"hubs" poems
An illusionist by trade, he
Could transport her from where she stands
To a magical spring rumored
To harbor manatees that turn
Into mermaids under the sun.
He needs only one volunteer
To help him spin the great machine
Until its wheels move too quickly
To see the metal spokes between
Its three hubs and rotating rims.
Two persons, four legs, and three wheels,
Travel through time and cross the space
Between the parking lot and springs –
Voila! All appear safe and sound
At the edge of Wakulla’s gem.
And in a moment – close your eyes!
Now open them to see the sun
Shining for the first time all day,
All the way down to the bottom
Where the manatees swim and dream.
The mammoth manatees awake
And begin to grow back their scales.
They transform and wait patiently
For the human girl to toss her
Wished-upon shell into the spring.
She finds the one and makes a wish,
Then closes her eyes once again,
While the practiced illusionist
Works his magic hidden by smoke,
And the shell falls from her fingers.
It floats to the coldest waters,
Slowly shifting back and forth as
Though it were swimming – and it is!
Transformed into a mystical
Creature, it sets the mermaids free.
The human girl jumps up and down
With glee at the beautiful sight:
Shimmering scales and flowing hair
Dart through water in their delight
And invite her to join and play.
The girl jumps in and kicks her feet
But must come up for air to breathe.
The illusionist watches this
From the sandy shore and he – ****
Bubbles at her feet slowly form
Into one glittering green tail
And her hair grows several feet,
Turning to gold under water.
The girl smiles wide and dives to
Join the joyful, playful mermaids.
They jump and swim and practice tricks,
Splashing around under the sun,
But the girl missed her life on shore
And looked longingly at the sand.
The illusionist saw this, too.
Since she had been the one to free
The mermaids from their trapped bodies,
He thought to grant her one last wish
And with a puff of brim fire smoke,
She was transported back to shore.
Her adventure complete, she spun
The wheels of the illusionist’s
Magic machine and was brought home
With the help of her companion,
The great entertainer himself.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
Sobs En Route to a Penitentiary
Good-by now to the streets and the clash of wheels and
locking hubs,
The sun coming on the brass buckles and harness knobs.
The muscles of the horses sliding under their heavy
haunches,
Good-by now to the traffic policeman and his whistle,
The smash of the iron hoof on the stones,
All the crazy wonderful slamming roar of the street--
O God, there's noises I'm going to be hungry for.
1.8k
sipping a Gatorade
(I’d prefer diet coke)
I wait for the call
to board the
plane
my sister and dad
people watch
behind me
my mom reads
to my left
my great-grandma
and her friend talk
quietly
I sit here
sipping my drink
and writing
this is the sort of place
that every soul eventually
drifts through
hubs of the human universe
quiet despite all the voices
this is the beginning of an adventure
go to a foreign land
form one great terminal
to
another
many would be jealous
but really I’m just
sitting here
sipping
Gatorade
and
writing
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 7:04 AM UTC
Cogs and free wheels chains and hubs
Twist and turns loud creeks and rubs
Sears and Snap-on won't do the job
Park and Pedro worth a few bob
Your problems are complex and real
You're tormented cry: squeak and squeal
Not a job for the feeble man
I have the tools, do what I can
Put you in my vice and hold tight
Crank the toggle bolt, torqued just right
I am the wrench to smooth your ride
Hand me the tools, stand by my side
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly
JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money
Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing in the banking secretly
There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey.
Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit
Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels
You're only handling their money or changing it
You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels
They tell you "you have to do this"
If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss.
Here is the money. What do I with it then?
I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange to change the dollars again
You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here
She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear
Just as though they were made by tourists
Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us.
The cash is now laundered and its origin erased
They can deposit their money, which is now clean into Pesos, that can't be traced
But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away
One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say
The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best
Making it the ideal location, distributing Dope and Cash from across the Midwest.
Approximately 70% of the US population lives within a day's drive of Chicago
The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in Eldorado
Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash
Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash
Making it the largest and badest gang capital of the America’
Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers we call the Drug Gangsta's.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
Jazz women clap in unison, black.
All the boys in the club move
way, way over, for your health,
sister.
Some bartenders smoke ****
while polishing glasses, big or
small.
Cartoons play on box t.v.s
while people look at hubs on
smartphones.
Some gruff guy points at you
-- and, yes, it could have been
me --
we have a phone call, I think.
Who uses a payphone, any-
-damn-more.
Choir children double for choir
mice.
Helicopter parents hover their
hands above their juniper drinks.
Gesturing at poorly dressed kids
has never been this in fashion.
Be perfect for the camera;
this moment will be captured
by synthetic eye.
Moms and Brads turn to
look at us laugh. Which has
always been in poor taste.
They say my poetry is bad
and your music is **** -- but
I guess it's nice that someone
gave us those views.
Columbia and Harvard
seem like distant planets.
But that's where we'll be,
supposedly.
You with your Guinness,
me with my Tito's.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
this town burns like old tales of wet villages near Halifax
a hub of nowhere, lined to hubs all apart at travel-trap distance
undistinguished but cultured, the spec manifest of an always rolling boulder;
party party, debit card!
welcome to the corner of the world.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Watched over by magnificent ancient trees
though perfectly placed to capture the sun
surrounded by walls of multi coloured ivy’s
there lies a paradise second to none.
Bright vivid colours, shades and hues
only add to the general splendour
yellows, pinks, oranges, reds and blues
colours any artist would be challenged to render.
There are lilies, marigolds, roses and petunias
creepers and climbers racing down and up
geraniums, pansies, lavenders and begonias
grass peppered with daisies and buttercups.
All day butterflies, wasps and bumble bees
work tirelessly alongside one another
relentlessly searching for flowers that please
flitting constantly from one to the other.
A wide variety of flowers, plants and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, flower beds and tubs
providing shelter thus becoming teeming hubs
full of worms and snails, insects and grubs.
Birds rear young nesting in trees and bushes
foraging for food amongst the growing throng
blackbirds, finches, pigeons wrens and thrushes
together creating truly melodic birdsong.
A place that transforms long after night fall
when nocturnal creatures have hunting to do
field mice and hedgehogs from the undergrowth crawl
while the odd wary fox occasionally passes through.
Alas for many the garden becomes just another chore
far too busy to see it can offer so much more
never making the most of the opportunity to see
what a wondrous, thriving paradise a garden can be.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
the old man sits
every Sunday
in a fold up chair
under the blue sky
on the corner of 40th street
by the gas station
he sells the sun
from the back of his van
of oxidized white
and teal pin stripes
and rust under the wheel hubs
while cars buzz around him
and addicts shuffle past
he sits alone
chair and ice chest
on concrete sidewalks
weeds stealing upward
between the cracks
I remember when
a man was murdered
down the street
in broad daylight
on electric avenue
two blocks from where the old man sits
he sells the sun
but nobody seems to stop by
except me
I drive up
every Sunday
he greets me with a smile
he knows my face
he cheerfully walks toward me
paper in hand
keep the change I always say
and he bows, grateful
earnest
he sells the sun
and I imagine I'm the only one
buying
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly
JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money
Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing it into a bank, secretly
There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey.
Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit
Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels
You're only handling their money or changing it
You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels
They tell you "You have to do this"
If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss.
Here is the money. What do I with it then?
I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange, to change the dollars again
You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here
She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear
Just as though they were made by tourists
Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us.
The cash is now laundered and its origin erased
They can deposit their money, which is now clean, into Pesos that can't be traced
But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away
One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say
The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best
Making it the ideal location, distributing dope and cash from across the Midwest.
Approximately 70% of the US population, lives within a day's drive of Chicago
The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in El Dorado
Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash
Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash
Making it the largest and badest gang capital of America
Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers, we call the Drug Gangsta’s.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
The Ninth Battalion (Australia)
By Sun-filled day and frosty night,
O’er rugged hills and desert sand,
We learned to work as teams, to fight
In jungles of another land.
From every city, State and town,
All the lovely countryside,
Impelled by grim war’s cold, bleak frown,
Gathered we at fair Woodside.
And some of us were volunteers,
But mostly we young conscripts were,
With youthful hopes, ambitions, fears;
Young men’s dreams of love were there.
And lusts, for we weren’t choir boys,
Nor simpering wowser, nor old maid.
We searched for brawling, drinking joys
And chased the girls of Adelaide.
Oh Adelaide, what wondrous pubs,
The Rundle, Gresham (Mind you Roy?),
The Western, Finden, all were hubs
Of social, sinful, youthful joy.
But scarce the city trips sublime.
Beneath the awesome stars our home.
And Sun-bronzed we became with time,
Leigh Creek, Cultana, ours to roam.
At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.
Canungra’s forest, where chilled to bone
We learned to ambush and by sudden flare to ****
The Flinders Range, those hills of stone.
Shoalwater Bay did prove our skill.
And at the last and having passed our nation’s test,
(for some a final accolade)
And to that question answered yes,
We made farewell to Adelaide.
At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 2:51 AM UTC
I wander
and question.
I may have been raised on the wrong language
or continent,
or culture…
The hubs of European culture
have me lost,
and fumbling with my own.
Lost in a park,
a canal,
a street,
architecture,
decadence and delicacy.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
It was buses you don’t see around anymore
The date was June 3 at the Museum Of Bus Transportation where one can forever explore
Fishbowls that once dominated City Streets
Summer heat with air conditioning aboard no one could beat
What do I-78, 80 and 95 have in common?
Highway buses of many kinds
Capitol Trailways GM PD-4104 AND 4106, Greyhound buses which still do today and the list goes on and on.
However, I want to make a special announcement of the GM PD-4501 Scenicruiser being the most famous of the Greyhound bus family and among other Motor Coach Carriers
School buses of the past
The name Thomas buses that will last
All the buses were all parked with bus company names of who could forget
Continental Trailways with the Beige Tan and red being the Silver Eagle
There was a Flea Market Spring Fling comprising of buses among buses along with many other memorabilia
There were stops along the way such as Harrisburg, York, Hershey, Pennsylvania visiting Transit hubs
We ate dinner at Shady Maples Smorgasbord in East Earl, Pennsylvania
Buses being still around, but they are vintage being museum bound.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
Cut away the corners, nice and trim.
Keep the lines straight, keep the skyline distant.
Welcome to the future, as you drive past.
Center of the hustle and panic.
Hubs of steel glisten in the sun's affection.
Gracing the land of a better prospect.
But only hold illusions of a false promise.
The warmth of cold hearts can only rot.
Yet we can only trudge along to the new day.
Until I can be free again, back to nothingness.
My love will return, my soul will sigh.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
What if everything
every moment
Was for nothing
What matters
to me to you
Stripped sweaters dyed indigo blue
Cultural hubs content with
supercilious artists
What happens when nothing matters
Futility
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Behold the unwashed masses huddling together around a central street. With tweets and post they communicate. No longer waiting for a meeting in dark dank basements, they come together in a blog or on a home page. In what seems to be a spontaneous motion they move together. With picket signs and chants they raise their voices while simultaneously posting updates and videos of the scene. Their wave is invisible yet visible at the same moment. They live in a dual existence where a physical presence and an electronic foot print can be one in the same. Not bound by normal social conventions, they rage against the machine while taking the machine apart from the inside out. Disconnecting and reconnecting from mobile hubs and wireless connection points. One person can be the focus of a groups electronic protest as well as many finding one point. No longer can they be quantified by numerical measurements of a census or restrained by lines on a map. From the most distant parts of the world they join in one voice. Being seen and heard though some of them may not be in a single place. The unwashed masses are a new breed. Not silent, but appearing and disappearing as an aberration letting their voices be heard and they push for a better world and make felt their discontent and need for change.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Transgressions in the bloom of youth
caught on tape, blue video
hidden in the tombs of time
now come to light in my old age
actions meant to flip some cash
when flesh was bared to camera's eye
revealing all in survival's name
now intrudes on a present day.
Yet there I am, in a smudged frame
Father Time has had his way
the newness of the internet
harbors sins of history
just as my body has borne term's brunt
echoes of the college are besmirched
the truth is told through the grain
then baby-faced, I was love's *****
No longer in the store's back room
behind the curtain meant to screen
innocence from the other side
life's desires for ******
when data highways are the path
to the hubs where passions feed
it's no wonder that my feat
may be viewed in modern times.
Now looking back, I wonder how
the choices made will reflect
on how the world considers me
a quarter century past my peak
I've walked away from that place
no longer captured for all to see
though predilections may still creep
I hold them close, now discreet.
© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170630.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 10:15 PM UTC
(1)
in house work play hubs
locked flooding storms shredding
Wi-Fi future set
(2)
Zoom Slack Mouseion
locked gyre shift flagged
Wi-Fi future set
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 5:00 AM UTC
The dreamless anterior, where from the
dream vacated.
Of all intersecting lines bursting the star
of their hub--deemed the twilit Hand at
all starry hubs and their creatures.
Withheld till set upon a particular
realization, that this may think of that,
and that out of this.
Integral as a stone lifted from its mountain--
wailing for the kingdom of dead weight.
If a stone could thrice cry out and away
from the dreamless anterior, the vacated
dream is both nothing and something...
the dreaming posterior.
World...world over, through...as it is, might
gathered.
Space gathered unto itself, and space
gathered unto itself...adamant dream of
deathless artifice.
Of all the seeming till becoming...a world, the
vast accumulation of what it gathered unto
itself.
Thing upon thing in service of things, the
seamless Whole...world, world over, through...
as it is, might gathered.
World so wanted you for itself, yet world I
am unto myself you might say...and so it is.
There's no world but through you, you and you...
that, that and that.
The lone psyche of everything is a world--world
over, through...as it is, might gathered.
By that lone psyche what world must be gathered
by might, over and again...relents a Whole,
conjoined dreamers All...seamless our world by virtue
of the many who dream it.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
A mini getaway for me and the hubs
Just the two of us sharing our love
Together
Just
Us
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
I don't know what you prioritise.
I don’t know what is most important
content that I need to show!
I don’t know how to look visually
consistent across your programs.
I don’t know how to target your HUBs.
I don't know how to scale up.
All is
I'm lost with no signal of yours.
I'm lost on these distant and lone cords.
I’m lost with these no out-of-device
solutions.
Yet
I’m consistently scaling your
layout across devices to advance
the experience of your social class.
©Feelings Coated
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC