"joggers" poems
I walked among a garden green,
well paved and split by beams
of fence posts new and densely lacquered,
This garden that man has gently shattered.
Far in I found small office blocks,
amid the green were charging docks,
and soon did I sit down and sigh
at tender faces -- eager for wi-fi.
The fauna made for a lovely sight
as joggers came and passed it by,
their music playing on phones strapped tight,
the moment was waste and so I cry,
For what life did lose to technology.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
I could’ve woken you up in the morning and could’ve been the sun that rises even when we both live in a place where it never does.
I could’ve taken you to museums, at least 2 of where I’ve been to. The first one, we’ll have to take the bus because I’d tell you that I’m too lazy to drive but for the second one, I will tell you that I’ll drive you there.
My car would look at me as though it knows that there is another soul seating in the passenger seat – it was no longer some books, a box of pizza, or my dog.
I could’ve taken photos of you in that place, post them everywhere but subtly so that they can see that there are at least 2 forms of art in that photo — the one you’re looking at and the one I’m looking at.
I could’ve talked to you at night under the stars, in the same rooftop where I told you that I liked the cathartic experience of doing just what we could’ve done; the same rooftop where you talked about your life, at least some pieces of it.
I could’ve brought you to where I used to study. We could’ve walked the halls that stared at me for being too alone and too lonely only so I could tell them, “Hey, here he is, finally.” and they could’ve smiled at me because they know how long the longing lasted.
We could’ve taken a stroll in the shade of the trees or could’ve had a picnic there while watching the joggers and the sunset.
I could’ve introduced you to my friends – they’ve been meaning to meet you. They too know how long I’ve been stuck on an island by myself. They know who I was when I was eleven and when I was sixteen and I bet, if you gave them a chance, you could’ve heard the crazy things we did.
And maybe they could’ve liked you. They could’ve told me how lucky I was and probably would’ve warned me that if I hurt you, they’d stick with you instead of me.
I could’ve introduced you to my family — my mom liked you even then. I could’ve introduced you to my little brother who I would consider as the biggest and most important judge of character because I believe that children can sense goodness in people and he could’ve seen that in you.
I could’ve written you letters, could’ve left random little tokens I would've used for all the words I cannot muster to say.
I could’ve played the piano for you even if I just know, at most, 3 songs; even though I don’t really know how to read notes at all.
I could’ve introduced you to the artists I like and I could’ve known more of yours. I could’ve listened to them and I would have had to remember you every time.
I could’ve held your hand, could’ve eaten brunch with you, could’ve read you a poem.
I could’ve loved you — could have – if I was the given the chance.
But, I was and I could’ve used it but I didn’t.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter,
no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial, and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break
I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,
nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…
composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
Lake Michigan is bare again,
because all the boats are taken
out of the docks until spring
time comes around again.
Lake Michigan looks beautiful with
it is blue color and the sun shining over it,
people walk along the beach and the waves
crash upon the beach.
There is nothing more beautiful to me
than Lake Michigan.
Lake Michigan is peaceful because there is
nothing in the water, people don't picnic along
the side of the beach and only a few joggers jog
along the side of the beach.
Lake Michigan is peaceful to them and to me.
Lake Michigan will come back to live in May,
when Spring time shows her beautiful face,
when everything is green and growing by
the gardens by Lake Michigan.
But as for now, Lake Michigan she sleeps,
waiting for spring time to come to her
so she may awake.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:24 AM UTC
oh sure, forgiveness of sin... or perhaps crimes... or just fetishes? like John Paul II forgiving sin, once polite society answered and John Paul staged the forgiveness session in a prison cell... forgiveness alright, acted out, with all the preliminary provisions readied - ode to Mehmet Ali Ağca, forgiveness always played out great for photography when all the Chinese laws were passed - Siberia welcomes all keen joggers; but you know one thing? raised in a canine environment as a child i learned to attach a different perspective with felines:
like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you just wait... crocodile or boa insomniac - and when the opposite party has banked enough to cry about having lost it... you spit at your enemy's mother's face while ****** her; **** me! you get to prove god along the way! how's that for a Camden Market daytrip? and if you don't? well, it was a nice thought - feels like being a woman with a foetus craving doughnuts and pickles.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
The car showroom warehouse unit has turned into a gym overnight.
Low lit lights
highlight the out-of-work-early
joggers and the two step, bought-a-new-ipod-for-this-run, sweaty runners.
Framed central in the glass,
they bounce on mountain passes
over Swiss clear rivers and
around back through
obscure European cities,
all whilst on the spot listening
to Radio 4 podcasts from the week before.
Low cut tops offer no support for the weary
and the lifting gloves of the man
at the back are fingerless and ripped,
unlike his overweight torso, though
his BMW makes him believe that
this warehouse unit on the outskirts of
Huddersfield is the Venice beach of the North.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
A smooth breeze brushes my face
And stiffens my hands.
Light burns the underside of bridges,
While a lost train cries out,
Screeching in lonely desperation.
Joggers grate a sandy sidewalk
And clouds wait low in the distance;
Their coral hues almost blending
with the thick horizon.
Planes crawl, carried in the glacier of the sky.
All frozen into the portrait of today.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 9:45 PM UTC
In my vicinity there is
A garden so green
Monsoons
Winters and
Summers
All do agree
A walking track
Joggers track
Yoga corner
A gymming area along the track
Everyone seems to be enjoying
Early morning enthusiasts
and
Late bloomers all love the place
A poetry recital Corner
An occasional artist
Capturing the beauty of the place
Conversations of the Elderly
Reliving memories from
Back in the day
The children in the play area
Going Merry-go-round
And sliding , happy and gay
With
A canopy of trees
Sheltering the track
Come Summers
The trees bearing flowers in bloom
Purple orange pink
And
Most special of All
A yellow so Mellow
(Indian Laburnum)
Leaving no trace of green
Cascading in delicate blooms
With
A granite seat placed
Beneath
A feeling so divine
A favourite of mine !!
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
I wish I was with you, under the canopy of your covered patio...
above parked subaru station wagons
next to aspens and pines, thick with pollen
and lazy concrete carrying joggers and cars and speeding bicycles piloted by the hormone-drunken youths of another sophomore summer
I'd forget, if I was with you
content to sleep in the morning sun and make love on the red porch of your red house....
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
She bobs in the water
pale cork, pale-haired
lily pad with tendrils in the
deep cold dark.
(Stones in her pockets,
they said later, a Virginia Woolf
rip-off.)
I see her from my bay window.
She gleams as she floats;
she startles the ducks.
I wait for the joggers to find her,
bouncing along asphalt until
they trip on the light slanting
off her.
It's early, though.
The sky is still bleary-eyed and bloodshot.
Red sky dances along the water.
Apr 1, 2011
Apr 1, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
7 AM
End of nights
Beginning of mornings
The city falls asleep,
Awakening
From its slumbers and adventures
Of the night before
The joggers jog,
The lovers fulfill hand-in-hand harmony
And the fisherman stands
Alone
Content in solitude he plays
Catch and release with the
Creatures of the creek
Are they, too, awakening,
Or yet to fall asleep?
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
This for the little brothers
And the widowed mothers
To the Sunday morning snoozers
And the gamenight losers
To the wimps in the schoolyard
And even the bullies just down the boulevard
Shake the dust.
This is for the shopfront greeters,
The youth group worship leaders,
For the early morning joggers and the late night bike riders,
And for the boy who's crush loves someone else
For milk crate ball players,
And for the wallflower haters
Plant the forests.
To the sleepers and the dreamers,
And to the bed-wetters,
As well as the lonely love letters
To the broken hearts who write poems
And the broken souls that stole them
To men who work for a family they never see
And girls who want a lover but they'll never be
Split the seas.
For the heavens you have lived and the hells you felt you have gone through,
For the demons who have overcame and the ones yet to be overcome
For the ones who have stuck with the Lord all the same
And the ones who don't yet know His name
For the fair-weather friends the friends 'til the end
The overnighters and the stories told at campfires
Move the mountains.
This is to the poet, and lovers who don't yet know it
To the writers but it's just a hobby,
The Debbie Downers who can't stop me
This is for the authors whose books is left unread on dusty shelves
And the girls who hate the look of themselves
To the ones, that when it rains, they choose to sing
And the winter you must endure to reach the spring
Shake the dust.
This is to all of you,
and I will say it again: shake the dust.
Because from the dust you were made,
and to the dust you will return.
So let this poem not be mere words that barely flow,
may this poet not just be another kid,
too quixotic to change the world.
But might my poetry be the notes
which your words are carried by.
Let them swing and sway,
a piece to our battlecry,
some sylable in your life story.
Because from the dust you will rise,
so carry the dirt with you
and take the world by storm,
for the ground you scrape from your palms
is the story you form.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
It's raining.
And people are dying.
Somewhere. Everywhere.
Nowhere. On television.
And I don't care.
And their life is static
stuck in the waistband
of some dude's underwear.
And he scratches his *****
He's shocked and ****
He calls himself a "God".
He sent his son to die
as a guilt trip
and to spike book sales.
But he's scratching his *****
And his wrist brushes
against his waistband.
He's pinched by the shock
of electic death.
It's raining.
I'm sitting on the edge
of my bed.
Closing my eyes
and pretending
my feet are hanging off
a shopping cart.
My parents are pushing me
and I'm facing my mother.
She looks young enough
to avoid
every thing.
I don't care. I don't care.
There are snares
hitting the cymbals.
And there's
a jazz musician. He's
nodding his
head
back and
forth.
Back
and forth.
I don't care. I don't care.
It's raining.
And we zoom in on God.
And, clearly, I have a vendetta.
Have I been subtle?
He answers, "No."
Did I meet a jazz musician?
He shrugs, "Yeah, I guess."
And the room slows down
to a jumbled vibration.
And he smiles. Smiling.
Smiley-smile smiles.
There is no ******
like the second hand.
It's raining.
I don't care. I don't ******* care.
My dad yelling.
You have daddy issues!!
You ******* *****
And the room slows down
to a jumbled vibration.
What's true is a tumor
and it grows and grows.
It's raining.
Music is the shout
in a raindrop.
The wrists we forfeit
is the church of
an eternal solitude.
And we is I
and the mixture of
animal-speak
that swallows my
brain.
It's raining.
There are joggers
in the park.
Their feet are smashing
the cement.
Slow down.
They don't care.
Then seven billion
joggers enter the park
and smash the cement.
My family is unearthed:
the swallowed inertia
of an undying thought.
It's raining.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
I wear men's 9 shoes,
and black socks underneath
Batman boxer briefs during morning shifts
And cotton boxers when I sleep
Boot-cut jeans during the winter
and capri joggers during spring
Long sleeve, and short sleeve button ups
Are pretty much my thing.
My glasses are black, lenses thick.
My hair cut short, just recently dyed.
If I didn't have *******
You'd think I'm a guy.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC
last English class of the day, hoodie on, earphones on, Modest Mouse Ocean Breathes Salty, sun half-way down, subtly setting, slight breeze, hold down hoodie as I walk, half-empty parking lot. a lot of halves. many things empty, never the mind. language is strange and fascinating. there is a single brown leather boot in the center of the freeway’s entrance cross walk. I notice this, it moves me. lost soles in the city. I image myself getting run over by a passerby, a single navy Sk8-Hi left behind. everything is a story. Del Taco drive-thru, two-for-four fish tacos, I’ve given up on any other kind of meat. Pescatarian I’ll tell them from now on if they ask. It doesn’t make anything better, it doesn’t undo what’s already been done, but at least I’m not contributing to the damage. At least I have that choice. Teenage girl in red beanie, black Adidas joggers, spray can in hand. It is Thursday, this is the city I live in. The Strokes released four new songs today, I signed up for their mailing list. I might go out for dinner later on, but until then I’m not anywhere else.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
He walks across the great expanse as if a ghost.
He walks alone and out of place as two by two
the joggers pass and barely glance as if its normal
to behold a ghost. What they don’t see defines
his life, the tortured demon voice inside his head
that taunts and teases all day long and
tells him he “ain’t spit” and “ugly is forever”.
He’d been neglected all his life but now that he’s
become a man he thought the love he sought
would save him from the way it was when he
was young. His problem now is wrapped around
his backward thought that love is his to find and take
instead of his to give and share, if only he had
learned this in his childhood.
He slowly mounts the rail between the ocher beams
on Golden Gate and looks at murky water far below.
His clothes are black, his hair is long and black,
his skin as white as snow. He stands ***** while
looking back to see if one might lend a hand but
no one does. He smiles a smile and turns around and
then as if he’s been cut down he leans, unbending,
and falls.
*A hundred miles away a mother knows her child
is dead. She bows her head in shame and cries,
the why at war with guilt. A part of her is gone,
a part she can’t deny or blame as someone else's fault
instead she hates herself for never having loved the boy,
but even more she hates the hurt. If only she had
fought the urge to drink, if only she had loved him half
as much as that crazy **** she used to smoke, the ****
she called her ‘crystal blue persuasion’. If only she
could turn the hands of time and rearrange the things
that mattered most.*
A flare is dropped to mark the spot where he went in,
the flaming red a beacon on a bay of mother’s tears.
Another soul engulfed in grief is gone, the deed is done.
A crowd is gathered at the rail to point and stare
as boats approach the flare where men with hooks
will pull him out while mother drinks 100 miles away.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:27 PM UTC
fireflies zigzag following pupils pin *****
light mayonaise layers dead flesh and dead seeds
shadows bleed through the cracks
a lone train howls its hastening arrival
Alarming call like an unseen wolf
Flashing lights overhead and a low rumble
a condensed storm
helicopter cradling its dying cargo
bringing a regurgitation for the baby bird
disguised as a hospital with a faltering business plan
mufflers and mosquitoes parry the blows
winded joggers step next to termite eaten trees
Channel surfing seen a strobe lite
betraying the activities behind the neighboors
curtained windows scene
rituals carve another day into the known
comfort is routines cage
a worn trail rut that hardly allows
a different direction roll the stone uphill
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 10:15 PM UTC
Fish 'n' chips on the Clyde
Fish 'n' chips on the side
Fish 'n' chips with too much salt
Fish 'n' chips and watching boats
Fish 'n' chips and sunny clouds
Fish 'n' chips and funny crowds
Fish 'n' chips and ugly dogs
Fish 'n' chips without the smog
Fish 'n' chips and coffee cold
Fish 'n' chips where ice cream sold
Fish 'n' chips where joggers sweat
Fish 'n' chips on wet park bench
Fish 'n' chips where sea gulls swoop
Fish 'n' chips where sea gulls ****
Fish 'n' chips with nip on the nose
Fish 'n' chips with nip on the toes
Fish 'n' chips is ******* food, but
Fish 'n' chips taste so good
Fish 'n' chips and mountain sides
Fish 'n' chips on the Clyde !.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
Then I went to city park
to feed breadcrumbs to pretty larks.
I brought my niece Elise
and my nephew Patrice.
Well we stayed 'til after dark.
My brother's wife, she called me,
so I waived the dollar-nine fee.
She wants her kids.
So I closed my lids,
and I told her that that won't be.
Sorry, I'm taking them now, they're mine.
I'm not wantin' to listen to her whine,
so I hung up the phone,
let out a moan,
said it's time to go, it's after nine.
The children asked when they're going home.
"Well, we're hittin' the road, going to roam."
After 77 miles of driving,
they both got to crying'
and I told 'em to SHUT THEIR FUCKIN' MOUTHS.
I pulled over the car at Oregon Shortine,
took the W. Michigan Cross to Madison
merged to Blancheflower Ave.
Wait!
I said stay right fuckin' there.
I opened the trunk.
And with a THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
I bashed out their brains on the seats.
How are you, my friends?
I miss you, I was hanging out with some unsavory joggers,
and they always wanted to see some buffalo.
So I cleaned the seats.
I love a machine, I love a machine. I love a machine. How can this be, how can I feel so eruditely unclean? Is this the ends to my ill-gotten means? So how are you?
Then I left them lying there, across from the Lebanon Computer Cafe.
So I left them-
Advise me...
It was after all getting late.
My life is a net, my life is a net. I swirl and unfurl and stone the design, I curse myself, my heartstring facsimile. I played piano to forget, but my mind needs 89 keys to remember how to do that, and all I had was 88.
So I went to bed.
It was tea time.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
I’m headaching the steps of the downward escalator, upward,
Little Sisyphus carrying a bicycle on my back,
Wheels spinning purposelessly in opposite directions,
Sideways hourglass.
I’m an urban cowboy,
Running in a rat wheel,
A test-tube sample
Unknowing of the real purpose of my jog.
Around me I see another wheel,
Man young pushing hard,
And beyond another wheel,
And further three more.
I’m surrounded by infinite number of wheels,
Populated by diligent joggers,
Some quiet, a few trying to slow down,
But all spinning faster,
Like water in a funnel going down the drain,
Inescapable eddy.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
Winding round the hill
Following the paved road.
As it takes twists and turns
Sometimes changing abruptly
Along came a speeding truck
A little too fast on the road
Swerving with the curves
Threatening to crash.
I am but a little girl
Taking a well known path
One that leads me home
Each and every day.
If only I stick to the side
And make way for joggers
And cyclists.
Walking and walking home.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
In the park
Out for a walk
And the fellow joggers on the track
The gym equipments all occupied
Heavily working out
For sure the users
Were thinking out aloud
While working out
Maybe it's the neighbour
Or the bossy boss around
The equipments
Facing the ire
The users all on fire
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 5:24 AM UTC
Cafe
The river
•
Stray dog
•••••••••••
No ! no ! ----- please!
NO JOGGERS!
(Okay -- no joggers)
••
The moon passes over behind the cathedral
(nice touch -- eh
The
Cathedral?)
•
•
The cool evening
The stars
•••
The dreamless
Inhuman
Emptiness
•
Our lifelessness
••
Loveless love poems
--
Waiting to die
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC