"meanderings" poems
Dust-covered two-lane highways
Catch the footfalls of my meanderings.
Meadowlarks and Phoebe-birds
Sing backup to my tuneless whistles.
Clouds illuminated by God-rays
Paint the sky above my head
And the Man in the Moon
Smiles as I bed neath a willow for the night.
I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***
The iron wrought train tracks
I secretly ride pass through the fields,
The forests, the mountains and valleys,
The cities and suburbs, the small towns too,
Home to so many who choose there to dwell.
But my home is the open countryside,
The fields of wildflowers and bushes,
The occasional oak or poplar for shelter,
With a stone for my pillow
Anywhere I wish to rest.
I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***
I am the outsider.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
She stood, amidst tutts, wore a mini skirt...
(From the first decade). Took a
Step forward, pioneering the teenager
Long fair hair, parted mid section
Cascading over her cherry cupcakes
Remembering first impressions aren't always
Accurate, they still berated her without
Knowing her. First appearances were all
They knew and could rely on...back then
Why would she wear a skirt so short if
Respectability meant anything, closed off
They too had been judged, time dulling
Their posture straight backed. Space lacked
Room to be filled with meanderings of another
Era, balancing her book atop red curls and
Speckled egg skin. Recalling the longing
Admiration of someone who dared to wear
Their inner choice on the outside
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
Lost in the wanderings
Through the ancient paths
Covered in anonymity
Long before they saw light
Many civilizations perished
Unaware wanderings
Lead the heart to unknown territories
Lost in the midst of nowhere
But have found an existence
Uncanny feelings awaken
A realization of the lost soul
Finally, it has found
Crowd of humanity could not spare
From the least known places
The soul has found a treasure trove
Wandering through meanderings
Directed the lost traveler
To a place of wonder and clarity
Herein lies the truth
Immerse yourself in silence
To celebrate the new realization
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
O! the lives I've wasted
The lives I could have led
If different paths I'd taken
And different people I'd met.
O! what friends were lost
When just around the corner they lay
Their voices heard but their faces
hidden
O! why had Destiny to steer me this
way.
II
With my life here in my hands
My impulsive moves and slow
meanderings
My efforts regulated by my will to
abstain
In gaining my present position
What have I lost elsewhere
And what have others lost
Because of my absence there.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Befriended street lamps' static hum
Timed steps slashed through electric buzz
Fled from the dawn's grey stain
chased night with anxious breath
erupting
Outflanked and pinned down
by the days
Strike up the band, roisin the bows.
Compose another tired piece.
I dread the melody
and cringe away
from the next movement
I'm only up for burned out wandering.
Another balance overdue
Took out a loan for time well spent
Roll out the carpets for the doomed
It's unforgiving turf where our steps are bent
I'll draw these lines
of ghostly profile night
and coax the specters out
We'll roll on with the tides
where we can dance macabre
until the core unwinds.
Defend the fort for sleeping ghosts
I'll man these walls until the dawn.
I'll fight these memories
beneath the banner of
some others
Shell-shocked with gun arm
growing sore
Outside, the sidewalks glow red-orange
I throw my shadow on the sparks.
Charred homes on cindered streets
I draw my bow
across shaking half notes
Chart out a map of burnt meanderings.
Default on friendships I misplaced
I'm wrapped tight in familiar fear.
But I'll warm to those familiar strains...
Because it's 5 o'clock somewhere, and Summer's here...
I'll cross the lines
into the ghostly night
and wake the specters up
As fires kiss the night
so I can sleep real sound
and let my core unwind.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
~
*Springtime sings of wondrous things
Of warmer days and robin’s wings
Of daffodils and playground swings
Of sunny morning wanderings
Of fishing poles and wedding rings
Of family picnic gatherings
Of arbors blooming jasmine clings
Of sweetly scented offerings
Of firefly meanderings
Of stardust moonlit ponderings
Of all the happiness it brings
Yes springtime sings of wondrous things*
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
No service to all westbound destinations due to flooding . . .
At Ravenscourt Park, it rained apocalyptically.
Then, God said:
‘Let go of point-to-point.
Paddle properly, like you mean it.
Hear the gentle song of the hummingbird.
Sip the sweet cup of the orchid.
Steer clear of the piranhas that are possessions;
Swim away from the caiman, who can drag you under.
Take it stroke by stroke. Do not splash about.
Go with my flow.
When your meanderings meet the mighty ocean of my love
Be ready.
This is just the beginning.’
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 5:28 PM UTC
There are times where I don't have to
carefully construct metaphorical honey glaze
I can just slide my mottled skin from out
of this tagged and tattered shell
and say, "I'm just as thirsty as any of you"
These strange dichotomies, of shyness and openness
hatred of self, and longing to lift the self up to heights
craving peace, yet seeking disorder
If my cells could vote
there would be a recount
and then another
and another
another
perpetually cyclical self-realization.
Such a frustrating way to absorb you,
through the intuitive tunnels
clogged with judgmental plaque
and grimy windows
that only allow flushes of dusty yellow
to emit.
Loneliness bites, yet I seek the wisdom
only blessed by meditation
and introspective psychedelic meanderings.
Lovers split your ribs, yet my eyes quest
endlessly for you.
These strange dichotomies,
pepper and salt my atrophic throat
until I entertain a curious gaze instead.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
"Cradle my emotions in the gentlest of whispers" ~~ Ryn
Hold me
Tenderly
Make me feel something
Be gentle with me
I've been hurt lately
Despair courses through me
Depression
Regret, guilt
Can you help me?
Don't just tell me
What I want to hear
Tell me what you really feel
Take away the fears
Don't scream
Tell me softly
Whisper in my ear
The beautiful things
I need to hear
Make me feel something
Cause lately
All I've felt is...
Absolutely nothing
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
Suddenly it feels numb
My body restive
My words gone dumb.
Muted grievances against the window pane
Are wiped away as insane.
Something inside, yet miles away
Resonates a perfectly eternal dismay.
Sweet are the tears that embrace,
Coursing down the contours of the loving face.
I ask myself,
“Why can I never write about important things?
About Philosophy, Politics and similar meanderings?”
Reasonable things.
Inklings of promising meanings.
Instead I struggle with my tempestuous heart,
Unimportant to the world, yet the most excruciating art.
The pain and the glory
Is the never-ending selfish story
My childish mind can recall.
Despite all this wondrous melancholy,
I always choose to repeat my folly.
Up and about to write I go,
There’s too much heart material to forego.
I lie under those dry lifeless branches,
Sit, stand or walk around in hunches.
Only the grass understands
Under the skin in innumerable strands
Pain is the only conspicuous poison
Reigning the veins, arteries,
Defining the venison.
I couldn’t look at you much
Since you drank from my cup
Travesties of my past break-up
And chose to inflict it upon me again
To see if our old life
Could be regained.
But nonchalance has a way of defeating you.
It looks odd on you,
Like an unaccustomed parvenu.
Love wrecks your heart like the shivering of an earthquake.
When my insides tear, shrivel and menacingly rake.
You realize that your nonchalance was odd indeed.
I was the friend in need
You fled the deed.
That could have saved me
From depression.
Earthquakes don’t mean any harm.
They simple do their job
And leave destruction in the wake.
Naïve.
Nonchalant.
Dilettante.
They are not exactly wrong.
No culpable intentions.
Only humming a deleterious song.
Yet
We seldom recover when the grounds from below
Shake.
I thought you were the soft breeze, drizzling rain.
But turns out,
You are an earthquake.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
Back home, the snowflakes flitter
down
languidly
as if avoiding the sameness of the blanket below.
The fragrance of black coffee,
a conversation in subtle tones, and
Miles Davis’s smoothest meanderings
waft in from the study.
Bruise-blue flames give the room
a soft glow, lending a gentle luster to the cat’s
matte black fur, spine arched in luxurious mid-stretch.
Back flush to the ground, I take it all in with
young eyes, young ears, hungry for those
sensory delights. Soon, the flames
fade into simmering, lightless embers,
as the final barely-blown note dwindles.
She whispers “goodnight” in that familiar, hushed
voice, ending a vivid memory with a sweet refrain.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
rest easy, sauntering children that inhabit these streets, marching endlessly with youthful rouge upon your cheeks. the ambient orange glow encapsulates your city's sky, enrapturing your scattered minds each night.
you search with strained and bloodshot eyes for the silver lined heavens
that hibernate behind blankets piled high and heavy with pollution.
you stalk these streaky sidewalks,
hands in your pockets, cigarettes dangling between crooked teeth,
billowing from your gaping mouths,
forever treading onward, gazing upward
at the luminous orb who emerges each evening,
floating thoughtlessly in its spiraling yellow haze,
glancing down with an occasional giggle at your mindless meanderings.
you venture through man-made parks, but make not a single mark of any personalized passing.
invisible, soundless.
walking not in the sand or the honest salt of the earth,
but on glittering concrete,
disregarding your worth.
you wandering specters, dragging your aching cancer ridden bodies through tireless voids,
fending off your tattered emotions that clasp their bony hands around your fleeting ankles,
begging you to stop, to engage. your shoes remain bare and battered,
lacking more and more sympathy for your simplified selves with each step.
you push onward, noiselessly.
your brittle fingers wrap themselves
around the spines of wine glasses-
clinking, clashing.
you smile and kiss surrounding strangers,
your loneliness ever consuming those enlightened, empty minds.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
The aching way my back will bend in
The unwanted gratitude
From bones maladjusted
Somewhere they could say im on
My way to victory
Behind every moment suffered
lives a note
A gift
with no other purpose
simple and fickle
With wounds on the hilt
Everyday they say
tommorow will begin anew
with little evidence
of any empathy
the blooming day
a slander on proportions of aptitude
gives no meaning to these endless meanderings
the timeless thoughts of generations
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
The way of a man with a maid,
Solomon said,
Too much for him to understand
Too much.
A snake crawling on a rock,
A ship moving across the waves
The motionless soaring of an eagle
Too much to understand.
I have come to grips with a snake's scaly progress,
undulating,
cupping,
twisting,
hugging,
movement upon a rock.
I can nearly sense a ship's purposeful meanderings
on pathless seas,
driven by compass-aimed sails
and the science of sextants and stars.
I have accepted the Bernoulli Principle:
air currents rushing under and
meandering over
curved and feathered wings
producing lift,
defying gravity.
But still I cannot grasp
the way of a man with a maid.
Though I have studied
oxytocin,
endorphins,
hormonal urges,
a man and a maid
who walk through life
past beauty and prime,
surviving the vagaries of time,
seeing in each other
their youth long spent,
still straight and tall in the other's mind,
though old and bent...
must always bring me wondering, to a stop.
Such things, the Wise One said,
Are far too wonderful for me.
Long live love.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 7:53 AM UTC
Ihinabi ko sa bukana ng payong ang ulan.
This is to believe that sheltering may not always be, or simply perhaps an undertaking of weakness. A radical strangeness aspires to be bold. I may not be able to transcend its nakedness.
.
This is to deny the common verity that in the communal of water, shade fails a transliteration. We cannot be forever in hiding. Our smallness reveals our flowers. Our unmentioned stirrings. (A spire of technicolor through the lens of apertures. It starts to rain in Pasay.)
.
I see children swift-bodied in the streets. I hear the sublime song of a defunct tractor. Once in its vitality, Earth was its derelict. How did it come to be that when I peer into the openness, light slouches into form, conjuring an image: your face, hiding amongst the crowd?
.
This is to recognize the potential of dwindles. Its vertigo that it tries to protect. Its height that it tries to conquer. Its fall that it tries to eschew. What if bones are just homes to tiny little currents and that the way our body assumes the stance of jackknife, simply a foreboding?
.
Itinabi ko sa sukal ng araw ang payong.
This is to perceive that all light lifts away from the dark, my heart always falling into its hands. Morning opens your face like delicate streets, pulverizing fog into chamomile. Silence is endemic. *Makati *buoys overseer reconnaissance of obvious beatings. Revealing a long line of ligatures -- umbilicus of wires. Serenades of futility. Our useless meanderings.
.
The depth of Sunlight finally turns primeval stone. That is our defeat -- all our darkness put to trial. I am tense with the finality: she will become parasol and I, the weather past moonlight waxing.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
I want the twiddle you hear
in lil guitar songs.
The ones that twist your heartstrings
and make you sigh with relief,
with pain and shame and passion.
They hit you like the music notes that
promise big dreams and whisper sweet nothings:
a ton of bricks with good intentions.
Get the heartache out of the way first:
do the hard stuff first
and take the joyful meanderings, eventually.
Take this beating, breathing, seething, seemingly
lively thing and EXCHANGE it
make it feel and not think
let me follow and follow and not lead me
astray. Show me, don't tell me.
I am your poetry 100 class, and you
need to constructively criticize my
existence in to sense.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
Loosely withheld fascinations,
Glimpses of mindful surrender through the rustic, burnt, glowing-hot-stove, honey-crisp-apple,mommas-pumpkin-pie, milk chocolate, and old-tractor-yellow colors,
Falling around my clouded Monday morning meanderings.
The jack-o-lantern's toothy smiles,
Mock me,
For someone's cut out their heart,
And left them empty,
And they know, I too, will be hollow soon.
A giant maple sheds, slow, sticky, tears,
As he watches a years work fall beneath him.
He fights the seductive slumber,
For he knows he'll dream of sweet spring.
But to him I say, we all wither in the cold.
While he wonders who could love his bare branches.
But he doesn't see his leaves falling, along with tidbits of seasonal nostalgia, being kicked up by frosty winds,
softening my steps, landing in my hair,
Easing us all into our own winters.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
there are no more words to speak
she is everything, i could ever need
poetess perplex me
with complex inflections, i don’t dare speak
you utter lightly
and parts of me alight, blindly
she sings in memories,
broken symphonies
she writes in lucid dreams,
her inner meanderings
she dances in emptiness,
the space between realities
the face that nature gave her
the eyes that hold untold favors
sweet scent of honeysuckle
light is her medicine bundle
she says:
use your head to live
use your heart to be happy
firelight swimming
amidst a sacred poison
i fear nothing so i run
come be one with me
its our only itinerary
which needs no reiteration
when love is cheering you on
cherish the dance alone
forms are swiftly forming
remove the stones from your imagination
you are not too far away from home
comb the shores of our emancipation
lies are abundant in these hills
and jobs are more scarce than sheep
but its still the thrill that turns me on
you come home and wipe your feet
and leave the dirt out in the street
life is without a center really, she said
come home, i've made you something warm to eat
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
The
continuity
of
all radiance and vibration
carves
out a space in me
for me
to
understand the secrets
of serenity.
Identify the divine
in
all our
living creations
our utterances
our fascinations
our foundations
letting go
of
all our self defeating
attachments
but those
that
are
our true blessings
and
not
false meanderings.
I
find myself
on
the roads
to
the realms
of
meaning
where
the sweetness
of
love
drips
drop by drop
and
eyes are illuminated
and
begin to see
call it god
call it rocks
call it soil
call it life
doesn't matter much to me.
We
are
orchids
blooming
adrift
in
the black vacuum sea
reminds me
in each
moment
to
consciously
be.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
Life’s agendas
Its workings and
Different paths
A written scroll
Hidden from us
Meanderings
Challenges
Meanings
Incidents
Happiness
Sadness
Failures
And
Successes
Mixed feelings
Fleeting moments
Shackled by time
Cosmic trails
Lonesome travelers
Chance meetings
Many influences
And languages
Plethora of emotions
Insatiable minds
All included
In life’s agendas
Finally released
From time’s grasp
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
Neighbor Jon has come
to grace my flat
with hollow body guitar meanderings,
working the old rocker
like waves at the seashore.
Big chords come at high tide,
washing up under the boardwalk
as we board the haunted house car.
Small pluckings roll in at low tide,
when we take the little children into the breakers,
breaking them in to the concept
of salt water sea foam
for the first time.
Neighbor Jon
is the upstairs patron saint
of guitar tides.
A position he is about to accept.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
A figment of my imagination
Is all thats left of reality
In thinking and drinking
My base tendencies depict
A bleeding edge as uncertain as the truth
Its the end of an era
Of bewildered meanderings
I treat my thoughts
As provoking triggers
Whose indiscretion
Brings delight to my awareness
I look for the most sedimented mountains
In the vast plethora of rocks
As a diamond from the dust
My pursuit is of a grand illumination
Which opens the door to the corridors of power
That takes away any existence of mediocrity
Choosing in anticipation that my efforts will lead to success
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC