"jogger" poems
His name is Zachary James
But he's shouted at by many names
Running man or crazy jogger
Pushing all he needs in a stroller
Dodging cars like a game of Frogger
His passion for running is a benefactor
Of his compassion for humanity
Running across the country is insanity
Knows politics better than Sean Hannity
A motor city kid and an Eastern Michigan grad
Thought he'd run to correct a world gone mad
Our paths crossed on the vicious highway 322
If you're lucky, fate will send him your way too
I'm proud to host such a fine young philanthropist
But soon he'll run off into the mysterious mist
Yet he will jog on proud and steadfast
With our help reaching his goals at last
Run for the children and for the love of running
Run for life and eternity hereafter coming
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Footprints so carelessly left in the sand:
So varied, haphazard, yet one common band.
The confidant jogger, the beach-combing wren,
The legions of desperate women and men,
Each of them leaves behind wet indentations
For those so inclined to survey and relate them.
How heavy the footsteps of those bearing burdens,
While almost an outline from those sans diversions.
These footprints so often abandoned are strange,
For they effect any who come into range.
How so many strive to make some path go noticed,
When often the same ones leave marks out of focus.
Ghosts of the efforts of steps left behind,
Yet lost to the ages, anonymous finds.
But one thing unites all the grainy debris:
These footprints will be swallowed up the sea.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
Slightly built, yet robust,
not frail, a daily jogger by choice,
shape conscious, proud-
about keeping the weight
in check, all these years,
articulates her feelings well
but, not the argumentative type,
this facet endears her to all,
keeps her Indian mind agile,
which reflects in her awareness
of eternity than here and now.
Takes oil bath twice a day, in keeping with
the true Malayalee spirit,
never a river in spate, yet
forceful and gushing in making heard
her opinions for others to consider,
from the first day of marriage,
unlike the demure Indian women.
None would doubt her might
that transcends the limits of material and physical,
hidden power sources are tapped at will,
cites her matrilineal heritage, that
stems form a long line of matriarchal grandmothers.
I can't imagine a day passing our premises
without she giving permission,
putting her signature,
all over each passing hour,
though we never keep a formal register for that.
Aren't we three, auxiliaries, the boys and I
in the orchestra named after this inveterate conductor?
Sweet to the core, but if needed
could be pungent, never erupts or go wild,
Smile is disarmingly gentle, yet
that firm answer, needed at the right time,
is never delayed.
Two adoring eyes flutter,
pledging support,
they never let me down, day or night.
a hand that gently touches, me
with the fingers of reality.
when I dream in day or night.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
On the days I hate music,
I entertain silence,
in a sense.
I stifle one music and greet another:
Silence accompanied by the soundscape.
In my car, windows rolled up.
The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.
The silence I sing ain't so quiet;
tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome,
the droning hum of the engine,
the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices
within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.
I hear these songs.
I roll down the window;
I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars.
I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer.
I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway.
I hear the light treading of the jogger
making her way down the eternal sidewalk.
I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops.
I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket
(where Allen and Walt linger).
I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays.
I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window.
I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement.
I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor
guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.
The wind carries the tune to me,
and I hum along.
The days I hate music
are the days I remember
why we make it in the first place.
I escape to and from the soundscape.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
I wonder if God
sees our numbered
breaths, how many
have been & how
many are left,
millions of digits
shifting above
our heads;
the old woman
on the park bench
with just 500 left.
The jogger with 100
between now &
tonight when he
will exhale
for a final time.
I should scale mountains,
stare at the sun
make my amount
count, every last one.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 5:21 AM UTC
The Race
An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.
I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean a scholarship for me.
Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.
A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
fleeing from his mortal thoughts.
I doff my sweats and start to stretch
I take no chances with this knee.
Soon I’m feeling good and loose,
it pays to warm up properly.
A tall thin runner, strangely pale,
About half of the track ahead
I‘ll pass him like he’s standing still
Then he’ll be chasing me instead.
I pass the jogger right away
The pale runner, though, moves speedily
I pick up my pace a notch
Just as quickly so does he..
I stretch my stride, he does the same
And gains upon me steadily
I thought that I was chasing him
It seems instead he’s chasing me.
I never raced this guy before
At any of the local meets
He appears to be as old as me
But his gear is “thrift shop” quality.
Sure enough, he’s gaining fast.
I dig down for a last reserve
I didn’t think I’d lost a step
Bad news, if it’s true, for me
I hear his foot falls close behind
And vainly try to stay ahead
I turn my head to see his face
It is the face of one long dead.
The ghostly winner makes a turn
and passes through the gate and chains
The cemetery lies beyond
That holds the urn with his cremains
“You saw him too” the fat man gasps-
“I thought that he had come for me”
I knew he only came to run
I recognized the ghost you see.
“Tommy Miller was his name
School Champion back in 63’
.He died crossing this finish line
an aneurysm in his brain.”
Unfinished business binds him here
A restless spirit, more than most,
The race is ever to the swift
The quick are beaten by a ghost
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:21 PM UTC
The night falls swiftly,
And yellow flashes
Of northeastern
Fireflies mark
The edges
Of the
Hedge-lined path,
And gnats
Hang in the air
Like suspended gravel
While my flats
Slap the pavement
Like a ****** rap gavel,
In repetition so
Soothing I forget
My sentence
And all that I'm losing,
And everything makes sense,
I feel connected
To the heron
Gliding above
The river
Like messenger
Pigeons follow
The street grid,
Or like a charge down
The neural pathway
That makes me grin
When I realize
I'm not defined
By what's within,
No more
And no less
Than the wilderness
Can be constrained
To the way the wind
Sings its wearisome
Twilight refrain
As the air moves
And spins
Through the spaces
Between the wooden
Masses atop
Parnassus,
I feel the humidity
Flee,
And my breath quickens
As Corycian nymphs
And the nine
Sacred women
Of creation
By man's mind
Surround me and drive
Me to place one
Ancient foot
In front of its partner,
The images they conjure
Like a Reckoner diamond
Encasing me
In a cage of
Liquid iron
While beckoning
Me forward
With 72 hymens,
But I know it's a lie,
I know why
Men fight and die,
And it's not for any
Contrived diatribe
Promoting an
Unattainable
Ultimate prize,
It's to give rise
To the feeling
Of being alive,
That's all we want,
That's all we strive
To find,
And that's why
I'm approaching
Mile five,
And breathing
The life
Inherent in night
With the scent
Of the soundscape
Still burned in
My sight.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
she'd been placed
on a missing persons register
she was last seen
walking to the shopping precinct
her whereabouts didn't get solved
for some time
police had no positive leads
from the public
a full scale search was conducted
but nothing new
came to light
she'd just disappeared
like a wisp of air
some twelve months later
a jogger happened upon her
upper torso in amongst
the Taylor lagoon's
reeds and muddy sludge
this discovery was something concrete
for the police to go on
a forensic unit scoured the area
in the hope of finding further body parts
and other evidence
a state by state missing persons
search began
to try and identify the victim
who'd met with a ghastly end
in the autopsy report
it stated that she'd been
sawn into pieces
with a chainsaw
as the marks on her thoracic cavity
and neck
indicated this...
the detective sergeant
complied the information
he had on the lady
for a brief in court
as luck would have it
she had breast implants
and on them was found
a code number
by tracing this number
and the hospital who performed
the surgery
pay dirt was hit
she was a resident of Kentucky
who'd gone missing
in July of two thousand and fifteen
a chainsaw murderer
did the deed
as six female victims
were found
across three other states
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
I've ran my hands across the bones of teachers
Buried between the bricks of The Great Wall
I heard them whisper grumbles of their true worth
Beneath the crack of the overseer's whip
I've felt the shivers of their shame
As they ground the bones of their colleagues into a paste
And lathered the human mortar among the sections of rock
I spit on the ground before me
When I tasted the words of imperial edicts blasted from uniformed men
I stood upon a guard tower at The Great Wall of China
And saw in all directions the nothing for miles
Felt the hollow loneliness of the soldiers, teachers, slaves
Men thousands of miles from their homes
Bitterly building defenses for a collection of villages
One man called his nation
I ran my hand along the edge of The Wall and got a splinter
Studied the protrusion
Wondered if it was stone, dirt, stick, or bone
A tourist took a picture
A jogger ran by
Father told me they could see this monument from space
I saw a drop of blood on my little finger
Wondered if it was mine or the walls
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
The clickety clackety
of my mother's bureau always
started school mornings.
My rumpled clothes lay in a heap
by my feet.
Sweet lemon-water perfume stings
my nostrils, and piercing sunlight
winks through the shades.
Good morning, morning,
sing me a song
about dew-kissed lilies,
brewing coffee,
a jogger's
labored breathing,
and a sparrow's jittery chirp.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
They were young high school boys at the time
Too young to know what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives
An ill fated night of fun and games with friends in the park
After the street lights had just turned on and it was starting to get dark
Unbeknownst to the boys, a female jogger was out for a run
An unknown man had come out of the darkness and knocked her unconscious
He committed horrific acts of physical violence and left her for dead
After police at the scene first discovered the woman bleeding severely from her head
They put out a call that “black and Hispanic teenagers” were out in the park “wilding” and up to no good
An order was given to round everyone up and to bring them in for questioning
At that point the young minors were beaten, terrorized, and coerced
By the very police force that had promised to protect and to serve
Family members were confused, separated, threatened, and lied to
The boys and their family members were tricked into signing false statements
Framed by police and convicted by the media even before their hearings
The boys didn’t stand a chance despite having the support of their community and good legal representation
There was no true peace of mind the wrongful convictions could have provided for Trisha, the jogger
There was no true justice that could be served in those two courtrooms either
Five innocent boys were convicted and served long sentences for a crime they did not commit
Korey, Kevin, Yousef, Antron, and Raymond now use their experiences to help others who should have also been found innocent
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
The only ship in the angle of my vision
seems to be still, as if cleverly painted above
the placid waves, that reject all agitations
near the shore I stand, a conspiracy perhaps!
No way I can tell if the ship moves away
or impatiently steers towards the port's embrace;
perhaps in keeping my spirit to espouse ambiguity.
Just a morning jogger from a planet far,
I am nobody to judge, still I am curious-
that vessel with an uncertain, navigational plan,
Isn't it me?Am I reaching anywhere, tell me.
I can see, none seems to expect it to come in
or go away and hide itself as a dot in distant horizon,
none who did bid it farewell, too is not to be seen.
Where have all gone, leaving no clue behind,
making it difficult for one to create dreams.
How so quickly time did erase all evidences,
which rendered goings and comings insignificant!
Is that static state, an illusion, a metaphor for life?
None is here to answer such questions as the world
has gone too far from there, to a space uncertain.
The port is busy as usual, any day it could be.
I wait for something to happen, will the ship
come to life astonishing me and move again?
I listen, the wind that blows from far horizon,
tells salty tales, tries in vain, again and again,
to recite the fish songs from deep sea blue down.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
We follow the bridleway that dissects the growing field of wheat, now dark green and vigorous after it's Spring dose of nitrogen. Pass the smouldering ruin of a bonfire which has been awaiting the torch for weeks. Charred black are two big sections of oak trunk which I considered purloining every time I passed, but decided they looked too heavy to move.
Reach the road, rein in the dog's lead, turn right. The thatch I renewed a few years back is definitely not looking new any more. Past the houses, past the one where the whistler lives. All the way across the wide East Anglian field I often hear him trilling, when we are both pottering in our gardens. He has a brick outhouse, probably a former loo or wash house. A thrush is sitting on top of the chimney and a blackbird on the weather vane, they look about four feet apart. I pick up a lager can, crush it and slip it in my back pocket. A pigeon climbs, claps its wings and glides back down. Jogger's footsteps catch up from behind. It's the chap who owns a Harley Davidson.
I turn back into our lane, a skylark is singing loud and clear above us to the left. A rabbit dashes across the lane a few yards ahead, disappears. The dog's ears go straight up and he eagerly sniffs its trail. Back home.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
My shelf holds worlds;
bending under multi-colored,
peeling teeth; paper raked by pupils.
Cream clenches then spreads,
like a jogger's lung, and I say,
This is why I normally take it black.
Something Steven Spielberg presented
is strapped to my wall, reminding me of
my childhood that has left my memory
faster than I hoped it would.
There's a decaf tin holding mini-presidential tombstones.
I keep a picture of a woman
I don't even know because
she looks happy and I envy that.
This room is hermetically sealing
3 AM insomnia and daydreams.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
It’s just a metaphor,
but bad things happen
when you take your
eye off the ball. Like
the time I fell putting my
pants on, spraining my
ankle, distracted by a
jogger in a sports-bra
glimpsed out the bathroom
window; like the woman in
Pittsburg who mistakenly
poured bleach in her husband’s
seven-n-seven contemplating
her black eye in a mirror; or
like the trucker in Oklahoma
reaching for his phone
across the seat, plowing
head-on into a school bus,
killing seven.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
i got out of his car
and
hopped on my bike
dashing through the neighborhoods
streaking down a bike path
faster
FASTER
squinting in the face
of an angry early morning sun
i stop
stumble off my bike
try to be discreet
***** into a bush
pick up my bike
wave to a jogger
force a smile
i head home
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
"There's comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool,
I'm holding my breath for you."
....except i'm not.
You are the shallow end of my pool;
dangerous if i dive head-first.
You tried to warn me before I jumped
but you forgot to show me your signs
and I never asked.
I just assumed you had more depth.
It was like you were trying to get me to drown for you
so you could save me
but you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party,
you can't be the car crash
and the paramedics,
you can't be the flatline
and the CPR.
You are the reason the lakes at my summer camp
have signs that say "Look Before You Jump"
because there could be creatures down there
that you don't want to touch you
but you are the deep sea monster
that National Geographic didn't want to discover.
They cower in the corner of their bedrooms
when they dream of what you're capable of.
You can swim among the krill
but still scare away the whales that eat them.
You had the ability to hold up my sinking ship
but you could still slip through my fingers like tap water.
I ******* want to kiss you sometimes
and others I really do want concrete
between you and my skin
like the small bridge next to my house
almost as if you are the babbling lake
and I am the jogger at 6 am.
The sun isn't quite up yet
but you haven't stopped creating noise in my head
since the moment I crossed your path.
I remember the reflection of the sunrise in your body
and the beautiful shade of pink you turned
when I tried to take a picture of it.
I was a little too out of breath to stay much longer
but you were quick to remind me that you'd be here again tomorrow morning
but I think I slept in and missed you.
I don't hold my breath for you anymore
because I'm no longer drowning.
I am not submerged in the Sea of You;
the tangled tendrils of your seaweed have let my ankles go
and I am free to swim back to land.
And although I know I haven't been to the ocean in weeks,
sometimes I still find sand in my hair,
sometimes I still feel the waves crashing over my head.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
So in Novemeber rain
******* on wet cigarettes like babe at milkless breast
I am passed
by the jogger.
Tanned limbs wrapped in polyester
hair wet by salt and water
I entertain myself
with the thought
that we
are the two types of people
who come out on Monday mornings in weather like this;
scars turning purple in the cold
all numb fingers and gooseflesh
and their breath
as white as mine
against the dark of early the sunrise
is a great leveler
on days like today.
These are the mornings I do not go hungry
in fear of the growing space between my thighs -
the masters of illusion
can make themselves appear invisible
but I cannot conceal my disappearing act much longer.
I am sixteen smoker's cough they tell me
I have a heart murmur I take it
as irrefutable proof I have
a heart feeling
the early
seeds
of death settle
in my chest with every drag,
some things are inexcusable
and I am learning that I am not blameless.
A few too many nights walking under unlit streetlamps
do not make you a victim I am learning that I
am not the victim Atlas shrugging off responsibility
a person
can only carry so much guilt
before they bend and
bad backs run in my family
so
I may be a coward -
but I will never say I was not warned.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
To ease the pain of your anti depression
Let me walk you through your first park lesson
Accustom your eyes to autumn’s wonderful display
Leaves of orange, yellow and some even grey
The branches alive with birds dancing around
And the collectors of nuts scurrying about on the ground
The jogger the biker and one man on a ski
The people out walking, the cafe, the hot tea
Winter flower's start to blossom in the sun cold day
A coloured relief from the winter of grey
The bridges, the river, the afternoon tide
The secret garden with their doors open wide
The carvings of seals, beetles and one giant frog
Walkers, walking Lurchers, pugs, and a fast whippet dog
So throw away your anti depressants of glom and pain
Get out doors walking, in the sun, cold, and rain
Let the wind blow through you wash your problems away
A walk in the park will always turn, a grey day
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
I look out to the street
And I know what I see
The cars, the drivers
The gas prices, the stop lights
The bus stops, the starbucks
The apartments, some trees
The afternoon jogger, the birds
People going where they don't
Actually want to be going,
And the people doing nothing
When all they desire
Is to be part of the picture
The society is a mixture of
Nothing and everything
And some sit high as
Others swing low
And I can't help but ask,
What am I really looking at??
It sure isn't the truth
The truth, is right here
Away from the noise, just looking
If you fear what man can do,
You will be paralyzed
By what life will show you
There is no mix up there, my friend
There goes the 83 bus now
Downtown Los Angeles
I believe the bus driver,
more than a President
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
Pacing on cold, honeycomb linoleum,
I watched the sun rise through mesh
curtains. Sunlight striped my chest
like Gothic architecture while a clock
measured the outside. Two strikes
for a car to pass, seven for a lonesome
jogger, twelve for leaves to reach
the road, twenty for a cloud to overtake the window pane, and three
months left for me to watch it.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
BE THOU MY VISION
He drinks in
my vision
of a world
contained in a matter
of minutes
all that can be seen
in this here
& now.
An ordinary world
of the mundane moment
joggers and *******
running side by side
somewhere the distant barking
of an invisible dog.
Litter being taken
for a walk
by a skittish wind
changing direction on a whim.
A swan
sitting on its own
on a park bench
gazing at the water.
My Da gulps down
each happenstance
each moment
of unimportance
knowing he will never
see such things again.
The ordinary made precious
in the dying light.
Each meagre moment
bereft of beauty.
Soon he will have
the Last Rites
and even this story
will be lost.
But now he listens
almost greedily
as I tell of a shadow
scattered upon the grass
as if it existed in
a dimension of its own.
He can almost taste
the sunlight.
See the wind
hustle the leaves.
How beautiful
is mud?
What a thing
is rain?
How wondrous
a footfall
opening up the silence
flowering into
the ragged breathing
of an obese jogger
her earphones
leaking Christmas music.
A Christmas long gone
that will not come for him again.
Father become child
wanting the again and again
of this fading
“Now.”
Spring in all its glory
shyly approaching
the dying
of his day.
***
“Be thou my vision
Oh Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me
Save what thou art.”
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
Where the sidewalk ends
and the pavement turns to sand,
that's where you'll find me,
that's a nowhere man's nowhere land.
I am not a dog walker
nor jogger on the beach.
No, I am a no one
and I hold no one's leash.
Friendly to some
and deadly to others,
I am no book
you can judge by a cover.
Heed my words or write them off,
I care not for your affairs,
but listen when I tell you this:
Time stops for no one
and no one really cares.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
Before The Show
Before the show begins,
I have a poem, by an anonymous poet.
Arguably the greatest poet alive.
" Looking out my window,
I see rain, trees and a fence,
I bet so far your in suspense.
Fence is brown, leaves are green,
I'll admit it's a beautiful scene.
Reality is, the world is hell,
witches have put me in a spell.
Just when things are going right,
sunshine becomes the darkest night.
Never have I seen such dark,
like a helpless jogger in the park.
Life is good, life is bad,
I've had my share of both.
So much ****** so much ****
molesters always seem to escape.
Then I think of all the good times,
and how you love all my forced rhymes.
Then I look back outside,
life again seems so simple.
The brown fence never looked so good,
rain all of a sudden doesn't look that bad.
Life is like a roller coaster,
no more missing persons on a poster.
This world has many winding roads,
life is better when shooting loads. "
And this concludes the poem of the day,
now the regular show may begin.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC