"passersby" poems
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal
the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir
Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide
His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst
needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time
Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding
The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being
A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.
~
The Twist
This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.
Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.
I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.
For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.
**It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers**
by Nat Lipstadt
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
Shells coming and going,
Locked in to movement of the waves,
Crushed by the magnitude of their strength
They float in and out of beaches,
Leaving their mark on passersby,
Only to be forgotten with the next wave of treasures
They long to be found,
Crave to be picked up,
Ache to tell their story
Until at last, they're swept out to sea,
To the next beach which it will call home,
And into the life of another who will see its beauty.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
A Passersby-“J”
A Passerby’s “J”
Good for lookin’ out
These harsh / hard times
Endangered kinds
Hanging tough love
Peace up
Peace pipe
A Passerby’s “J”
Thanks
For lookin’ out.
Puff puff give—
Namaste.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
The wind whispered his name.
He lingered, but he did not listen.
The sun shone it's bright face
Warmly upon his disgrace
And made his skin to glisten.
Bright leaves spun and danced
Taking every momentary chance
To entertain a sullen passerby
Who never did lift his eye.
He was not destined to know
Because he missed the show.
He didn't hear the music of birds,
The crickets all went unheard.
The sun might have been dim;
Rainbows were unseen by him.
He took no joy in a warm breeze
Unless it made him sneeze.
No human could catch his eye,
He was aware of no passersby.
There was no color to his sorrow
No yesterday or tomorrow,
Just the sameness painted gray
That he lived in every day.
The artist that is every day life
Painted his world with palette knife
And every kind of artful brush
But could not interrupt the hush
Of he who looked but did not see
Anything real in his reality;
His discourse with the world
Had become a sad soliloquy
He created his own catastrophe
Sculpting his world without mastery.
His sins bore him sorely down
Bent over nearly to the ground.
A painful stoop to his shoulder
He rested on a nearby boulder.
Replaying his dreadful history
He vowed to keep it a mystery.
He would refuse to bear witness
Certain there was no forgiveness.
He felt he was no better than sod,
Was a disappointment to God,
And in all there was in creation.
He was unworthy of salvation.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Bright buds hang precarious on their limbs. Their hundreds of digits green and supple sway as the winds try gently at first to shake them from their perches. They snap back, their ties elastic, always bending.
The wind struck harder the third time. It caught them off guard, swinging back to face the sun. It barreled over them like a train, limbs snapped like bones under tons of industrial revolutionary steel, the cracking brings tears to the eyes of passersby.
They were so green, so verdant was their exuberant friendship, covered in rosy flesh and sturdy bark, ring after ring of tribulation and triumph, but it fractured like a wish bone. She, Persephone, prosecutor of Her, Demeter, was judge of them both, prisoner of herself.
Solitary confinement.
She tugged at her half, she needed the wish, She need for Demeter to see that She needed wishes just like the rest of us.
Demeter, jury. 12.
Her crime: attempted impartiality, balancing a utilitarian ideal that we can divide our attention based on who needs it most. She cannot be tried on account of her inability to read Braille ciphers in gestures, ****** expressions, and Tumblr posts.
Demeter tugged at her half, but only enough to show the other that she was there,
but consistently there.
It wasn’t enough.
Snap.
No marrow could be found.
Where flesh was meant to be dripped rot, an odor of resentment filled their nostrils, it choked Demeter, as Persephone had been choking for years.
This resentment, this cancer, this jealousy, it grew inside of Persephone like a tumor, days from metastasizing, the spread could have killed them.
Amputate.
You two are a tree. Bright buds dangling from every limb, they are still soft and green and supple at their ends.
You two are still growing.
Persephone will cut out this cancer, and She will heal herself, scar tissues covered by broadleafs.
You will soothe them for her. And you will see past the rosy flesh what pain it may hide.
And you two will grow. Roots firm, faces braced against the wind, and limbs always turned towards the sun.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
Pillowy clouds sheet the sidewalk
And sew the hue of rain. In patches
A beautiful blanket - transparent and grey.
All wrapt round, her ruffled bleached flax
All over her lambent crossed legs.
In her hand is an open bag
Of Classic, Potato Chip, Lays.
They taste so sweet,
The sharp salty flakes,
As she breaks them tongue and teeth.
She sits with glossy sunflower lips.
Swaying her hair with a turn and a twist.
Letting the breeze direct cerulean eyes.
Following linear passersby.
And taking a chip from her bag,
Into her mouth,
She feels the time drag.
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
A circuit land,
Overshadowed by late, orange, blooms.
Tough powers tower high,
Mirroring fear to passersby.
Forest rich with opportunity,
Potential plots for growth,
Short showers bear us fruits,
Of evermore enriching schemes.
Spikes of hopes, dreams and wonders,
Base levels of lost sympathies,
Crying wounds of hungry symphonies,
Howls of jeer, malice, and thunder.
A shattered system holds us together,
A web void of its structure, and spider,
Leadership is not without its tethers,
Binding back what was once deep.
Inside those who not heed,
Of the instincts that lead to their greed
We need you dreamers, to help us gaze
And see the stars again, through that lamp lit haze.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
Within those walls were crowded halls
with classmates never met.
Tormented now and evermore
with sorrow and regret.
Passersby we remember well
but really never knew,
A feeling of remorse today
for not befriending you.
Pleasant greetings should not have been
so difficult to say,
Immaturity and shyness
somehow got in the way.
Perhaps we should inspire youth -
It’s not a daunting feat -
To greet others with open arms,
no matter whom we meet.
Within those walls were crowded halls
with classmates never met.
Tormented now and evermore
with sorrow and regret.
Those halls and walls are sure to fall,
ramparts will crumble, too,
But maybe we are bound to rise
as we will follow you.
When the final class has ended,
and bricks are never-more,
Perhaps God’s all-gracious grade book
will balance out the score.
In His luminescent classroom,
with bright and lucid view,
I pray that there’s an empty desk
where I may sit by you.
Within those walls were crowded halls
with classmates never met.
Tormented now and evermore
with sorrow and regret.
The poem above was written for our 45th class reunion, for the 1970 class of Forest Hills High School, Sidman, PA
#classmates #high #school #reunions #regrets #sorrow #passingon
Written by
Dave Potchak 67/M/Central PA
— The End —
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
Dive down into
the Sea of Words,
flip my mermaid tail
to the passersby.
Dive down deep
to the bottom
of the sea, the
very deepest depths
of this salty sea.
When I come up
to the surface again,
starfish weave shells
into my auburn hair,
while sirens sing
new words to me.
Vast expanse of
emerald waters,
Sea of Words
you are my home.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Angry skies and gnarled trees
Fish fly by in the wind
Spitting out water
Unbreathing
Pavement's grand fissures
Bushes with briars
Five feet long
Tearing at the flesh of passersby
Grass of razors
Chairs of torture
Tables of barbed wire
Disneyland
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
He knew the ache could not be recompensed
they knew it too the moment echoes fell silent
There was already not enough love
in a world grown dark as darkest past
It wasn't the color of his skin nor dialect
or the journey of a thousand miles
Not the place that he'd come from
back when ― left behind
nor a heart of gold,
that never became a home
The colour of unwritten silence
had eclipsed the waning light
On the run from who he'd become;
ashamed for all he was,
couldn't erase a lifetime that felt a waste ―
trying to untie a Gordian knot
He saw his body as an entombing barbwire cage
imprisoning a wellspring of love writhing deep therein
Immured at arms length from the outside world
where the soul of a teardrop abides within
its insignificance
Shielding the inherent maelstrom
from the innocent passersby
Buried thoughtfully for the greater good of all ―
for the unsatiated dream boundless love betides
Written artifacts exhumed like ***** secrets
a lifetime of stigma's stain swept under the rug;
just whispered words written from an unfinished life
few ever really looked deeply between the twisted lines
arising from the soul of just another passing stranger
The long road begets a suffocating silence
choking out, extinguished love inhumed
Ashes of what once had been life aglow of light
forevermore shrouded
like the dark side of the moon
rivers
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
I unfurl my arms and reach towards the sun, with everything I have
for
it provides me, in turn, with everything I need.
As my petals grow, they tilt my head
towards
the smiles of passersby, I smile back
and they are smitten!
Praising me, at first
for the the velvety touch of my colors
Then coveting them
Taking souvenirs
Until I am bare, and the sun has hidden itself from me
I am everything they've ever wanted...
but only for a season.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 1:59 PM UTC
The tragic sky,
Continues to intrude my every move.
Enveloping me in despair,
Luring me into darkness.
The gloomy buildings,
Stare me into terrible fright,
Judging me with furious anger.
The entire town is built upon claustrophobia,
Suffocating passersby.
12/01/2013
r.z.w.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
His sneakers **** on the concrete sidewalk of a busy boardwalk.
Time blows by as the faces around him come and go.
He glances up occasionally to observe the passersby, each writing a story.
The master of fate walks among the quick.
With each turn of the street his own adventure is being written.
Each decision marks another chapter in the book of life.
The world is a soft metal malleable to forge; an apple tree, teeming with fruit.
Every choice blazes a new trail with infinite possibilities.
Pondering ceases and he glances around.
The boardwalk is crowded with individuals, each, masters of their own fate.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
A ballad I wrote for my roommate's badass cactus plant.
Come hither, foreign passersby
And listen to this song!
A cactus plant of noble deed
Would vanquish that is wrong!
Of faerie’s tear was he borne from
So sweetly did it seep!
Absorbed into a common thread
A hero, did it reap!
Hell hath no fury like his arms
That launch sharp needles far!
A thousand ****** upon the skin
Of discord, he shall scar!
Once knighted true by queen d’fleur
He rides on gallant gold!
Through tides and cliffs doth feathered steed
Make haste 'cross lands of olde!
Such titles prized did Needles seize
For slaying spiders tall!
On bended knee shall he assist
Upon your beck and call!
To summon Needles just takes faith
So whisper to the sky!
The sacred psalm of cactus high.
Let evil fare to die!
-Juan Carlos Gomez
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
Sitting alone at my party
I think of my coworker
With the gubmint 24 years and counting
For 35 hours per week
He preaches personal responsibility
While surfing his favorite political blog
I watch my dog bark at passersby
From behind the safety
Of the double paned window
To be alive is to be separate
To realize it consciousness
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
The lighting of streets' corners -
Even those corners that hitherto were dark and unwelcoming.
As the sunset bleeds
on the city's disappearing silhouette.
The shimmering traffic;
The blares of multiple cars as they try to rush home.
As windows smile brightly to passersby.
The return of Santa Claus!
The holiday seasons,
Winter to the snow laden,
Harmattan to the arid lands.
Chilly on all sides.
The warmth of the fireplace,
The joy of the days to come.
The jingles of merry bells.
The bright lights of Christmas trees.
A reminder that all of humanity can still be happy.
That there is still hope.
That we can share in each other's joy.
And always be there for each other.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Each morning I look through my drawers
Looking for what outfit would best
Suit me for the day.
I see anger, cynicism, pride, and crankiness.
I see sadness, frustration, and entitlement.
Then at the bottom of the drawer
I see humility.
One of my least favorite pairs of
Tight-fitting pants - ones I've gained
Too much weight to wear comfortably.
Yet, after careful deliberation
Something inside me knows I must choose
To wear them, even if they don't fit.
I may not look right,
And passersby may get a good chuckle,
But I know you will reward me with ones
That fit much better: strength, confirmation,
Restoration, and establishment.
All of which require a big leather belt.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
I woke upon this winter’s morn,
with Christmas in my heart,
despite the news across the earth,
and grayness it imparts.
Reports of quakes and Etna,
with its crest blown to the sky,
while Central Sulawes’ floods,
chased people for their lives.
In Syria, its people mourn,
the tears and blood they’ve shed,
their civil war, it rages still,
marks eight years with its dead.
The fires that swept our golden state,
left thousands without homes,
its victims living now in tents,
with nothing of their own.
While winds of last year’s hurricanes,
have raged on southern shores,
in Florida and eastern coasts,
all shook us to the core.
The caravan of people fled,
from countries to the south,
have braved too much already,
for a wall to shut them out.
Our country, now divided,
on beliefs we hold too close,
while people spew their hatred at,
those who challenge them the most.
And those who are in power,
cannot see beyond their nose,
to what tomorrow wants from us,
and what our world needs most.
But still, I see the kindness,
and the love in passersby,
when someone gives a hand to those,
who need it more than I.
I see the hope in children’s eyes,
where love and truth prevail,
when treated as tomorrow’s hope,
when peace on earth has failed.
So let us focus on the grace,
so often overlooked,
and make our resolution be,
to share our love on earth!
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
~
*gone to earth
left for dead
everything is tickety-boo
forget your iron-on measures
and scuttled installation
your life is a bakery
that cake is like your head
bittersweet
and full of regret
what am I reading these days?
a book across the stars
where dreams in the throes
of giddy aerosol cans
**** the passersby
and sleep against
the exit sign*
~
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 10:32 AM UTC
not forgetting flames me up
like a foam of whispers
bursts into with laconic daring
over darkened waters
your name hangs unwritten
I rolled over on a rib
but it's useless
how long am I going to ferment you in my armpit
with your fragile ****** smile?
chase me away like the passersby do
with the meaning of travelling
I was not and you were not
you were not in my dying
we were only a laden pool of sunlight
I didn't find any solution
than to behead the days
these thin days unraveled from myself
from the bone of the world peeled of magic
the art of forgetting is for those
who sleep on pillows
such a long, long road
I've been travelling to a destination
obliterated by pain
to this gravitational center, to this place
with no hiding space
only mute seagulls
have seen my screaming
I've cursed myself on pages,
diaries of gory hours
I've cupped myself in belated answers,
dancing tears
more than eyes can meet
while I was forgetting nothing about everything
the world revolved once, twice, a dozen of times
you were learning to dissipate your name
to waste it on the lapel of not yet discovered seas
in the silence of leaves
now I know this calmness,
this tenderness of dying
I could write this unthreatening poem
today, tomorrow
till forever finds some peace
perhaps
some forgetting
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
I am a beluga stuck on the ground,
My covered water body, sounding,
An echo to the sounds around us,
I move the water that moves, us
I am not shy, of passersby,
I love being me!
appetite for life,
devoured at my whim,
though I am a baby, small in this place.
©ClemC072013
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
He veers to the left when he walks
in and out of lives
up and down city streets.
His gait clumsy
and haphazard
bumping passersby
and knocking glasses off tables.
Slack jawed stares and
excited whispers;
unphased
unwavering
steady in his unsteadiness.
He meanders down alleyways;
breaking hearts
and preconceived notions about
what a vagabond should
or shouldn’t be.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small
As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems
Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us
I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm
But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause
on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here
in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant
This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC