"passports" poems
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
Lone star walking roads,
crowbar in hand
cowgirl I'll die for,
I died and I died again,
fluent in 6 country's,
passports; pardons
no cargo,
but luggage is a stainless steel flask,
half full,
half way,
to the moon
if you asked me?
Cadillacs in space,
expensive taste
that's masked with
— the cheap stuff,
inspired souls,
they walk,
and this forsaken path,
they'll never make hell a ***** deed or two from heaven,
counterparts
we're equals,
we're lost
they're my colleagues,
a scandal from remembrance,
remember we followed rules?
no response
****
there's a shift
in the rubix cube,
a memo from the warden,
no weapons in the visit room,
coordinating sin,
a taste of gin
before the see you soons,
world was much warm before stone replaced the sand dunes,
scoff at the elixir,
cordially
she casts stones,
******* of a demon crossing ponds is all the child knows,
tales of the fishermen,
who heard it through the corridors,
all and all departed,
with a fear of the other gods,
strictly prohibited,
a swig of the forbidden fruit,
who are you to judge me,
When Your Son Is Not Of Holy Proof!
wedded to a mortal said your honor,
absent i do's,
abstinence is bliss
and your crime ascends civilian law,
guilty -- you're filthy,
your son will never know your soul,
I know my role and play it well,
Your god never admits he's wrong,
so why would I?
— a baby cried,
I'm present for my son's birth,
and leave before an open eye the practice of a perfect curse.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
I'd heard about problems with police
hard to hear harder to believe
personally I never had a problem
oh a few well deserved speeding tickets
probably cut a break no definitely
I drove very fast especially in the turns
roll-the-tires fast in the turns
that was me
and the more I heard the faster I turned
as a young kid I applied and was accepted
to six colleges six for six piece of cake
why the stress my SAT score equated
to an I.Q. of 1 above plant life
accepted open arms those WASPs loved me
graduate school one for one
best in the country
bar none MBA with honors that was easy
they called it the golden passport yes
passports are even faster
I never had problems
with band-aids
the bank
the insurance company
the healthcare system
never turned down
for a credit card car loan
life insurance policy
or request for a specialist
experience is the best teacher
and the more I learned
the less I wanted to know
and the faster I turned
then I learned
about certain specifics
certain policies
with regard to traffic stops
bank loans rental property
heath care voting rights marriage
read the color purple
and then that invaluable government
syphilis experiment
that would have been inconceivable
even to doctor mengele
that the star spangled banner
has more than one stanza?
really there were four stanzas?
MY country ‘tis of ME
and it was making me feel *****
learned that no one
voluntarily held that flag up
that hellish night
o’er the ramparts WE watched
as slave and freedmen
were ordered
to their near certain death
with the threat of absolute
certain death
then I watched a cop
shoot a kid in the back
in cold blood
near a merry-go-round
on a playground
in baltimore maryland
I liked baltimore
fast very fast he emptied the 10 round clip
of a semi-automatic 9mm Glock 27
into THAT kid's back no hesitation ******
baltimore baltimore baltimore baltimore
I hit the brakes hard
on those fast decades and decades
generations generations generations
of turning
I slowed down way way way down
stopped
took a deep deep deeper breath
then did what I always did and do best
I turned turned turned I turned around
and as I turned I woke
to kneel
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.
Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.
In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.
The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.
Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?
Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.
Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was ****** over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.
Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.
Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.
Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.
Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.
Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.
6.6k
the shoes are imprinted with the paved streets
there is never enough time
our eyes sparkle
but the eyebags belied the many nights
whiled away
smiling at the stars
new maps every night
gazes change as the skies change
we traverse different longitudes
trees spill into trees
there never was a need to distinguish
our passports fading crumbling
paths always leading to each other
will we still be left with an identity?
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
I've learned my ABCs at one,
learned to read by four,
constructed my paragraphs at six,
a know-it-all reciting parts of speech by seven.
Letters assembled themselves ready for scrabble.
Rocks, paper, scissors,
I never learned to let go of the paper.
And grew up with dry fingers caressing books.
Breathing in language and literature.
They say you can only love something so much
until it leaves you empty.
But I've only ever truly loved a few things about life,
and first was how words strung empathy.
The way I wrote about tying yellow ribbons on trees for a hero at eleven,
wrote about anything that won me passports to a passion I had to sacrifice a few years later after fourteen,
wrote about the boy who broke my heart at seventeen,
wrote about the monsters in my head at nineteen.
I don't know how words always found me
whenever I tried to run away from the world;
how they kept my sanity along with melodies for as long as I can remember,
and made countless others feel less alone.
What I love is a weapon
that has sparked revolutions, waged wars.
What I love is art that built acropolises from embers
and most the world's wonders.
It rushes euphoriant through my veins as much as it does through yours,
yet it is neither blood nor oxygen.
It is all the words burning as we keep them hidden,
dying for us to give them meaning.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest
‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss her
lest she attract your notice
lest she presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence
Kindness is not like that –
Kindness pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption
Kindness defies convention
Kindness carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Kindness perseveres all the love-long day
Kindness doesn’t delay
Kindness is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts
Kindness confronts
Courage is her currency, boldness her language,
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms
Kindness transforms
Kindness weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Kindness pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms
Kindness is not 'nice'
Kindness isn’t in this for the likes
Kindness bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Kindness never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight
Kindness is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
This Kindness is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble,
End-Game-level
monumental
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Petals of paper
for a stature svelte.
An opxum core.
Swindling willow
waltz upon a stage.
Tethered by the same roots.
A ***** moon,
an ascending tide.
Longing lovers without passports.
Army of emerald soldiers
seduced by ruby gypsies.
Ashen by a kiss.
Clumsy hearts vitrified -
never worn on sleeves.
Await a hummingbird.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
Oh I wish to be a bird,
For then there would be freedom.
I could be here or there,
And freely without borders.
Then I will not be blinded,
Flight of my will power would be untamed.
I could be flying in Srinagar,
And then in Peshawar afterwards.
Then nothing would restrict me,
Unaffected personal would be my choice.
I could be in Moscow,
And even in Washington.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
when i was young,
i only lived
between the pages of a book
between the words of a sentence
between Privet Drive and Baker Street
between bookstores and libraries
where I did not have to speak
to make friends;
where I made friends
who would not leave,
where I could leave
and return to see
that nothing had changed;
nothing, except me,
but only a little.
now that i’m older
i’ve been twice
to the other side and back;
i think i’d also like to live
between time zones and skylines
between silken sheets on starry nights
between your fingers and your eyes,
where conversations are passports
to other worlds in
in other hearts beating
in other bodies;
if only for just a little.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
Dear Ms. Di Prima,
I really,
Really,
Think that Alchemy—Alchemy--Al-Chem-EEEEE
Is a
Nifty
Topic.
But,
My mother has a ring
Of gold.
Standard Gold,
No lead. None.
Or had,
Until our house was
B-R-O / K-E / N
Into
By some lowlife scumbag with
Too much ability
And
Not enough intelligence.
With Alchemy
I could make a shitload
Of Gold (wasn't that the point?),
Provided I had the
Lead,
And not that
IMPOSTER
Crap in pencils (Graphite. My childhood was a shambles.).
But it's only valuable
Because
We're willing to pay so much.
Like with Diamonds.
Or Japanese Akita.
Or Wagyū.
It's not a lie.
Just a trick.
Making you think you want things that you don't need because it helps someone else who you've never met make more money than they'd ever be able to use in a legitimate way
(HOOKERS AND BLOW).
All of these things are synthetic.
With the exceptions of
Gold
And
Graphite.
So,
Maybe,
Alchemy did work out alright,
Just not in the anticipated way.
We can make all sorts of things.
But they become coveted only when they exist.
Just ask Swipey McStickyfingers.
It actually wasn't gold.
You just got a bunch of painted junk,
And passports.
No rubies.
We weren't international crooks,
Renowned and beloved
By jealous zealots.
It was purely sentimental.
But you can't understand.
You can't fondly look at the earrings as the last reminder of a deceased parent.
You can't flip through the identification booklet and be flooded with memories of your first trip out of the country.
You ****** You can't even cash the savings bonds that were bought to put someone through college.
No. He got a box of documents and some cheap jewelery.
But still. Probably called for celebration. A successful heist
Because his brain is still in his head.
We create people as well as objects.
Ms. Di Prima,
In the end,
Some people will always be
Clasping ********
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it.
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?
i'll be cooking a turkey curry later,
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?!
rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter
in Dante's trinity of rhymes -
poetry of the near-illiterate,
who never read as much as could
have been -
thinking it out as origin and originals -
a man without influence is
not worth reciting -
he'll still have to borrow
the life of a Henry VIII somehow,
whether he has or hasn't read a book
concerning the man -
while the Vatican emerges as the gossip
library of all the European royal families,
and indeed Henry VIII dubbed
Anne Boleyn's cow dangler *******
duckies - i think it's due to the fact
he quacked while he suckled the *******
like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** -
seriously, no milk;
and as honesty goes, ********** literature
does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth -
self-education moulds the self into a
pristine sequence of surprises -
there the pop of a balloon,
there the weeping clown...
there the giraffe on stilts!
indeed even at university entry point
where i deposited my self
i came back with debts!
idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised
version of language,
as language per se simply called grammatically
sound, in politics simply versed "correct";
two satans from Syria while Solomon
had his harem,
a third from Poland,
they say the holocaust,
6 million if not more citizens of the world
with polish passports - mind you
they took the Diogenes quote
into left and right parallel readied for a march -
Apollo listened then laughed at
the failures counting to 13 - laughing
while the words 'too the moon!' were eased
out from his helium filled lungs.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
*In their blind bid
To become westernized,
They lost touch with reality
Created shadows of themselves
Despised their own intrinsic values
Embraced a twisted dress sense
Of fallen pants and revealed underpants
Idolized everything they're not
The good, the bad, the ugly
They birthed dual personalities
Picked up foreign accents
On ****** home-based passports
The American Dream, they call it,
As they wear winter jackets
In scorching African sun
All in the name of fashion
Trading our simple hues
For complex shades unknown
Bleaching skin and hair
Trading natural black for artificial white
Unaware the very gods they adore
Are tanning theirs to look darker
Insecurity drives them mad
Inferiority complex overtakes them
As they ban mother tongues in offsprings
Placing exotic tongues on pedestals
At the expense of our cultural future.
This is not an attempt at poetry
This is wake up call to Africa
Be bold, be proud, be black!
You are BEAUTIFUL!!
You are AFRICAN!!!*
© Raphael Uzor
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
I have observed that history rhymes,
with no exact repeats each time.
As foreign nationals flock to fight
For ISIS and the Caliphate.
It seems I’ve heard this tune before
When socialists fought in the
Spanish war.
That dress rehearsal for World War Two
That played out on the Iberian plains.
Then Communists and Fascists fought
and idealists were slaughtered for their dreams.
Now in the village of Kobane
Its U.S. drones, not **** Planes,
The Kurds expel the men in black
Who leave behind their friends remains.
Foreign fighters by the score
won’t need their passports anymore.
They fought against America,
Is this a second Guernica?
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Border patrol checkpoint
empty again
made our passports obsolete
nothing
to declare anyway
lush greenery
barely changes
from country to country
overcast skies
precariously straddle
nations
ancient vineyards
still yield
magnificent drops
castles crumble
a little more everyday
not even the towering pines
can save them
moody melodies strum
around my head
forever framing
this summer’s trip
just a little
differently
than the years
before.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer
From a recently discovered manuscript
The clapped-out Boeing wheezed to the gate
The ground crew jumped name-tags rattling
And swiftly moored the shining ocean-bird
Behind his plastic shield a Danish official watched
The travelers approach their passports raised
He stood peeking down at the naughty selfie
His girlfriend sent to his bold smart-phone
Shaking his rubber stamp he spoke:
“What is the purpose of your visit?
Business, or pleasure? Hwaet! I’ve stood
At this same gate longer than you know
Keeping our gift shops free from British footer hooligans
No commoner carries such fine matching luggage
Unless his Rolex and his boyish good looks
Are lies You! Tell me your name
And your home address and your email!
The quicker the better I’m off-duty in ten minutes.”
Beowulf answered him Unlocking his smart-phone:
“We are the Geats the mighty, mighty Geats!
Men who follow Malmo FF Malmo FF the great!
And we have come seeking Parken Stadium
Greatest of all stadia Its shining seats polished
By cheering generations of fat-full footer fans
We have come to cheer Malmo FF
While they whup up on Dansk Boldspil Union
Instruct us, watchman Where is the stadium
But first, where is the beer?”
The worthy officer
Answered him boldly:
“A true fan knows
The difference between fighting on the field
And puking in the stands and keeps that knowledge clear
In his beery brain I believe your babbling
Go forward, credit cards and all on into Denmark
Spend your money! Our exchange rate is generous!
And then go home bearing our love while we bear your money.”
(Stamp, stamp, stamp) “Tram stop to the left
Taxis to the right”
(Scholars everywhere will regret that here the burnt and torn manuscript breaks off.)
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
Burgundy book oh such a creation.
500 million British passports in circulation.
Patterned leaves adorning a secret interior. Without this treasure am I inferior?
Access to benefits and free healthcare. In a world like ours in a world so unfair.
Shiny pocket book taken for granted?
Non owners aware of its powers, automatically deemed the disenchanted.
Access to a phone call.
Access to legal aid.
Access to commonwealth.
Access to the European Union.
Access to free education.
Human rights.
Freedom.
That marvellous lifesaving book of epic proportions with the ability to eradicate human ill-fortune.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
We came upon slowing traffic.
Inside the bus
Standing passengers were thrown
and grips tightened
as we edged forward across
the unfinished road.
We passed the sun-glassed
occupants of cars and busses
and the rolled-up sleeves
of lorry drivers who's
tanned arms hung out
of every window, and
who's fingers tapped
an unheard tune.
I stooped to stare at the
dancing distance of
the baked tarmacked
highway.
Our eyes stung and wet
The metalled road blazed.
Our approaching gaze silent.
Gripped passports Identity papers
rosary- beads
-Letters of transit -
not needed;
The border did what most
borders do-
and shrugged us through.
Laughter becomes all languages.
Later that afternoon,
I sipped from the glass I held.
Jez turned to me and asked,
"Is this what it's like to be drunk?"
I smiled as I slid my wine towards her...
...
words and foto T Carroll..
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
Scared of the future
knowing I’m a good swimmer
I will ride its waves
This is who I am
moments pass, I have changed
she is gone forever
You’re out of my reach
under my feet lies thin air
rather fly than land
I watch the birds fly
buzzing breaks my distraction
distract me again
Complex words to fix
what simple minds do lack
illusions of depth
Age, just a number
we can manipulate it
how far apart now?
That feeling again,
this time different than before
the cocoons have hatched
The honeymoon stage
we should stay here forever
passports thrown away
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
Some things are sadly poetic
Like the cougar whose boyfriend
Won’t come back outside and she’s alone
At the only table in the cold
smoking a pall mall,
Having a beer.
Some things are refreshingly poetic
like leaving the office for a bit with the boss
and going somewhere
where there are domes made of pure gold
and priests who pour milk on them from
helicopters.
Some things are interestingly poetic;
like the poet, turned novelist, turned artist,
who does landscaping to cover the spread.
Some things are courageously and nostalgically
And hurtfully poetic,
Like not seeing your family for nine years
Because the money’s good where you're at,
And plane tickets and passports are outrageous.
Some things should not be
poetic, but they are, because they are truthful
And that is verse;
like the waitress who was *****
when she cashed her check at a grocery store
after the night shift
and she wasn’t the only one in her car
when she got back.
Some things are poetry because they come
Into this world quietly
And bleeding internally,
and yet they survive
Even though their lungs are full of fluid,
And they can barely breathe.
Some things are poetry because they happened
And nothing can change that.
And because
Poetry is
unchangeable, immovable, and
grotesque, beautiful, uncomfortable, calming,
disfiguring, life-giving, ****** up,
Possibly ****** possibly a nectar
That God
or whoever the ****
allowed to be put on paper,
Possibly a way to talk about pain,
Possibly roided up with someone else’s words,
Possibly a way to talk about
the pure dream of a girl’s body
Without being a ***** *****
Poetry is love in the worst
and most unimaginable ways.
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
I’m thinking about my real identity!
I’m looking at the sky..
Without frontiers and any plan,
I’m sailing and I don’t know why…!
With peace in mind!
We can have English, Dutch friends!
Why not alien friends?
We should stop religious fight..
Old candles in European Light!
No identity cards, no passports!
We want to be free...
We want to live in a full democracy!
Connect with us in Ecademy...
Warm Regards!
Victor Marques
Dec 10, 2009
Dec 10, 2009 at 10:33 PM UTC
Stale cigarettes and old coffee;
The tastes of Europe.
The restless soul,
Came to America to better his children,
But don't you know
That change only hardens a child?
His wandering conscious
Will only find itself
In the land where you first saw his mother.
Where the two of you fumbled in muffled exploration.
We all return from whence we came,
The family-blood pilgrimage,
Stained with the ink of faded passports.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
I'd move to "the great white north" for you
in a nanosecond.
Just say the word and I would
pack up everything I have and make a life
with you anywhere you want, really.
Because I think I fell in love with you
the first time I met you
behind a church in the middle of June
where we played basketball with your band.
I'm fairly certain we're soul mates
but that could just be my eighteen-year-old heart
talking.
I think a relationship like ours would be
what planes are for and passports and endless possibilities.
I'm okay with not knowing what would happen
between us. I don't find it scary
that it's a giant risk.
I'm ready.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 2:48 PM UTC
Focused, I'm focused
She got a body like that
I ain't never seen nothing like that
Like a fantasy in front of me
I think that something special is going down
That's right I think she foreign
I think she foreign, got passports
Mi amor started slow, got faster
She gon' work some more, work some more
No stopping her now, no stopping her now
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC