"pathfinder" poems
Body
Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.
Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.
Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.
****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.
Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, ******* ********
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.
Frequent ************ and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.
waters inhabited with murlocs
Forests with centuars and unicorns
I had badass armor
Spellbooks, Abilities, Charisma modifiers!
When you live in Dungeons and dragons you finish quests, unlock gods,
Slay Monsters
When my DnD group broke up
I didn't lose a group of friends.
I lost a party of adventurers
Their eulogies pronounced at the end of that final nat one
Will never be forgotten.
Portaits carved like improv comedy routines.
Characatures of our ideal selves
Bound, sealed, stuck on a book shelf
We deserved another sequel.
When the party healer crumpled her car against a Concrete wall at 70 miles an hour
It made sense nobody else knew how to cast raise dead.
In a world that is supposed to play out our ideal realities
it was no question her charecter lived eternal. the way she would have wanted.
The way we wanted so badly to be true.
Nobody felt right taking over her charecter.
And nobody wanted to **** her off.
So we wrote her story.
Every die she had tossed this whole adventure. Each murloc she ran from, each unicorn she rode, etched into a leather bound tome.
Placed Right on the same shelve we kept our pathfinder books.
Her headstone.
We never played after that.
But she did.
When we placed the novel next to the flowers her mother left.
We felt her cast healing song
one last time
And that night
We got a full rest
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
feeling the heat, i'm hiding from desire
i've spent many nights by that fire
i feel alive by the light of my pathfinder
all of the other fights are minor
i set the sights on a climb ever higher
it becomes my mind's flight decider
widening my heights by trying to be wiser
hoping for my eyes to open wider
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of the universe
to lure a dreamer into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of limbs and fingers,
he entrapped his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked: “How
can I walk through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear: “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”
And to the tremor of his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper into the night. Soon
his lips dripped with her muffled sobs, the stench
of his slobber drifted into her pristine dream;
and he confessed: “She came to me;
I’m innocent.”
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
What is the dream,
the diary I keep with notes etched to the seam?
What is the goal,
the endpoint at which I determine my role?
The world only skims off the top it seems,
loving only the cream of the crop.
Lost am I,
having strayed from the path,
a world split down the middle,
cut and dry,
and if so,
where can I live,
who can abide my wayward soul?
A soul assembled from the ashes of Descartes and Kant,
a contradiction in continuity,
can I or can't I,
change the hand that I've got?
Listen to the song,
the siren's polyphony,
the refrain rate familiar,
the color tone wrong,
discern for yourself,
what is the bane of the crown?
Stifle your fear and strike at the root,
with shovel in hand bury your sin,
always striving for truth,
rend the tree at both ends.
Yes,
I am a pariah,
***** in purpose and soul,
the wayfarer's failure,
refusing to pay the pathfinder's toll,
and although my map is imperfect,
all roads lead to Rome.
Retreatist,
rebel,
jester,
fool,
gladly I'll claim the whole lot,
each title a badge,
a step towards my goal,
this society is sick and refuses to see,
each individual is a person,
gay,
gypsy,
Muslim,
Jew.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
After My Little Black Dog Died of Melanoma.
After the Lumps on Her Small Brittle Body Slowly
Burned to a Pile of Ash in the Vet’s Office. After My Step-Father
Drove in His Ostentatious Truck to Pick Up Her Remains. After I Cried
in My Dorm Room and Tried Not to Wake My Roommate.
Realization that My Loss Does Not Make Me Different. There Are
Graveyards That Span For Miles and They Are Filled With More
Dead Bodies Than I Have Ever Seen. There Are Hundreds of
Thousands of Children in the Foster Care System That Have
Never Met Their Parents or Maybe They Did and it Just Didn’t Work Out.
Kids Who Might Have Lived With Their Terminally Ill Parent(s) For Years
Not Just Days. Kids Who Never Sat in the Opened Up Trunk of Their
Mother’s Black Nissan Pathfinder at the Drive-In Movies. Kids Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Old Grandparents or Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Dead Grandparents. Kids Who Were Never Told Not to Throw Snowballs Because There Might be Big Chunks of Ice in Them. Kids Who
Never Had a Childhood Dog to Cry Over. Kids Who
Don’t Like to Read Because They Were Never Read
Bedtime Stories When They Were Younger. Kids Whose
Mothers Never Called Them Tweetie or Pumpkin or Honey or ***
Kids That Were Not Told to Just Go to the Bathroom When
Their Tummies Hurt Instead of the Health Room. Kids Who Never
Listened to the Spice Girls’ Album Spice World on Cassette on the
Way to the Store. Kids Who Never Got a Peach Drink Out of a Vending Machine at the Pick’N’Save on 27th Street and Still Don’t Know
Exactly What 50¢ Peach Drink Their Mother Bought For Them.
There Are Thousands of Dogs Euthanized Each Day Because of
How Sick They Are or Because They Were at a Shelter For Far Too Long
or Because They Are a Pitbull or a Rottweiler or Some Other
Irrationally Feared and Disliked Dog Breed. We Didn’t Euthanize My
Stage-Four-Cancer-Stricken Dog or Even Get Her Treatment Beyond
Pain Medicine Because We Were Selfish. We Do a Lot of Things Because
We Are Selfish. We Waited Five Days to Pull the Plug on My Vegetable
Mother Because We Were Waiting For a Miracle That We Knew Would
Never Happen Because She Stopped Breathing the Moment the
Aneurysm Burst. My Sister is Getting Married in June and My
Grandfather is Going to Walk Her Down the Aisle in My Mother’s
Place. My Grandparents Had to Move In With My Sister After My
Grandmother Fell Down Too Many Times and Didn’t Take Her Health
Problems Serious Enough. There Are Repercussions For Thinking
You Are Safe When You Are Really Not.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
I am not the one..who chambered the final round.
Not the Pathfinder, in the smoke who called the choppers
that lifted the dead and wounded off the ground.
I am not the Chaplain who holds the hand of a dying young man,
struggling hard with his belief.
Not the nurse with ****** hands,
eighteen hours with no relief.
I am not the young widow, now with two children ,
feeling left behind,
not the biker who stands guard in a patriotic flag line.
Not the Sargeant, who with respect, present the final flag,
not the Officer, with wet eyes, collecting the causality dog tags.......
But I could be!
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
In my younger
and more vulnerable years
I
walked
on
I was lonely
no longer
I was a guide
a pathfinder
I had that familiar
conviction
that life
was beginning over
promising to unfold
that shining secret
that only
Midas
and Morgan
and Maecenas knew,
that the wingless
had been overlooked
in a fashion
that rather
took
your
breath
away.
I was fragilely bound into
a murmured apology
of moths
among
the whispers
and the champagne
and the stars
Bantering inconsequence
that was made of
infinitesimal
hesitation
I repeated blankly
a surprising
shill metallic urgency
Bloomed with light
it sort of crept in on us
that I
had truly
heard nothing at all
In the unquiet darkness
continually smoldering
with disappointment
in the solemn echoing
green light.
a dim hazy cast
lay upon my love
your love
belongs
to me
She insisted
its too late now
he scowled
I could only stare
as
she cried
A terrible
terrible
Mistake!
you ask too much
she told me
I love you now.
you cant repeat the past
he said
why,
of
course
you can!
I paid a
high price
for living too long
with a
single
dream.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Gambale
he comes from the land down under
a golden axe is in his hand
creating his centrifugal funk
all across his note drenched land
he completed his Italian job
sending everyone high fives
while schmoozing in the white room
high powered electric jives
Nunzia was by his side
he was his right hand man
except of course when making love
inside Lydia's love van
one of the great explorers
of this final wild frontier
like a crouching jaguar
keeping his mind so clear
the magical slinging weapon
faster than an arrow
the vibrations pierced through the skin
down inside the marrow
the thunder current crashing
this pathfinder with attitude
it was dawn over the Nullarbor
at crusing altitude
conducting naughty business
for all those who seek to hear
Kuranda is the place you'll find
his vision so perfectly clear
for his right of passages
a little charmer flying by
a present for the future
noteworker on a natural high
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 3:07 AM UTC
Life crumbles my visions asunder,
Ignorance shoves me into clumsy blunder,
Love throws me into the zone of blinder,
Forgetting that I'm a Pathfinder.
When life deprives me off the briddle,
When everything seems to be a puzzle,
When my story goes like a riddle,
In grief, I hear life playing it's own fiddle.
Heavy weight makes my legs jiggle,
My blistered feet make me stumble,
But 'they' see me and chuckle,
While they used to praise me in hotels.
Engineering renders me a plater,
In my own house, am made a janitor,
I date a ****** city bunter,
Money in my life is a gutter.
Physique portrays me of a working Caliber,
So they ask "Do you work here?"
Yet behind the curtains am a begger,
A begger in fashioned attire.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
*I will travel this world
just show me an airline
that allows payment in poetry
show me where words buy visas
I can be a hero
who restores peace at a battlefield
where the universe is
fighting the war of words
I can soar high in space
just show me where lines
are stitched into wings
show me how to synthesise words into feathers
I can leave my mark on Earth
just have to turn it into
a planet whose species
actually knows a poet's worth
I can move the world
just give me a springboard
where I can stand and spin
the rest of the globe the other way
I can make you proud
just learn to hear my silence loud
even if you don't practically
appreciate that I'm endowed
I can be a president
just show me a nation
whose politics ain't marred
with filth, controversies and lies
I can be whatever you want
just give me whatever I need
give me a people without greed
and I'll find you a Moses or Joshua
,that I'm sure
I can be anything
the ocean, the bridge, the home under siege
the road, the beast of burden that lifts the load
the pathfinder at the Red sea,
if I'm given the rod*
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
Long before we were born
She already stood
In her 3-inch feet
Ready to wear the shoes
Of eldest sister
And firstborn daughter.
Years until her toys were torn
She easily understood
In her little big heart
Happy to share the love
Of father and mother
With her sister and brothers.
Not a single day did she get bored
Watching us grow together
Our heights were swapped
But we remained intact
As a sibling of four
And a family in God's favor.
Three decades after she explored
The world as a pathfinder
She led the flock
With wisdom and skills
The way she knows best
And we're more than blessed.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 11:19 PM UTC
I know what a crash dummy feels
While pouring down rain was humming
Bracing myself with nerves of steel
Eyes wide won’t stop trouble coming
Driving cautiously in the storm
So many cars speeding on past
I’m thinking easy, slow, steady
Not fight or flight before a crash
I know how a crash dummy copes
Eyes wide open with teeth revealed
Safety first face forward bravely
Ever expecting he will yield
Disbelief that it’s barreling
Faster and faster, I lean in vain
No place to go but the shoulder
That whizzing missile blurs in the rain
I saw it coming without the squeals
Pathfinder’s barrel fully loaded
No skidding tires or screeching wheels
Slow motion shards of glass imploded
My little red car lurches forward
In a bang she begins to swerve
That SUV slammed into me
Before dropping back at the curve
I feel what a crash dummy feels
Releasing the damage inside
To let go the past and its sorrows
Straight ahead, there’s nowhere to hide
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
Reptiles the pathfinder of humankind
Come from quagmire cognitively blind
Claws become digits, hind legs took on knees
There eyes looked forward, they wanted to please.
From upright gaite he saw his first sun rise
Walked towards horizones enticing skys
Began to gather, his perceptive root
To plant his rational, interlect route.
Grunts become recognised vocal conduits
Which co-operate with reasons pursuits
For eruditions ultimate clarity
Wisdom works for familiarity.
Knowledge deciphered in words to provoke
The birth of conscience a central yoke.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Fire
Eats up the night
Biting the hand that feeds it
Twisting and withering
Dancing and cackling
A source of heat and light
When the sun moves on
Whispering
Singing an unheard melody
Enticing the cold
To enjoy its warmth
Frightening the creatures of the night
When they approach this new sensation
Darkness runs to every corner
To avoid it
Devouring flesh, wood,
And anything else caught in its path
Wicked, cruel, painful
Beautiful, mesmerizing, enticing
"Come share my warmth," it sings
"Rest your tired feet and aching body,
"Soothe your mind and feed your hungry belly,
"For it has not had a good meal in weeks"
A singer of beautiful songs
A melodious sonnet
A pathfinder
Joining souls
Some fear fire and run
Others tame it
Letting it run up their arms, bare chest
And crawl into their mouth
Then spitting out tongues of flames
Playing with it
Encouraging it to bite
A source of entertainment and pleasure
Burning and choking with intoxicating fumes
Laughing at the trapped and helpless
It slowly and painfully takes away lives
"Feed me! I'm hungry!" it cries as it dies away
It mourns when it is not wanted
And rejoices when needed
Keeping your body warm on the coldest of nights
Gives your whereabouts away to your enemy
Treacherous
Beautiful
Cruel
Hypnotizing
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Jobs that pay and jobs that don't
A passion to work in spaces of uninterest
A yesterday that's the same as tomorrow
A beginning carried over and copy pasted until the end
Stressing over the same thing for days on end
Working 9 to 5 in a pencil pushing company
Trapped in an endless cycle of routine and bore
Find me chaos, find me adventure
Take me out Dear Pathfinder in search of true passion and fun
I found my way then but it wasn't what I wanted
So take me away and make me lost for me to find myself again
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
My biggest fear was dying, nowadays it's feeling alone. It took me twenty-eight years to peer into the looking glass. Somehow, I found that my habits weren't so destructive. Overly mindful of my own disruption, I was dangerously close to doing nothing.
Struggling, searching for pieces long removed from its subject, led me to the mountains. Time unveiled its wisdom; the pain made me philosophical as the years escaped my grasp. Alas, as the years amassed and the veil slowly faded, I came to understand that trials and tribulations should never foster hatred. It's never too late to ask. Every path you tread should never be your last.
Perfected words whisper through me as the pain comes to an end, and I delve into the depths where habits lie shattered. Self-destructive patterns become easier to distinguish. I knew I could pursue some new beginnings if I quit being distant.
Picture me fitting in. Picture me painting pictures in sync, not as a victim. There are things that I've been missing out on.
I just haven't been living.
I relinquish my resistance—for me.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 10:02 PM UTC
The hovering
of dark clouds ******
my stale memories,
the exultant memories
of ominous days.
when my breaths scrambled in
suffocated corridors
Of acute treachery,
like the irresolute wick of
a lamenting candle
survives the gushing wafts
of wrathful wind, only to enter
another phase of
unspeakable horror.
Oh! Dear candle,
my candid pathfinder of
apocalyptic nights,
cursed you are.
thawing your being
in service of this
barbaric world,
they blow you off forever
in just one exhale of
tampering frustration
naming you
the heartless murderer
of romantic moths.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
You called yourself an adventurer, a
pathfinder, one who like to take risks,
explore places no one else would brave.
You were young & curious,
but old enough to know,
old enough to stop.
You called yourself a friend, someone
to be trusted, but you took away the
cloth, stripped naked the ****** greedy
eyes and hands, slippery words, oiled
whispered consolations, assurances.
Your tongue took paths too raw,
journeyed to depths too young to
understand, but did you care for anything
but the sweet, almost corrupt taste?
Your fingers made of ice and lead,
delved deep into forbidden passages,
ripped through pink innocence,
now bloodied devil red.
You painted kisses on a tender, fledgling
canvas, murmured sweetly to soothe,
but you could not take back the knowing
that she would never again take back
the innocence you had
wickedly Chased.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
Materialism, reject it
Consumerism, constrict it
Minimalism, seek it.
Abandon the crowd, become the laughing stock.
Insults and mockery flow through the flock.
Your freed soul a harsh reminder
that they are chained by desire.
Enter a Stanger, leave a stranger.
Do not dare to even take a sip.
You are one, part and whole.
Complete from outside and within.
In your oneness seek him.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 9:41 AM UTC