body out of clay
you leave divots, not as deep
as tire tracks in snow
but tiny deer prints
left behind in secret
the kind where the mystery
makes you follow them into the thicket.
Strum that song again,
the one you played, laughing
at the silliness of knowing
every chord, even though we both
silently love it. Don't talk to me
about intimacy problems
because you know I would have
loved you, more
then children with fried dough
the kind that comes from county
fairs
and you can't look at me
like that, with painful eyes
'cause we're both guilty.
What happens to women without
men?
Running fingers over bare
hills, hoping to once again
be covered with fur trees
thick and dark. So catch me
with those that match
your pea coat that smells
sweetly of cigarettes
and stories only known
by haylofts and cotton pillows.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:11 PM UTC
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
You aren't big ****
'till you're on a stick,
not even legitimate
like gator, hotdogs, sausage and chicken.
A stick gets your mouth waterin'
and your tongue lickin'
you can get your veggies on a shish-kabob
and cotton candy handed to you at any sport
or circus,
we even got religious services about servin'
this person on a stick!
Wanna be famous? Get your wish
and put somethin' on a stick--
the get rich quick types stick 'em up their ***
while the rest of us gather
at fairs and carnivals to mindlessly laugh
at jugglers, clowns and ride circular rides.
All the while snackin' on somethin' on a stick.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
Butterflies in the day
Fireflies at night
Adding more beauty to my surrounding
Here in the middle of July
People head for the pools to splash around
The laughter of children what a beautiful sound
People lathering up and soaking up the sun
The middle of July; everybody is having fun
There are concerts and festivals, state and county fairs
Summertime fun can be found almost everywhere
Amusement parks and swimming during the day
Campfires and outdoors concerts at night
What a beautiful month; the month of July
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
You want me to talk, Sir?
I’d relax and you can paint better, Sir?
Maybe, Sir…maybe, but what shall I say, Sir?
For I am not used to talking
to important people like you, Sir…
Why do you laugh, Sir?
It is true, I’m just a girl from the village, Sir
attending to Laxmi and Ganga –
those are our family cows, Sir;
and I milk them; and my father
and I bring the milk to the market
and to neighbors who can afford to pay for them…
We don’t carry them in these fancy pots Sir,
you make me pose with
but just earthen jars, Sir…
But this morning, Sir, my father said to me:
*Come, Mina – you shall pose for a famous artist;
India has never seen such an artist
and he shall pay well
and perhaps with that I shall buy a third cow;
three neighbors owe us money
and will never return them in this life;
and the old woman in the sixth house has died
owing us money for these last four years…
You just have to stand there
before the artist in your cleanest sari
and use borrowed milk pots…*
And that is what my father said, Sir…
I normally don’t dress in such clean clothes, Sir;
the saris I have are saris my mum used
but she died when I was little, Sir…
Sir? You want me to keep talking…but I am boring, Sir
and I talk simple words and I am sure you’ve heard…
Oh Sir, I’m more used to talking to cows
than important men, Sir…
All right Sir, I will tell you…I will tell you…
I do have dreams, Sir
and it is just the dream of all the
girls in my village:
I’d like new saris and jewels
and I’d like to be married
before the year ends;
Arun from the next village
always looks at me
in our town fairs
and Oh, would that he’d marry me
and we’d have a home and a farm and cows
and we’d have children
and we’d live our quiet lives
in our secluded village…
Sir, that is my dream…I have nothing more to say, Sir…
I hope you are done…
Or maybe you should talk, Sir…
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:55 PM UTC
~~
Then it became a blue afternoon
while came to evening
They were the realities of her farewell
Glowed in the dark blue,
what an abstract shadow cast!
Floating Autumn Clouds,
away the red hibiscus grew gray
heard a vague weird tune
Then one morning
Along with a purple flower
red hibiscus saw inset
and the dark chorus of a clay oven
covered her face
away in the loft several gourd hanging
walking,
walking down the way
at the end,
stood beneath a banyan tree
Doors opened in the silence
southern wind followed
to move in the room
randomized the bed cover,
poetry books,
morning news paper
while closed the door
opened the northern windows
The tireless long night
while I left the room,
wandering as the lonely clouds
went through the garden
where the sky came down
wanted to say life
walked on foot
A long sleepless night
saw the stars fairs
heard a vague weird tune
At that April's night,
Caught the sight of
dry dropping leaves
The smell of gardenia
to bring me the new ideas
of poetry
touched the sky
wandering on a raft of clouds
filled with
see you decided to
Then it all went down together
in the dark with blue
anyhow a golden sun bought
a yellow day
and all the red flamboyant trees
singing
while standing beside
the two sides of the road
with the wind in breath,
my dying
And instead of go with them
mingled the ways of life is changed
when the ways rolled along a curve
One January morning's mist
coming off the sun on the dew
I liked to walk barefoot
in the soft sun
with a woolen blanket covering
At noon,
the river flowing
with streaming sound
took flock a small Sampan
toward upstream
uprising mind grew cool
with stream
Today is just going to get lost
beyond the horizon
Feel to see back,
Slowly known nature
grew small with time,
after some times
shadows mingled
with a dark space
While came the night
Footprints remain in the dust
of shadows
after millions of years
to become fossils
In the mind and
In the deep heart of
the Milky Way
Her fade face is still
to come and go
Over time,
in terms of conservation
of energy
Again when I opened the window
At a long sleepless night
Saw the stars fairs
Heard a vague weird tune
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
2.5k
I am from jumping from school to school, making new friends and trying to keep old
From long car rides on deserted streets late at night, through rain and snow, words coming through the speakers nice and low
From a big family that always talks and chatters, laughing and making jokes that no one else can say
I am from state fairs that tempt you with sweet food and amazing memories forever in your thoughts
From camps where I learn to write like my brain is on fire and how I am ‘normal’ even with my condition
From shots of insulin, needles piercing my skin and blood sugar tests ten times a day, wearing my calluses with pride
I am from colors filling the pages as my hands move quickly across the paper, making outlines and shadows, filling whats left with color
From writing like crazy, my mind never stopping with the ideas that flood it daily
From writers calluses and the pounding of keys as I try to get my ideas down before they leave
I am from not being athletic, but still being active, running and letting myself be free
From my feet hitting the ground, my legs aching as I just run my heart out
From crossing the finish line with a smile on my face and a finish in my heart
I am from church full of people who love me like their own and help me with my faith
From a community that helps me learn more and help move others
From a group of people that wants me to be my best and is a second family to me
I am from a family of many, who are all so diverse
From my parents who couldn’t be more different and my siblings who I couldn’t love more
From my nephew who already is just like his auntie Jess
I am from a group of close knit friends who are more like family
From friends who constantly tease me for the little things I do
From family who may not be related but still loves me the same
I am from relatives and friends who live close and far
From some I only talk to when I must, and others I talk to everyday
But, I am especially from people who love and care for me
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 4:25 PM UTC
just living
is a rebellion
the singing and the screaming
collide into one
each day
I work for someone
who I do not know
I give them money every day
because we all have to pay
just for living
the composer turns his hand
he asks for us to stand
and we do
as the sitter is exiled
and the new rules are filed
we look to the stars
a world in denial
to freedom
who’s your father
beg for martyrs
because we all
do nothing
at all
like hermits in a shell
inside the cage
we walk the streets
and work the wage
circles of beings
and tireless days of occurrences
with brand new acquaintances
living just the way
they were yesterday
giving everything
to someone above us
equality irrelevant
I don’t like the smell of it
something’s gone cold
we all grow old
let us all blossom the way we desire
be the pet’s owner
that sets the pet free
look in the eyes
of a soul
and let it be
we will surely be thankful
for all the degrees
a smile and laughter
will come from beneath
take off your role
throw in your sheets
uncover your lost soul
find what you need
powerless fusion of hope
grind your teeth down
do what you please
no stress over spilt milk
we are the meek
don’t open your mouth
simply to speak
say something worthwhile
or silence indeed
waking on pillows
justice to sleep
with a head so heavy
that it is light
and a dance so quick
that it goes something like
rapid melodies drifting
into a time
a time that is new
something that’s right
with wishful thinking
you gain delight
but think or think not
I know what I don’t want to know
it fairs me well
while you fancy the rest
the drill is in the ground
just close your eyes
don’t make a sound
give out a smile
come hang around
because just living
is a rebellion
each day
I work for someone
I don’t even know
I still walk with my feet
for now
even though
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Why, Pigot, complain
Of this damsel’s disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try,
Yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.
Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile,
She shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.
For such are the airs
Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
Yet a partial neglect
Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain,
And lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;
If again you shall sigh,
She no more will deny,
That yours is the rosy coquette.
If still, from false pride,
Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical ****** forget;
Some other admire,
Who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.
For me, I adore
Some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral,
I’d abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming coquette.
No longer repine,
Adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net!
Away with despair,
No longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.
Then quit her, my friend!
Your ***** defend,
Ere quite with her snares you’re beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incens’d by the smart,
Should lead you to curse the coquette.
1.4k
The yards are empty.
only dirt and other detritus
clutter the mid-morning landscape.
There are no children
outside laughing and playing
running red rover over
the black tops on Saturday morning.
There are no parents smiling,
leaning on the old siding,
while the funny false teeth
wearing grandfather
tells stories to the younglings
about the old days.
Silence is the norm.
The fish fries, family reunions,
fairs, carnivals, and circuses
no longer make this circuit.
The gas station, and grocer’s
are boarded up
leaving only a lonely trail of
house after house
sprouting weeds and vacancy signs.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
Pritzle-prang and maple dots,
cafe laughter-doon,
the other-spike of apres-lots
sleeps til half past noon.
I'm lost in fortune reading fairs,
the merry scent of loss,
don't share the fours with Aldebarks,
he vents the gainers toss.
Regard the ring with slower-stares-
the dwarven clowns at play,
the toffee apple wrestle fit
makes ache, a night for day.
The painted lips, the glower lakes,
some girls, for sell, for rye,
no chance to take, Ms. Rosenhips.
I'll leave the half-sheets dry.
So sickly-sweet with menalgaze,
with waste, with fear, with fleas.
No elephants, to drag me through.
This circus is not for me.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
i can watch the
clock on your
dashboard
turning
backwards
the hands going
the wrong direction
it's rare to find a
analogue timepiece
in a car nowadays
even rarer to find one
that goes in retrograde.
and all i can think
about is that i'm not
happy but i'm more
settled inside
isn't it sad
to be living only
in hopes of your
expiration date?
yes
yes it is.
i'm missing last winter
just a little
how safe it felt to be
your shotgun rider
with that perfect and slightly
annoying thirty minute mashup
fifteen minutes there
fifteen minutes back
anxious to leave
anxious to get home
to get into another van
one that wasn't stifled
i was your
shotgun rider
for monday afternoons
and drives to craft fairs
the ball and our own
educational funeral.
*(can we petition
to rename
graduations to
educational funerals?)*
i miss the old days
when mondays were happy
not anxious
or empty
thinking back on it
we spent too much time
in the back corner booth
of the doughnut shop chain
up on the east hill outside of town
and the coffee wasn't even good
i wish we had just gone to the
grocery store and
got some of that perfect
creamline milk you never shake.
i don't remember
the day i looked
on the label of the
jug and read the date
and it very clearly
was stamped with an
expiration of next
september
but when i tasted it
it had all gone sour
and i wondered how
painful it could be
to throw milk
out early
so i'm leaving it
in the fridge
until autumn
rolls around
just thinking
about how sad
it is to be living
with the hope of dying
but don't people do
the exact same thing?
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
I am writing the last chapter. State fairs and musicals fill the city. A season for leaving is coming. The symptoms start to appear: endless music, parades, parties, carnavales, vacaciones. We soak our dreams in alcohol and hang them to dry. Smoke our **** trying to forget. They told me not to look back in anger but it looks the same in every city. She was all I’ve had, Maria. I met her in the trail of broken ankles. Or maybe it was in the woods, what’s the difference? Now, she has become a replaceable friend. I won’t grief, instead I’ll go out and shoot a star. Yesterday I saw her for the last time. It is the final level; she gives me a wine glass and I zip it down putting everything away. Time as a window, I try to fight this urge. All this moments will become deaf photographs, just a printed memory–a life of separated realities. I will just keep packing my suitcase chasing shadows. I drink and tell stories, some call it fantasy but I just bent over life and practice witchcraft. I am just tired of watching all the flowers turn to stone. I am afraid I will drift into words.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
I.
Somewhere in a mailroom in China
is my acceptance letter to
Brown University,
fluttering in the
sticky, smog-filled wind like an
unspoken birthright,
vacuum sealed in some shoddy warehouse,
slap-banged next to my father's
porcelain wares and flasks – and my grandfather's,
and his father's. "Son,"
my father tells me,
"you've got a lot of the old man in you.
"I am grateful."
I then retch
in the dingy comfort
of our hotel room bath
before proceeding to lunch.
Dad's Chinese counterparts
congratulate me on
being able to tell them what I
want to do when I grow up.
"Wo yao dang yi ge shangren – zhu fu."
“I want to become a businessman – get rich.”
II.
"Wo xuyao xiezuo."
“I must write.”
TS Eliot once asked me,
"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
I do not know yet,
but I think I have found fragments
of an answer lodged in
hotel bathrooms,
a Tianhe-bound overpass
on the way to Beijing Street,
heirloom warehouses,
And two Canton fairs.
"To get rich is glorious,"
Deng Xiaoping once said.
But I glance at
My father and mother,
And theirs,
And wonder if all their life, they have but
knocked on the doors of their fate -
chased dreams not
tobacco stewed or gold-ground
by the teeth of an Other.
As to answer your question, T.S Eliot:
Maybe, if just to find where I truly belong.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
No more book fairs or tours
no autographs signed
My words are my gift
the privacy mine
No talk shows or fetes
New York Times to eschew
Questions unanswered
—my thoughts unreviewed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2018)
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
/
Where did the colors of
Why color renditions!
Are you trying to paint your dreams?
Indeed, the stars in the sky to Hold Fairs
Look at the Open Sky
Like a white canvas
You draw all your dreams together
I'll see you in the new dream date
I'll come back in the afternoon
To see your painting
Do you need anymore color?
I have a lot of
But I'm not a Painter
I want to see your painting,
Would be lost
Want to be a kite in the sky were
Then came Evenings
I think today
Evening Star will be appeared
Walk with thought,
Sometimes the simplest ways is to think hard
The nearest ones are distant
Restless mind
Edgy eyes
Keep eyes on Canvas
Ouch is it!
Oh,Why is this canvas colored in dark!
Ah,Why the sky is shaded with clouds!
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
I know he didn't leave bruises on your body,
But when I grazed my fingertips along your thigh
I felt him there
For a moment I watched his blackness bleed into your blue veins;
I couldn't stop it from poisoning your bloodstream
And transforming your perfect ivory skin into
His very own art piece,
Every brush stroke
Was drenched in a rich mauve
And you became his blank canvas.
Everybody says they'd like to be compared to the universe
But as I sat beside you
I watched the sky transform before me:
You,
A bright blue,
With warm eyes and sun rays for smiles
A cotton candy pink,
One that reminds you of childhood and fairs
A golden orange
That makes the sky look as if heaven is pouring down on earth;
You we're burning your brightest
Until finally,
You began to fade into a soft periwinkle.
And from there the sky grew into a dark mauve
Leaving every witness speechless at the sight.
His purple dipped paintbrush covered your body;
You we're speechless.
But he didn't stop, his masterpiece wasn't complete-
So he drenched you in such a deep violet that you became black
And I watched the universe open up before me;
Beckoning me to come inside
Your darkness or your depth did not discourage me,
You became my favorite shade;
A never ending sunset,
A sky filled with promise and hope
Even after the darkest of nights
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC