"itinerant" poems
<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden
The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden
The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"
In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
***This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me
for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings
thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition
and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away
live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery***
but I am not, cannot…
7:48:am
jul 22
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
*that’s that area
the right distance
from the host star
where life is possible
and water will not disappear
or be locked in
and there’s a planet
and it’s just right for life*
Goldilocks wandered
into the cottage
and she found
the first bowl too hot
another too cold
and - yum! – one just right
Goldilocks wandered
into the living room
and she found
the first chair too big
another still a little not right
and - oh so comfy! – one just right
Goldilocks wandered
into the rooms
and she found
the first bed too hard
another too worn out
and - zzzzzz! – one just right
*Ah, lovely Goldilocks
Itinerant Goldilocks -
see we’ve sent you now
on inter-stellar voyages
and you’re now in the just right zones
You’ve gone places, Goldilocks;
You’ve gone the distance -
the little girl who’s made it to the stars*
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!
Sick
Wearied
Weak?
Looking in all the wrong places?
Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?
Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!
Dog nights seem more teething!!!!
Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!
The I loveth thou's
And thou more....
Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,
Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!
Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?
A pity to God
And me!!!!
Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!
Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Blessed with matchlessly magical Parents,
Their supremely good, serenely happy raising,
design our thought processes.
Their loving, comforting storytelling skills,
leave indelible footprints and heartprints.
Thankyou God for this Benedictory Love!!!
Blessed with a bombastic Brother,
self-styled natural, perennial itinerant,
Sentinel of sisters life-long.
Sentiments flow unabatedly,
for our illustrious, boisterous beloved younger.
Thankyou God for this Blissful Love!!!
Blessed with delicate darling Sister,
who wears expressions benignant perpetually.
Wiitty, gritty, easy-going habitually.
Evident protected favourite of all surely.
Fondest moments born in her queenly company.
Thankyou God for this Harmonious Love!!!
Blessed with solicitous Husband,
His silent romanticism, macho protective ways,
smoothen tumultuous paths.
Terribly correct and sober better half,
Brokers peace, plots life's happiness graph.
Thankyou God for this Angelic Love!!!
Blessed with an endearing Child,
Whose arrival, auspicious, momentous and miraculous, Rearing the divine and sublime born,
definitely, a definition for the guardians.
Our child, our panacea, promise of better tomorrows.
Thankyou God for this Supreme Love!!!
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
majestic adjectives
of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity
that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes,
scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable,
incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed -
what is sweet -
what is impossible.
my days ending is
nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of
what I’ve got left
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in
1000 radium-tipped
projectiles of
serious humorous
self-destruction,
gifted to you!
my few
itinerant followers
peddlers brave enough
to offer shelter,
to follow me
into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
of no particular disorders
a thousand times
bless you
richly, eachly,
name announced, pronounced,
we are all proper nouns.*
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 5:29 PM UTC
This Tamarind tree
with a thick thatched roof of leaves
spread to all the sides
like matted dreadlocks
of a sage
in silent, inwardly turned contemplation,
for long long years
has such cool, comfortable shade,
that is--
lovely rendezvous
to the love smitten,
to bill and coo for hours,
transit home for nomads
who own nothing more than their backpacks
and looking for a shade,
playground for children
in the neighborhood,
with curious eyes,
resting place for laborers
tired from toiling, in the sun all day long.
pen for itinerant goats,
that playfully fight with each other,
kennel for stray pups
finding companionship
all by themselves,
hive for honey bees
that hum tunes for all these refugees,
venue for a cocophonous
congregation of birds of different feathers,
obviously very political,
probably arguing about the future
plans when such a kind tree no more
would be there, soon
when the road gets broadened.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!
Sick
Wearied
Weak?
Looking in all the wrong places?
Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?
Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!
Dog nights seem more teething!!!!
Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!
The I loveth thou's
And thou more....
Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,
Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!
Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?
A pity to God
And me!!!!
Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!
Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
All is revealed.
Look at my photo.
You see the solitary Adirondack.
So oft writ, it is almost yours,
From which I ply my craft.
Sentinel, overlooking the bay,
Looking for poem invaders,
Need prisoners to do the hard labor,
For I am on duty, elsewhere, peripatetically,
A new tour of duty to family.
See the coffee mug,
The contents, a warm hug,
For though it sumer still,
The sky and breeze beg to differ.
I think time is nigh,
To close this chapter,
A few itinerant thots yet rumbling,
But the rush is gone, like my contented season.
Wise men do not deny perception,
Grown cold, my warm invitation,
Perhaps, I injusticed you with repetition,
But I left you a motet for comfort.
And hints of an address,
In case some enchanted evening....
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
1.
I feel
fractured splintered defeated
entirely insular
and spread to thin
all at the same time
covered with insecurities
like a cheap suit
or hollow exoskeleton
nothing more than a lie. I grow tired.
I'm bluffing my way through this life
a brutal honesty
I lack the courage to accept
hiding my face
from every mirrored surface
a halfhearted attempt
to prolong this detrimental denial.
I can't ******** my way
through self-reflection
and trying to improve my image
feels positively improvised.
I lack sincerity and authenticity
an individual breathing without zeal
I need a break.
2.
Here I am again a lonely itinerant migrating
to the proverbial and often visited crossroads
rather than contemplating
a direction worth navigating
be it following in the worn footprints of others
or a path long overgrown with neglect.
I'd rather lie down on the gravel road
and nap in the open air
just to wake up confused and temperamental.
The destination remains unknown
my indecision remains intact.
I give impetuous a bad name
by reputation and repetition alike
conjoined twins that speaks to
fate and circumstance.
Like Houdini
I'm secured in a long sleeve shirt
dangling upside down from a burning rope
placing blame on the flame.
I need a break.
3.
I'm not as intelligent
or insightful as I once thought
my wasted youth is a testament.
A modern ruin
like so many a Blockbuster
I've outlasted my usefulness.
I imagine what could have been
clueless as to what lies ahead.
A jovial repentance
seems as likely as
success, or stability, **** simplicity.
Is it all too much to ask?
I've been on break too long.
4.
reboot jumpstart
Alleviate my stagnant, vacant lot in life
and cast off these first world problems.
Consider not the flat champagne
or the distance that separates
today from death.
Speak positively to the people
that would not otherwise attract minimal attention.
Set goals both grand and plausible
with no worry of dividends
and release cynicism
and determine a trajectory
that I may see through to completion.
If for no other reason
but to say that I tried.
It's not so bad this imagined and dire circumstance.
Relax and go on break.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
that hat seller
he’s a Maverick
itinerant, wanderer
no monkey business
no dependence, his own man
busy, he has one thing to do:
to sell his hats
*Hats, hats, hats
hats for sale
Blue hats, black hats,
gray ones -
will lend you some dignity
while on your heads*
they’d not want to help him
they liked to brand him
so he said: **** you,
I’d rather go on my own*
moving from one place
to another
like a masterless samurai, a ronin
no monkey business for him
but the monkeys do come to him
he knows the monkeys
they’re everywhere the same -
pinching, covetous, not giving
but eager hands for taking;
and he throws his own hat down
and the monkeys imitate;
and he collects what is his
and he moves on, as he must
for his work is everywhere
busy, he has one thing to do:
to sell his hats
*Hats, hats, hats
hats for sale
Blue hats, black hats,
gray ones -
will lend you some dignity
while on your heads*
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
Eyes are blue gleaming diamonds,
words concealing gold dust
are sealed between the lips
that avidly taste thunder,
expression of my hidden hunger.
Hands bind me closer til
rib cages say "No more"
Like nibs, nails on my back
write ****** verses direct,
forcing one to spread eagle
as the orchestration moves to crescendo
itinerant eyes emit sizzling light,
the cloud that engulfs , caresses every inch,
a bamboo grove in wind
dances whispering love, in many tunes,
tells one to lie under it's canopy, I submit,
hear my songs from a secret center,
eyes speak the lingo of love, light spills
heart beats against heart, in mad frenzy,
we need no words any more.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Thu. Aug 11 2022
7:16 AM
~ for Julia and Joanne~
good neighbors
<>
a renewable habit apparently, again, a first poem of the day
(FPOTD), comes early, this old practice, me-bedded and mugged, with music ear installed drowning the noises of television blah,
iPad rests on left leg, left hand pointer finger ejects capsules
of letters, charmed into existence by the Barber adagio.
the Weather Channel forecasts morning-rain and my window
to trample and shuffle this deteriorating body rapid closes,
and the sun, weak, in concession speech, begs pardon, throws
off a few miscellaneous rays by way of apology, fooling no one,
except for the hopeful, itinerant poets, & the bunnies-neath-the deck.
know now you understand the poems entitlement, as is my wont,
you’ve been invited inside, sharing eyes and senses, you journey
today from a vantage no one else possesses, just you and me. Later,
we will drive to the Parrish Museum, studying modern painters,
each will inquire, a poem for me please, I nod sure, perhaps?
promise little, deliver less, is this your best? A travelogue of the
mundane, the little things, that do not stir your heart, smile tears,
and make you think wish I was there, or this, being
just too-me-boring?
The brain growls, no one making them read this perfunctoriness,
nonetheless, you apologize, pardon the no-angst trivia of daily life.
like the acid reflux bile, swallowed and returned to whence it came.
before it invades, tarnishes the peace of our surroundings and
the pleasure of your company, as I read your writings,
*worth so much,
filled with so much angry pain,
I want to easy-soften the everything,
if this missive, takes you-nearer, to the calmer~closer,
this poem, you transform it from perfunctory, to just, simply*
perfect.
8:18 AM
Shelter Island
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
*I well recall encouraging
in the early days,
sending messages to and from,
what was beyond and in between,
what lay between a woman's
wind tossed
heart
and her
breathless, winded,
words
these spaces,
so wonderfully human
and fine,
that we better
recognize
their existence
in ourselves,
through her words
motives purely
selfish, then, I guess,
words pearly,
gifted and given,
how we find the same language,
forges all
our contexts,
with a binding grace,
that elevates us all
beyond and un-between,
above
life's grays
I well recall the
rare, early days here,
when communitas was the
only guiding principle,
seldom was heard
a discouraging word,
how sharing each other's
innermost,
was
the most,
the finest,
expression of the ultimate humanity
inner,
that we choose to accept,
when wearing the
poetry cloak,
a notional emotional
grace
supra-national
in a shared world heritage site,
that no one poet could ever hope to obtain alone
I thank you
once more,
one more,
time and time again,
for the bloom
of your rose,
gifted to all we
itinerant dabblers,
in a world where
words and will,
literary and love,
transforms and re-forms
each other
with the constancy-frequency
glowing alliteration of
an early morn Florida sunrise
you are among the best of us,
we will brook
no,
this denying,
keep us together,
be the poetic glue,
the ganglia connecting us,
this ragtag band
of brothers
and
sisters,
after all this
are we,
not the lucky ones
who read, observe, feel,
and love the special aura of
the poetess*
Ketoma Rose
~~
with affection
nat
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
"Most men lead lives
of quiet desperation
and go to the grave
with the song still in them.”
Henry David Thoreau
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*this fearsome cursed thought,
rises fresh daily from
under death's precursor,
when sleep crusted eyelids broken
illusions none,
escapes zero,
go to my grave
with no lew'd selfie
foolish proclaiming
I was the greatest,
tho but an itinerant bit, an Internet curio
this so very quiet man,
sings his way every day,
with these worn tools,
dull, yet shiny from loving overuse,
the very things you
are currently grasping,
words,
his words
as you do as well...
each poem,
oil poured annotating
a new poem king anointed,
a psalmist on the lyre composing
of still waters to lie beside,
of valleys where he shall final rest
delusions none,
my bones and words will in dust meld,
ashes, couplets, dried essences,
a scents that is
this beings, his Eau de Cologne alone,
tints and hints of yellowed pixels,
tired bone and the worn flesh of
maybe's too plentiful,
coulda's, shoulda's,
if only
so in quiet desperation,
and human spirit ignited by lighter fluid burning,
write, and write yet thrice more,
that a leaden life be happy soiled,
each singing a freedom breaching birth,
a glorious failure, yet endeavour'd
to let his unique tune be heard
to my grave down, down,
but one contentment proudly, black-bold-etched,
amidst the forest of daily desperations,
protested he, with tunes herein shared,
marked by no copyright,
other than his name plain,
satisfied that his singing was
loudly heard until his voice,
could be, would be,
stilled only by Father Time*
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
Like a deadly meteorite fleeing from home
and heading towards the earth,
this caravan, filled with woes and wants
are headed towards us
while you pride in your thousands of square
meter wall and ten thousand king kongs.
With parched throats and charred skin,
gory memories of war and violence
in their heads, behind them;
They have made it through the desert,
through the fire and fury of the sun.
They are on their way to a paradise
That’s lost her glory and grace.
They are the itinerant ants
finding their way across the Mediterranean.
Another troop of victims from
where life is hard and hopes are dimmed
by human flaws, follies and greed.
Life is fleeting, so is the chip
on your shoulders, and the power you wield.
how long would you watch life spill
from ordinary people
when you have the world in your pocket?
Life is a mirror,
and shattered are their dreams, their hopes.
how much more damage
your actions, your inaction shall cost us
while those lives and dreams
are trapped in the backlash of your follies?
Truth is a bitter pill.
And I know it chokes you
as it smashes your glass chin ego.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Red gold stroking strings
of Terra-cotta tocsin,
bounced a check today
and we wonder
will she rot in her cups?
How might we drink
all these donuts...
as a finger stirs the air,
her drum roll eyes...
time became tree limbs
of propaganda.
Why.
Cloud kissed
by hills
hemmed in
by patchwork stone,
a providence in Perugia
her cobalt dreams
strum gypsy wings
where
yellow fringed faces
follow the sun,
an itinerant balloon
tints the grass fucshia
then drifts away
to kiss the sky.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island
This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS
Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds
Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity
I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair
Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement
Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...
That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:
*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
From time to time I need a little help at work, casual labour. Someone said Bugg was a hard worker, you'll find him in the Crown. Sure enough he was there, yes he'd be pleased to help, starting the next day. Bugg used to live in a house, but bought a painted gypsy wagon, horse and all to live an itinerant life. He kept moving on, from one village common to another. I collected him at first, and sure enough he worked well. He said he once met Rod Stuart in a bar and I had no reason to disbelieve him, still don't.
He started using a motorbike to get to work. His time-keeping was, well, non-existent. He came out with excuses like there was a police car cruising nearby, so he had to stay put as his bike was not taxed or insured. So we had a little conversation about that, and I thought I had convinced him it would be worthwhile getting it legal. He concluded the discussion by saying that well, the police don't stop bikes much anyway.
One day he showed up at about eleven. Later on I casually asked if there had been a reason for his late arrival. His disarming reply was a simple 'no, not really'. A nice enough fella, but I was beginning to get the measure of him.
Instead of being paid at the end of the week, Bugg wanted his money daily. I realised he was spending each day's money in the pub every night. I was still glad of the help though.
When the work ran out he moved his wagon a few miles to another common, where he had work helping with a barn conversion. Ideal for him, a village with a common, work and a pub.
One very early morning someone on their way to work saw his wagon engulfed in flames. He was in it, burnt to a crisp. When I heard about it I was shocked, but I can't say I was surprised.
Poor old Bugg, hopeless old Bugg, rest in peace mate.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
*walking daily during my diurnal preamble ramble,
my city-street-eyes are well trained to tread careful,
for numerous are the hazards, but fewer the delights
always on the lookout for the itinerant penny,
I skip a heartbeat and a step, when eyeing a
shiny penny brightness lying in a concrete crack
no longer wonder how came it to be discarded,
who would willing part with such man made beauty,
a shiny penny, methinks, omen for a shiny, brighter day.
but let me share.a secret, relying on your honest discretion,
such pennies collected never ever abide for long in my pocket,
honor bound to redistribute direct, lest I deem myself the lesser
for shiny things unshared, become dulled, outcasts, unbecoming,
‘tis in the shining, value lying,
the things we share, shine best, including ourselves…*
Mar 25, 2023
Mar 25, 2023 at 4:17 PM UTC
I will tell you a story, Most Reverend One
how 300 fairies transported me
to the Mountains of Peach Lands
and how I denied them each my heart -
but ha, ha - I can see, you laugh;
you do not believe me...
but I have more reasonable stories -
for example
of how the Earth was created;
it’s true, O Most Reverend One
there’s such a Being up there
eating chicken dumplings
and poking His nose
in trivial and very grave human affairs...
O he, he, he...you see my tales are but fancy
and do not believe such a Creature can exist...
but am I done, most Reverend One?
Is my list of tales and myth and stories
so limited? - No, I have a list of stories
as long as the tail of the Divine Monkey
that first whipped all stars into position
and with its Monkey hands squeezed each planet into solid mass
O there you are, you laugh and make me happy
you encourage me, O Most Reverend One
I will study your mood
and I can tell you a tale
of how your ancestors
shaped this land
and how they brought that chair you sit on
from the Diamond Palaces of faraway India -
oh, ** ** ** - you didn’t know that?
and generations of your clan have sat there on that chair
and so do you - and you never knew its story...
I have long lists of stories and tales
all true and collected from lands far and wide -
ah you laugh, Most Reverend One -
and you encourage me...
My story itself will interest you
for I was born of noble family with great wealth
and pomp and estate and attendants
but when my mum died,
she said to me:
Go you forth
and collect the world’s stories
and so I gave away all my possessions
and I travelled all abroad
and have come to my current itinerant state...
See, my life itself is a story -
worthy of our operas and and street theaters
with much comedy and adventures...
ha, ha, ha - O ** ** **
you laugh and you are pleased
which pleases me...
Call then your clan together, O Most Reverend One;
set up a platform
and I will shine like a sun on this platform
and I will tell these tales
in the gentle light of the moon and torches
and I shall spin tales of the moment
for each man and woman
and each child of your most revered clan, O Most Reverend One...
you laugh, and you nod
you are pleased - oh, oh, ha....ha...ha...
that’s good Most Reverend One...
But now, Most Reverend One,
I never start without terms...
*shall we first talk about my accommodation, food, facilities
and payment?*
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
a curious family of raptor children, a lake of caterpillar carcasses (boulder soup), a grocer for the taliban, gas powered anything, the exposed midsection of a tree, bank robberies or bear maulings in progress, triangles, an irascible bus driver thinking in isosceles, the itinerant story of a mama mammoth, starquakes and extinctions, massive roaches, a neck bath in hot breath, sudden abeyance from behind, the way gravity kills caterpillars and spares us because all angles of gravity make 180 degrees and this is stillness. fear running a straight line from behind us, through us, and in front of us. what i consistently get caught up in, the third point might be my final resting. this is why i ******* hate triangles.
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 6:33 PM UTC
Frivolity of men, with such an attitude,
who think they are too smart,
is like itinerant wind's libidinous eagerness
to pluck the ripe fruit,
with an opportune cunning push,
fully knowing the union is doomed,
and the pleasure transient.
As an inveterate observer of this,
I can see,
the smile on his rugged face,
- carefully made over,
with grey stubble and all that,
to look like the Hollywood hunk
female folk, swoon over -
is full of vile, and deceit;
but i am,
not a bit averse to meet the challenge,
and show him, direct
that girls are capable of *** for tat.
The victory to me may not mean anything,
but momentous, it would be, I can tell.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
To live as a shepherd,
Tending to sheep,
Watching generations of life
Procreate, eat, and sleep.
Thirsting for waters
Which remain deep.
Wishing to be
without constant
Strife of the tongue,
Or ill-begotten promises;
Because a heart and a mind
That aims for maturity,
Is sometimes caught
In the current, midstream.
Have you missed the youthful lesson,
Standing in front of your passage?
Or the evening ensemble in the park,
A summer sonata before dark?
Travel those distant roads
my friends, but keep your circles tight.
Become an itinerant preacher, for a day.
An action for an action -
And give yourself time enough,
On the hands of the big clock -
To think tranquilly and observe,
Without conditional thoughts, or words.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:51 AM UTC
Itinerant, you
Yellow now flit to despise.
Some charity. Go!
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC