"loiter" poems
Compelled by calamity's magnet
They loiter and stare as if the house
Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought
Some scandal might any minute ooze
From a smoke-choked closet into light;
No deaths, no prodigious injuries
Glut these hunters after an old meat,
Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies.
Mother Medea in a green smock
Moves humbly as any housewife through
Her ruined apartments, taking stock
Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery:
Cheated of the pyre and the rack,
The crowd ***** her last tear and turns away.
13.8k
How tenuous this grip we have, how slight our hold remains
When all around loud braggards boast that power now pertains,
We see the banner headlines splashed across our daily rags
And redneck demonstrations cleans the streets of Spics and ****
When blood runs in the gutter as the battons rise and fall
And whilst taking tea in style the filthy rich ignore it all.
The blonde leader of our nation struts, postulates and brags
While the rest of us skive off around the corner smoking ****
Our kids ingest confusion as they loiter on the street
Unknowing our delusions make illusions held, replete.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our hold remains
As our allies shower cold distrust convinced our fault inflames.
What chance of clear redemption, what remedies revive
When truth is lost to darkness can our honesty survive?
Reputation cut to shards, confidences ******
That leaders of community no longer hold our trust
When white is caste as black and then to green and then to grey
And sanity refuses pontification one more day.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our holds remain
As twilight turns to darkness caste against a larks’ refrain.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON, New Zealand
25 July 2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
I am not my age
I'm more than a hoodie
Stood on a street corner
Hands in my pockets
I am not my age
I'm more than popular music
Blasting in my headphones
So loud you can hear
I am not my age
I'm more than just hormones
Racing through my brain
Making me unreasonable
I am not my age
I'm more than just indifference
Not caring about school or health
Not caring about anything
I am not my age
I'm more than just my phone
Social-media crazy
Hidden behind a screen
I am not my age
I'm more than just a stereotype
Loud, brash, unruly, lazy,
Phone-obsessed, violent
I am not my age
I have a complex personality
I have inner depth
I think about things that matter
I am not my age
I write poetry
I write stories
I explore people
I am not my age
I'm vegetarian by choice
I hate to hurt anyone
But I will fight for my friends
I am not my age
My emotions are valid
But I keep them hidden
For fear of being manipulative
I am not my age
I do not give you my respect
Just because you've lived longer
You have to earn it
I am not my age
I care about politics
It is my country
What happens to it matters to me
I am not my age
I'm struggling through exams
I'm stressed but trying
I'm determined to work for what I want
I am not my age
I'd be happy to have a job
I don't loiter or lurk
I'm not lazy
I am not my age
I'm not dangerous
Seriously, I'm a ****
I get scared walking down the street in the dark
I am not my age
I have five pets
They matter to me
I take care of them
I am not my age
I'm trying to get to school
You don't indicate
And I'm inconsiderate
I am not my age
My dad left me at two
My mum bakes cakes
But you didn't think about that
I am not my age
I suffer from depression
I'm not 'moody' or 'grumpy'
But you think I'm all just hormones
I am not my age
So don't perpetuate stereotypes
You don't know me, don't pretend to
And don't blame your problems on me
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
I come from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally;
I sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
At last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways
In sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bay;
I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To joing the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
~Alfred Tennyson 1809-1892~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
'Draw three cards, and I will tell your future . . .
Draw three cards, and lay them down,
Rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal,
And think of time . . . My father was a clown,
My mother was a gypsy out of Egypt;
And she was gotten with child in a strange way;
And I was born in a cold eclipse of the moon,
With the future in my eyes as clear as day.'
I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain
And think her face is like a wrinkled desert.
The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes.
A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain.
Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies.
'Your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies.
You will live long, love many times.
I see a dark girl here who once betrayed you.
I see a shadow of secret crimes.
'There was a man who came intent to **** you,
And hid behind a door and waited for you;
There was a woman who smiled at you and lied.
There was a golden girl who loved you, begged you,
Crawled after you, and died.
'There is a ghost of ****** in your blood--
Coming or past, I know not which.
And here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes,
And white-skinned as a witch . . .'
The words hiss into me, like raindrops falling
On sleepy fire . . . She smiles a meaning smile.
Suspicion eats my brain; I ask a question;
Something is creeping at me, something vile;
And suddenly on the wall behind her head
I see a monstrous shadow strike and spread,
The lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down.
I plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street,
And hear swift steps retreat . . .
The shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me.
Behind the door I hear a hammer sounding.
I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad.
I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding;
You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . .
Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures,
Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . .
My peril goes out from me, is blown among you.
We loiter, dreaming together, along the street.
3.9k
Life is naught but a gimmick,
Is taken for granted,
And is a means of society proclaimed glory and greatness.
We blame God for the things that are wrong with this world when it falls only on us.
Do you miss when times were simple,
The small things mattered,
Women took pride in being flattered
And men took pride in their approach to these women.
Where life was more than a means to please,
But was something that we knew couldn't be passed with ease.
There were no cheat codes back then, life wasn't a game
There was less of a need for us to rise to fame.
There was less of a need to have the next best thing,
And couples took more pride in a diamond ring.
Big brother wasn't watching us and we felt no need to be watching it,
There was no place on the street where black boys felt they should loiter and sit.
The sun seemed brighter and winter was when winter was,
A woman did not feel she should change to what a man is,
They were quite content in keeping their vaginas.
Was it the fault of the hierarchy top
That gave the choice for them to just stop
Being what they're supposed to be
Or was it always in wanting and just I did not see.
Music was better; back then it had more meaning
To this day I still wonder what happened to it,
I think a few more years for more real music I'll be feening.
What happened to TV,
Cartoon Network,
BBC,
ITV,
What foolishness is on nowadays,
Made for us to judge other people on their looks,
Their talents and skills,
But let's see,
Who are we to look down on others who try,
Look down on yourself,
And about yourself just try not to lie.
What happened to game?
It seems that these days,
All we need is a pin not a key to the heart.
People claming to be in love,
But do you know what love is?
New girlfriend tomorrow,
Did you sign up to have kids?
What happened to love?
Not just for man but for God?
Do you not remember how He came through when you lost?
When you were alone,
Lust for life was but memory,
How you came through but thought it was on your own?
What happened to the world,
Tell me if you had a little girl,
Would you treat her like a pen,
Let her be used by whoever would ask,
Discard her once done with knowing she wouldn't last.
Or treat her like a flower in the desert,
Treasure and savour with hope it will last,
With love and a prayer,
That this moment is forever.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
As a maddened beast it charges
Emanating with expanse
Brute techtonic plate reaction
From the epicentre’s stance.
Huge concentric rings diverge
Expanding at horrific rate
Black, titanic, towering waters
Ploughing to a deadly fate.
*Kneeling in her bed of roses
Pollinating bees abound,
Morning sunbeams kiss her shoulders
Peaceful garden bliss surrounds.*
Surging to the coastal shelf
The black gigantis rears on high
Claws toward the placid beach
Seabirds scatter to the sky.
Tide receds to bare the reef
Stranded mackerel whitely leap,
Enormously the massive wave
Attacks the land and they who sleep.
Death comes fast to they who loiter
Violence in the tangled purge,
Massive pressures, crushing debris
Broken buildings in the surge.
Ships and cars are tossed asunder
Inexorably it slams
Far inland to slay those fleeing
Locked in highway traffic jams.
*Strange roar at the garden wall
Terrified, she finds her feet,
Roses, bees, sweet girl engulfed
As black entombedment swamps the street.*
Far inland the chaos flows
Wreaking death's destructive bands,
Halted now by highland hills
Where souls in horror, wring their hands.
Slow retraction leaving ruin
Desolation far and wide,
The smell of new death in the air,
Heartbreak in the countryside.
Marshalg
For Nippon
18 March 2011
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
Compelled by calamity's magnet
They loiter and stare as if the house
Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought
Some scandal might any minute ooze
From a smoke-choked closet into light;
No deaths, no prodigious injuries
Glut these hunters after an old meat,
Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies.
Mother Medea in a green smock
Moves humbly as any housewife through
Her ruined apartments, taking stock
Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery:
Cheated of the pyre and the rack,
The crowd ***** her last tear and turns away.
2.9k
Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
2.6k
There pass the careless people
That call their souls their own:
Here by the road I loiter,
How idle and alone.
Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
In seas I cannot sound,
My heart and soul and senses,
World without end, are drowned.
His folly has not fellow
Beneath the blue of day
That gives to man or woman
His heart and soul away.
There flowers no balm to sain him
From east of earth to west
That's lost for everlasting
The heart out of his breast.
Here by the labouring highway
With empty hands I stroll:
Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,
Lie lost my heart and soul.
2.6k
How can you bare a broken promise
or loiter after a broken date?
Sad Samantha lost her chance,
no Frank Sinatra vinyl nights
serenading young lovers in,
or walks down moonlit colonnades.
She's just a victim of a steely heart whose
strung himself around someone else's waist
and dyed blonde hair
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
I shall return again; I shall return
To laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyes
At golden noon the forest fires burn,
Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.
I shall return to loiter by the streams
That bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,
And realize once more my thousand dreams
Of waters rushing down the mountain passes.
I shall return to hear the fiddle and fife
Of village dances, dear delicious tunes
That stir the hidden depths of native life,
Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.
I shall return, I shall return again,
To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.
2.5k
--To W. A.
Was I a Samurai renowned,
Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?
A histrion angular and profound?
A priest? a porter?--Child, although
I have forgotten clean, I know
That in the shade of Fujisan,
What time the cherry-orchards blow,
I loved you once in old Japan.
As here you loiter, flowing-gowned
And hugely sashed, with pins a-row
Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned,
Demure, inviting--even so,
When merry maids in Miyako
To feel the sweet o' the year began,
And green gardens to overflow,
I loved you once in old Japan.
Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round
Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow,
A blue canal the lake's blue bound
Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo!
Touched with the sundown's spirit and glow,
I see you turn, with flirted fan,
Against the plum-tree's bloomy snow . . .
I loved you once in old Japan!
Envoy
Dear, 'twas a dozen lives ago;
But that I was a lucky man
The Toyokuni here will show:
I loved you--once--in old Japan.
2.5k
I sat beneath a willow tree,
Where water falls and calls;
While fancies upon fancies solaced me,
Some true, and some were false.
Who set their heart upon a hope
That never comes to pass,
Droop in the end like fading heliotrope,
The sun's wan looking-glass.
Who set their will upon a whim
Clung to through good and ill,
Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim,
Or hit or miss their will.
All things are vain that wax and wane,
For which we waste our breath;
Love only doth not wane and is not vain,
Love only outlives death.
A singing lark rose toward the sky,
Circling he sang amain;
He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high,
And then he sank again.
A second like a sunlit spark
Flashed singing up his track;
But never overtook that foremost lark,
And songless fluttered back.
A hovering melody of birds
Haunted the air above;
They clearly sang contentment without words,
And youth and joy and love.
O silvery weeping willow tree
With all leaves shivering,
Have you no purpose but to shadow me
Beside this rippled spring?
On this first fleeting day of Spring,
For Winter is gone by,
And every bird on every quivering wing
Floats in a sunny sky;
On this first Summer-like soft day,
While sunshine steeps the air,
And every cloud has gat itself away,
And birds sing everywhere.
Have you no purpose in the world
But thus to shadow me
With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled,
O weeping willow tree?
With all your tremulous leaves outspread
Betwixt me and the sun,
While here I loiter on a mossy bed
With half my work undone;
My work undone, that should be done
At once with all my might;
For after the long day and lingering sun
Comes the unworking night.
This day is lapsing on its way,
Is lapsing out of sight;
And after all the chances of the day
Comes the resourceless night.
The weeping-willow shook its head
And stretched its shadow long;
The west grew crimson, the sun smouldered red,
The birds forbore a song.
Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves,
The ripple made a moan,
The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves;
And then I felt alone.
I rose to go, and felt the chill,
And shivered as I went;
Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still,
What more that willow meant;
That silvery weeping-willow tree
With all leaves shivering,
Which spent one long day overshadowing me
Beside a spring in Spring.
2.4k
Words are dead!
there I said it
words are dead
the words in your head
are in the past
the words that you said
will not last
fireworks that attract the eye
liar's words in the mind
an explosion of language
and then silence
they do so much damage
and cause violence
chasing words
feeling tiredness
healing words
are band-aids on the soul
a soothing to the ears
they're dropped in empty holes
for who hears?
who really listens?
words are dead
we have visions
images of creation
words are no salvation
just pointers
pointing to the infinite
still they loiter
words we can't forget
we hold them to our chest
like lifeless children
we always do our best
but the words **** them
and now all that's left
is dead...
dead words.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
.
*Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.
Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.
Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.*
© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC
St. Margaret's bells,
Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles,
Sing in the storied air,
All rosy-and-golden, as with memories
Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas
Disconsolate for that the night is nigh.
O, the low, lingering lights! The large last gleam
(Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!)
Touching these solemn ancientries, and there,
The silent River ranging tide-mark high
And the callow, grey-faced Hospital,
With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream!
The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees,
And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky
(Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!)
Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall.
The sober Sabbath stir--
Leisurely voices, desultory feet!--
Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street,
Where in their summer frocks the girls go by,
And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer,
Just as they did an hundred years ago,
Just as an hundred years to come they will:--
When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low,
And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil,
Nor any sunset fade serene and slow;
But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die.
2.2k
____ Little leonard Lion, decided to attend the Upcoming Town meeting with an Open mind about the Subjects that were to be Discussed. Many Times in the Past, Little Leonard along with others of his Thinking, Especially, Anthony Ant and Roxanne Roach, Went to the Town Meetings with the Attitude of "Cautious-Listening".. MANY Times the Town Meetings, conducted by the Town Upper-Layers and their *Chief, Wendall Waglips, had NOT stuck entirely to issues , BUT rather Modified them. SO, that the Credits due to the *Proper Provider, were Instead directed to Themselves ! Waglips and his Upper Layers had announced the Upcoming meeting would be a *Revelation of NEW Ideas and Plans ! Needles to say, Leonard Lion, Anthony Ant and Roxanne Roach Could Hardly wait ! As they sat on the edges of their seats, to hear the Proclamations that Wendall and the Upper Layers would be SWEETLY offering up to the Audience of " Fully Attentive" Listeners . Waglips approached the Podium of Announcement, Stood behind it, Grabbed both sides at the top, Leaned forward toward the microphone,____With a Self made Smile and his Attitudinal Voice, Began the Ritual of Proclamations; #1= A Decree you will accept with Glee. #2= When I Condone and accept it as the Known. #3= Should you disagree, DON'T bring it to me ! #4= What is Laid out, ACCEPT it or get Out. #5= The LAWS are on the Walls in the Halls,,BUT__DON'T Loiter in the Halls. Waglips continued His Finale , "These are for Your benefit and I am sure You agree, That each of you they will fit ! These NEW rules we've SPOKEN for your Wellbeing for the Residents of this Town ! _____Leonard, Anthony and Roxanne Looked at each other and glanced around at the 2500 attendees ! As a Megaphone was Placed in Leonards hand! He Repeatedly Shouted out ! "JOIN ME IN THE HALLS "... So, whats in store for those who stayed in their seat and "DID-NOT" heed the Boldness of the VOICE ,calling them to the Halls ?
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 3:35 AM UTC
*You sat next to me in quietude
But your heartbeats called me deafeningly
Reluctant to hear your voice rupture
While I waited for my name to echo stoically
You sat next to me in quietude
But you fought the guilt inside you solely
Tackled it with a valiant front
As I watched you succumb inside me spiritually
You sat next to me in quietude
Acknowledging we love semovedly
You succumbed harder in your world
And I succumbed in return silently*
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions.
Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future.
You are very idle, my songs,
I fear you will come to a bad end.
You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops,
You do next to nothing at all.
You do not even express our inner nobilitys,
You will come to a very bad end.
And I? I have gone half-cracked.
I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me,
Insolent little beasts! Shameless! Devoid of clothing!
But you, newest song of the lot,
You are not old enough to have done much mischief.
I will get you a green coat out of China
With dragons worked upon it.
I will get you the scarlet silk trousers
From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella;
Lest they say we are lacking in taste,
Or that there is no caste in this family.
1.9k
Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains;
I fancied I had strength enough to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
And might securely from intrusion doze
Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissus flows.
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease,
And from afar dust fills the paths of Greece.
My sluber broken and my doublet torn,
I find the laurel also bears a thorn.
1.7k
My mind, yes, it stayed afloat, when my ears knew the buoyancy of birdsong in spring,
My heart, no, it was never thus remote, when my eyes would loiter in lyrical landscapes and time did tolerate my wandering.
Despair, it was a burden much lighter to bear, when gilded so gloriously with sunlight's touch,
The air, it was a breathing love affair, when summer's generous joy forbade me to miss you this much.
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
Love's vine stems from the heart;
it is ivy creeping through iron gates.
Wanders free through stony soil,
rushing stream, and bank.
It can loiter in the garden,
and fall victim to the spring rain.
But do not despair, my dear,
for its passion is like a flame:
Forever burning in its tendrils,
its coiled roots and leaves;
survives environs menace,
summer's blaze, and winter's freeze.
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 11:51 AM UTC
Each afternoon in June,
I loiter-linger on the corner of 37th avenue,
Both eyes asleep,
A summer’s sunset smile on my face,
A flock of fairies in free float round my head.
My habit, a daily pause,
Plant my haunch against the blue barrel mail box,
Old empty drum, anachronism, stubborn antique.
I cringe at the mad jazz of shrieks and horns on cue,
The hatter’s rush at end of day,
There is purpose in this cacophony,
My city boasts and brags with noise,
Intoxicated on aroma,
A frequency with every smell.
Baptiste’s Pizza owns the breeze at 4 p.m.
Inhale this baker’s breath,
An oven-joy in one warm gust,
Blond baked crust,
Tomatoes boil and bubble cheese,
Salt fresh anchovies, red peppers,
A currency of meats.
I salivate and lick the wind,
Hunger is desire.
Sudden harmony in one sweet waft,
A pleasant jet stream,
A toker passes by,
And gifts me with a 60’s contact high.
A small girl’s mouthful voice,
A jam cram of donuts is my guess.
The rattle, clap and black lung cough,
An old school diesel delivery truck,
The air brakes squeal for release,
It’s quitting time and everything wants to be free
A homeboy, my local jive,
I know his dreams,
A lacquered finish,
In love with his axe,
You feel me... tap, bump and go.
Vinegar and toxic spice,
A window washer’s delight,
He squeals a squeaky clean
Fresh roses, oh a hopeful night, bonne chance,
The catastrophe of a cigarette,
The killer joy of a fresh cigar,
An uptown girl's stealth perfume,
She knows her prey,
He knows her ploy,
A mid west girl and a downtown boy
Daylight begs to dim,
The sun will witness just enough, no more,
My corner holds its own,
Each afternoon my part in scenes,
I dream,
And never wish, but often wonder,
About the life that might have been.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
#Don’t come to the cemetery at night Peter Xalxo would say
If you are so inclined make your visits in the day
For often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.
*I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
And they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
Why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
When the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!*
Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
*While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
And at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.*
He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
But come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
For I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
The tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!
All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect some impact
They colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.
Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
To my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
Bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
When there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.
*I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
This ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
Run home and never come back* his voice in whisper talked
Some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.
That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
He was such a good man and a great friend to miss
But God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC