"footpaths" poems
Inequality is something that should be preserved.
Else who will wash my clothes
and who will wash the sink full of utensils?
What if we all got the same number
of eyes and hands?
We have created inequality with wealth and education.
I cherish this inequality as I am above of some millions,
else I would have been standing in queues and footpaths, begging, sleeping and scavenging.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
~
The Giraffe Cries
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
You're here today in your spot
Where the footpaths cross
And a little to the left
Under those tall trees
On a patch of flat earth.
Across the grass to the right
The old Plane, magnificent
In structure spreads branches
Like a globe of lightest green
Catching the glittering sun.
Your easel, an old brown relic
With leather carrying handle
Held together by a strap
Carries your canvas and paints
Whilst you wear a tweed cap.
And what I like, standing back
To watch, is the quiet consistency
Of observation; two living forms
Joining in the imagination
To create beauty and truth.
Love Mary
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
I staggered through the desert, dressed
in brown rags,
ripped. I was surrounded by flies.
They picked at my sweaty forehead,
spoiled my food.
I had in an old wicker basket two crisp apples,
which are brown
now, thanks to those flies.
My feet are dry, cracked and ******
not from flies—
from hot scorpions.
They hide under sand
and pick at my feet.
One day I left my house n’went for a walk; kicked open my front door
walked over the old stone bridge over water bright and blue, for
miles and miles,
on footpaths by little rivers, through mossy forests,
knee-deep in marshes,
hiking over rocky, cold mountains,
stammering across the plains.
I saw the desert:
punched me in the gut.
Beautiful,
I thought—
immortal.
A great tornado of sand
came whisking from the dunes. I checked
my watch: The glass was shattered. The hands were bent crooked.
I unstrapped
my watch and threw it
on the edge of the desert and
I sprinted toward the endless tan horizon, kicked off my rotten shoes
to feel the hot sand between my toes and ran. I fell and fell asleep.
I was bored in my old, old house.
The floor was always swept to shine,
my bookcase:
big, glossy, oak monstrosity.
And no, I did not have a wife,
or children.
I lived in a sunny village,
paved with stone.
By the fountain, birds sang, merchants sold felt and mallets.
I’m too tired for explanations.
And besides,
there is no trick, I left to leave,
to run and jump and roll and howl.
I knew it would end,
like this or something similar.
I decided to
just lie down,
and the vultures came like a great black cloud to circle,
and the heat,
the headache,
my body buzzed cooled a dizzy, breaking feeling came and body was freed
like ice smashing to shards . . . on desert floor, old rags drenched
in sweat-body.
I open my eyes wide.
I keep them open.
Tears come to my eyes.
I let the sun blind me.
I turn over on my side and close my eyes, see red.
My eyelids are hot.
The vultures caw
and shriek like
squealing pigs.
I’m dizzy and my head feels thick.
The vultures will eat me,
rip my skin with beaks,
and the flies will buzz around me
until I’m bones, but
I came here just to come here,
and I lied here just to lie, and
I lived just to live,
so then I’ll die now just to die.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Clouds flat as pancakes line the sky
hovering over rivers and lakes,
roaming across prairies and bluffs
Seasoned with a bitter sweetness.
Some trees less lively than others,
Some blaze with a unique aura.
Wild reeds and wild weeds ride the wind--
Brown and rusted like train track bolts.
Signs for a woodshop boutique lead
down a road prancing deer wander.
Sun rays hint shades of light through cracks
Revealing a scene to be seen.
The red, the orange, the yellow-green.
Brown, sleeping stalks of corn in rows
And the scare crow standing tall in
The middle, still in nights silence.
Lifeless leaves falling to the ground
Leave colored murals on footpaths
Soon to be covered with sheets of
Snow as nature prepares to sleep.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Strolling along the footpaths in my mind
Kicking away unwanted leaves
Never knowing what I might find
or indeed what my journey achieves.
I know hopes and dreams are buried somewhere
in a file I clearly wanted to relive
Most of my dreams are on a wing and a prayer
and some of my hopes are wanting to forgive.
I come across memories from a short while ago
I sit on the bank and on my face there is a smile
Across the stream shines a golden glow
I plan to sit and dream just for a while.
I feel a chill and there is a twinkle from a distant star
I have lost track of time; dusk has arrived too soon
Visions of my youth has nudged me from afar
and I hear gentle whispers from the silvery moon.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
The silver moon
falls
from sight
as the rising tide
kisses
adjacent piers.
The cool morning
rests
over the gentle bay
as clouds
commute
covering the light of day.
Brown thrashers rhythmically
mimic
stolen song
as they
traverse
the canal.
Barefoot toes
roam
freely
frequenting familiar
footpaths.
Minute minnow mouths
toy
with the bait
bobbing
the cork.
Experienced hands
handle
seafood
adopting its scent
while the blue *****
boil
into crimson.
Afternoon showers
cool
the earth
as a mysterious moon
lowers
the tide.
Night
falls
again
in Mississippi.
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 4:21 PM UTC
I tire of this Patriarchy
The footpaths, The Guidelines
The strict Dogma, The misogynistic guise
I tire of these Sins
The evil manipulation, The father of my fathers
The pleasure of power, The hearts swollen with hate
I tire of this Psychological Harem
The predestination, The pain of letting things go
The image staring back at me, The toxic masculinity
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Tired
Brain spits words in fits and starts
The internal running commentary misfiring badly
Ideas stuck in bottlenecks
Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps
Leading off the congested thoughtways
Tired
Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains
Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves
And other assorted detritus of modern existence
Spewing out over footpaths and under cars
And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders
Tired
Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask
Features only glimpsed in snatches
Like looking through a white picket fence while running
Thought trees bunching up around the middle
Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others
Tired
Collapsing under the weight of the wave function
Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence
Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate
In extraordinary frequency and noise
Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang
Tired
As if running a marathon in treacle
Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt
Running barefoot on salt flats
Or over pillows in stilettos
More time spent on face than feet
Tired
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
The court jester prances for the Big Queen *****
And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards
Quickly losing the point of it all
As words start tumbling down in random order
Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code
Information overload threatens to upend the boatload
Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour
Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught
Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions
Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans
Who witnessed limb torn from limb
In the name of something nobody remembers
Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf
Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun
From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement
Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave
From the cold, impassive logic of Death
Who comes knocking as you read this
Wired
No chance of sleep now
This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
Footpaths fidgeted
‘Neath her fragile toes,
Wind whispered secrets
Within eternal woes.
When the lunar and
The lunatic ride ambitious
With their foes
She waits in hunger
For the fair,
kind
Wolf.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
All the roads, footpaths, and roughened trails of my beginnings
Lead me to the map of your heart, that long buried treasure.
I will trace words and phrases along the contours of your lips,
And glide cautiously across the footbridge of your wanting.
You will be stilled by the weight of my breath upon your brow,
And you will know love at a pace that awakens you to your own preciousness.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
*
“For in your light I dream, as evening takes my hand”*
Silently I find my thoughts illumined by your beauty
In soft shimmers of dancing silhouettes
and patterns allowing breaths to sigh
Eyes peer into velvet skies,
visions set in motion eternally, find me
stranded within the confines of my heart, longing for you
Desperate for but a breeze, a movement of shadow,
a hope of wishes made upon the early arrival
of this crested view
Lonely among the maples, towering soldiers
lined at fielded boundaries, claiming wisdom
as they too reach for your smile
“And I yearn the knowledge of your distant view”
Do you think, do you feel, do you dream of me
from balconies high above hibiscus footpaths,
candle lit in passing moments which flicker, enchant
Drinking from a porcelain cup caressed by your hand,
a touch my body pleads, soft fingers on smooth surroundings,
ripples following moonlight sonatas,
days of spring blooms and whimsical showers,
flooding affections to wash over me,
carry me to you
This moon, suspended in charcoal heavens
upon a beaded blanket of perfect pearls,
beckons our dreams in simultaneous fashion
“Does your heart share this moon tonight, with me”
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
a mountain just like all others
who displays all of its mediocrity and indifferences
for the world to see
but will allow those who care enough to
stumble through its raggedy footpaths
to acknowledge the true beauty
that exists within the mountain top lakes
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
**I crossed paths
With an icy princess who left
Indelible footpaths on mine embittered soul.**
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
~
“For in your light I dream, as evening takes my hand”
Silently I find my thoughts illumined by your beauty;
In soft shimmers of dancing silhouettes
and patterns allowing breaths to sigh
Eyes peer into velvet skies,
visions set in motion eternally, find me
stranded within the confines of my heart…longing for you
Desperate for but a breeze, a movement of shadow,
a hope of wishes made upon the early arrival
of this crested view
Lonely among the sycamore, towering soldiers
lined at fielded boundaries, claiming wisdom
as they too reach for your smile
“And I yearn the knowledge of your distant view”
Do you think, do you feel, do you dream of me
from balconies high above hibiscus footpaths,
candle lit in passing moments which flicker…enchant
Drinking from a porcelain cup caressed by your hand,
a touch my body pleads, soft fingers on smooth surroundings,
ripples following moonlight sonatas,
days of spring blooms and whimsical showers,
flooding affections to wash over me…
carry me home
This moon, suspended in charcoal heavens
upon a beaded blanket of perfect pearls,
beckons our dreams in simultaneous fashion
“Does your heart share this moon tonight…with me”
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
Wander worried rambler roam.
Wander down the path of a riverside wood.
Step by step,
Shuffle to and fro.
A Forgotten industry remains.
Man made mines,
Dug out quarries,
Fencing, barbed wire, power lines, and pressure treated wooden poles.
Littering the landscape.
A blood letting favor, favored low.
A hydroelectric dam.
Murky and historical waters enter its mouth,
and then,
exit from its other side.
Constantly ******* and spitting, and churning turbine whine,
Spinning gear stuck,
clamped to the spine.
Luck may have it that these waters may never go dry.
Luck may have it that these currents stay 'live.
Merrily manic, it flows.
Strong and bold,
sparkle, sprung, sold!
Pushes and rolls,
gives and goes.
Cold.
Electric mother glow.
Neon, argon, blazing blast,
to give city speckled lights a mast.
A grip to grasp, to squeeze, to cast,
shadows in the night.
Yellow, orange, red, and blue,
the shades of dreamers,
with their sorrows leaded, heavy,
holy truths.
Unspoken tomorrows, last goodbyes,
mouthed silently at last
in their heads a film score out of time.
The air is baked, the land is spry.
The sun is shattered through prism pines.
I carry myself upon the leaves, of dead footsteps, make believe.
Native footpaths of long ago
and red sandstone trail of men to behold.
Come to this place and let sights be known,
Come to this place and let sights be known,
histories of ours, histories bygone.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
through dawn i stumble,
singing to bustling streets through
clenched teeth, through
wavering eyelids i
am the sum
of the sleep
i haven't got. i
was lost,
and couldn't
and can't tell if this day
pervades, but;
lost like this, lost
undercurrent, while caverns of cloud subsume,
i can take this.
in an instant,
lucid life is a dream i
carve whilst awake. i'd
never seen vanishing
as perfectly as this
platanus leaf beneath
rain, beneath me.
the sky dissolves as i breathe,
choking on city air.
at the end of everything,
i draw out short
straws. indisciplined, the
spaces between my heartbeats
become,
to curl up and writhe and
scream aloud your name,
to take down
the whole **** coast
on the single point we
intersect,
with hope;
to fall into your life, like
slow leaves to footpaths.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
4 o'clock, saturday
Dread and Panic are holding hands in my chest:
An extraordinary case of the mean reds
watching the gray
from my kitchen window
the cars parked over cement fields
precisely 300 vehicles when full
the boy sitting on a gray bench waiting
with his baseball, shh! His gray father is shouting
at his gray phone, his gray wife finally called that number.
all gray.
the sky here is almost always sleeping
a blanket of melting nimbus
the gulls slide inoffensively over the roofs
our courtyard grass trembles for them
the wind falls out of the bay
wind, the world traveler without a suitcase
I imagine it kicking up dust in exotic fields
only the rocks are gray there,
gray because they deserve to be.
the whole scene is quite extraordinary
A Run Of Wild Horses! Gall-lop-ing
gliding offensively, red and white and gold
shining sweaty and flying!
can you imagine?
--it's starting to rain and the boy is still sitting,
he's so gray now I can hardly see him
the wind still spills in from the bay down the road
where I can see them running from my window-
Mains whipping like flags of furious change
Hooves beating down the cement footpaths
The streetlamps are crumpling into heaps of flowers
Tails raging back and forth, metronomous passion chords
Fast, rapid gaining (Lover's Heartbeat)
-the boy is yet unaware
legs of inspiration fast approaching
-the cars twist into red willows over golden hope fields
Shh! His father, master of gray has been sacked! Tr-am-pled!
Now his body of flowers lay in the street!
Arrest. They have arrested.
Standing tall and silent like Liberty
they take the boy upon their shoulders,
an acrobatic wonder
and continue slowly across the grass
-it still trembles for them
and take flight, to the next courtyard
and then the next.
I'll never forget the grayness of his eyes
as he disappeared over the trees
who were once chimneys,
his mouth was stuffed
full of flowers.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
unbound feet escort me
afar from whence i came
the long forgotten footpaths
lay long behind my memory
searching, i wander
through the vast sea of green before me
the raging wind captured
in the brief rush of eager leaves
quick to their demise
sheltering my easy steps
from the traces of the shadow walkers
who track me in the night
hark, now
i hear them
calling
their hungry voices
decline in me the longing for new land
beyond the crystal coastline
where i can abandon the thick desolation
of the land you once called home
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
you could say,
are long dirt roads that never end
trotted on by horses
(you can call them men)
Women
you could say,
are cobble stone streets
constantly impaled by stilettoed friends
(you could call them men)
Women
you could say,
are black tar roads
riddled with curves and bends
plowed on by Subarus
(otherwise known as men)
Women
you could say,
are nice footpaths in the park
run on by children
around the age of ten
(often boys that grow up to be men)
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
Starry-eyed, I peeked at you through the shop window
The salesman’s toothy smile was nothing to your new-polished glow.
Your fake leather belts and stiff rubber soles
Made me dream of journeys sans mud, debris, and potholes.
The salesman whispered the ‘discounted rate’ delicately into my ears,
I glanced down at my slender wallet and blinked back my tears.
My feet slid into your gentle folds, a warrior coming home,
I was fifty short but in your embrace, the world I wished to roam.
Your beauty was unsurpassed, though the insoles did itch,
And your buckles gleamed like fairy dust, when the toe-cap pulled a stitch.
You helped me traverse wet sand heaps on under-construction roads
You stood with me on the roller-coaster of rush-hour public transport.
You were with me through the muddy puddles, of early monsoon
Caked with dirt, you stayed alert, through alleys litter-strewn.
You held me in your hard embrace on broken footpaths
Helped me slink through curfew gates not even the cat could surpass.
And I should have known, you were too good for this town
My fake leather sandals with the rubber soles of brown.
As I hung off the bottom step of the spasmodic minibus
Beneath me the buckles ripped, the outsoles gave up.
And I know that over the months, we’ve had our fights
And I’ve said more than once that you were overpriced.
Though it’s true that I think you could have done with a discount
Never let them tell you, our bond wasn’t profound.
All my neighbors know of your tales of valor
What you lacked in durability, you made up for in glamor.
So what if the heels were rickety and the insoles tickled?
The road to affordable beauty with potholes is riddled!
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 2:36 AM UTC
Young children skip stones on the lake.
The boys, they "accidently" fall in.
Mistakes are the best memories made.
Laughter fills the sweet summer air.
On their chubby cheeks
the sun dances
and they breathe in
the lucious smell of springs late blooming flowers.
Summer is finally here.
Handmade Lemonade stands scatter footpaths
and lemon peels litter the street.
Lemonade 5cents
Daisy chains rest on the older girls heads
as they tan in the sun.
And in ten years time, polaroids will fill their walls
Of this beautiful summer
in the town by the lake.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
baptism
from the clouds
washes away
channelling to the harbour
broken branches
in gutters
leaves strewn
across footpaths
wild urban obstacles
puddles stay
wet socks
umbrella struggles
a moment of teasing
blue drifts to
grey portents
time enough
to clear eaves
unblock drains
prepare for
another cleansing
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC