"jugglers" poems
sages and brethren
gather, and share
and slowly souls
are bared
their tempered voices
and quiet eyes
reserved of judgment
with passing smiles
moments blend
in current trends
opinions wide
and reflections deep
the concepts
and irregularities
once murky
now clear
they prioritize
and familiarize
that staunch resolution
of generation net
will remunerate
and illuminate
through the checkpoints
and formal reviews
through the purple curtains
and open stage
nothing tainted
or bitter
left for taste
cause its they
who’ll plant the seeds
the captains of commerce
healers and jugglers
the coaches and councilors
negotiators and compromisers
the kings and queens
hustlers and hellcats
(who've all found their way!)
let us tip our hats
and salute them*
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
A circus lives inside my head
Fortune tellers control my fears
Clowns are in charge of my humor
All you can eat contests make me crave certain foods
A Ferris wheel of thoughts
A merry-go-round of emotions
Jugglers toss around my decisions
Fun House mirrors showing my insecurities
Face painters create my expressions
When will I become the ring master of my mind?
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
The posters said tomorrow
At eleven on the dot
The Mishkin Brothers Circus
Would be here ....on this spot
There would be no carnival or midway
Just one tent and three rings
And all of the excitement
That a good old circus brings
There would be elephants and lions
Trapeze artists overhead
Dancing dogs and ponies
And zebras painted red
Clowns of all description
Answering to just one man
In the center of the circle
Was Mishkin brother....Dan
He'd run the show for twenty years
Gone from town to town to town
In one day they would get set up
And in two, they'd tear it down
One day to show the locals
The circus still was an event
With magic, form the Barnum Days
All housed inside one tent
The sideshow barkers and their geeks
Were not with this fine group
Dan Mishkin had assembled
Only the finest circus troup
From Russia he had jugglers
Knife throwers, just the best
******** riders from Decatur
Along with all the rest
Fourteen trucks and trailers
Pulled into town the night before
Breaking ground once they arrived
Working right through until four
Just old time entertainment
No travelling gypsy band was this
It was the Mishkin Brothers Circus
It was something not to miss
The show was started promptly
At twelve o'clock, like the sign said
A parade of all the players
And the zebras painted red
Two shows and it was over
The whole routine began anew
The field was once more empty
Gone was the Mishkin rolling zoo
A year from now, we'd see the signs
And we'd all go to the tent
To see the Mishkin Brothers Circus
The best money ever spent
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
a penny is a penny
and i am a monk hawking birth control pills
without any shame or pride
disguised in flamboyant tinfoil.
i am an extra sensitive *** on my daily street corner
turning into a crumb of hunger
staring down a long alleyway and eating the flowers
that grew up in concrete.
there are shadows of jugglers on the wall
jumping into the sun, and i am a burning lampshade.
henry miller is in a wheelchair now
and i am a walrus with a backache
being forced among the proverb writers,
but i'm no prophet because i've seen the bubbling fire
and the swords on the doorway.
i am a lover with a guilty conscience
and i have too much on my mind.
i stole the bread from the riot squad and
i blow out these words from a keyhole,
pounding my fist on a book
while the mystics get drunk with skinny ******
i don't go to birthday parties or funerals
instead i'd like to do something worthwhile
but i am your typical flunky, writing eccentric jokes about rich pimps
while my father lies dead on the hill.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
You aren't big ****
'till you're on a stick,
not even legitimate
like gator, hotdogs, sausage and chicken.
A stick gets your mouth waterin'
and your tongue lickin'
you can get your veggies on a shish-kabob
and cotton candy handed to you at any sport
or circus,
we even got religious services about servin'
this person on a stick!
Wanna be famous? Get your wish
and put somethin' on a stick--
the get rich quick types stick 'em up their ***
while the rest of us gather
at fairs and carnivals to mindlessly laugh
at jugglers, clowns and ride circular rides.
All the while snackin' on somethin' on a stick.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
I dream often about the circus
A place I loved to go to as a child
Mesmerized by clowns and jugglers
Enthralled by animals from the wild
As the lights dim and the spot light shines
The ringmaster steps into its glow
"Welcome one, welcome all
to the Wilkie circus show! "
That's when things take a turn
As they always do in dreams
The spotlight finds me in the crowd
As the ringmaster calls my name
I find myself in the center ring
Dressed up just like a clown
Fuzzy yellow hair, big red nose
And grandma's paisley gown!
It turns even odder I'd say as the animals parade
With heads and bodies that are mismatched
Lions with the heads of monkey's
and zebras with the smiles of Cheshire cats
It doesn't get much stranger than that!
A flash of light and everything changes
I find myself on the high wire
My balance beam a giant matchstick
And "HELP" its been lit on fire!
That's when I start twirling it like a baton
As the crowd below chants my name
You never know what will happen next
In the circus of my dreams
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
A warm glow radiates through the bones
that are usually filled with aches and groans
as I pass my place of birth.
The street screams my name by day
and whispers it softly when light has gone away
smell the air, smell the warmth rising from the earth.
The street entertainers of Portobello road
the cool saxophone, the sweet notes blown
the sound of a thousand footsteps.
The jugglers, magicians and the market stands
balancing, conjuring and selling their brands
the warm breeze scatter their scent.
Watch out for vagabonds and confidence tricks
souvenir shops serving countless tourists
the sound of a thousand tills ringing.
Eat in any language, speak in any tongue
dream of hustle and bustle and days long gone
still you can hear the street singing.
From Pembridge Road to Westbourne Grove
these streets tell me that I am home
they call me, repel me, thrill and destroy me.
This land that did bear me keeps willing me back
to walk it's streets and follow it's tracks
this land is the place I must be...
If I die, think only this of me,
through every pane of glass, behind every windowsill
there will always be a place called Notting Hill.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 9:24 AM UTC
I believe in just the right amount of light.
I've learned that in photography.
Not enough, means the subject is in the dark,
Too much and everything is washed out.
In either case, the texture of the subject is lost.
Too much light and you lose the shadows,
and shadows are important for the vibrancy of the picture.
Too little light and the shadows overwhelm.
I believe in just the right amount of light in life.
Too much and you have the Pollyanna syndrome.
Too little and you fall into despair.
If it's just right, life will have a rich and vital texture.
And the shadows are important.
They give the highlights contrast and meaning.
The photographer also believes in color.
Black and white has its place,
But in the end color is king
And gives a photograph life.
Color depends upon light,
The right amount of light.
Color is a fracturing of the rays of light.
I believe in a colorful life.
Not too garish
Certainly not too drab.
But just right.
How do we get there?
How do we balance the light and color in our lives?
No balancing act is ever easy.
Even Goldilocks had to deal with three hungry bears.
Angels find it hard to dance on the head of a pin.
After years of practice jugglers sometime drop the ball.
I'm still dropping the ball far too often.
But now and then a burst of light breaks through the clouds
And for a moment, I glow in the dark.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind
There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor
There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind
By Phil Roberts
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday
multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as
WEEKEND.
Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops
in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.
Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags
drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons
passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty
without score cards.
Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements
including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian
compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.
Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part
by Macy's.
Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least
of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match
are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.
Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,
Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights
Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.
Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted
or unwanted.
In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods
pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed
the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind
There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor
There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind
By Phil Roberts
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 4:03 AM UTC
Pendulum hours spring slow forward
seasons swaying trigger festivals
and the dancing banners
on windy streets
spell sales
for slack jawed jugglers
eager to pedal wears to the weary
under the growing sun of a dieing season.
I am a beast in the cage of these streets
one way bars holding back barbarism.
My snarling is better suited for the trees
my guttural bark out car doors at street performers
better suited for stick beaten drum circles
spinning madly under the moon.
I lap from the sewer grates like a lost dog
too proud to die their like my hero
on a post above
to me
the raven quoth, what a bore.
Only men behind electric glass have seen me
on drunken nights
I confess my heart
and dance away my soul(s)
before their iron eye.
In this city I do not sleep
my heart glides to grassy groves
when my eyes close
to lock out the bright and unending
street lights that are suspending
my cowards heart above the darkness i still fear.
I am a child
take me to where the wild things are.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Journeyed from
a far off land
through the forest
across the sand
like a restless beast
never at peace
wandered for years
laughter and tears
A family of wanderers
have traveled the path
acrobats and see'ers
jugglers and rats
all move together
for it would seem
safety in numbers
they're often seen
Raven haired beauties
with large almond eyes
pry coins from the menfolk
tell them sweet lies
they stay for awhile
then they move on
when their welcome
is truly gone
misunderstood
for hundreds of years
the travelers have wandered
despite all our fears
the gypsies have lived
like we wish we all could
living and laughing
loving as they should
don't be so hard
on those you don't know
could be a friend
let you in from the cold.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
Locked up in the stocks
and they're all laughing their socks off at me.
Soon I will be free
unlike
those other poor souls who are swinging in the morning breeze
up on the freshly painted gallows
made especially so more could see
the face of death,
what they could be.
Come and watch the matinee
where three more souls will swing today.
A party atmosphere
a dead man here or there
it's like a summer fayre with jugglers and a clown
and 'Hey presto' magic
one more soul drops down to meet his fate.
Lately I have noticed that the police are getting tougher
and the rough and ready treatment
meted out to those who fall foul
of the local law enforcement
has become a talking point in boardrooms
by the Admiralty Lords
who were often heard to cry when in their younger day
'hang them high,hang them high
make those malefactors pay.
It's a sin
you try to live and all these people want to give you is some grief
you can't get by on the sly
and if you try to you will die as so many have found out
to their cost
I do not doubt that ii could happen here to me
I could be up there swinging free.
So today I'm in the stocks
you can laugh your socks off
laugh your heads off if you please
but I'm not swinging in the breeze
just yet.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
(•) (•)
(•) (•)
(•) (•)
(•) ( •)
----
above
We have my rendition of the famous
BERYLDOV LEW
Painting entitled
**** DESCENDING A STAIRCASE
( because of the presence of so many delicate young girls
on this site ---- only the upper parts of the body has been shown )
-----------------------
_____
Come into the Dream
•
•
She said
HEY - **** ME !
I laughed in her face
••
I said
COME ON !
I'LL TREAT YA TO A PIZZA !
She said
OKAY !
••••••
I knew she was really just a kid
••••••••
••••••••
Mountainside
Peddlers and jugglers
High
( where the children play )
••
Come
we shall wander til we find us a saint
---
Til we find us a human being
••
Til we find us a community
••
And we can lie together once again
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
old soldiers sporting bravery's medals
then comes the blaring marching band
next are the clowns and the jugglers
children waving flags don't understand
still too young to know war's truth
soon enough it will be their turn
fresh young faces eager for glory
will march into their hell and burn.
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 8:33 PM UTC
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk,
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29mp3
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
Sit on the ground
watch the parade march around
go through the whole town
no one notices
that jugglers are choking
and the little kids are smoking
the balloons are deflating
everything escalating
and its so frustrating
but the pills are sedating
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
We'll wake up and smell the coffee
God counts them in, three by three
rainbow children dancing free
forbidden fruit unfamiliar to Eve
the arc is leaving for the sinful to drown
so bring on the clowns, the jugglers
and actors, luvvies, lovers of flesh
summon them to entertain us
with original sin and panache
we set sail tomorrow at sunset
to wake in the morning to the smell
of coffee and angels burning
burning in Hell
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind
There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor
There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind
By Phil Roberts
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 3:30 AM UTC
The wind howled drowning out the shrieks of crows
As they harried and swooped at the buzzard above
Forcing him yet again to drop his hard-won prey
And as the clouds thickened, and sky darkened,
All signs of light started to fade from the day.
A mighty thunderous storm was surely on its way.
Once more, I emptied the bucket, that now
Seems to permanently live in the loft
Always waiting, to catch that single drop of water
That somehow manages to find its way
Through the edge of the roof tiles, to drip
In perfect correlation with the rain.
Then it began…
It started with a gentle pitter-patter
On the sun-lounge roof where it is always first noticed
Soon lightning flashed in its startling iridescence
Of pink and blue, to prove to us its presence
Shortly followed by the long mighty crash
Of thunder as it tried desperately to catch up
And with it came a reservoir of rain
At the windows it rushed so break-neck fast
It seemed they would surely just burst or smash
A bird-table outside in the garden fell
With a loud breaking-to-pieces crash
And flower pots took to the air in unison.
Jugglers may spin plates around on sticks
I’ve seen more than a dozen spinning round
But the wind has no boundaries and hurled up high
Plastic pots of all colour and size and shape
Outside the window such a staggering sight
The pots now looked as if they were Heaven bound.
And then it stopped…
As suddenly as it had begun, the lightning disappeared
The thunder, after a last weak gentle rumble, fell silent
The rain changed to a light drizzle and finally stopped
It was as if it knew it had other places to call, and it had.
And in it’s wake the sun peered wearily from behind the clouds
Daylight returned, and once more a sense of calm descended.
And as the wind gradually faded to a gentler breeze
And saplings that had bent over stood up again like trees
A small cascade of flower pots quickly fell to the ground
And added to the mess that the short storm had left
I turned my back and walked away to my den
That would be a tidying task for who knows when!
©Joe Wilson – The storm…2015
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC