"layovers" poems
Come the auroras and infinite landscapes –
Tangents wrought outright constants,
Parallels perched perpendicular outrights,
So to call your ellipse,
When the orbit’s outstretched
Landing meetings where we’d at least
Learn to alter tomorrow.
It’s stellar silly, and paths primordial,
Leaving my layovers for the trials
And abandoned, the moon’s to forever follow you;
So to composed and formulae proofed
Come the time you mother said,
"He’s just a coma
And dust best left forgotten."
Quit draggin’ me to space baby.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
I cannot restore the lakes that teemed with fish,
nor the maples cultivated by the Mohawk,
the Adirondacks now more remote than boyhood,
a lost dark conversation with jejune oblivion.
Events became the storyline of my life,
and events were always stronger than resolve.
My journey took me inward without time schedule,
dredged up expediencies as layovers.
Still, I felt drawn to the people,
who bejeweled my dreams in neuron flashes,
became therapy, billboards along the escape route.
Turned out that vital knowledge would suffice.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
Living in a different time zone, still reeling from past decisions.
Fighting venemous events to no avail,
not letting go of lasting mass incisions.
Excision of life's excitements.
Removal of my livers, kidneys, colons,
but still, I shiver in the coldness
of the living.
Admitting to the voices in my head,
that the Lord's mercy still extends,
into heaven for the choices of the dead,
who did the devil's bidding.
A foolish folly for a younger self,
to fall afoot amongst a rotten hell,
hellish landscape brought into the realm,
of mortals and the bedroom shelves.
All my dreams upon a table,
and in the dusty drawers there lies the pain.
Honestly I'm never able,
to entrust another lover with my reigns.
To fly I must begin to build momentum,
but something's caught up on me and instead preventing.
And slowing my ascension,
Also did I mention,
that every other moment that I spend here in atonement
is a ticking to a redder deathly sentence.
Repentance, with a mix of learned and unearned lessons, accuses those who lied.
Impresses extra stress especially when the ghostly men attend and lean up on my bedside.
I use to shy away but now I stare them in the eyes.
Fear's been long gone since childhood,
when crazy layovers in hazy places
played a part of strongly breaking bonds with those I thought were good.
I've felt my death a million times and dreamed it millions more.
And yet I never let myself fall victim to the final tricks of it's afflictions.
Meaning it's a situation still remaining unexplored.
I know what I lived for, and I know exists a future still in store.
But god ******* ****** life is such a chore.
Lord,
Give me strength and give me more.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
Suitcases get tagged, prepare for jetlag
As you mount the stairs to the plane
Four layovers on your way over
You hope it doesn't drive you insane
Announcements vague as your house slips away
Leaving for another country
You flew the globe and moved your home
Five times before you were twenty
Now the transit stays just can't faze
Your ******** travel attitude
You never feel sick with the seats you pick
And adjust well to the altitude
But something inside nags and asks why
You're always in constant motion
You wonder how it would feel now
If you'd never crossed that ocean
You forget the feeling and just quit dealing
With memories left behind
But the thoughts come back, you've got some packed
In the luggage of your mind
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
I’m from rearranged furniture
I’m from “asleep in the bathtub”
I’m from biting hands over
store-bought candy.
I’m from vinyl-white-siding,
No better at keeping in heat
Than keeping out punks,
Four guinea pigs named
“Gamber,”
And a spotted rabbit.
From searching for answers
At the bottom of a bottle,
And not stopping, to think “maybe,”
When the answers aren’t there.
I’m from thrown phones, and
Broken Home,
And diseases they have
Yet to cure.
From layoffs, to layovers, to
A car, that careened
Down the street that I lay in,
And broke the door off its frame,
Leaving an impression on
Unshakable wood.
A Golden Orb-Weaver
On a storm-door handle,
Painted purple and black,
And a blood-curdling scream.
From a run to the backyard
And irrational fears
And the accidental rhyme
Of your mask-haunted dreams
I’m from people who loved me,
Without knowing how,
And people who couldn’t,
Without saying why.
I’m from loving her, a
Little too hard, that when we finally
Broke, We both emerged.
Scarred, and scared.
Groundhogs, and rabbits, and
Cats that weren’t mine.
Being told, at times,
Simultaneous, that I’m
Less than, yet
“Above grade level.”
*I’m from baring the blunt-force,
To numbing it all out.
I’m from jazz, chess, and
Tonic water. I’m from
The Wolftones classy sound.
I’m from turning up the
Music so loud, that when
The world covered its ears,
I tried my best
To listen*
.
I’m deciding to recreate the world
As I see fit.
I’m going to do something important,
special,
Before I die.
I want to invent. An
Existence I feel more content, in.
There’s no wagon to fall off.
Just looming things,
And avoidance.
I’m deserving of the option to keep
Calling it as I see it.
Advocating character development,
And suppressing my own hamartia.
Experimenting with sobriety,
And the ending of days.
Fighting off the Great Greyness, unstoppable,
Laying down land-mines, and
Bear-traps, on the
Terrain of Winter.
*I’m going to turn the music up
Louder still,
Until protest, drowned out,
Is inseparable, from
Cheering.*
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
i hate layovers, the long stops
the nothingness of the in betweens
suffocating of boredom
surrounded by strangers
all anxiously waiting
there is a universal oneness here
regardless of race, religion or age
something which everyone endures
a temporary pause in time
where reflection is forced upon us
reminiscing of what we bid farewell to
and the hope, love, fear or excitement
awaiting us at our next stop
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC
Traveling by plane, across the main,
Sitting in coach, waiting for peanuts,
I was thinking about layovers.
Drifting to sleep, on that square of a pillow,
Knees to my chest and arms folded tight,
Dreaming of home, but stuck on this flight.
Turbulence seesawing our plane up and down,
Waking me abruptly, my vision still blurred,
I glance out the window, over the wing.
Mother of god, it's a duck of all things,
Staring at me like a new zoo exhibit,
Quacking at me, to say what an idiot.
Stuck in a can, hurtling across the sky,
At the mercy of gravity, because I can't fly.
This duck makes a point as he leaps in the air.
Spreading his wings, gone without a care.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
So many, too many students had COVID two weeks ago. My parents were supposed to come for a visit, and midterms were on the horizon - so I decided to go ahead and get covid - to get it over with. I’ve been around a dozen people who later that day tested positive, but somehow I’ve never come down with it myself.
Peter caught it and was isolated in his suite (two of his suitemates had it). I went to see him, surreptitiously hoping he’d pass it on, but Lisa (the traitor) texted him and he Lysoled his entire suite and wouldn’t let me in - saying exposing me went against his “moral code.” rolling eyes
Now midterm season is on us and a lot of people I know are in crisis. That happens a lot in test times. This place is so cutthroat and competitive. You can get so deep in your own head that it becomes a ***** fish bowl of anxiety. The delightful cocktail of pandemic, WWIII and midterm stress gel, in some minds, to form a sweet, unhinging mix.
My major tests are over (good for me, yay for me!) but I’m not parking my study playlist just yet. I have a couple of papers due. While those don’t stress me like tests, they’ll keep me busy, like everyone else - there’s always a feeling of being behind it and frantically busy here.
We were trying to plan an actual, REAL spring break - that didn’t involve 11 hour layovers and 5 hour bus rides. Something NOT held in a parent’s apartment - someplace adult and private.
Then my Grandmère offered us an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris, saying I could bring three friends and stay at the Hotel de Crillon. A week in Paris with Lisa, Leong and Anna sounds delicious - of course, I told them how positively uncouth it would be to refuse - we’ll see.
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 12:04 PM UTC
People are comparable to the airs they traverse in,
going where they want on a whim and uncaring of the costs,
if they can afford it.
However, if a man measures himself on the distances of his journeys,
the number of layovers and connecting flights he endures to reach his destination,
using them as a means to relay the height at which he flies,
he has become grounded and broken,
fodder for spare parts and scrap,
picked clean by the ants that were once thought insignificant,
meaningless,
void,
cannibalistic in their search for an excuse to make their own,
which they build out of the success of others,
and nurse their sorrows in,
prolonging the mistakes of their generations-long self-feuds.
This is because he has misjudged his instruments,
the instincts that make him human first,
machine second,
and thirdly, above.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
SLOW HOBO
Many memories come or go fleeting thought of once moving fast
Living in the present not always a gift, beige or bland nowhere to make a stand
Take another piece of me, got locked in lost soul never again to be free, once saw everything with open eyes unfolded maps world so vast
Prefer to roam without a home, unsaddled no bit or bridle always on idle, time was a scam never wore a watch upon my hand
Completing hitch hikers guide a source of pride, thumb out or cheap greyhound ride, memories fade left to rely on what was photographed
Always wondering where a river went or raindrops are sent, wayward youth a highway sleuth Unlimited vision with no mission, wandering soul enclosed white pickets complete that demand
Inner strife from hiding vagabond feelings wanting to get lost again in past misdealing's Length of Layovers timed by hangovers, now life outside bottles or baggies a more realistic blast
Born in the parking lot so always been on the out, Set to roam with a spin of the globe, coast to coast beach to beach now stuck behind a hidden line in the sand
Vagabond looking out across new land, unsettled not ready to make a stand,Leaning on an edge split inside with a wedge, held back by new wisdom of my past
Designated drifter part time grifter forgetting to nurture a future, realizing wisdom can come slower, much to gain with pain, internal freedom not always planned
Dreams from a past trickle out carrying much clout, what weight so great it was to slow the hobo, settled in with a new grin becoming my own life's greatest enthusiast R.C.
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 7:51 AM UTC
Totally, for ever more, as sure...
Spirited away
With our eyes watching the sun, curious
The glare of history, is with us to say...
I love to see you, love
Cause and creation
When nights roam, spirit even does
The obvious, a heart to know needs sensation...
Has become...
Our soul reason to exist
Letting the lent have a taste of home
We are the people, who have happiness to list
Rage was such an old man
Sitting in his overdue chair
Pregnancy, layovers, and books; have a plan
Will a secret arranged to excuse sharing's stare...?
At this time, the bills came to be paid
Heat, grocery's and rent
Where we were, the eyes of what we said...
Alive, in the name of life, we meant...
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 7:16 PM UTC