"loitered" poems
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
In these rapid, restless shadows,
Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining
On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
On the mountains far and high,—
On the ocean’s star-lit waters,
Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered
From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm’s long branches
To the pavement bending o’er;
Underneath the mossy willow
And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty
All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
Of the Night’s irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty
Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
’Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered
In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her.
On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
Bitter memories of the past—
On me, like the rain in Autumn
On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted,
By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered—
Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered,
Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
When the Night’s first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
5.4k
"Now did you mark a falcon,
Sister dear, sister dear,
Flying toward my window
In the morning cool and clear?
With jingling bells about her neck,
But what beneath her wing?
It may have been a ribbon,
Or it may have been a ring."--
"I marked a falcon swooping
At the break of day:
And for your love, my sister dove,
I 'frayed the thief away."--
"Or did you spy a ruddy hound,
Sister fair and tall,
Went snuffing round my garden bound,
Or crouched by my bower wall?
With a silken leash about his neck;
But in his mouth may be
A chain of gold and silver links,
Or a letter writ to me."--
"I heard a hound, high-born sister,
Stood baying at the moon:
I rose and drove him from your wall
Lest you should wake too soon."--
"Or did you meet a pretty page
Sat swinging on the gate;
Sat whistling, whistling like a bird,
Or may be slept too late:
With eaglets broidered on his cap,
And eaglets on his glove?
If you had turned his pockets out,
You had found some pledge of love."--
"I met him at this daybreak,
Scarce the east was red:
Lest the creaking gate should anger you,
I packed him home to bed."--
"O patience, sister. Did you see
A young man tall and strong,
Swift-footed to uphold the right
And to uproot the wrong,
Come home across the desolate sea
To woo me for his wife?
And in his heart my heart is locked,
And in his life my life."--
"I met a nameless man, sister,
Who loitered round our door:
I said: Her husband loves her much.
And yet she loves him more."--
"Fie, sister, fie, a wicked lie,
A lie, a wicked lie;
I have none other love but him,
Nor will have till I die.
And you have turned him from our door,
And stabbed him with a lie:
I will go seek him thro' the world
In sorrow till I die."--
"Go seek in sorrow, sister,
And find in sorrow too:
If thus you shame our father's name
My curse go forth with you."
3.7k
I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won't let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.
Leningrad, 1960
3.5k
As I lay beside my darling
On an early Sunday morn,
I could feel her rounded softness
Sleeping under blankets warm.
My mind caroused the memories
And loitered on it's way
And found itself deliciously,
Immersed in golden play.
I remembered something special
In the way my little boy would look
As his eyes rose up in wonderment
When I read his favorite book.
And the joy involved in feeding
A hungry little mouth
When the porridge spooned all over
From the eyebrows heading south.
A tantalizing moment
On the beach down by the sea,
In the warm December sunshine
With my happy family.
We were running in the black sand
Drawing circles with a stick
As the surging waves approached them
Laughing little boys were quick.
Laughing, happy moments
And some sad ones like the day
When dear old Meg, our Labrador,
Got sick and passed away.
Young Boaz in his sadness
Climbed the big tree to it's crown
And it took a lot of pleading
To persuade him to come down.
And young Solly played the taniwha
At the Cornwall Park school play
And a better taniwha has yet
To grace the stage today.
A natural in his element
This young comedian
So hilariously funny
As he drew the audience in.
The tender, loving moments
As we both strolled arm in arm
Through the verdant Ferntree Gully
With it's sunlit grace and charm.
And the towering eucalyptus,
Hanging wood smoke in the air
And the whiplash resonation
Of the lyrebird hidden there.
Of Buttercup's wild parties
When fancy dress was king,
When everyone would whoop it up
And laugh and dance and sing.
When mum's and dad's and little kids
All joined the happy throng
With spud mashing as a ceremony
And a night of fun and song.
Of sitting in the garden
With your feet up and a book
And a cold beer at your elbow
And a barbecue to cook.
With the easy feel of family
As they go about their day
And the joyous sound of summer
When two noisy tui's play.
Memories of yesterday
Moments in the life
Of ecstasy and agony
And wonderment and plight.
And the ordinary ness of everything
And the magic everywhere,
Like the auburn in the sunlight
As it strikes my darling's hair.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
10 October 2009
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
3.4k
Dean and I loitered on iron horseback
Flaked with nuances and peppered with a keen stutter
Our jokes had weight
Weight creates a gravitational pull
Our jokes had a gravitational pull
My clone emerged in the rearview mirror with his girlfriend
Dean and I thought that was funny
They were attracted to us, for once
We got a bite to eat, my head, like a gyroscope
Universal karma
Revolving, self-stabilization
Into the palm of reconciliation
Forced by nature
With interdependence
A means to measure
And counter each sentence
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses’ walls
Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.
3.2k
I slipped into oblivion
And for a minute or two I held hands with death
What separated us was nothing but murky water; Hade's Lethe
My fingers reached up
Or was it down?
They intertwined with his
He bent his Cimmerian face through the separating waters
His night colored lips briefly rested against mine
But not for long enough
I loitered on his doorstep just long enough for my heartbeat to recede, my breath to become shallow~
And then I awoke
I crashed up through the pressing weight of the deep, black water
Death's sweet embrace was broken
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
A poem based on Genesis 3:19
For dust you are; and unto dust you shall return.
A stack of dirt, neatly covered and withdrawn.
A hole, open and measured to conform to the box.
Mourners praying, intoning sacred, helpful words.
The priest makes the sign of the cross, voice strong.
The ritual is over, the people are invited to depart.
The hole, not quite empty anymore, is alone.
The workers fill it with the dirt, as they will.
The silence of the cemetery, the lull of natures' whispers
Plastic flowers placed on monuments of cold stone.
In the sweat of your face, until returned to the ground,
you will step in determination towards the coming end.
For every man and every woman, it will be the same.
Rich or poor, strong or weak, the grave is no different.
Repeated daily in every land upon this blue globe,
holy messages of comfort and solace are intoned.
A lone bird, sitting casually upon an old tombstone.
It fixes glances at the grass, perhaps seeking a meal?
It does not realize the shadows loitered in the ground.
Nor would it care, even if it could somehow be aware.
Nature is its own master of every creature, like the bird.
For dust you are; and unto dust you shall return.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered 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 leaped,
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 these 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 seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed 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 showed 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."
2.5k
"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered 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 leaped,
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 these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed 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 showed 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."
2.2k
This feast-day of the sun, his altar there
In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song;
And I have loitered in the vale too long
And gaze now a belated worshipper.
Yet may I not forget that I was ‘ware,
So journeying, of his face at intervals
Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls,—
A fiery bush with coruscating hair.
And now that I have climbed and won this height,
I must tread downward through the sloping shade
And travel the bewildered tracks till night.
Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed
And see the gold air and the silver fade
And the last bird fly into the last light.
2k
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree,
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbors mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.
Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.
Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.
Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.
So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!
I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.
1.8k
They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves,
And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay;
While my soul, love-bound, loitered on its way.
I did not hear the birds about the eaves,
Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves:
Only my soul kept watch from day to day,
My thirsty soul kept watch for one away:--
Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves.
At length there came the step upon the stair,
Upon the lock the old familiar hand:
Then first my spirit seemed to scent the air
Of Paradise; then first the tardy sand
Of time ran golden; and I felt my hair
Put on a glory,and my soul expand.
1.8k
I was told about this special book. I was told it was a magical book! Amazingly full of bright, light and insight. Allegedly one look and you were hooked and took! This great book of life baited, charted and crafted with will, quill feathers, leather and of weather. The great book of life highly and showily regarded the ******** the rife and strife.
Brilliant parts of art from heart! Boldly guarded by angel’s darts! Holding from different angles. Behold! The pages of this book mangled, spangled and tangled. Through the ages… the corners scorned, torn and worn. In theory the inseams very weary and old. Amazingly and appraisingly with thrill they still fold! Merrily told
and eagerly sold. The great book of life’s pages is of age, cages
and wages, stages and rages! The great book of life each a way to encourage or engage courage. The great book of life was inspired and transpired by a baby in a manger. Some pages spell and tell of a stranger danger! The great book of life is about the beloved also of
the unloved. Chapters in capture, scriptures in measure, rapture-
or torture. The great book of life listen to my envision with precision! The great book of life envisions death’s breath. Missions, those enclosed in prisons and visions! The many, many scenes serene and obscene. The in-betweens, the kings and queens! Dragons, drones
and many, many thrones! The antic, frantic and gigantic! Magic, satanic and tragic! blizzards or wizards! Ancient, distant chants and rants! The great book of life, a chance from a glance. Traces of many faces, places and races! The great book of life claimed to have named those bordered, cornered, loitered and murdered. The great book of
life is it! Amazingly it tells bits of it all! Basically about the small that brawl. The tall, including some that awesomely, eventually fall! The great book of life collects and reflects the surreal or unnatural. The frail and the pale. Actions hailed while eluding a whale! This great book of life will it prevail? Yes prevail! Amen! The great book of life amen, amen.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,
Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.’
But she—she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
1.7k
The day was good,
the sun shining, a breeze
winding around the pines.
Two mockingbirds
were playing
guess me.
Cumuli loitered
above ground shadows
with cats jumping
from one to the other
in a game that only
they understood.
I felt the stirring of precipitate
motion on my cheek as a shadow
passed by whispersing the words
of an old song by Townes
about going down to see Kathleen.
I never meant for it to rain.
r ~ 5/7/14
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
We took a bus to Wilmington
And skipped a dream or two
In order to be cognizant—
When the “Are we there yet’s”
Rebounded void of “yet.”
We parked the bus adjacent to
The paint-peeling facade
Of lonely temple Wilmington—
Threatening no demon of the sky
With a keenly polished death spike.
It had no spendthrift window of
Christ Jesus with the sick
And poor, neglected derelicts—
Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride
For His altruistic charities.
Across its door was fastened tight
A rusted iron chain
Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls—
Who loitered at the barrier’s feet
Waiting on God to warrant entry.
But we who were of cogent view
Detached deterring catch
And entered with our chins *****
A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary
Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew.
And down a velvet aisle stood
A lonely, weeping priest
Inhaling in unblemished palms—
That not a single pious doubter
Would dare inspect.
“Welcome to my church,” he said
With breathless, choking sobs,
“I am the congregation here—
The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher
Of Wilmington Church of Reason.”
Inquired we what hidden woe
Enlaced with torment cast
Those salt discharged convulsions—
Quaking the sanctity of exultation
In the House of Apollo.
And with concise, unleavened words
He justified his tears
And whispered to our weary troop—,
“Alone, alone am I,
Isolated within this box of omitted truth.
“O, give me soothing slumber deep
And strip these sentient eyes
From ghastly sheaths of consciousness—
Repair this mended paradigm,
Or tell me that I am mistaken.
“Imaginary friends and foes
Make wretched hearts a wreath
Of roses red and mistletoe—
And bird of paradise to keep
Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…”
So each of us, a brimming cup
Of empathy, remained
To keep old pastor Wilmington—
Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington
Alive and awake and well.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.
Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322
Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.
They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...
I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.
Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.
So wie ist das Leben...
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
The night clung to me
Like a cold sweat
Pressing my dress
Against my skin
Until the dampness of my panic
Ran with my mascara
I nestled my keys between my fingers
Makeshift Freddy Krueger
Lashing out at shadows
As they slinked around my feet
Fear sliding slowly along my face
And wiped it away quickly
So I could forget
I was alone
In the middle of the city
At night
Leering glares and catcalls
Loitered doorways
Tugging at my sleeves
Twisting their claws in my hair
Offering up glasses overflowing
In broken promises
And blatant lies
As I tried to rush by
Looking for a vacant streetlights
To hover, fluttering near with paper wings
So I could forget
I was woman alone
In the middle of the city
At night
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 12:12 AM UTC
On the way to Kew,
By the river old and gray,
Where in the Long Ago
We laughed and loitered so,
I met a ghost to-day,
A ghost that told of you--
A ghost of low replies
And sweet, inscrutable eyes
Coming up from Richmond
As you used to do.
By the river old and gray,
The enchanted Long Ago
Murmured and smiled anew.
On the way to Kew,
March had the laugh of May,
The bare boughs looked aglow,
And old, immortal words
Sang in my breast like birds,
Coming up from Richmond
As I used with you.
With the life of Long Ago
Lived my thought of you.
By the river old and gray
Flowing his appointed way
As I watched I knew
What is so good to know--
Not in vain, not in vain,
Shall I look for you again
Coming up from Richmond
On the way to Kew.
1.3k
My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.
Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322
Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.
They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...
I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.
Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.
So wie ist das Leben...
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
This art alone will not quench my thirst
So, I pushed to the street in a disorderly burst
Not as myself but as the lacerating beast
He erased my fish-like stare and began his feast
His fangs pierced deep and would not let go
Implanting them shrewdly as a seed would be sown
Stared through my mind but he saw only me
A cowardly corpse of the filthiest degree
Dragging me further by the arduous lights
That shun on my skin and reflected mere blight
Forcing me to confront the dwelling of lies
As I loitered the entrance I screeched my despise!
The masochist's dream is really quite lame
Like smothering an ash from becoming a flame
To bright forth the end is such a shame
What a waste of time to miss out on pain..
Do what thou wilt is the whole of our law
Next to that indulge in your flaws
Be who you are and love under will
But remember again do what thou wilt!
The demon left me and I felt swift again
Why should I leave and not take a friend?
Might as well reveal that not much is real
and bring forth the extent of misery I can feel
The scent of death was close and would surely come
And to my surprise I knew where it was from
The pits of lust and her treacherous Gaze
Leading me through the most grotesque haze
Upon my arrival I was ceased to a sudden halt
for what lay before me was preparing its assault
Three seeds of evil from the lowest circle of hell
but these had faces that I could remember so well
The first was my love but she had no eyes
They had been gouged and now hang at her thighs
"I can't believe you're content with stupidity!"
She screamed at me with the utmost sense of pity
That sight alone was a dream come true
A boundless arousal that was sincerely due
The bliss I betrayed was evoked once more
Into the depths of my stomach my innards it tore
Glanced upon her flesh again and it began to rot
At least seemingly so or obviously not
I'd finally met god and I knew he'd been watching
My sorrows to date and the guilt I was flaunting
He mocked my existence and showed me his fame
From that moment forward I knew who to blame
This deity was consciousness and I hated him so
I needed to run but where could I go?
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
You wore socks to bed- knowing it irked me.
Faced me while we slept- breathing your stinky breath in my face was a definite, guaranteed.
You loitered as I changed always trying to cop a feel- ignoring my agitated pleas.
You watched your wrist- telling me I’m late; of course, I forever disagreed.
Invited yourself to my TV time- talking to me as if I was free.
Told me I was beautiful; each and every day- annoyingly, times three.
Sometimes you had an ‘I’m the king’ attitude, and I was just your sidekick wannabe.
Sadly, I still wash all of your socks each and every week.
I face the fan as I sleep, so it dries my tear’s wet streaks.
I continuously pause while getting dressed- waiting to hear you make the floorboards creak.
I put on my makeup extra slow anxiously anticipating your frustrated shriek.
I turn up the TV’s volume hoping you’ll come interrupt to speak.
Waiting for your mushy compliments as I check the mirror at my womanly physique.
I made you a personalized crown, so you could be a king that’s honored and chic.
But silence and heartbreak are all that is left here to tweak.
You’ve departed this world suddenly, leaving my life confusing and disastrously bleak.
Now, your once irritating traits have become the only thing that my broken heart desperately seeks.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC