"jogged" poems
bike's rusted chain
against the walls of my childhood
a new family lives inside
but what they don't see
are the notes of cardamom and burnt orange
rolls of film that my parents and I left behind
capturing sneakers over gravel
along the east river
toward the steel Hell Gate
as dad jogged beside me
his caramel skin
against the sycamores
my first time learning how to ride
they don't feel the bruises and scrapes nor
taste the paella we shared for dinner that evening
they only see what we gave them,
an empty house with matte finish
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
An urban legend of sorts they said, of a tree, of a
branch that took any weight given. it has nickname
It had a place in secluded nature where no one seen.
**"The *** tree,**
"Really,
"Ye but you have to watch your step,
"Why??
"Well lets just say its a well fertilized ground,
"The earth and plants feed well on the,
"Sap,
"Seeds,
Not from one but the many, I heard the branch
Can take any weight, a gentlemen of plentiful weight
Tested the legend and got stuck **** naked
Not for a,
"Moment,
"Minute,
"Hours,
"Was he stuck, birthday suit and all,
His lady friend had jogged off with wallet and all,
Its on YouTube,
Called tree hugger nudist,
There is loads of dents little *** holes,
Some say its all the ***** *******
So many hard ones poking dents,
indentations forever of ******* against this tree.
"I've been their done that,
Really,
"Never again,
"Were standing on this branch,
"What's that look for,
"Nothing,
(Giggles under breathe)
"Getting into the moment,
"Thought sap,
"Tree sap,
"Was seeping in to my hair,
"Don't stop what happened stuck,
*"Pants down skinny **** man up tree,*
(giggles loudly)
"Dude I'm 6 foot 5inches,
It was sap of a different kind,
(Gags in mouth)
No Fudging way,
Yep that's not the worst,
"How the hell does some one seed a tree that high,
**"It was like the tree was ******* itself,**
"Old juice, sap, Klingon,
"What ever I throw up on her,
She bit down,
I, we feel three feet out the tree,
"So that's what the plaster cast is from,
"Is that why your walking funny,
Twenty nine stitches its like something
From a Frankenstein film,
Never again my friend a bed is where ill be from
Now on, she fell in a puddle of Jib juice triplets
She had all three different, DNA tests on all
Who visited the tree.
As a video recorded of all who entered,
Just not the naked bits seen.
**"Nature can keep its *** tree,**
"I'll be lucky if mine works again,
"Mine isn't wood its a limp branch now,
*"Dude you got ****** by wood,*
"Bitten limp by teeth,
"Unlucky bro,
"Hahahahah,
"Rather you than me,
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
“I am the wolf!” I say
As I trot behind the caribou.
I’m salivating and my heart pounds
As I ignore the pain of miles jogged.
“I will never stop running” I say
As I swallow my thirst.
I run on and don’t slow;
Determined to sink my teeth into healthy flesh.
“I’ll never be the coyote” I say.
He desires only weak meat.
He laughs at the idea of a good meal
Stealing any morsel he can find.
“I’m not the coyote” I say
“I want to earn a true dinner.”
I absolve my petty desires
With my passion for the caribou.
--
I run through a field of rabbits,
Past by my potential meals to stop at shore.
I can just make out the lone caribou.
She is alone on her island.
She is beautiful and strong.
She looks me in the eyes - inviting and unafraid.
--
“Alas, I am NOT the wolf…” I say
“I am cunning and swift,
Yet unable to swim to her shore.”
My hunger rumbles as I stare.
“I am the fox” I say
I hope for the caribou,
But I try and try in vain
To fill her void with rabbits and the slain.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
*First light in the Hudson Valley
Arbor Day of April, 1970.*
Adrenaline coursed through our young
bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose.
As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles
to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds
called out from the misty swamps.
Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife
were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats.
Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued
warning cries from deep in the woods,
where blights were killing our trees
with increasing frequency.
Three of us rode together, cycling in relative
silence, until we came to a meadow
selected for our early breakfast picnic.
We feasted on special fruits and cheeses,
hungrily stuffing in rare treats.
One friend began to send iridescent
soap bubbles into the chilly air.
Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud
of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun.
One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass.
We stared at it, somehow understanding that here
was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet.
Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance
of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us.
The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned.
We were sleepy in our classes that morning;
most of our teachers understanding that we stood
now for something worthwhile, that we believed in,
and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval.
Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show
designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents.
An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave
of changes that our generation brought with us.
Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife
flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium,
accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of
Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary
that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913.
We had no idea then how much worse things would become.
All these years later, we each do our part, blessing
the efforts of our children and their children,
hoping fervently that we are not too late.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
I woke up.
Messaged you.
Brushed my teeth.
Washed my face.
Had breakfast.
Swept the floor.
Cleaned the dishes.
Surfed online.
Then you messaged me back, saying you had-
Woke up.
Rode a bike.
Jogged with friends.
Breakfast.
Took a bath.
Went somewhere.
And where was I? Ah! At the last.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
And then it hit me;
it had nothing to do with the fact that I tripped over a rock
fell and scraped my knee, crushed orange leaves and marred
them against me-it'd be tricky to get this off in one wash.
I was caught by an overdue epiphany;
it had been chasing me since the beginning of everything but
I promise it was not the reason I jogged each and every season
back and forth-which I suppose also was metaphorically.
Nothing was going to change;
I got up and brushed my raw hands on my ***** pants,
mud stuck to the heel of them and trickles of sweat fell down and
made everything that much colder-windy city.
If I kept waiting;
my breath came is white puffs, rapid and elevated,
the sun broke through the thin barrier of gray clouds and I swore
just a bit at the state of my ripped pants.
For someone to come and alter it;
my legs were burning at the sudden discontinuity of motion and thus
I got up and stretched once more- my knee was bleeding- inhaled deeply
the scent of crushed leaves and began my journey home.
It was me all along;
Children played,undisturbed by the chilly breezes of Autumn,
they fell and laughed merrily as though falling was just a sanguine
thing to do.
And it wasn't easy, I know;
The wind took the tiny tangerine hats off trees, blowing, howling,
the leaves soared at the mercy of nature's cycle-death and rebirth-
and suddenly my excuse of “what's the point? I'll die anyway.”
seemed petty and amusing.
I needed to change to change things.
A child, unafraid of pain, dove unto a pile of gathered leaves,
disappeared in a midst of orange and red after emerging
flushed and jolly, snickering and snorting. I crossed the road
and reached the door.
And after I let water fall and take away the dirt, a stray leaf had
made its way to my hair and I did not throw it away but kept it
as a reminder of the tumble I took to fall to this conclusion.
Autumn fell unto my world, feathers bright like the plumage of
a Phoenix bird in flight.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
I'm Bored in Brighton
Can't you see?
I'm locked here in this mansion
with just my family.
I'm Bored in Brighton
Yes, I've traipsed the streets
From Church to Bay to Hampton
I've jogged along the beach!
I'm Bored of Brighton
The Daimler's in the drive
The staff? Well they've just up and gone
All this to stay alive?
I'm Bored of Brighton
The twins are going mad.
And Rupert? Rupert's all a-moan
It's just so terribly sad!
I'm Bored of Brighton
The cavoodle looks a fright!
O heck! O no! It can't be so!
My Lulu's ...they're slightly tight!
I'm Bored with Brighton
You people are the pitts!
Try Lockdown in a high rise
And don't give us the pip!
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 7:30 PM UTC
i parked my car in your driveway
promising myself i was over you
and waited for a moment
promising myself i was over you
my head rested in my hands
promising myself i was over you
i heard myself open the car door
promising myself i was over you
and shut it
promising myself i was over you
i jogged up your gravel driveway
promising myself i was over you
and almost turned around
promising myself i was over you
i hopped up the porch steps
promising myself i was over you
and knocked three times
promising myself i was over you
i blinked
promising myself i was over you
and you were suddenly there
promising myself i was over you
no words were spoken
promising myself i was over you
your blue eyes like the sea
promising myself i was over you
you smiled
promising myself i was over you
and i realized you didn’t hate me
promising myself i was over you
you asked if i was okay
promising myself i was over you
i lied
promising myself i was over you
“yeah, i’m better than ever”
promising myself i was over you
you said you were glad we could still be friends
promising myself i was over you
i lied again
promising myself i was over you
“me too.”
realizing i wasn’t over you
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 7:38 PM UTC
Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Sometimes I muse about the strangers in my life.
I like to pretend that some of them have telepathy like radio
and when they see me as they always do,
in the commons at the school,
jogging past me on the sidewalk,
or in the polite but awkward silence of the elevator,
I wonder if I intrude upon their fuzzy bubble of mid-morning consciousness.
If my inappropriate thoughts make their way through the static of theirs.
I almost want to apologize to the woman who jogged passed me this morning.
She didn’t need to know that I scratched my nuts
sniffed my hand,
and the scent of that ball-sweat brought me back a time when the room reeked of sin,
in the afterglow of rough *** and that it made me miss
Her.
And that classmate didn’t need to know
that I secretly hoped the girl
that they keep talking about on the news would just show up dead,
so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.
Or the guy I just shared the mandatory hellos with,
if only he knew that just before we talked I was pondering the best way to induce mass hysteria
- a plan involving a *** of one dollar bills and LSD -
not that I’d ever actually put it into action.
Chaos is just fun to think about sometimes, I think.
And now I’m thinking of how weird it would be,
if one of these people tuned in right now and overheard me musing about them.
Woah…that’s so meta.
I gotta write this **** down.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 8:49 AM UTC
my existence
is that of procrastination
biding my time
until the clock ticks out
father time
will have no ***** left to
give, and mother
nature will have
jogged her course
there's nothing left for
me here. raucous chatter,
degradation via insolence,
disregard for basic human
life
******* on my virtues,
scraping up my vices
(like gravy curds left on ham)
you pick me apart
and throw me to my bed
so I can dig my fingernails into
my upperthigh and muse
on regret and self-hatred and
the mistake of my
existence, as I wait
for father time
to grow tired of me
as well
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
Watching a giant cockroach was I,
pushing across a ball of dust
he seemed satisfied to trace,
a path between the table and door,
but soon he turned and jogged in crooked rings,
and flipping over to scratch his back-
as if a victim of a mild
panic attack.
After a while of climbing open shelf's,
he looked uncertain where to go.
I don't know what he was thinking,
but I knew I recognized myself so.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
A whirlpool of thoughts swirled
as I slowly jogged around the park.
Amid the futile struggle of light,
against the approaching dark.
To never let go of the strings of past,
as stubborn as a flickering flame.
The road ahead mirrors the bygones.
We needn't look far for the blame.
The crushing burden of modern life;
facing the music with his head unbowed.
He gets on his feet with wounded knees,
and smiles at the succumbing crowd.
Innumerable choices present themselves,
as many as the peppered stars, abundant.
Each with unfathomable potential, yet
the path chosen invariably redundant.
He walks about the infinite desert;
the scalding ache of complete isolation.
He covets the presence of a nearby soul,
whose essence is but a mere reflection.
I drew in a lungful of evening air;
the immediate difference, so stark!
Yielding to the juggernaut of conformity,
as I slowly jogged around the park.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
What was it jogged my memory
what was it filled a gap
when as I sat and ruminated
this forgotten thought came back
from long ago when I was ten
I stood alone outside
the stars were coming out
the Jotunheimen land of giants
was lit by northern light
far off their ghostlike splendour
fair took my breath away
such mirage-like illusions
were real for me that day
Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2016
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
You won’t believe it
We were together
If only in my mind
And it led me to try things
I never thought of
It’s exciting, at the start
But then I turned and you were gone
I fell on the floor!
Afraid to go on
And I backtracked, to a non-existent circumstance
When we were together
I jogged in the summer heat
Gravel crackled under my shoes
But I felt it through the soles
And the sun shone on us both
It won’t do that again
Can you believe it?
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
i put on my sweatshirt, yoga pants, tennis shoes,
and said, "I think i'll go for a jog."
And I left. I ran down the driveway
I jogged round the turn,
I passed, on my way down the road,
a collar.
Pink, purple and small.
I took a break. Walked it off
That lost collar means a lost pet.
that lost collar might mean a lost kid.
I brushed it off.
Running across the bridge, I
told myself i couldn't stop, or
The eyes behind windshields would stare.
would realize im nothing.
I took the path along the river.
It was noticeably full and wide.
a dark, River green.
the current was strong and I
Followed it with the path
until i coudnt breathe. And
I told myself to get a rusty fishhook
carve my failure into my skin.
I told myself to ****
To **** myself.
To jump in the winter river,
to leap too far into the hypothermic current
to come back.
I sat on the edge for too long.
I went back home.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
You've met the people in my mind
They live upon The Street
It's near nowhere special anywhere
They don't know the word defeat
We all know people like them
And I hope it jogged your brain
Maybe they reminded you of someone else
And if they did, I'm glad you came
The bartender and Bluesman
Harry Cooper and Old Cy
The old man at the graveyard
And all the other passers by
They're all a work of fiction
But, they're people we all know
We all know a street a bit like this
No matter where we go
I hope that you enjoyed them
And I hope some made you think
I hope some made you smile
And others brought you to the brink
These people are inside me
Their stories needed to be told
But now that you have read them
They are your stories now to hold
I thank you for your patience
And I appreciate the time
You walked in a mind's garden
And I'm glad that you chose mine.
Thanks for enjoying "The Street" and it's people.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 6:31 PM UTC
I walked or sauntered or dashed or stumbled, no...
staggered! or swaggered, or was it stepped, no...
I jogged or, bolted, no stomped or slid no...
hopped! or was it skipped no hop skipped and jumped...
or sauntered! no i said that one, it was swaggered! no....
I stampeded or dogged or shlepped no bounced or was it...
I stamped or ed or rolled? no strolled! haha yes Strolled! no...
I stalked that was it or was it followed no no it was sojourned
sojourned! sojourn? no it was galumphed or marched, no charged...
aha sauntered! no! ****** it was ambled or slogged, trounced? or tromped, no rambled, yes I rambled on! no no thats not right, I plodded, trod no tread! no strided, thats not even a word, sloped, no...
govereetted, or persnicketied, or skreed, or preened, no no no none of that is right....
I sauntered! no no, swaggered! no was it promenade? prowl. no patrolled, parolled, no no thats way off...
I trekked, trudged, no fudged, no dogged! like george! he dogged it all the time, no I said that one, slogged or sashayed no trooped, no perambulated, or moseyed? or hoofed it? no it was definitely sauntered, no no it wasn't sauntered it was a dawdle, no lurched, or hawked, no stopped,
no no it was definitely movement, thats it! it was a movement! no no no that can't be right I paced, yes i paced back and forth and thought about life for a awhile....
no no that wasn't it either it was really more of a strut, or a saunter, yes saunter! no swaggered! no no
**** you words....
I wandered or was it roamed, no limped, gimped! no...
minced.... or no yes! minced... wait.... no it was a hike, yes I hiked up a mountain with friend of mine, or was it climbed, no no thats not right...
I slandered, no.... pandered! no... I meandered, haha actually no i think it was a peruse, or no a beat! no.... I cut a rug! or actually i think it was more of a stumble no....
ah yes it was walked, I walked about sixty blocks today
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
I went out for a jog on a Wednesday night
I thought of taking my mind of some things
and... that's what I did
I jogged like Forrest Gump's lazier half brother
because, I simply can't run because of asthma
After a few rounds around the university,
I decided to go home with a quick trip to the convenience store for dinner
I had the usual.. a rice meal, and two cans of milk
I walked home, taking home a can cause
I cannot stand the stench of the store's second floor anymore
That's when I saw a particular beggar on the street
It was a old woman, probably on her 70s
She had lesions on her legs, so she couldn't walk...
She looked up to the sky like somehow, maybe today she'd breathe her last
I mustered whatever kindness I had in me, and with whatever I had left..
I gave her Php. 8.00 and can of milk
She had this lit up look with her eyes and with utmost fervor, she said "Salamat po" ("Thank you")
Days. Weeks. Months passed by since I've seen that lady again... and at some point that moment seemed like history to me...
Today, I've went out for a jog to take my mind off things.
and what luck did I have.. I did not have enough for my usual..
I decided to go home and with a heavy heart.. Tired and full of stressed out muscles..
On the street, a young girl with a plastic bag approached me.
She was apprehensive; shy even. She gave me the plastic bag and ran off...
And with what surprise I had when I opened the bag... You know what it had?
A rice meal and two cans of milk
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
I could feel your skin moving
while you were thrusting
Couldn’t see your eyes
They were open
Piercing holes through the walls
of my memory
I knew it was wrong,
the wrong place to be
We were both angry and lonely
and you’d been inside before,
me unwilling
And you got away.
Tragically bonded,
all I wanted from you
was familiar bad ***
It went by so fast
I thought I was dying
But you never crashed
until in the kitchen, crying
I could feel the glass break
like I was the aluminum
at the bottom of the sink
swallowing the whisky
And it burned the whole way down
as you jogged my memory
of your past use of force
I got away this time
lost in the night
as you were screaming
and begging for
familiar bad ***
Sep 14, 2024
Sep 14, 2024 at 10:43 PM UTC
I am what others left.
I’m the things that weren’t robbed.
I’m the scraps of a junkyard.
I’m the miles that weren’t jogged.
I am a little village
In the peak of some mountains.
My skin is leather
And supports any standards.
I am farm labor dedicated to your service.
I am the sun that rises,
And the day that dies nervous.
I am development in bone and flesh.
I am the picture of thousands missing
And their blood that’s still fresh.
I am Pele against England
Scoring two goals.
I walk on the world’s spine,
And rupture many soles.
I am what my father thought me:
He who doesn’t love his country,
Doesn’t love his mother.
I am manual labor
And I do it with great pride.
Here, we share,
And what you have is mine.
My town doesn’t drown
In the sea of your lies.
And if my church is destroyed,
my faith still survives.
I do not blink
And you shall remember my name
I forgive
But never forget who I am.
I am a nomad without destiny.
Negativity doesn’t stop me,
Negativity is my ecstasy.
I committed to travel the continent
without a compass, without time, without agenda.
Inspired by the legends
With stories trapped in tales and a moon without gender.
I learned how to speak and write
And with one common language
Became the world’s fright.
I learned my country still prays
Because the authority and royalty
Still operates under our poverty.
I learned to drink depression
With tequila and cerveza.
And that our own politicians
Have nothing en la cabeza.
To immigrate is my sport.
And even though you don’t fear me,
I can take you on your home court.
I am an intruder
With the reputation of an inmate,
Yet they still want me to support them
And develop the world’s hate.
But Abuela don’t worry
La virgen de Guadalupe
Is the one that knows my story.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
It’s Friday 30th June 2013
And I am not not at Glastonbury
The circus inside my stomach believes it
As it relives the act of the opening night
The generous performance of Prosseco
That now sing somersaults inside
It comes with not not being at Glastonbury
This weekend I’m a transient party goer
And I’m spreading the love of not not being at Glastonbury
Anyway who needs Glastonbury?
I’m here choosing my music track by track
On the way to meet my gran
Yeah, Granny Mac’s not not at Glastonbury either
So bring it on not not Glastonbury
Not not being at Glastonbury proves expense
Almost like Glastonbury itself would be
And now without phone
Not not being at Glastonbury develops realistically
‘Nother day and not not being at Glastonbury took me home
With old friends drinking aplenty
And more
Not to brag but I even jogged at Not not Glastonbury
Through fields and through the city
Undoing the damage done whilst not not being at Glastonbury
Tonight not not being at Glastonbury
Will peak when we get involved culturally
Shakespearean act performed in his Globe
You don’t get that at Glastonbury
But we’ll hold a drink through
Making the most of not not being at Glastonbury
By tomorrow my insides will feel like they’ve consumed Glastonbury
But here’s hoping we’re still able to get our art hit
Endurance is part of the test of not not being at Glastonbury
First thing in the morning and we’re counting the pennies
Because we’re not not at Glastonbury
So it’s never a bad time to buy *****
We’ve a young Argentinian as extra company
One of so many friends made at not not Glastonbury
Intent was succeeded with a turn of events never forseen
It went wonderfully wild whilst not not being at Glastonbury
Post play and pop with pa
Whilst wondering further afar
Party greets on a reclaimed beach
A gift given not by Glastonbury
So right now the Thames is actually the best place to be
Due partly to the unpredictability
For you know good times and good people come with Glastonbury
But the friends and offerings not not at Glastonbury this year
Have shown a surprising shared love for not not being at Glastonbury
Even if the comedown tries to equal the fun
It would be worth it this time, not not being at Glastonbury
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
I set out on a filthy evening
Jogged the stream and under the bridge,
Headed into the pouring rain
And over St. Alban’s Ridge,
I heard some footsteps running behind
But never could turn to see,
For who would venture out in the rain
Just to be following me?
I’d heard the following steps before,
Had stopped, and I’d turned around,
Scanned the bushes and hedgerows
There was no-one there to be found,
I thought I could hear some breathing
From a bush, or hid in a tree,
Though nothing stirred but a restless bird,
Nothing that I could see.
I’d always travelled the leaf strewn path
By the early sun of the day,
But sometimes ran when the darkness fell
By the light of a moonlight ray,
I loved the scent of the pine fresh air
It made me alive, and free,
It wasn’t until I courted Claire
That the footsteps followed me.
They’d stop whenever I stopped, and then
Would start again when I jogged,
I thought at first it was just a trick,
An echo, bounced off a log,
But sometimes, there in the silence when
I stopped while catching my breath,
I’d feel the hairs beginning to stir
Way up on the back of my neck.
I turned to run by a farmer’s field
That was stacked with new mown hay,
Reflecting light from the pale moonlight,
Awaiting the farmer’s dray,
I heard the footsteps behind me squelch
In the mud from the driving rain,
I called, ‘You’d better come out tonight,
By God, or I’ll cause you pain!’
I pulled a glittering knife blade out
I’d hidden, deep in its sheath,
Scanned the track by the farmer’s field
And the heather, down on the heath,
But nothing stirred in the pale moonlight
Though I saw its tracks in the mud,
And as I watched in a gathering fright,
They seemed to be filling with blood.
I turned and ran in a panic then
And weaved my way through the trees,
My heart was beating, my mind was numb
I slipped, and fell to my knees,
I finally found the giant oak
Where I knew that a corpse would lie,
The moon was sending a single beam
And lighting the dead man’s eye.
I’d propped him there when I’d slashed his throat
To free up the hand of Claire,
She’d been bereft when he disappeared,
Would never have found him there.
I’d meant to come back, bury the bones
But still he sat by the tree,
And now the footsteps joined with him there,
His eye was glaring at me.
They followed a trail of blood, they said,
The searchers said, when they came,
And I was cowering by the corpse,
They said that I was to blame.
They’ve put me here in a darkened cell
Where I sit and stare at the floor,
And hear the shuffle of footsteps there
On the other side of the door.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
H esitance overcame me the moment I recognized the feelings.
E ncountering them jogged my memory of what it was like; love.
A lthough the nerves in my body are zipping around, electric,
L etting this happen feels like the most natural thing I can do.
I 'm going to. For reasons I cannot place, there is little to
N o fear in my chest at the thought of you, as you feel like a
G ift. One I've waited far, far too long to accept.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC