"peddler" poems
I can’t wait to be a hundred;
turning over the thoughts
and plots, of Caledon
floating on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon
Through the barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes and goes
You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
of patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on the ripped and rolled
frontier seats)
it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through the rusted
grinders wheel
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
The prologues are over. It is a question, now,
Of final belief. So, say that final belief
Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
I
That obsolete fiction of the wide river in
An empty land; the gods that Boucher killed;
And the metal heroes that time granulates -
The philosophers' man alone still walks in dew,
Still by the sea-side mutters milky lines
Concerning an immaculate imagery.
If you say on the hautboy man is not enough,
Can never stand as a god, is ever wrong
In the end, however naked, tall, there is still
The impossible possible philosophers' man,
The man who has had the time to think enough,
The central man, the human globe, responsive
As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass,
Who in a million diamonds sums us up.
II
He is the transparence of the place in which
He is and in his poems we find peace.
He sets this peddler's pie and cries in summer,
The glass man, cold and numbered, dewily cries,
"Thou art not August unless I make thee so."
Clandestine steps upon imagined stairs
Climb through the night, because his cuckoos call.
III
One year, death and war prevented the jasmine scent
And the jasmine islands were ****** martyrdoms.
How was it then with the central man? Did we
Find peace? We found the sum of men. We found,
If we found the central evil, the central good.
We buried the fallen without jasmine crowns.
There was nothing he did not suffer, no; nor we.
It was not as if the jasmine ever returned.
But we and the diamond globe at last were one.
We had always been partly one. It was as we came
To see him, that we were wholly one, as we heard
Him chanting for those buried in their blood,
In the jasmine haunted forests, that we knew
The glass man, without external reference.
17k
They'll find me hanging upside-down.
Ankles bruised by the ropes
From which you strung me up for field dressing.
Lacerations where you’d cut my throat,
Bled me dry, spilt my guts,
And broke past my ribs, to uproot my heart.
Can they carbon date the remains of my reputation?
Trace the ****** back to your mouth?
Will they know the cause of death to be the
Malignant rumors you couldn’t help but spew?
Your false words: the final nail in my coffin.
Do you regret ever letting them past your lips?
Slowly, my reputation crippled by the aggressive
Cancer that was your embellished utterance.
And it didn’t bother you in the slightest.
You marveled at the sight of my struggle.
And amazing how these things seem to spread.
One caustic, contagious, breath from you was all it took.
Though the slanderous virus wouldn't make it 'til morning;
Addicts to their fix; gossips, crave your empty words.
Like ******* the rush is intense but brief.
Interest fleeting, they move on.
Off to the next peddler.
For all these inconveniences, I thank you.
Thank you for lifting the masks that curtained your distorted self.
How blind I must have been not to see it outright.
Another leech, feeding on slighted words.
And to think; all it costed you to buy in
Was me...
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC
1213
We like March.
His Shoes are Purple—
He is new and high—
Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler.
Makes he Forests dry.
Knows the Adder Tongue his coming
And presents her Spot—
Stands the Sun so close and mighty
That our Minds are hot.
News is he of all the others—
Bold it were to die
With the Blue Birds exercising
On his British Sky.
–
We like March—his shoes are Purple.
He is new and high—
Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler—
Makes he Forests Dry—
Knows the Adder’s Tongue his coming
And begets her spot—
Stands the Sun so close and mighty—
That our Minds are hot.
News is he of all the others—
Bold it were to die
With the Blue Birds buccaneering
On his British sky—
2.9k
399
A House upon the Height—
That Wagon never reached—
No Dead, were ever carried down—
No Peddler’s Cart—approached—
Whose Chimney never smoked—
Whose Windows—Night and Morn—
Caught Sunrise first—and Sunset—last—
Then—held an Empty Pane—
Whose fate—Conjecture knew—
No other neighbor—did—
And what it was—we never lisped—
Because He—never told—
2.3k
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
To-night is dark, so
step lightly and carry
a large lamp into
the howling woods
Wisdom says run, run
to dark caves and
harrowing silences
mirror the bottomless
The abyss, gazing
headlong into itself,
recoils in horror,
shudders dis-eased
And only lamp-light,
courage flick'ring
in oppressive depth
persists, defiant
A stain on un-becoming
a trampler of stars
peddler of filth
who knows all the answers.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias
And slid my fingers among topics and titles
Looking for you.
And the answer comes slow.
There seems to be no answer.
I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it.
Or-the iceman with his iron tongs gripping a clear cube in summer sunlight-maybe he will know.
2.2k
here's the way i see it.
i'm an artist, a writer, a gambler, a fighter, a scientist, a scholar, a critic, a failure, a dramatist, a dreamer, a peddler, a nuisance, a bassist, a wanderer, a magician, a follower, a therapist, a liar, a professional, a healer, a pacifist, a chisel, a storyteller, a mathemetician, a physicist, a cook, a puzzler, a loser, a programmer, a lawnmower, a supporter, a musician, a tape-deck, a mirror, a survivor, and a dude.
i'm not very good at any of it.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
Darkness is my host
Incarcerated while I write
A peddler in disguise
Seducing lonely women
Of tenderness
Sanctuary has no sleep
For a man
Inebriated to play games
Feeling affections til death
While roaming innocent beauty
You may not see me
But my quench runs deep
To a woman that is not
For me
As the clock strikes twelve
Justice
Will never find me
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 2:48 AM UTC
Hanging turtles and
Netted birds of amenity
Dangle from her
Left hip like jewels ‘neath a,
“Ming,” ear as she traverses
Mountains beholden kitchens
And one more rise come setting splendor.
Supper may be atop the right, pelvis,
But opposite and left,
Rests the flask, bitter in chase of sanity.
I’m sure the scant pebble
Rattling in between
Her stomach and sorrow
Was nothing more than
A desperate thirst opposed the
Blister born benevolence,
Thirst opposed execution
And a coin converted spirit opposed,
“Xie xie,” (thank you), a platitude,
As heads clip pavement,
Blood pales a gutter,
Or soon-to-be feast’s final throes,
A bleeding and breeding for other,
Leading jitter-beholden mice to flee,
For they may be next
So future’s victuals arrive
Unhindered.
All and assumptive, assistance and rendered,
She walks away with only this –
Everyone’s emaciated
And the butcher on the street is still a butcher,
A peddler, a savior, and butcher again;
A source, be it left, right or wrong,
In need of a drink, as we all are,
With only the means, “take me to the sip,”
And by dollar come pocket born you.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
Hey, hey you.
Yeah, you kid.
Want some crack?
Why not? You don't do drugs?
Think you're too cool? Too rugged?
Let me tell you kid, drugs are devine.
Even better than christmas eve, vintage wine.
Smoke some *** you wouldn't notice if you were shot.
Drink some bourbon, whiskey, a few shots of *****
The poison is so good, you'd ask the bartender to top ya.
Sniff some coke, ****** you must inject.
**** gets you so trippy, you cannot reject.
Pop some acid, crush some ****
You'll be immortal, there will be no death.
Sniff some glue, Inhale some petrol.
You won't be addicted. Everything's under control.
The rush, the high.
It'll be amazing, it'll help you bare life, son.
The speed, the hush.
It'll make you feel sly, son.
The kid, innocent of puberty said,
But sir, that's what accomplishing my dreams, feels like.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
He perches in the slime, inert,
Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
The oil upon the puddles dries
To colours like a peacock’s eyes,
And half-submerged tomato-cans
Shine scaly, as leviathans
Oozily crawling through the mud.
The ground is here and there bestud
With lumps of only part-burned coal.
His duty is to glean the whole,
To pick them from the filth, each one,
To hoard them for the hidden sun
Which glows within each fiery core
And waits to be made free once more.
Their sharp and glistening edges cut
His stiffened fingers. Through the ****
Gleam red the wounds which will not shut.
Wet through and shivering he kneels
And digs the slippery coals; like eels
They slide about. His force all spent,
He counts his small accomplishment.
A half-a-dozen clinker-coals
Which still have fire in their souls.
Fire! And in his thought there burns
The topaz fire of votive urns.
He sees it fling from hill to hill,
And still consumed, is burning still.
Higher and higher leaps the flame,
The smoke an ever-shifting frame.
He sees a Spanish Castle old,
With silver steps and paths of gold.
From myrtle bowers comes the plash
Of fountains, and the emerald flash
Of parrots in the orange trees,
Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.
He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke
Bears visions, that his master-stroke
Is out of dirt and misery
To light the fire of poesy.
He sees the glory, yet he knows
That others cannot see his shows.
To them his smoke is sightless, black,
His votive vessels but a pack
Of old discarded shards, his fire
A peddler’s; still to him the pyre
Is incensed, an enduring goal!
He sighs and grubs another coal.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
Amidst created worries, troubles and troubles, as if I were falling into a gaping abyss, half-balancing on the edge of animals, hyena-scavengers, like a shaky-legged, slightly hesitant, underestimated tightrope walker, - I can deliberately hold on or not in the draft of depravity. In the purgatory of an endless rail, as if I were one of those Bosch could have painted in his lifetime; a gathering of hell-shaped soul-shadow visions ready to rage.
It would be nice to hide back at least sometimes in some strange, sprawling Hawaiian wilderness, where crystal-clear, raw-visceral emotions can also manifest themselves more emphatically, more faithfully to themselves. A middle-aged rose withers and withers in the filth of big cities, because there was no one left to console her instead of her selfish strawman-peddler husband; because even hook-nosed prophets fall for whales, after devouring even the smallest tadpole embryos.
Forever chained as mere passengers in spiral circles, because that is how people are now, intentionally tied to the work methods of unbearable, unfulfillable working hours, petty-gallant deadlines. Because now it seems that washerwomen and hostess models are once again selling their commodity love for tinkling silver coins, until another incomprehensible, twisted property division lawsuit comes; "Daddy and Mommy really love you children! You just know that Mommy and Daddy can't stand each other anymore!"
They would rather drown each other in a spoonful of water, if they could do that!" - Thus, the slow, conscious disillusionment can still remain. Among the calculated, manipulative genres of attempts and cheap escapes, there is certainly no one left who would actually understand their job and act as their heart commands?! - A casual party queen or a diva imitating luxury is handing out slaps with stamps stuck on guest masks.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 12:40 AM UTC
The old songs don’t feel right
wrong key, out of tune
somebody wake Sinatra
reclaim these wayward melodies
*My Way, New York
New York*
seat of the Queen
a gilded new King
everything he touches
Gold
money equals tower
Freudian crystal skyscrapers
the fitting measure
of a brittle man
who has not strength
to speak the truth
recites instead from
a book of fables
the moral to every one
*those in glass houses
shouldn’t throw stones*
the town crier proclaims
the truth does not matter
no one cares
hold tight that red hat
lest it be snatched
by a rebellious wind
see it now, a symbol
framed in white and blue
rising above the crowd
boots on the ground speak
*shiny brass buttons
on a pert military coat
don’t a revolutionary make*
the peddler of lies is just
a liar once-removed
“alternative facts”
brash fabrications
with a fancy semantic bow
such a pretty package
such a pretty family
the biggest crowd
in all of history
let the whole world
Witness
this most
perfect union
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
he wasn’t so much a peddler
(as many had quietly assumed)
more of a rural shuffler
or social inchworm
than a mover and a shaker
but boy
could he dish out those jabs
and ad lib on a whim
and draw sweet melodies
from that broken 6 string
all night long
carving out reflections
oh, those deep intuitive divinations!
steadily preaching
on the breathtaking joys
and fruits
of the vibrant land
*grow your own
seeds to be sown
clean and green
a nourishing machine!*
silver linings (straight from truth room)
clearly seen
from those uncompromised
garden views
casting his baited lines
from softly pebbled shores
(his nanna, and poppa
were there, years before)
giving grace…
and basking deeply
in the bounty of the fenua
his love of life was insatiable
moving from town to town
to nourish his soul
digging way beyond the deep
for that shrouded purpose
that soulful existence
that many spend a lifetime
looking to find
three boats settle
in the quiet harbor
a net shed basking in the sand
peaceful and serene
(with a hint of emerald green)
Sunset red
with crawfish (and lemongrass)
to keep us
bountifully fed
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
There was an old salesman; a peddler, he called himself
Who came to stay at my house when I was a boy
When he was on
His last business trip
To him we were strangers
One day
I asked the old salesman
If I could borrow his penknife.
He lent it to me
And when I tried to return it to him
He did not remember that it was his.
When I asked my troubled father
What I should do
He told me to keep it.
Someday I may give
That peddlers penknife
To my grandson
And I will tell him about the time
My grandfather gave it to me
When he was on
His last business trip.
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 7:32 AM UTC
On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday
multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as
WEEKEND.
Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops
in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.
Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags
drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons
passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty
without score cards.
Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements
including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian
compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.
Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part
by Macy's.
Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least
of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match
are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.
Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,
Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights
Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.
Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted
or unwanted.
In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods
pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed
the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Oh speedster Lance, Great Olympian Hero,
Hard peddler, you,the mighty french conqueror,
Triumphant slayer of the deadly breed cancerous,
Rode fast,won faster ,arms strong, pistoning legs,
Streaking,weaving past mortals lesser,or fairer then?
Was one aim JUST victory, or did anything else matter?
Did you ride on the straight and narrow, but forgot the path?
Many finish lines crossed,but never the true race started,
How did the lion heart wilt? The mind astray went?
Hard toils,grits grim, sweats wasted, false celebrations all,
Come now to naught,cause all isn't unfair be love or war,
Oh Lance,how did you wither unfair? Where did you fall?or Fail?
--------Thoughts on watching a mighty hero fall.----------
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
It's poetry that I love
and I am here to peddle
The finest words to be composed
for I shall never settle
I write all day, so many words
sometimes I fall behind
because of all the twirling words
that are stuck within my mind
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
Wasted father other
twisted ******* brother
suffer further under
cover crusher mother
patient silent action
stagnant talent tangent
casket habit magnet
vibrant fragment fraction
soulless sister seller
better error dealer
shelter peddler killer
vendor trader dweller
(This is a new style I am working on. I am going to call it a 2-3-4 poem since it must have three, two syllable words in each line, and four lines per stanza. Also, the first and last line of each stanza must end in a rhyme.)
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
the quiet engine of passing time
produces gremlins in the shadows of morning
they steal the warmth from his cup of coffee
they place landmines on his daily road to perdition
'this is what madness must be like'
he said to himself as the dawn seeped into the room
one tear stained ray of sunshine at a time
because each added moment lighted reveals
more of her damaged face
more of her impossible eyes
her words hurt his ears as she bleeds his strength
she is a peddler of perils
whats your fantasy she cries out
tied to the railroad tracks like a maiden
or walking the long mile with the skeleton key in hand
the key opens all enduring keepsakes
and releases them to crawling thieves
you cannot retain your world for more than
a flickering moment
so you loose faith that it can ever be done
i miss her
and i miss my daughter
but she is a peddler of perils
and she now comes grinning and fast *********
my head full of noise
so my thoughts gather round
like they are at the Battle Of The Alamo
to the necessity of self preservation
and the warm comforting blanket of self interest
manufacture reasons to do what the ***** dictate
but its her goal to see such endeavor
fold under the weight
of her guilt trip
back in the echo box
she quietly shouts into
the acoustic confusion
madly laughing and the ensuing army
of echoes marching in lockstep to her mad mad laugh
of her mad mad laugh
of her mad mad laugh
we spend the day between the
sheets wrestling each others sweaty forms
i miss her
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
A peddler on a mission
Entreating for loose change
deeking reserves that no other man wants
His expectations are low, but his heart is high
Roaming the streets for simple mementos
Can hardship be so enrich to one's soul
Gravel is his bed to sleep
Cardboard is his shelter to hide
Old blankets is his comfort
But happiness keeps him free
To be poor is not an endless journey
But a constant reminder
An everlasting pursue
Is nourishment to your spirit
Being able
To envision you
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 6:11 AM UTC
I sold her a bag of dreams
It had a hole at the bottom
She gave me winter and spring
Summer and most of her Autumn
I left her not looking back
Standing there
Clutching tightly
An earful of sorry stories
And a bottle of Bacardi
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 4:21 PM UTC