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Sophie Mar 2022
I am a flower
growing in the way of a footpath,
from a crack in the pavement,
dog ***, human feet shuffling,
bicycle tire spinning

I am a sunflower, glowing
in the morning light.
through sparkling mist,
which sits beside me, feeding
me sweet nothings and soft
droplets.

I am a wild rose,
my thorns are sharp, my
petals are delicate.
My roots reaching,
so deep into the earth,
yet the water has evaporated,
even in those depths, my roots are
cracking,
my hips are drying out.

I am a flower in the middle of a footpath,
I have been trampled and I have
been peed on and biked over.
I am trying to stand up again.
I am trying to stand up again.
Inspired by my habitat restoration work in crowded areas. Watching plants survive being trampled and peed on gives me hope and yet makes me feel so hopeless. How can we expect a flower to bloom after being so abused? It is how I feel about my own life. I have been "abused" many times by others, by life itself. "I am trying to stand up again"
martin Feb 2017
On the side of the country lane a wooden post holds a sign indicating the route of a public footpath. Hardly a mile goes by without passing another one, maybe more. They don't stand out, so common they hardly register as we motor by. Some of us have explored where they lead, others have not.

Some follow hedgerows, ditches; others strike across open fields. Wherever they are, the landowner has a legal obligation to allow free unhindered public access. Growing crops must be cut or sprayed to keep paths clear.

Many of these paths were formed by country folk walking to church, work or market, taking the shortest route across the fields. In 1948 they were recognised and given legal status on the definitive map.

Close to villages the paths are well used. In more remote areas some are barely walked from one year to the next. Even so, they are still legal rights of way.

The celebrated fell wanderer Alfred Wainwright put together his famous Coast to Coast walk by connecting existing rights of way to form a continuous route from the Atlantic to the North Sea, passing through three National Parks.

Almost a kind of accident of history, the footpath network is now a National Treasure.
rhiannon Mar 2019
Once upon a time there was a brave girl called Alison Parker. She was on the way to see her mum Michelle Ramsbottom, when she decided to take a short cut through Wyre Forest.

It wasn’t long before Alison got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Bunny, but Bunny was nowhere to be found! Alison began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Bunny. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a kind werewolf dressed in a black skirt disappearing into the trees.

“How odd!” thought Alison.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed werewolf. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Alison reached a clearing. She found herself surrounded by houses made from different sorts of food. There was a house made from carrots, a house made from biscuits, a house made from cakes and a house made from pancakes.

Alison could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

“Hello!” she called. “Is anybody there?”

Nobody replied.

Alison looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else’s chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Alison a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Bunny!

“Bunny!” shouted Alison. She turned to the witch. “That’s my toy!”

The witch just shrugged.

“Give Bunny back!” cried Alison.

“Not on your nelly!” said the witch.

“At least let Bunny out of that cage!”

Before she could reply, three kind werewolves rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the clearing. Alison recognised the one in the black skirt that she’d seen earlier. The witch seemed to recognise him too.

“Hello Big Werewolf,” said the witch.

“Good morning.” The werewolf noticed Bunny. “Who is this?”

“That’s Bunny,” explained the witch.

“Ooh! Bunny would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!” demanded the werewolf.

The witch shook her head. “Bunny is staying with me.”

“Um… Excuse me…” Alison interrupted. “Bunny lives with me! And not in a cage!”

Big Werewolf ignored her. “Is there nothing you’ll trade?” he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, “I do like to be entertained. I’ll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door.”

Big Werewolf looked at the house made from pancakes and said, “No problem, I could eat an entire house made from pancakes if I wanted to.”

“That’s nothing,” said the next werewolf. “I could eat twohouses.”

“There’s no need to show off,” said the witch. Just eat one front door and I’ll let you have Bunny.”

Alison watched, feeling very worried. She didn’t want the witch to give Bunny to Big Werewolf. She didn’t think Bunny would like living with a kind werewolf, away from her house and all her other toys.

The other two werewolves watched while Big Werewolf put on his bib and withdrew a knife and fork from his pocket.

“I’ll eat this whole house,” said Big Werewolf. “Just you watch!”

Big Werewolf pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from biscuits. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Werewolf started to get bigger – just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of biscuits, he grew to the size of a large snowball – and he was every bit as round.

“Erm… I don’t feel too good,” said Big Werewolf.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He’d grown so round that he could no longer balance!

“Help!” he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Werewolf never finished eating the front door made from biscuits and Bunny remained trapped in the witch’s cage.Average Werewolf stepped up, and approached the house made from cakes.

“I’ll eat this whole house,” said Average Werewolf. “Just you watch!”

Average Werewolf pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. She gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

After a while, Average Werewolf started to look a little queasy. She grew greener…

   …and greener.

A woodcutter walked into the clearing. “What’s this bush doing here?” he asked.

“I’m not a bush, I’m a werewolf!” said Average Werewolf.

“It talks!” exclaimed the woodcutter. “Those talking bushes are the worst kind. I’d better take it away before somebody gets hurt.”

“No! Wait!” cried Average Werewolf, as the woodcutter picked her up. But the woodcutter ignored her cries and carried the werewolf away under his arm.

Average Werewolf never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Bunny remained trapped in the witch’s cage.Little Werewolf stepped up, and approached the house made from pancakes.

“I’ll eat this whole house,” said Little Werewolf. “Just you watch!”

Little Werewolf pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from pancakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

After five or six platefuls, Little Werewolf started to fidget uncomfortably on the spot.

He stopped eating pancakes for a moment, then grabbed another forkful.

But before he could eat it, there came an almighty roar. A bottom burp louder than a rocket taking off, propelled Little Werewolf into the sky.

“Aggghhhhhh!” cried Little Werewolf. “I’m scared of heigh…”

Little Werewolf was never seen again.

Little Werewolf never finished eating the front door made from pancakes and Bunny remained trapped in the witch’s cage.

“That’s it,” said the witch. “I win. I get to keep Bunny.”

“Not so fast,” said Alison. “There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from carrots. And I haven’t had a turn yet.

“I don’t have to give you a turn!” laughed the witch. “My game. My rules.”

The woodcutter’s voice carried through the forest. “I think you should give her a chance. It’s only fair.”

“Fine,” said the witch. “But you saw what happened to the werewolves. She won’t last long.”

“I’ll be right back,” said Alison.

“What?” said the witch. “Where’s your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Bunny back.”

Alison ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from carrots and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Alison sat down on a nearby log.

“You fail!” cackled the witch. “You were supposed to eat the whole door.”

“I haven’t finished,” explained Alison. “I am just waiting for my food to go down.”

When Alison’s food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from carrots. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Alison was down to the final piece of the door made from carrots. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Alison had eaten the entire front door of the house made from carrots.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. “You must have tricked me!” she said. “I don’t reward cheating!”

“I don’t think so!” said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. “This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Bunny or I will chop your broomstick in half.”

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Alison hurried over and grabbed Bunny, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Bunny was unharmed.

Alison thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Michelle. It was starting to get dark.

When Alison got to Michelle’s house, her mum threw her arms around her.

“I was so worried!” cried Michelle. “You are very late.”

As Alison described her day, she could tell that Michelle didn’t believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Michelle.

Alison unwrapped a doorknob made from biscuits. “Pudding!” she said.

Michelle almost fell off her chair.

The End
JP Goss Jan 2014
Light from a prism
These petal’d flo’ers grow
Breath in weighty breaths
Versicolor whispers that quietly follow.
They step alongside you
And spring in veneration
In the alluring prints you left behind,
Like groves from every indentation.
But, it’s the same
Where her footfall goes
--Abreast the creekline
--In grassy seas,
--On the concrete
--In the seconds that pass by me.
I so want,
But one flower
To fill up, reserved for that one fair.
Still, though I grab
For my partnered hand,
Thieves on breezes steal them away
Wilt, as I pluck
Flowers from the footpath
And look ahead
To see no flowers
Wilting nor even dead.
Emily Pidduck Apr 2014
Moon is not beautiful
She doth not shine golden
She drops weakened, white light
on creatures craving sleep

She sits there and stares
At a frightened little world
with her cold, chilling glow
and a hostility deep

It's ingrained in her soul
to make the nimbus look fearsome
ghastly and pale
like a place to hide demons

She debases belief
We forget our star-wish
and thick, we go fishing
at nighttime

And then, Moon releases
a loneliness, cold
and we can't elude
we're stuck in the hole of
This brooding solitude mood
and its tole.

There's no escaping anytime soon
As we start to fear
the burning sun
And I suppose, this is my loathing of Moon.

Moon is contagious.
She offers the aid of her presence, unfailing
When we're washed down like willows, weakened
and wailing

And we can sail under her
Just as the dime
It's a lie that the night's
only clock-start for crime

When she's out from the hiding place
to be bright as Moon can
There's not a direction
No footpath
No overworked plan

And when I remember:
Beauty needs not a rival
I suppose I'll be loving Moon, soon again.
I was told to take the side of love and hate, so I chose the wonderful moon - which I actually adore. To make the last line sound right, you have to pronounce it so at to rhyme with "plan", as I am Canadian and I say it that way. :)
unnamed Dec 2014
ng? Who’s here with you?’ His voice was calm, but his look was determined.
‘Goldstein is at the other end
her news?’ Harry always dreaded asking this, but he had to know. If he was going to go through with his plan, he had to learn everything he could about what The Order knew. There was silence as Harry waited, eyes still lingering on the ground. He was sure if Kingsley caught his eye, he would see the guilt Harry tried so hard to conceal. Kingsley cleared his throat.
‘Some of the usual stuff.’ he said, though he seemed
I see her sitting over there
another's arms around her waist.
Sunlight shimmers through golden hair,
bodice ruffled and unlaced.

Surprise sits obvious on her face,
over the distance where I walk
it shouts to me of felt disgrace.
A story told no need for talk.

I look down staring at the ground
feeling awkward as I continue
not raising eyes to what I found
like curtains drawn across a window.

My footsteps quicken with the pace,
footpath blurs with constant view.
My head can't raise to see her face
because I don't know what to do.

I hear her calling, voice a quiver,
I hear her tread as she doe's chase
Almost a trot I do deliver
trying to clear from this place.

I manage to evade her follow,
thinking of the scene I saw.
Her cheating ways are cruel and hollow
as I viewed her frolic on the floor.

What do I say when next I see
her arm in arm with my best friend.
But if these words I say to he
will cause him harm that may not end.

So I have given them some room
to sort themselves in their own way.
It's she that must hand out the gloom
from her own words then she must pay.

As for this secret I say nought
I shall not give her game away
for she's not the only one I've caught
for my friend does play away.

I do not judge the things they do
and best that I do not involve
myself with what they both go through.
It's for themselves both to resolve.
4th September 2012
rhiannon Mar 2019
Once upon a time there was a special girl called Sonya Randall. She was on the way to see her Dad Tristan Godfrey, when she decided to take a short cut through Hyde Park.

It wasn't long before Sonya got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Laura, but Laura was nowhere to be found! Sonya began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Laura. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a naughty Uni-pug dressed in a blue dungarees disappearing into the trees.

"How odd!" thought Sonya.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed Uni-pug. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Sonya reached a clearing. In the clearing were two houses, one made from peas and one made from cakes.

Sonya could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

"Hello!" she called. "Is anybody there?"

Nobody replied.

Sonya looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else's chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Sonya a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Laura!

"Laura!" shouted Sonya. She turned to the witch. "That's my toy!"

The witch just shrugged.

"Give Laura back!" cried Sonya.

"Not on your nelly!" said the witch.

"At least let Laura out of that cage!"

Before she could reply, the naughty Uni-pug in the blue dungarees rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the cleaning.

"Hello Big Uni-pug," said the witch.

"Good morning." The Uni-pug noticed Laura. "Who is this?"

"That's Laura," explained the witch.

"Ooh! Laura would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!" demanded the Uni-pug.

The witch shook her head. "Laura is staying with me."

"Um... Excuse me..." Sonya interrupted. "Laura lives with me! And not in a cage!"

Big Uni-pug ignored her. "Is there nothing you'll trade?" he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, "I do like to be entertained. I'll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door."

Big Uni-pug looked at the house made from cakes and said, "No problem, I could eat an entire house made from cakes if I wanted to."

"There's no need to show off," said the witch. Just eat one front door and I'll let you have Laura."

Sonya watched, feeling very worried. She didn't want the witch to give Laura to Big Uni-pug. She didn't think Laura would like living with a naughty Uni-pug, away from her house and all her other toys.

Big Uni-pug put on his bib and withdraw a knife and fork from his pocket.

"I'll eat this whole house," said Big Uni-pug. "Just you watch!"

Big Uni-pug pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Uni-pug started to get bigger - just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of cakes, he grew to the size of a large snowball - and he was every bit as round.

"Erm... I don't feel too good," said Big Uni-pug.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He'd grown so round that he could no longer balance!

"Help!" he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Uni-pug never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Laura remained trapped in the witch's cage.

"That's it," said the witch. "I win. I get to keep Laura."

"Not so fast," said Sonya. "There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from peas. And I haven't had a turn yet.

"I don't have to give you a turn!" laughed the witch. "My game. My rules."

The woodcutter's voice carried through the forest. "I think you should give her a chance. It's only fair."

"Fine," said the witch. "But you saw what happened to the Uni-pug. She won't last long."

"I'll be right back," said Sonya.

"What?" said the witch. "Where's your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Laura back."

Sonya ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from peas and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Sonya sat down on a nearby log.

"You fail!" cackled the witch. "You were supposed to eat the whole door."

"I haven't finished," explained Sonya. "I am just waiting for my food to go down."

When Sonya's food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from peas. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Sonya was down to the final piece of the door made from peas. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Sonya had eaten the entire front door of the house made from peas.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. "You must have tricked me!" she said. "I don't reward cheating!"

"I don't think so!" said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. "This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Laura or I will chop your broomstick in half."

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Sonya hurried over and grabbed Laura, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Laura was unharmed.

Sonya thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Tristan. It was starting to get dark.

When Sonya got to Tristan's house, her Dad threw his arms around her.

"I was so worried!" cried Tristan. "You are very late."

As Sonya described her day, she could tell that Tristan didn't believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

Sonya unwrapped a doorknob made from cakes. "Pudding!" she said.

Tristan almost fell off his chair.

The End
The blackbird’s footprints seemed to trace
A footpath to the resting place;
Through the bright new layer of snow
They led the way, showed where to go.

They laid your baby in the ground
A tiny heart that made no sound;
I scattered earth and shed a tear
Scared and lonely, wracked with fear.

For two weeks before we’d tied your hair
With a band from mine as you lay aware;
Things would never be the same
A tiny being would have no name.

I never saw you cry that day
So I hid my sadness as I walked away;
I saw the blackbird that day too
Wise eyes watching, I think he knew.

The year is new, joy may it bring
As Winter changes into Spring;
And when dragonflies dart in the sun
I’ll  think about your little one.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
It was a summer afternoon in Wester Ross. Two moments: one near, on tide-swept sands, with glorious and gloriously blue amalgams of sky and water; the other far, on a distant shore, a vista of sweeping rain and a gang of clouds marauding the hills. Near abouts: a meeting of warm land and cool sea over a deserted beach. There were midges of course, but on that day a lithe breeze kept them at bay. As she was discovering the chaotic delights of the disused Fishing Station, I was Charles Darwin standing on a deserted shore looking across to Tierra del Fuego. Not a sign of a dwelling, a boat, or even a person on the coastal footpath. A vast panorama spread beyond the edges of my unturning vision. Out on the grey blue water, I became Captain Vancouver sailing up the Inner Channel exploring and mapping every indent, nook and cranny of the double coast. Suddenly, five indians in their log canoe appeared paddling around the point, navigating by the feel of depth and the thrum of the current inches under their bare feet and bottoms.
 
This place, the larger vicinity, the region driven through, on and onwards, into and out towards landscapes vaster than anything I’d previously known in this small island; it had already staked its claim on my consciousness. I was transfixed. On my own, decent progress during a walk was almost impossible. I would stop every few moments aware that something new and different was going on. To miss anything seemed an affront to the sublime. I would walk early in the morning whilst she lay peacefully in bed, her arms stretched out on the blue-striped cover, her hands and fingers gently curved, at rest. This morning time was alive with a colourscape of silences, different shades of low-level noise. There is no camera able to catch the play of real all-surrounding images with those extensions of fantasy the imagination blends and stirs. No microphone can be sensitive enough to the surround sound in air and landscape, the faint breath of the sea, and the incessant conversation and playback of her tender evening voice in my thoughts. Here the past was invading the present, speculating on the future, our future.
 
I ventured inside the hut at the Fishing Station. Curious to see what she was up to. She was arranging, like children do, her found objects. Along the few shelves fixed to the corrugated iron walls her quiet hands placed and replaced, shifted and turned; then, the click of the camera, again click, adjust the focus, click. Ropes lay at her feet snake-like, hemp and nylon, that urgent orange, that too smooth blue, mounds of old fishing gear mostly unidentifiable, not an idea where the floor might be found, so completely covered. If there had been a door it was no more; just a gap in the wall, seaward.
 
These objects she arranged: screws, bolts, nails, strange keys, boltless nuts and nutless bolts, small bottles, a can or two. Everything hand-size, tarnished, rusted, some oiled, stained oil-black. I felt an intruder witnessing her preparations for a secret game, a ceremony of recording and removal. A kindly ‘do not disturb’ sign hung about her face; a blankness, a dream-like visage of the initiated, as though she held some premonition of this material’s importance, a treasure found in a shack of a shed, a ‘find’ she would collectively decode. Already this visit took on the character of a preliminary investigation. She began wrapping and tying some of the more unusual items in cloth, making mummies that in a few days she would return to and unwrap to find their imprint and press marked on the cloth.
 
We lost time in this place. Only the incoming tide was a clue to how the afternoon had advanced. The beach, at whose far end the station had been built, held a gentle new moon’s curve. The water’s encroachment of the beach became mesmeric; it was difficult to leave the looking until its tide journey had been completed. But we did, and wandering through the dune meadows, between the diffident cattle, past the remote farm at the end of the track, gate after gate, then the proper road, the twice a day post box, two houses set well back from the road, a woman leading a boy on a horse, up a rise, a lay-by with a camper van, walking backwards to keep the view to the red sand beach in our sights as the afternoon light began to turn from gold into auburn, then with fingers threaded into fingers down to the wooden cottage. And there, later, after love’s welcome and its celebration, stillness.
One evening
after work
I began to walk
from the railway station
along the footpath
joining an acquaintance
on the way
to accompany and converse
amicably I thought
at first
but he became aloof
and hostile
ignoring my bonhomie
why
I had no idea
so crossed the road
estranged
shocked and ashamed.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
the users of chinese require a respectable memory of logograms, but then the european languages users require a respectable memory of combinations of a limited number of "logograms", well, indeed limited, in comparison to the chinese range... and in so doing seem to have created a knack, a desire to create iconoclasm, a barrage of excess image crafting, whether in painting or photography, even logos are taken for equal representation among paintings and photographs in terms of being qualified as equals... if there's a quest at hand... it's to find the tetragrammaton in chinese: Y (convergence of three directions), H (the selfish twins of the ego), W (sine & cosine ripples, the ripples of a drop in a lake of a glass of water), and H (the selfless twins of the ego)... something like that - obviously upon interaction, used, the the two pairs of egos become the real dynamism interchanging their coupling... while the Y and W are seemingly constants.*

looking at the many maxims of la rochefoucauld,
so many seem true... but then again too
much truths and not using the Kantian
filter that the categorical imperative is...
and you stumble into custard of a maxim
kaleidoscope... obviously i'm not denying the truths,
but, as Kant pointed out... one truth will do,
the rest as there to be observed as if from-thin-air,
but it's still only one maxim, the ccategorical
imperative spurning you on, all the others do not
provide a vector consistency for you to repeat,
fall back on... i do appreciate the many observations
in la rochefoucauld, but too many maxims
and you do not which to grasp, wrestle with and
utilise to its maximum potential, not one becomes
a vantage point of safety, too many of them
and you're dancing naked under the tree of forbidden
knowledge... making it a bit of a foolery paying
homage to Bacchus... drunk on too much of it...
not really able to incorporate all of it, incorporating
too much of it is hardly strategic, one maxim will do,
a categorical imperative, a strategy of a measured
footpath, one will do...
but apart from that, considering each maxim with
a method i devised... dilution using synonyms...
that old chestnut, king solomon's
Ecclesiastes 1:2... meaningless! meaningless!
utterly meaningless! everything's meaningless!
in another citation the word vanity is used...
now vanity does not necessarily imply meaningless
as the closest synonym... in the latin tongue
vanity (vanus) implies empty... hence my revision
of the cartesian concept of res cogitans (thinking thing)
using res vanus (empty thing)...
if meaningless is given a disruption and a refrained
use, instead using the closer meaning to the latin (empty),
then i can see a better scenario...
everything is empty: emptiness! emptiness! utterly empty!
everything is empty! i find this to be a less pessimistic
conclusion on the matter... after all gravity was empty
prior to newton, who filled it; natural selection was empty
prior to darwin, who filled it; electromagnetic rotary
devices were "empty" / didn't exist until michael faraday
came along... the atmosphere was empty, until
leucippus and democritus came along, later proven
wrong by the supposed non-divisibility of the structures
by otto hahn and fritz strassmann and oppenheimer...
these evaluations suggest that people come across
these empty things, either by direct sensory perception
or through theoretical mingling, and fill them...
there's nothing meaningless as such as stressed by
Ecclesiastes 1:2... things are necessarily empty, in order
to be filled, and that gives meaning to man...
therefore... emptiness!! emptiness!
utterly empty! everything's empty! this, the dilution
using synonymousness as a divergence from
what strict interpretation would provide should
only a limited vocabulary be applied - rather than
an extended vocabulary of a juggling act.
AnnaMarie Jenema May 2014
Mom should’ve been here by now. I sat on my frilly blue and purple polka-dotted bed waiting for the knock on the door telling me mom found my dress. Finally, it raps on my door. “Mom! Did you find it?” My eyes widen as the silky blue sways in her arms, it’s beauty sings as a caged bird let free. I gasp in admiration. “I-It’s wonderful!” I pick it up and it glides down into a perfect fit.  “I’m glad you love it. Come down after you finish getting ready.” The door thuds after her. Looking across the room I note my honey brown hair that curls into pigtails. Restraining the squeal that is caught in my throat, I travel the length of my room to the mirror.

     The mirror sits on an antique dresser that my mom found at a garage sale. At first I didn’t care much for the ancient wooden junk that is at least half a century old. Now the gold-tinted metal gleams with pride once again. Rusty gems were in carved into an arc surrounding the mystic glass. “Lydia! Can you go upstairs and get that box down for me?” Mom’s request interfered with my thoughts. … Go in that dusty attic? “Sure mom!”

       Out the door and into the hallway stood a door like any other in our house. It squeaked open as eerily as what you’d expect in a haunted house. ‘A box, a box’ than out of the side of my vision I thought I saw motion. I shook it off as just being a spider or mouse. Soon my footsteps lead me to come across a dresser and mirror identical to the one in my room. It was cluttered with cobwebs and spiders. “Not very well taken care of, are you?” I muttered the joke. I looked into the mirror expecting to see a light blue dress covered in dust and sparkly silk material, but there was no reflection at all. I looked even closer at the mirror, before realizing, there was no mirror at all.

     I looked around until I found it behind the dresser, sitting on the ground. I touched one of the gems that surprisingly glowed despite the rust. Something shone until I was blinded. A tingle ran through the hand that brushed the mirror’s gem and flew through my arm until it encompassed me, racing into my every feeling until I couldn’t feel anything. My eyes shut and refused to open themselves.


     A gentle breeze grasped my hair, as music descended from the air. I could smell what seemed to be a banquet of some kind, mixed with perfume. Slowly my eyes lifted their veil to lock with waves pounding against a brick wall. I was looking down from a balcony into the erupting sea. The white brick-made balcony was large and lonely even with the brush of people walking by. I hid behind the rose-red curtains to look around. People danced and talked. Some ate. The music paved the trail for their feet to follow, all very gracefully. The men wore suits that tails drip to their knees. Their white shirts buried under sashes of gold, red, or blue. Sometimes holding medallions, some only dressed in ties. The woman wore Victorian dresses of every color and shade. Frilled hats with flowers were arranged on their heads.

     Wait, I’m not supposed to be here. I was in the attic, going to the café with mom. What was I doing? My head ached from the effort to recall my actions. Why can’t I remember? I stumble backward only to reach the balcony’s edge. Where is this anyway?

      I dive back into the curtain to search for my answer. The softness of the curtain was a rose pushed to my nose. I peeked through the small gap to find a page carting some clothes past my hiding spot. I sneaked next to the cart being wheeled into a doorway, planning to find a way out. I lost the page and walked around until I went through an archway door. The cool air spiraled against my silk-trapped skin. The scent of flowers bloomed around me. I found the garden labyrinth.

     Walking through the maze’s hedges I arrive at a beautiful fountain displaying crystal clear pouring waters. Everywhere I gazed, flowers embraced the greenery. My breath deprived my lungs of air as I took in the sight. It was so magnificent under the light of the full moon. A few lamps lighted a sidewalk path maneuvering along the hedges. I circled the fountain, taking in the surroundings. My silk dress was shining in the dim glow. The sceneries beauty entranced me.






     I didn’t see a shadow before me, and almost fell to the ground. In a graceful swoop an arm latched around my waist to pull me to my feet. “Be careful to look where you’re going, please my lady.” He bowed his head while his slim rimmed glasses started to fall off of his face, suddenly he looked up at me; sliding them back on with a slight wave of a finger. “That garb isn’t from around here.” He noted my sky blue dress with interest. I’m not even sure where I am. “I seem a bit lost. Will you help me?” he stares at me closer, a deeper curiosity shines in his green eyes, daintily brushed by his dark hair. “My dear, if it brings you comfort to know, we are in London at the Buckingham palace.”

      I gasped; London was so far away from New York. It’s across seas. I gulped at my next question as sweat pricked the nape of my neck, “What’s todays date?” His eyes sparkled at the question. “Why, it is June 28, of 1838. The entire castle is bustling at these very words. It’s a day to remember. Now my dear, I must take my leave and see to the ballroom. Farewell.” He bowed, than turned to leave. His slow stride seemed like a dance all on it’s own. My gaze was caught on his figure following the foot trail until he had disappeared. I sighed at my first encounter with someone in this grand place. The Buckingham Palace, in 1838. …1838!! That can’t be right, it’s 2014. Then the shock hit me as if bricks fell from the castle onto my forehead; the clothes, the language, the pages, and royalty. This couldn’t be London in present Great Britain.

    I circle the garden once more before I decide to go back inside. The young noble had realized my clothes didn’t belong here, probably anyone who sees me would recognize this too. I start off towards the footpath. The melodic rhythm still swirled in the breeze. Than for a second I thought I heard a footstep. My head twists back only to see a shadow move. The cool air now seems icy. Multiple possible things to say to the night air gallop through my mind. “ Such a lovely night,” is the one I decide on. From behind me a few feet back I imagine a sigh. No, not imagined, but actually there. It’s too real. I turn on my heels just to catch a glimpse of a black cape caught in the wind, as it’s master floats into the open. “My, It is lovely. However, I didn’t realize such a strangely dressed commoner as you could enter this palace.” His smirk shows sarcasm as easily as his eyes. “I never intended to visit a palace, even less in London.” My honest answer only has him conceal his laugh.




     “I’m sure you didn’t. Yet, your dressed for a fine occasion.” His hand reaches for mine. I pull away from the willowy figured glove. “Why not allow me this dance in the garden?” I back away, aware that his voice is too prescient and I should be careful. “Are you going to be wary of me?” his gaze turned pained, his blue eyes that were once full of playfulness now melted into hurt. I unintentionally reach out for his gloved hand. His laugh echoes past the foliage. “Such a naïve girl.” Dread decided that this nobleman should be avoided at all costs. I ran towards the palace. “And so the chase begins.” He snickers and rushes after me.


     I pass through the archways, glancing back now and again to find the caped captor flying along my tracks. If only there was some way to lose him. I ducked into the nearest doorway. At the far end of the hall I could see a door with a sign saying, “Dressing room”. I flung myself under a table and tablecloth to hide myself as my pursuer rounded the corner into the hall. I tucked my head between my knees and waited for his footsteps to fade. The warm place that held me trapped was close and too easily discoverable. I held my breath and tried to sink into the darkness. I’m not here. No one can find me.

     After enough time flew by to ensure my safety, I crawled out from under the table. The cloth draped over my head. I looked back and forth, half expecting to see a smirking smile, and haughty eyes. A girl stares down at me. She’s at least ten years old. “Shhh.” I press my finger to my lips and gently smile at her as if we’re keeping a secret between us. She giggles, copies the motion to her own mouth, than delightfully skips away. I let out a sigh and stand up. I follow the hall to the dressing room. The door creaks open and I look around once more, startled by the sudden noise.

     I sneak inside hoping find that the room is abandoned. In the darkly lit room, only my footsteps sound. As far as I can tell, no one has entered lately. I walk over to the carts of clothes and run my hand over the first one on the stack. It’s a ruby-red dress with fine material and some gems similar to those in the mirror. … The mirror. Not in my room, but the attic. My head hurts again, but I know I touched its gem before winding up here. How? I look through the dresses until I find a light blue and white one. The bowed sleeves come down to my elbow with frills encasing the bottom. The neckline forms a squared area of similar white frills. A small white sash acts as a belt that drops into the skirt of the dress. Two similar white ones come down each side. I pick up the light material and set it near my feet.
      My old silk dress easily slips overhead, making way for the new clothing. After tugging tight sleeves and bodices into place the light dress swoops over my feet. I spin through the dark room only to stop at catching someone’s eye. I immediately turn towards the frozen face. It is my own reflection in a mirror. I face myself as my sight settles on the dress I wear. My honey brown hair curled over the dress from my pigtails. My eyes sparkled it’s matching blue to the dress. In the corner of the room, next to the mirror, sat a large wooden box. I looked through it to find that it was full of jewelry and accessories. I prodded its contents until I found sky blue bows to wrap in my pigtails.

     I walked into the open hallway, now littered with people going to and fro. Anyone from passerby’s, young nobility, servants, and pages. Once the hall emptied I fled the room, hurrying through the corridors until I met with the room that created the harmonious trance. At the ends of the great ballroom sat crowds eating and laughing. Clusters of on-goers danced and chatted. In the middle of the farthest side of the room sat a throne that was embroidered with metal marks from centuries of legends. On the throne sat a woman at least eighteen of age. Her regal crown shone despite other attractions surrounding the dance room. A page strode over to her as she flourished her hand for his service. He stood and listened intently to her whispers. Finally, he stood and roared for the room’s attention. From his mouth spilled cheer and wistfulness, as he demanded the crowd’s ear. “Our young Queen Victoria’s coronation has completed. Now starts a new era! Let the celebration proceed.” The room reverberated with hope, love, and admiration for their new ruler.

     ‘Queen Victoria has been crowned’ having no clue how to find a way home, I disconsolately decide to join in the festivities. The crowd moves into a larger room. I stagger after them; the mass pushing everyone forward. We pass the kitchens. The aroma of cakes and deserts of every kind rises into the cool night air. The only smell more perceptible than delicate delights is the perfume penetrating the entire castle. We enter a by far more spacious ballroom. Empty amphitheater seats loom overhead, tied into the walls for onlookers to watch the ball unravel. Once again I glance at these to notice black material hangs over the edge. A head moves as people fill the seats. A nobleman with a black cape and familiar blue eyes takes their seat next to men and woman of high status. I walk into the mop to hide myself, while watching him. He laughs and chats with them as if he’s known them all his life.


      Unable to watch where I’m going, I trip. The harsh, solid ground hits my knee as if I’ve met a tornado. I wince at the pain as I strain myself to stand. A firm, but careful hand grabs mine. I look up into green eyes shaded by recognizable glasses. “My dear, you are very clumsy.” He smiles at me as I pat my dress back into place. “I see we’ve met again.” My response comes weakly as the sore from my knee makes me flinch. “I don’t think you’ve told me your name.” I inquire. “You have not requested my name, so I haven’t told it. However, if you do me the honor of a dance, my secret may be leaked.”  He bowed and offered me his arm, as I timidly accept it.

     A new song disrupts the last, as new pairs take the stage. He walks me onto the floor, and diligently starts to dance. I watch my feet, not wanting to mistake my pace. “Lift your chin, my dear. You don’t seem to but much of a church-bell.” I looked up at him puzzled. “Church-bell?” As he tried to conceal a grin, his glasses couldn’t suppress the laughter in his eyes. “Your rather quiet. And most likely not from around London, are you?” I looked to the ground once more. Should I tell him or not? Will it start problems, or will I be okay? “It’s fine, I shall not expect you to answer a question you wish not to.” I looked up at him, solemnly. “I promised to introduce myself, correct?” I nodded, as the music that echoed around us faded into the next song.

      His movements were so fluid; he was a wave at the end of the day, flowing into the sunset. “Miss, I am known by most as William Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He procured my sweaty palm into his, tenderly swiping his mouth to my fingers. I let my hand be brought back into the dance as I searched for words to speak. Once the dance ended a few moments later, I curtsey and murmur, “It’s nice to meet you. I am Lydia Olsen.” At my gesture he bows, and requests once more, “Am I trustworthy enough to understand why you are in a mysterious place you don’t understand?” My answer had been decided and started to splatter from my mouth. “Y…”









     The next sound bounces along the room, it’s symphony starting. My words mix into the noise. In my vision of the seats above, snowy dots shoot arrows in my direction. Blue eyes gaze down at me, their iciness piercing me as icicles prickle my skin. I exchange a glance with William, nod and answer, “You are. I’ll explain.” My discomfort is surely recognizable. I often peek over my shoulder above as we dance. The shadow with a glare starts his voyage through the seats to reach the stairs that pillar into the wall. He descends from the tower, only adding to my panic. My hand seizes Williams, as I give him an apologetic smile. We hurry from the room, stumbling over each other’s feet. His graceful prance, now a faltering wreak.

     Once we are outside the ballroom, I turn towards him. “I trust you, so please understand, I live In the USA in 2014. Not London, not Even in the 1800’s.” His expression is masked, but I’m sure that I’ve confused him. “I went back into time, from the future.” The simple words struck a chord with him, his glasses tilted off his nose as he listens intently. “The future? How?” even I don’t know how to answer such questions. “I’m not sure. I was in the attic with a mirror, than … ****! I’m here.” Confusion once again wonders onto his face. “I went into a storage room with old things, and found a mirror, touched a gem, now I was here.”

     “I see, but why did we run away from the celebration? I was looking forward to another dance with you.” His casual smile does nothing to conceal unasked questions. I’m not sure how to answer them ei
barnoahMike Jan 2011
On a pondering Morning,   watching the Sun Rise,   I see off in the Distance a Twirling Fog bank !    It was the calmest of Mornings,   So what TWISTS the fog ?   Even the sound of Footprints being Quickly made,  I could hear Running across  the Misty Glade .   An Echo of Light seemed to follow the Pace,   As well as did the turning of the Fog .    What,  Pray Tell,  Could I be Privy too on this New Morning ?    The Foot path beats seemed to be coming closer,   But still Unseen because of the Clouded Steps.   I CRIED OUT  "Is someone there?"   and again "Is someone there?"   NOT a reply except the approaching sounds and sights !    As if Music to my ears,   a Melody emitted from the scene,   Coming closer each second.   I Realized that Anticipation and Peace of Mind were Overwhelming me !    NO fear or apprehension crossed my mind,   Just a lifting of my Spirits,   as not but a few feet away,  ALL Three were nearly to me !    The Footpath Sounds,  The Twisting mist,  The melody of Calling....    Then,  What seemed like 7  Minutes of a Total Earth Quiet Time !   Out from the Mist Stepped a Glistening  Golden,  Shimmering in Velvet,  Raven Haired to HER Waist..Loveliest of Women ever to be Seen !  As she began to speak,  it was as if  each word became forever imprinted in my Mind !   She Proclaimed in a voice so Gentle and Concise that she was Sent,,  Sent,  SO I might See,   What a Gift from GOD  Looks Like,  "MY GILDED MUSE".   Tears filling my eyes as Her indwelling within me BECAME COMPLETE.......
copyright @2011  barnoahMike               Mike Ham
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
  And left no trace but the cellar walls,
  And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
  The orchard tree has grown one copse
  Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
  On that disused and forgotten road
  That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
  I hear him begin far enough away
  Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
  Who share the unlit place with me—
  Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
  With none among them that ever sings,
  And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
elaine hart Mar 2010
Held up by its wind, a flag will ******.
The motion, so liquid,
so solemn and yet lucid.
Floating in its own breath,
meandering,
unleashed along nature’s footpath.
The wind ponders with instinctive movement through and around this clothed vessel.
There are no regards nor any purpose. 
The movement, the romance within this dance with nature is fearless.
The wind has its sweetest of palette – a flag.
copywrite: elaine hart
1.mar. 2010
There's nothing like running
your fingers through wheat
as you take a footpath
through the farmer's field
especially in the dead of night
when the silence speaks volumes

Though I wouldn't know
'*** I'm a city boy
I always say
a life better lived on
the road less travelled
clearly wasn't for me

Cloudy days and
cloudy apple cider
go hand in hand
with hand rolled cigarettes
and unread messages
and a qwerty keyboard

Things are gon' get better
things better get gone
have I neglected my writing
or has my writing neglected me

Thoughts are just electricity
surging through your brain
tiny little electrical impulses
molecules and whooshy stuff
I could do with some of that
Tony Luxton Nov 2015
Cocooned under a web of road
rail and footpath at Top Locks
five narrow boats await their fate
stuck in a canal trade ice age.

Calling for new boat people
to change course from speed and stress
they're refitted cleaned and preened
for slow lane contemplation.

Slowly ne vessels pump life blood
branching out across old veins
filling the ships with goods again.
'Fill the Ships' was the moto of the now defunct Runcorn Urban District Council of which I was a member for a short time.
Colin Kohlsmith Nov 2010
(After a seven day hike in Pacific Rim National Park, British Columbia)

The wilderness is a beauty
Unforgiving,
She’ll take your breath
You glance deeply
Through the forest
Hear the waves
Crash through and crest
This land has not been conquered
It barely has been tamed
There’s many a spot unspoiled
And many a place unnamed
And life is all around you
The way it’s always been
It’s as if the world’s forgiven
Just this once, all of man’s sins
So you tread carefully on the footpath
You pay attention to each step
Cross canyons and each precipice
Scale the granite cliffs
This place, it is rewarding
For those who are aware
You see life teeming in the ocean
And eagles in the air
You live in the present
Your senses re-attuned
Whatever else is happening
Is suddenly consumed
You get up with the sunrise
Build fires when darkness calls
You pay attention to the tides
And sleep by waterfalls
During discussion with key-board
through internet messenger,
Love sleeps on the bench like a pet
beside the purple-green footpath.

Sharing violet feelings via e-mail,
million megabytes of stamina downloads
And converts instantly smiling-heart
into jpg format to attach with the mail.

Cyber love navigates on cool wave
as a kite walking slowly
On the bluish velvet sky
above a land of beckoning jade-dreams.


Poem 07
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,—not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we pierce through his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Filmore Townsend Jul 2013
and the sweat lingers with a
thin film of dust, dirt, mold --
whichever what have you.
what little hydration left of
this soft fleshy vessel seeps
through this veil. creating
rivers of mud that flood the
eyes and blind. though hue
of general existence if silh-
outted. and we follow the sou-
nds hoped spoke on the proper
path. shambling the brush,
ankles caught tight in the
thorns of the undergrowth.
never a first in leaving a
blooded footpath home. and
false words call us upon a
path in Life long returned to
Nature from man. and with blin-
ded eyes and gnarled sense,
trouncing the threshold of door
long closed, fearing only the
chance of having all ended.
the Ocean's desert is nothing
but the sweat of Man's ages'
turned to dust. ended of a
vessel when purpose has seen
fulfillment. to nurture, and
bring forth perpetuation of the
curious disappeared mysteries
resting unburdened, with ponde-
ring left nulled. and recreation,
re-mythologizing aeons not long
past. only a couple thousand
since the last hoarfrost blast.
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
I’ve become  invisible
Maybe it’s a virus and I’ve just got a touch,
The automatic shop door didn’t open so I’m left in a lurch,
Even when  I stood on the spot once blessed by the church.
Then the shop attendant missed me in the queue,
A car nearly knocked me on the footpath too.
Clearly I’m unseen.

As this progresses will my eyelids become translucent?
With my eyes shut how will I sleep?
Maybe I should wear dark glasses and not take a peek.
If I wear clothes will it be funny?
I will definitely get a job as a shop window dummy.
Is that what happens in the invisible limbos,
We become manikins in shop windows,  
Watching the world looking at them,
What we the invisible will be able to tell.

From my shop window I imagine at half past eight,
The people hang out or just walk past straight.
Starting with the kids skipping school,
Uniform tucked in schoolbag to fool,
Shopping bag used for energy joule,
Inhaling glue this hallucinatory fuel.
Each step these children take,
One step closer to heartbreak.

Then the anxious wife meeting her lover.  
Leaving behind her domestic bliss,
Sealed this morning with a husband’s watery kiss.
Waiting awkwardly in her Totoro dress,
One button behind and a zip does the rest .
Trying hard to be invisible too
This could all end in her being blue.

The rushing shop manager dressed in a suit.
Cuffs worn thin, pens in a group,
Red, blue and black,
A tick for success or none for the lack.
Mumbling along the company mantra,
“Think outside the box” there’s as good fella.
The only box he has ever known,
Are the imaginary boundaries in which he has grown.


A dog and his master trundle along.
He has been dead for years as he moves on,
Wearing a shroud of a used up life,
The dog squats down beside the tree of life.
Observing this stool in the daylight,
He compares to the Hematochezia he did last night.

A husband contemplating murdering his wife,
As the news of her lover has just come to light.  
He looks at the manikin with some delight,
Seduced by its empty invisible soul,  
Only to discover he owns that hole.

Then evening descends the lights are all up,
When work is all over it’s off to the pub.
Not for the invisible manikin though,
Who stays in the window dressed in a bride’s trousseau.
An invisible exhibitionist this poor sod,
So when you walk past it's polite to nod.
Now I’ll take two Aspirin and a cup of coco
And hope to God this invisibility will go go.
Jayantee Khare Jul 2017
A fruit and vegetable vendor,
simple and humble,
Always seen with his handcart,
alongside the road, which was parked.
On my way back
from the gym,
Bought the fruits and vegetables
daily from him.

Neither the quality!
Nor the variety!!


But his  greetings "Namaste Didi" with that innocent smile,
caught my attention for a while.
That friendly gesture
made me feel familiar.

Balming the lonely and tired soul,
in the foreign soil,
in this city of strangers,
accommodating many dwellers.

While lost in own thoughts,
or busy in the cell-phone chats.
But this simple guy never failed,
seeing me come, he sweetly hailed.
"Namaste Didi"

Once, when I resumed
after a vacation,
Found dozers, excavators
busy in construction.
An all new road, footpath
for beautification,
It's the "smart city" project's
much awaited implementation.

I realized, that something was amiss!
"Namaste Didi", welcoming, friendly voice!

I looked for him all around,
Standing near a pole, he was found.
Neither cheerful, nor fruit or vegetable?
Uttered him, now the business not feasible.
Not allowed to park his cart anywhere,
As "The Smart City Mission" started here.

Go to the big stores now,
for the daily needs,
Roadside vendors
pulled out like weeds.

Neither friendly smile, nor simplicity!
"Namaste Didi" swallowed by "the smart city"!!

Do we really need a "smart city",
or simply a city?
addressing the needs of all,
retaining its simplicity.
The social warmth
and existing friendliness,
Accommodating all
with self sustenance.

**Isn't socialism, just a myth!
No offence, this way I think!!
Didi means sister in hindi....people address didi to the ladies showning respect and warmth....
Some people are so simple and humble that you can't ignore them..
Since i am advocating simplicity in this,
I have written this poetry with the use of simple words...
It's a true incidence happened nearby..which made me think like this.
In india smart city mission is in progress...
Geno Cattouse Jan 2014
Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers.
A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.

Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP.
At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number.
Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet.
Maybe collards too.

"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew.
To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession.
Made by many,owned by.few
Seeking solace from.the.witches brew.
"You need.a.poultace ?
Cast a spell for.you. ?

Fix it so.she.never leave you ?

Aint nothin.much.that.I.cant do.
Gonna fix.it.for.you.

Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses.
Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.

The little shack of sorrows.
Old time mystic.sitting on a stool.
Jingle pennies in pockets.

Yonder comes nother fool
THE ADVENURES OF GEORGE BURNINGTOM




YOU SEE IN THE DARK CORNERS OF A COUNTRY TOWN NAMED DUBBO, IN NEW SOUTH WALES

LIVED A GANG OF 13 YEAR OLD BOYS, WHO WERE ADRENALINE JUNKIES, YOU SEE TAKING RISKS

WERE THE MAIN PARTS OF THEIR LIFE, ONE OF THE BOYS GEORGE BURNINGTOM, WHO LIVED IN

A REALLY RICH HOUSE, IN THE RICH CORNER OF DUBBO, HATED HIS FAMILY SO MUCH, THESE

MATES OF HIS WERE MUCH BETTER, YA SEE, THE RING LEADER OF THE GANG WHO WAS HARRY SMITH

WHO WAS IN A VERY POOR FAMILY, YOU SEE HIS FATHER WORKED AS A CLEANER AT DUBBO ZOO

AND HARRY, HAD ALL THESE GET RICH SCHEMES, WHICH INVOLVED TAKING HEAPS  OF BREATHTAKING RISKS,

ONE THING THE BOYS WILL DO IS HEAD TO THE SKATE PARK TO RIDE UP ONE WALL AND OCCASSIONALLY WOULD SKATE DOWN

THE STAIRS, SOMETIMES SCARING THE OLD PEOPLE AS THEY PASSED BY THE STAIRS, GEORGE, WHO WAS INTO

SOAKING IN A BIT OF ADRENALINE, BUT JUMPING HIS SKATEBOARD, FROM THE FOOTPATH TO THE MIDDLE ISLAND

IN THE SWAMPY WATERS, MIND YOU, GEORGE FELL IN A FEW TIMES, AS HE TRIED THIS, AND SKINNED HIS LEGS

WHICH MADE GEORGE WANNA CRY, BUT HE WAS THINKING, BOYS DON’T CRY, BOYS DON’T CRY, AND THEN THE

OTHER KIDS RAN UP TO HIM AND SAID, YOU LOOK VERY HURT, BUT YOU ARE NOT A DISGRACE TO OUR GANG, IN FACT

YOUR PRETTY COOL.

THE BOYS WENT BACK TO THE SKATE PARK, AND DID A FEW TRICKS AND JUMPED UP ON THEIR BOARD A FEW TIMES

AND GEORGE FELL, HEAD OVER TURKEY, BUT LANDED ON HIS FEET, AND THEN THE BOYS SAW A SEMI TRAILER, AND GEORGE

SAID, LET’S RACE THISB TRUCK, AND THE OTHER BOYS SAID WE COULD DIE, IT’LL BE A TAD RISKY, AND GEORGE, OUR LIVES ARE

RISKY, YOU COULD SAY WE HAVE A RISKY LIFE, AND AFTER SAYING THAT, THE BOYS FOUGHT THEIR DELLUSIONAL THOUGHTS OF DANGER

AND RACED THIS TRUCK, AND THEY WERE ENJOYING RACING THE TRUCK, THE TRUCK DRIVER LOOKED THROUGH HIS WINDSHIELD

AND SAID, THESE KIDS ARE TOO CLOSE, AND THEN SAID, I HAVE TO TAKE AN EMERGENCY STOP, TO LET THESE KIDS PAST, SO HE DID

AND FOUND OUT WHAT THE KIDS WERE DOING SAYING, YOU KIDS DON’T UNDERSTAND THE ROAD RULES, AND THEN YELLED OUT

YEAH GO, YEAH GO, LIKE THE COWARDS THAT YOU ARE, AND THE KIDS RODE BACK, AND SAW THE DRAINS AND HARRY SAID LET’S RIDE

IN THESE DRAINS, AQND THEY WERE ENJOYING PLAYING IN THESE DRAINS, AND THEN THE PASSER BY, CAME UP AND SAID, LISTEN YOU KIDS

THESE DRAINS ARE VERY DANGEROUS, GEORGE SAID, WE ARE RISK TAKERS AND ADRENALINE JUNKIES SO TO SPEAK, AND THE MAN SAID

WHY DON’T YOU BOYS  GO ON HELICOPTER RIDES LIKE THE OTHER KIDS OF DUBBO, LIKE MY SON AND THEN GEORGE SAID, YEAH YOUR SON

WHO IS THE BIGGEST GEEK OF THIS COUNTRY TOWN, WHO CAN’T STAND ADRENALINE, IF HIS LIFE DEPENDED ON IT.

THEN AFTER THE MAN LEFT, THE GANG KEPT PLAYING IN THE DRAINS AND DESPITE ALL THE ***** LOOKS  THE PASSERBYS HAVE BEEN GIVING TO THEM

THE BOYS STILL PLAYED IN THE DRAINS WITH THEIR BOARDS, AND THEN AFTER THE BOYS WERE SICK OF THE DRAINS, THEY RODE THEIR SKATEBOARDS

OVER TO THE CORNER STORE, SO THEY CAN PLAY THE PINBALL MACHINE, BUT THE BIG BULLY MARKO BRIDGETOWN WAS THERE, AND THE ONLY WAY

TO HAVE A TURN ON THE PINBALL MACHINE, THE KIDS HAD TO BUY THE BULLY SOME GRUB, LIKE FISH AND CHIPS OR SUMMIT, BUT GEORGE SAID

WE HAVE BEEN TAKING RISKS ALL DAY, HOW ABOUT WE TAKE ANOTHER RISK AND STAND UP TO THIS BULLY, BUT THE OTHER KIDS INCLUDING HARRY SAID

THIS DUDE IS GOING TO BE ANGRY WITH US, BUT GEORGE SAID NO, WE DON’T HAVE TO BUY THIS BLOKE A MEAL, AND THEN SAID, I AM NOT GETTING BULLIED

BY SOME LOSER ON THE STREET, AND THEN GEORGE TOOK A RISK, BY KARATE KICKING THE BULLY, AND MIND YOU, GEORGE REALLY PUT THE BULLY IN HIS PLACE,

MIND YOU HE GOT A BIT TATTERED, BUT THIS WAS A RISK GEORGE IS WILLING TO TAKE, YOU SEE NOBODY IS MAKING FUN OF GEORGE BURNINGTOM AND GETS AWAY WITH IT.

DESPITE ALL THE KIDS THINKING IT WAS A RISK, THEY ADMIRED GEORGE’S BRAVERY, AND RODE THEIR SKATE BOARDS DOWN THE ROAD OF DUBBO, AND AFTER A

ADRENALINE DAY OF TAKING RISKS, EACH KID WENT HOME, TO WATCH A BIT OF TELEVISION AND THEN GO TO BED, AND TOMORROW, WELL, ARE THERE MORE RISKS

TOMORROW, I DON’T KNOW, TODAY WAS A RISKY PART OF THEIR LIFE.
traces of being Dec 2016
An unfenced field
of memories awoken ,
frozen pastel flowers
color fast ,
though fading
on borrowed time

A one-way footpath
disappears unencumbered
between the snowdrifts
leading across
the winter stilled
iced up creek bed ,
coursing a path
of least resistance
destiny unknown

Changing tawny petals
scatter like potpourri ,
fallen collateral
in the aftermath
a beautiful dream's
passing light

Pressed and dried
memories buried
under dog-eared  
tear-stained pages
black topiaries
that grow in the dark

Redemption unbid
and unwelcome,
earthen mineral rights
surrendered unspent ,

Natural order
decomposing
reclamation ,
chilled to the marrow

A scorned lover’s
bated breathe
bared ink unspoken,

Unbidden laments
eerily betokened
in an unseen
netherworld ,
undeniable ,  yet
bashfully remarkable

I see the frosty
fogged breath
that repents
in choral dialect ,   
speaking in known
tongue , with
the absolvable voice
of a bitter cold wind


*wind is the wind .... December 20. 2016
Notes (optional)
from the cracks and crevices
of the incoming wintertide gripped mind
Whimsical youth
absentmindedly fell -
cliffside,
abruptly.

Love to the stars,
oath taken to stone;
to help you,
instruct me.

~

Stillness the moorland
of cherry pie kiss,
unwilling
fruition.

Patience, wise virtue
foremothers instilled,
jeune fille
in submission.

~

Tame was the Beast
at the mountain's heart deep,
lethargic,
sleepwalking.

Wild was the Princess
in her dreams of pink sweet
sins, secrets,
unspoken.

~

Long were the years
under fallen rocks over.
Now doubtlessly
older.

Black was one night,
set her sadness alight,
but the ash left
her colder.

~

Monsters awakened,
set the footpath ablaze,
hopelessly
grieving.

Freedom I call
you, trying to persuade
you, truth
unforgiving.
Evan Stephens Dec 2018
It's snowing
tonight,
and I think
******* Dad,
when Maryland
beats Indiana
and I move
to text him.

He's beyond
snow now.
So what do I do
with these
unbearable photos
he took of me
standing alone
in the withered sun
on monumental trains,
I was six or seven,
out by the
rusting roundhouse
in Brunswick?

It's been snowing
for hours
& I carve
a footpath
out to the
unplowed street
to watch the
shining gray
banks under
the amber light.

There is no
route to carve
through this silence.
My father
was built
from ghost towns,
from Manzanar,
from the endless
pine-dark
of Idaho's
rivered night,
from all the
unmapped places,
he grew complete
in himself.

And even now
as I watch
the snow slant
and stumble
I am left behind
as his son
apart from him
& without.

The snow dives
into the
night blankness
& I wonder
if I had died
first, cutting
short this reckless
careless crooked
sprawl, would he
be writing here?

The smeared
gray glow
of the screen
across his hands,
the fat flake
snow rising
like dough
beneath the windows?
mark john junor May 2013
he seeks shelter from the rain
in the coffee shop
she offers him a cup of joe
she offers a moment to reflect

the hipsters and hangers about
fill her world with sight and sound
fill her senses with smiles and joy
but inside she know she needs something more
that this place is just an emblem
and cannot sustain a soul like her

she could have anything
she just need ask
but she cant find the words to describe
cant find an image to convey
her souls need

but its clear to him
its a ship sailing to distant spain
its a road leading out into a western desert
its a train rolling thru a dark stormy night to a northern town
its a footpath thru mist
its a man seeking shelter from the rain

he leaves with her smile
which she gave with a hopefull heart

now
wrestle with the shadows in his heart
but its her face that lingers
in the late hour
in this last time he will stand

the standards of the champions
the fighters for truth
the liars
and the ones too dark to do else but die
they gather in harsh light
and prepare to do battle and stand their ground

a prince of the beasts proud and fair
a champion to the ones who have no strength to call their own
the frame of time captures only the movement
but the fickle thought of who he is
prince of beasts proud and fair
champion of the clean linen uniform
regal bearer of the standard of a rising sun

reflected only in the young eyes
those cheering champions like him on from the side
but its only her smile that lingers for him
as his life flows spent onto the sand

she never did catch that train
never did escape that shop
never did grow beyond the borders
of the hipsters and hangers on
but least they loved her too
in their way
and that is some comfort
the girl, the coffee shop, the cup of coffee all happened...the rest was changed to incriminate the innocent

edit: the cup of coffee may have been a illusion. it has been redacted from reality
Isabel Nov 2017
Suburbia; picket fences as white as the faces that live behind them. Rows of houses. The balustrades made of privilege, leading up to the verandas of entitlement. Semi-detached houses, almost too close for comfort. Discord versus conformity.

In their own little worlds, unaware of the squalor on the other side of town. Otherwise aware but unconcerned. Their suburban paths paved in a circle so they stay, their children stay, and suburbia is never empty. Constant noises. The whirring of toy cars being controlled with remotes, (exactly like the people who are oblivious to the fact that suburbia is attempting and succeeding to control and mould them into perfect, upstanding citizens) doors sliding, the murmur of voices,

“mum pass us the salt please”
“can we get some ice cream?”
“I’ll be home before the street lights turn on”.
  
Behind the cloned houses all made from the same stencil, are partners barely tolerating each other. Smiling at the neighbourhood get together's behind undisclosed differences. Poise and status. Stand tall. Nobody can know.

“Merry Christmas here’s a camera!”
Home videos. Grainy images, recollections.
“I remember that! You tripped over right after I finished recording!”
“It was my first time on roller skates give me a break”.

Video tapes and cassettes turned memory cards and USB’s, scattered with chunks of suburbia. Purposeless clips of picket fences, swings and gates being brought to life by wind.

A man is trying to grow grass in his new front yard but the birds keep eating the seeds. He digs up the dead grassy patches and starts again. A monotonous cycle like a drum rhythm with no end in sight.

Suburbia is a ritual of routine. Everyone gets what they want. Daddy can buy them a car, a house, friends. The whole **** world, you can have it your way. Upturned noses and superiority towards the people living in filth and squalor, they could help them, they have sufficient funds to lend, but choose to do nothing instead continuing to scrutinise them and place themselves on a higher pedestal.

Children grow up in sheltered suburban lifestyles blissfully unaware of what really goes on. Homophobic jocks and flirty dancers are born. Living apart from their nearby communities,
decaying away in studio apartments and cozy bungalows, watching some reality tv show, filmed in America, and footy games on their 55-inch television screens. Eating organic strawberry and coconut gelato and still thinking that they need more.

Some stray from the paved path of concession and “have it easy’s” and the ‘other side’ leaves an impact on them. Gratefulness, compassion, understanding. “Better go back and tell your friends, it’s not so scary down here in the ghetto huh” Race, social and working classes. Segregation is back with a vengeance, though it was never really gone, was it? Only covered up with some form of guilt and then continued by white supremacy.

When someone different comes along, someone who isn't on one of Cosmo’s diets, someone who doesn't wear heavy makeup, or is a size eight or below, someone who doesn't live in a palace made of dreams, someone who must truly work hard if they want things that aren’t necessities. How do they respond? They shun, they backstab and they gossip whilst sipping exotic wine from crystal glasses on their freshly manicured suburban lawn.

Unquestionably sheltered from the world of hate and love they have to find themselves through material objects, careless people and careless, empty conversations. What they truly need is conversation that doesn’t notice or need status, background, or possessions. Lemonade stands and garage sales. One man’s trash is another man’s suburban treasure.

Numbing. Overwhelming. Rumours and lies. They can recognise every face they walk past on the footpath, and they know that every face will recognise them back. I suppose if their face is known, their mistakes are easily remembered.

Vines begin to grow and engulf a half-stained deck weathered and worn by the hot sun. Whispers and disgruntled sighs fill the street as the suburban mums express their distaste towards the house down the road with its paint peeling fence and overgrown shrubs riddled with weeds.
“That house brings down the whole street I reckon. I wonder who lives there”
“I heard that it’s an old lady that got sick”
“Yeah, I heard that her husband left her for some young woman. Imagine that!”
“Well I would leave too if my garden looked like that. Gardens show pride and they represent your personality. I wouldn’t want to get involved with them”

Flesh is flesh. There is no separation between that body and the next. No one will ever view your life the way you view it so why bother trying to provoke your neighbours and make them think themselves inferior? Repress the mask, be yourself.

Make suburbia change for you.
Suburbia; houses designed to look pleasing. Families fit like puzzles, on the surface. Mother can drop off her youngest, complete chores with her eldest and be home in time for her favourite shows.
Ritual, routine, clockwork.
mark john junor Oct 2013
the words are crisp in my mouth
but by the time they hit the door
they are stale as my hand
they are gone like wisps of smoke
their scent decorates the room
and brings a parade of memories
feasts with laughing friends
and a long footpath with her blue dress
it makes my sunshine weary
and drives clouds into my souls parklands
she is one such long misbegotten memory
she was a true love of mine
she is gone like a wisp
of smoke on a beach
she....

she makes my time pass slow
and leaves me wanting to repaint
the moons difficult changing colors
as it waxes and wanes thru the seasons
like her deep eyes
but she mends with love
and she nourishes with compassion
and she makes cut out stars and comets
that we pin to the ceiling
she makes breakfast
we eat it  laying in a open field
listening to the fall wind rustle the trees

i master this lame beast
and contrive to march it slowly through the night
while it seized and sputtered
to the edge of light
the edge of forgiveness
there i lay down
but the world has no further use for a broken old man
potions and notions antiquated
she with a woman's gentleness
gathers up what remains of me
chiding me softly for having wandered astray
knitting the pieces parts to semblance
she admits beyond mere frowns
her reasons for being here
that my words reach her
that my soul enraptures her
my humor embraces her
and unlike many others she has known
my heart hears her every word
and thirsts to know her mind

love affairs are more than in a bedroom
they are in the heart and mind
i will have my lover and know her
because everything about her matters to me

— The End —