"perambulate" poems
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”
(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
*“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”*
(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”
Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?
Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…
Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances
(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated
Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
chilling, careless smile,
your eyes perambulate the
caverns of my soul
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
#perambulate
*pəˈrambjʊleɪt
verb
walk or travel through a place*.
side by side we sit and wait
the loop of life decides our fate
i glance right over
your eyes are glazed
the thought of leaving etched on your face
i feel a choke ride up my lungs
perhaps it’s best
we've left some songs unsung
my love for you
is known by few
for it resonates deep within me
instinctive and never ending
when i think it’s nearly time
you look at me and stop the chime
i see a smile upon your face
and forget these final hours we race
your smile is pure, it’s reassuring
almost takes away this reality
almost
alas, it remains enduring.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
Wishing your hands might fuse with my *******
and that your phallus,
flaccid,
-just the way I like to taste it more-
may set in my mouth its lightest traces,
may reborn,
helped by saliva, which is full of poems,
and then you ***
and we both become some crude socialists, or communists, or wherever you like the most.
Then you take my red ***** as your communist flag, and recite your manifest before it.
And then my nails painted with desire, dovetail with your left arm,
-tattooed of what your soul unvoiced-
and become draw a turquoise butterfly,
emulating me,
and then, an ****** beyond re-surge,
that will go from sadism to communism,
and from metamorphosis to ******
and if while I write you this,
my *** is getting wet,
little by little,
getting full of my sacred elixir
–according to your mouth-
perambulate my ******
-self-possessed and palpitating-
and if my mind doesn’t do anything else but imagining you,
raining white over my shoulders,
and my back,
and my hair,
and nothing matters then,
because it’s voluntary retention, and your ******* friend Marx is next to you,
and not me,
that I’m just listening arias,
and smoke,
slowly smoke,
towards your savage, flaccid, tasty *** always present in my mind,
and my lonely ***
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
roads once
traveled so frequently
lay empty
in the midnight scene
winds
of unknown lands
once swept
through once
fufilled hearts
exotic creatures
perambulate hearts
of the weary
succulent leaves
rustle gently-
perusing untimely
futures
the road stretches on
under
the expectant gaze
of the scolding sun
(b.d.s.)
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
Before the coma of wings and football,
invades my nation's soul.
by the East River will I perambulate
each figure on the walk drawn, that is me,
chatting to the gulls re the river's latest delicacies,
praying the bicyclists, on my body, have mercies,
but I will all the while be silently recording poems,
to tribute the international nation of poets and poetry
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
We blew the brains out
of midnight
under a root beer sky
and followed the tawny
streetlights like a spindle on a B-side.
Ever effervescent
we tango on piano-key pavements
dancing like febrile bacchants
under a tallow moon.
And we might amble into
crepuscular philosophy
whilst alley dwellers
Do their best to stem
the global water shortage
and graffiti artists
sharpen their spray cans.
Inevitably we perambulate in to lamentations
ruminations on ************
over those we loved from afar
like jackdaws gawking at carrion
we just don’t put it in so many words.
Later we get home and ****
because once you’ve murdered midnight
and the doves come up
and dawn is born
it’s the only thing left
to
do.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.
There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.
A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.
Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.
As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
As I sit waiting in the storm,
My car buffeted by the wind
And pedestrians leaning
At impossible angles
Those few who dare
Perambulate
I watch the ferry that will
Carry me back approach
The dock at a crazy offset
With wind driven waves
Smashing in spite
Against its side,
Outrageous weather
And red travel warnings
Everywhere yet this ship
Will sail and on it will I be
With my car and with my son
Travelling anyway,
And such is my life
In many ways,
For there are many waves
Hurled against me
And the winds that set against
Are huge,
But ships are safe alongside
The Dock
And I would be if I would
But acquiesce
But ships were not built
For harbour's shelter
But rather for the open sea,
And therein lies the issue,
Ships should brave
The oceans swell
And so the same
For me
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 9:33 AM UTC
We stand on our Quarters
Larger than Life
Submitting our twenty-five cents
We lift one foot
Anticipating a walk
Towards the edge,
Towards the grooved rim of the sliver circle
We reach the edge,
Within one step, not far,
We have not the freedom to step off our Quarters
Silver stability must remain our foundation
And a retreat backwards
Makes constant cowards, so
Changing our direction is the only Truth.
Reorienting, 180 degrees, facing a new path
We have Liberty to walk again.
**** us if we don’t walk again.
But soon we have reached the other edge.
No different than the first.
It keeps us from leaping, frozen on our funds.
Yet, we also know not the deprivation
Of falling off our coins,
The black abyss.
Is True freedom Complete freedom?
It makes no difference how we walk on our Quarters,
To walk, perambulate around their boarders,
One constant remains:
We are always on the edge of change.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
We blew the brains out
of midnight
under a root beer sky
and followed the tawny
streetlights like a spindle on a B-side.
Ever effervescent
we tango on piano-key pavements
dancing like febrile bacchants
under a tallow moon.
And we might amble into
crepuscular philosophy
whilst alley dwellers
Do their best to stem
the global water shortage
and graffiti artists
sharpen their spray cans.
Inevitably we perambulate in to lamentations
ruminations on ************
over those we loved from afar
like jackdaws gawking at carrion
we just don’t put it so many words.
Later we get home and ****
because once you’ve murdered midnight
and the doves come up
and dawn is reborn
it’s the only thing left
to
do.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
Wallace Stevens
Wazzup?
With the widows and the maidens?
The name
dropping
the distancing vocabulary that
we scurry to look up
look up
train our eyes
train.
If I came into your office, in downtown
Hartford a city
I knew framed - as my father grew up in
Wethersfield always said
be careful –
downtown Hartford is
not a good place to be alone.
So I saunter, prink, and
perambulate
plonk myself
past your receptionist.
A widow?
And she’d holler:
-Mr. Wallace I asked her to stop!
And your desk which you requested almost 15 years ago
already looks out of date in too heavy oak is
caught between us, a horizontal surface filled
with paper.
There will be one sentence.
And one exclamatory remark.
-Wallace, you’re only human - you put your pants on
one leg at a time.
-No!
he says, jumping up from his desk,
-Watch!
He undoes his belt, he drops his trousers
he steps out of them –
He steps out one leg at a time.
BUT
Wallace Stevens, god bless him,
arranges his pants carefully on the floor of the
Hartford Accident
and
Indemnity Company
just so.
And grinning,
hops into both puddled legs
at the same time.
Then bends over and hoists the waistband
the belt dangling
in triumph.
Lesson learned.
Learned, schooled like
St. Ursule with her radishes
Just another lady
Just another confabulist
Just another story.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
When nations beckon
And the world refuse to reckon
Desires begin to burn
Upturning to the last one
Heart throbbing against self *******
Fighting battles along the way
Liars in exhornorated in white robes
Perambulate, freely reassuring false hope
Beggars bellowing bad breath
Living luxurious life like Lords
Tailored thought thieves take turns
Chopping cheap chops
On platinum platters
Thinkers in their infinite wisdom
Making hilarious descisions
What's there to it
In this vain world
If not, that by your greed
We should be crushed into nothingness
Then maybe our eyes will open to see
The world for its cunningness
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:33 PM UTC
You have gone far away
So silently breeze blows
And touches the horizon aimlessly.
You have gone far away from my hut
So, I don’t claim for anything anymore logically or illogically
Everything has stopped like a noiseless sea.
You have gone far away from my canvas
So, I impeded my drawings
Just perambulate in a corner of yard.
You have gone far away from my music
So, Bengals do not sing anymore.
You have gone far away from my garden
So, butterfly doesn’t fly with colourful wings
Flowers become dry and lymphatic.
Where at once was brimmed with ecstasy
Now it is a barren land.
You have gone far away
Who will hold my hand and bring me
In the yard of glory?
You have gone far away
I am crying all alone in the agony.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:33 AM UTC
What does this word mean?
I thought the word was disenfranchise.
Little did I know that is means
Depriving a person of some of the rights of citizenship
Specifically the right to Vote.
On Tuesday, November 6, 2018
All who are of proper age,
Carrying correct identification
Containing a perfect likeness of themselves
Having a legitimate street address
Arriving at the proper location
Having transportation
Or the ability to perambulate properly
May have an opportunity to express their preferences
For who will represent their
Values
Aspirations
Hope
For
America's
Future
Let's
All
Who
Qualify
Get
Out
And
Vote!!
Speak for the Voiceless
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC