"hiker" poems
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost
friendly)
a Kiss in the Storm
(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching
coolly)
A barn
a cabin attic
Your own face
stationary
in the mirrored window
fear of restroom’s
Tragic cold
neon
I’m freezing
animals
dead
white wings of
rabbits
grey velvet deer
The Canyon
The car a craft
in wretched
SPACE
Sudden movements
& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless
Night
The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker
Afraid of Wolves
& his own
Shadow
~~~
The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Water.
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
night
& the cold men
who play there.
~~~
a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveller
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward luring
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night
33.4k
If you wander off
The beaten path
Alone
Then you are
A lost hiker
If you wander off
The beaten path
With friends
Then you are
Adventurers
It's too bad I'm always alone
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Moment by moment
Life drips out
And empties the soul
Of living
Full and contented
Living is not meant to be
Each moment passes by
Bringing its own emptying-ness
Scouring another few bits of happiness
To dump it in the trash of memories
And experiences
To live on
While life is being wasted
On living
In and out of belongingness
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
Come into my commune,
My farm
In the sky;
You won't be lonely
Baby,
Not by a hiker's mile
Let's climb
Into the morrow,
Throwing fear
To the wind
The curators
Of sorrow
Are seething within
They prey
On your pleasure
And worship your sin
Like vultures
They hover,
Like maggots
They win
Come into my commune,
My farm
In the sky;
And feast
On your freedom
Then bury your lies;
You won't be lonely
Baby,
Not by a hiker's mile
~ P
#AHikersMile
(12/20/2014)
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
She Looks Like a Tiger
See how she places her paws so lightly, so as not to be heard.
Silently, she moves through the crowd, head held high, today she doesn't want to hide.
Depicted in peach coloured stripes. No red, no brown, no blue, no black.
Today, is the first day she felt it was safe to show them.
Asking for the first time in her life, for the world to continue doing what it's always done
Lean on her, sing her our our sorrows so she could sing them back and pretend, that we could not see her scars.
She has always been the brick wall.
The concert hall
The shoulder to cry on.
The logic you would chase after with your pedestrian problems and she was the designated driver.
But when it looks like you're a casual on bridges over troubled waters, there 's no one talking you down from the ledge.
She would never have asked you to.
Hannah, your name sounds like a semi-permanent tattoo.
I hope that's what this poem feels like to everyone who hears it
So that every time they think they know broken,
they feel cold lines crisscrossing their body and can honestly wonder,
was this feeling your blueprint.
But I think you look like tiger.
And I know, I shouldn't give time to some little boys who refuse to use her real name because it fits her to well.
Callin' her some emo, weak hippie freak.
she's just looking for attention.
Because when you're the first person to make it through Hell and back alive, you're a liar.
A hitch hiker piggy backing on someone else's problems.
But her arms served as straightaways for razorblades for nine solid years,
and its no thanks to people like you she's still here.
You think, she should be ashamed of herself. As if scars are a ***** in the armour.
Like she was peer pressured into self-destruction and couldn't resist.
No one asks you:
"Hey there, wanna cut? Wanna, self-mutilate?"
Just like I won't ask you not to hate the idea of someone being that low
That every beat of the heart feels a little like ****** assault, and cutting was the best way she could find to say no.
She looks like a tiger,
and she didn't earn her stripes. People rarely do.
But she has earned the right to wear them for what they are;
Battle scars.
Things she's long overcome.
Her head is held high again.
And I know, I shouldn't be wasting my time on people
Who refuse to use her real name,
but Hannah is still Hannah inside out, upside down,
Backwards, Hannah is still Hannah,
Even with her insides out,
Hannah is still Hannah.
She's still here.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
In the land of the practical
There lived an ornamental
A desert rose.
A farmers wife
Planted her
To break up
The graveled nap
Of gray caliche
And from the time
She pushed her first shoot up
She knew she
Didn’t look like
The other plants.
The land could not
Be farmed
There was no oil
So the farmer and his wife
Moved On
Leaving the rose alone
Amongst the desert cabbage
And the other wild succulents.
At first she tried
To blend
Curl her velvety leaves
Into a cabbage
Fodder
For the desert fauna
But the animals avoided her
Because she looked odd.
They worried that she was poisonous
So she crawled back
Underground.
But still she longed
For light on her face
So she stuck another shoot up
Conserving all her energy
For her stems
She didn't want to frighten anyone
But her stems grew thick and woodsy
Like a thorny fig vine
And after a hiker
Cut his leg
She curled up
And crawled underground.
Years passed
Until she was as frozen
As the ground
Then one day
She sensed movement
Above her.
She pushed a shoot up
And standing above her
Smiling
Was a young woman
- There you are
The woman cried
- Why are you hiding away
My grandmother told me
All About you.
You were the one bright spot
Of color in her garden
She could smell your perfume
From her window
And it reminded her that
Beauty could survive
Even in such
A drab place.
And the rose blossomed.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
Sit down my friends, come hear this true story
It's interesting, but it's also gory
One fine day in eighteen seventy-four
Alferd Packer, who just loved to explore
With five friends, he began a three-month tour
'Cross the Rockies, but don't ask me what for
Six men walked for seventy-five miles
But the voyage just was not all smiles
For you see, when the group finally came back
Five of the men the party now did lack
At the end of those cold seventy-five
Alferd Packer alone finished alive
When asked why, he didn't know what to say
His memory seemed to change day to day
But at last he settled on one version
Of what happened on that long excursion
The police decided this one was true
And it's this one that I'll now tell to you
One hiker, it seemed, whose name had been Bell
Just went insane, but why no one could tell
Packer claimed that Bell had killed all the rest
Of the hikers, and that packer was next
So ole Packer, he said, "I tried my best
To stop him; but I fought back with such zest
Shannon Bell died, but it's just common sense
When I say, I killed him in self-defense"
Then Alferd, he was left with five dead men
What could he do? It was getting cold then
So Alferd, to warm up that freezing hell
Took the body and he devoured Bell
For dessert he then ate his other four
Dead companions; but hey — what are friends for?
When finished, he caused a sensation
By arriving at the tour's destination
When Alferd had ended his gruesome tale
The local cops threw him quickly in jail
Where he served over seventeen long years
But if his fate fills your eyes now with tears
I'll reveal here, he was released alive
Died a free man, the age of sixty-five
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
They crawl hands and knees!!!
Lacklustered fanatic's,
Groupies of needleshooter's and powder transits,
Their noses they wipe off fairied dust!!!
Their skin fragile and delirious!!!
A spoon to copper boil,
Eyeglasses to split the sun ,
Sticky fingers to stop and go..
Bloodied toast!!!
They cringe their pearlies,
And wobbled by to and fro waves,
Their here for today,
Gone for tomorrow!!!
A vein full of sorrows!!!
A hitch hiker of fertile roads,
Though,
Thy load leadeth one down to the pit!!
Within millipede's of Spit,
To drippeth the argot that slurreth them!!
Taketh thy hector out of thy baggage,
Thou serf of emptiness!!
For thy plentiness thou seeketh,
Lies beyond the ark,
Behind the purple shroud!!
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
In the calm still moonlit night
she silently wove a silken tapestry -
spinnerets spewing slender strands
light as air but strong as Kevlar.
A silvery armature spanned the trail
clinging to trunks and branches.
Rappelling down from its pinnacle,
she fixed radii to her deadly wheel.
Spiraling in from the outer ring
she knitted her way to the center
to await the tell-tale shudder
of a fly or moth flown into her snare.
She took no note of the hiker
paused alone on the trail -
transfixed by the dew laden spiral
shimmering in the rose-glow sun.
It mattered not to the spider
that a man would find her work pleasing
and it mattered not to the man
that the web was not woven for art.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
I was created by my streets
The streets made me hard headed
Thugged. See through blood was my protection.
I had once no direction.
Taking the hitch-hiker path I learned the hard way,
Never take anyone for their word:
Until their word shows sacrifice.
If no sacrifice with action.
Heartfelt and honest it is not.
Heartbreak stroke symptoms pop.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Simple string slips through, complicated fingertips.
Wishes, desires tied into the shape of, a single red balloon.
Thumbing a ride on a Sunday breeze,
Surfing its way over tops of rooted trees.
Winged aerialists delicately balanced on mirrored water,
The leavers dance, front row for a final show.
Doing what I can never find the courage to do,
Slip away, uncharted destination.
Through ragged linen flowing in the sky,
Past the saffron fireball,
Cautiously placed beyond the horizon.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Solitary hiker, trudging up the slopes,
breath quickened by the angle;
hallway up, I spot a rock, sit, and
let my legs below me, dangle.
Take in the valley, far below,
that lingers lovely in my gaze;
through mist-filled clouds,
and scattered haze.
I find my pulse on my carotid,
the big artery on my neck;
it's bounding and it's fast,
but I continue, on my trek.
I slow the pace with measured gait,
granny steps and slow walking;
nearing now the summit's crest,
my hips and legs do all the balking.
Solitary walker, his face now in the clouds,
congratulates himself at last;
looks out into the far horizons,
out to the mountains of his past.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
My heart is a hitch hiker
She ain't afraid to stick her thumb out
and grab a ride with the first loser to pull over-
No grudges.
She'll stay gone for days,
Can you believe that?
Sometimes weeks...
She doesn't care to sleep in vacant parking lots
Or dark alley where the homeless creep..
She'll sit too close to a strangers fire;
Drinking whiskey while walking a wire
and everyone around will laugh-
But meanwhile,
she's just crashing...
Daydreaming about her next hitch
Like a fix
It can't come quick enough.
She'll get comfortable too fast
Hoping for illusions to last
Spending too much time on a forgetful past-
And before you know it,
She's calling fantasy her home.
Oh, that *****
Who likes to hitch
Calling fantasy her home.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Hiker reaches the foot of the mountain
And pulls out his map,
Laden with a golden path in lemniscates
Knowing where he is to go
For he had known this since he set foot out
His door.
Day by day he scales a piece of the mountain
Face, lacking not skill, but
Having patience, knowing the safe and
Prosperous journey is the
Patient one, the one whose tree of meaning
Is rooted in passion, the passion
To wait.
The Hiker fears not the delay of the summit
For the summit is already his,
Her hand his bride, for it is known in the
Hikers name who he is meant for:
The Summit, forever and for always.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
The hiker cannot dwell there long,
concealed on a high gull-lined cliff,
overlooking the grey of the Sound.
Framed in a solemn March day,
two curiously juxtaposed species hold her gaze.
Silent as a fawn she watches
a black wolf beneath her arboreal outpost,
hunched in the fashion of Asian street vendors,
observing the other creatures.
Great humpbacks frolic in icy waters ---
spouting volcano plumes of spray
that catch the freshened wind ---
riding white-capped waves,
till entropy dissolves their mist to atomized brine.
Whale-song, too distant for the hiker's gentle ears,
comes rolling in tsunami-like
to the aurally attuned wolf,
which ***** its head and nods
in musical agreement with the odes.
Then little lupine brother
rears back his head and howls,
so sorrowful a moan, as she has ever heard ---
answering his water-brethren,
hunters of krill upon the seas.
Giggling at the incongruity of this lone celebrant
singing pack-songs to leviathans,
she hurries on her way,
lone wolf herself returning to the pack.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
Mama I'm not coming home tonight,
Don't fret I promise I'll be alright,
I'm moving on to better things,
Left the nest and spread my wings,
And feel the sun on the back of my heart.
Father you never understood my plans,
Told me you'd take matters into your hands,
Kicked me to the ground and said,
Son you need to clear your head,
But I'm still waiting for life to start.
Hitch-hiker happiness and suitcase sorrows,
Feel the space between today and tomorrow,
Ride the winds of a thousand ambitions,
Set fire to your inner inhibitions,
Aeroplanes and cars and trains,
My future will never be the same,
I'm a travelling teen with a travelling mind,
So I'll start again and leave my insecurities behind.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
“Answer me, young hiker,
I wonder why you dread the rain;
invulnerable part of the same nature,
are the two of you not likewise?”
“Don’t you dare to claim,
we would be akin.
It is not the nature I am reaching for,
it is the acceptance towards it.”
-
“Oh, young hiker,
where is it you will go?
Is the wind pointing your direction
or is it your confidence?”
“Oh, you settled human,
no answer I will give to you.
A path, no doubt, exists,
the way but is concealed.”
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Deflate Gate
By: Tom Brady
When it comes to football
it’s all about the ball
it’s got nothing to do with skill
or giving our fans a thrill
When I cozy up behind the hiker
and give the call to begin the game
he snaps the ball into my hands
as the crowd screams from the stands
Then I make my famous moves
to the left, maybe right, maybe back
either to pass the ball or, to
hand it off to a running back
Where the ball goes, nobody knows
just me – in my moment of glory
whether the ball is soft or hard
I can’t be bothered or give a worry
Seems strange to me about the air
inside the ball – being such a big crime
they check the pressure when we start
why not each quarter, or, during half time
Whether a ball is soft or hard at game’s end
no difference to me or any team mate
we’re here to play our best on game day
not to deflate ***** or litigate
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
From this perspective,
it's almost like I can see the future.
It's just one busy highway-
An infinite stretch of pavement.
It looks like my veins, and the traffic is your blood.
Side to side of me passes with a blur,
forests to hills, to forests on hills.
I spot the beach and smell that endless surf.
For just a moment, I leave the road
so I can touch the dirt.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
Straight lines bound the edges,
while it became necessary to spend
the anchor of time lost in the twisting
patterns slowly darkening to supply
the molecules which provided scenery.
The character was divided
between a wolf and the hiker towering
at the pinnacle of the hill to gaze above
the head of the beast across to the vista
of the trail. Roses bloomed, and the ink
was done, to dry while color trickled
in a world comprised through streams
of shivering light reflected from
the mountain, a flower raised by
the frivolous event of cataclysmic times;
the hatchet carved its cliffs to make
a face of empty granite and the soul of
the rock. The delay created a great offer,
considered by erosion, but the hesitation
defied the smoothing influence of climates
and their ages. The rise killed the
enthusiasms of the hiking spirit,
reconstituting the problem, and
the messenger of hilarity was never less
welcome than when enthusiastic about the
confusion of lost victims. Always a few
of these were
in the scenes along the shimmering trails
with their names that changed at inconvenient
turning points until travelers were anxious
to go through the door into the chalet with its
green carpet of moss. The discount welcomed
them, inside, yet there was no great pile
of money and nothing was purchased. Instead,
after the warmth set in, showing determination,
the man with the pack returned to life on
the wild edge of the land. After a command to
the sharp creature that had been pacified by the
impressive displays of civilization, the walker
began to trek, and the wandering dog felt self
respect, the beginning of membership. So, they
belonged to the range, and the traders had plans
to provision them by means of a system of values
arrived to demonstrate available necessities and
equities conceived in the course of bargaining.
This general aspiration was accompanied by the
taciturn response thought to be more pleasant
than the argument and ill will. Prosperity had
been created by serving fate and nature rather
than by transferring property to a singular pit.
The result was an expectation of good deals and
reliable assistance.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
It begins
Its blowing in from electric wind.
The smell.
Your fingers , they taste.
The wind,It remembers.
Wrapped in familiar by it .
Tucked away the memories explode.
My heart , its exposed again.
It takes precious healed moments
time lifted on scented memories
blood rushing waves of stone
It surrounds me.
Its familiar.
Its you ...Always, it is you.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
Standing by the road side
Thumbing a ride
Sleeping Bag, Backpack
And...Guitar on my back
Heat rolls off the Highway
Like Hallucinogenic Waves
Found a Roach in my pocket
Got me through the Day
Nothing but 70s Buick's...
And Cadillac's Roll By
On the on ramp to I-80
Rolling on to West Skies
A wish for a fast ride's best
Been up for 36 Hours
Popping Little White Crosses
Nothing Passing by but...
Military bosses.........
A VW Micro-bus pulls up
With a Band of Tie Died, Dead
Heads, cranking Jerry Garcia
The smoke the bowl, Kept on Toking
Greatful Dead played "Keep on Truckin' "
I Rolled off some Riffs, along with the Band
Flyin' 300 miles in that beat up old Van
My head got mellow, with these fine Fellows
They Dropped me off in the cool of the Night
And all I saw of them was their Red Tail Lights...1/27/15
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
The first chime
a man beaten by time and weather
waits at a silent bus stop for the last
chance he’ll get to see his kids
before they’re gone
The second chime
a woman on her back, wearing
nothing but a smile she doesn’t mean
feeling human again with a man she
doesn’t even know
The third chime
noisy commotion around a bed
the doctors saved the baby but
mom paid the ultimate price
who will tell the father?
The fourth chime
a million questions race through
your head as you try to fall asleep
what will tomorrow hold for me?
only time will tell
The fifth chime
as the last customers leave the
manager of the diner walks out
tonight he will make the decision
not to drink himself to sleep
The sixth chime
a little boy, tears rolling down his
face as he hides under the covers
he always hates it when mommy
and daddy fight
The seventh chime
a priest sits at his desk in the house
of the Lord, weeping with guilt
how can such a sinner lead any of
God’s people?
The eighth chime
out on the rocky beaches
a man and a woman are wed
by the sultry light of the moon
and nothing more
The ninth chime
six men carry the casket of
a seventh, a man they all called
father and sir but never
just Dad
The tenth chime
high in the Cascades, the light
of an emergency flare finally dies
along with the last hopes of
the stranded hiker
The eleventh chime
night is still young for most
but for some it is only the start
of the hardest day they will
ever weather
The twelfth chime
the bus comes, and the man
sighs with relief to know he
will be able to see his sons
before they’re gone
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC
(
/ )> \
(
( )
####
One song
One gentility
••
One day of innocence
/////
One
•
•
The broken promise Street
Yeah it's you
Over there
••
The limp - **** flag
The ***** King
the mothers are oblivious to all pain
|||||
The One Game Plan
////
The ****** of the masses
The total ****
//////
One song
One gentility
•
One day of innocence
///
Needing you to make it last Forever
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
1st hiker sees
the red buzzing length,
real inhuman clay
old plastic bottle
serves to spear and toss
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC