"porters" poems
Third day of this trek descending
rapidly from cloud forest into high jungle habitat,
alive with hummingbirds and orchids,
her Q'ero porters guide the tour group
to Intipunko, "Gate of the Sun".
At 4:30 AM and 10,000 feet altitude
biting cold cracks stone, eats exposed flesh,
stealing breath as she gulps pale sunlight.
Coca leaves wadded in her cheek
forge mind against the acts of atmosphere.
A lifelong pilgrimage to this purpose,
observation of the sunrise over Machu Picchu.
The Q'ero pass around a sack of pemmican.
What meat it is, she doesn't ask.
It smells of canvas, but tastes of apricot.
Her fate entrusted to these guides,
she eats what they offer.
This Inca Trail is marked with their scent;
they follow signposts painted on thin air,
read morning mists like road maps.
They have brought her to this citadel,
Lost City of Peace and Power.
Her life for now at equinox,
shaman-guides have opened her vision
to the hitching post of the sun.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.9k
After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans
you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street
she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm
her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands
and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them
where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?
sure if you think
she'll worry
you said
be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone
ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict
and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station
and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor
and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs
Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said
the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied
and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare
Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside
there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed
and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people
and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty
and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way
and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?
just a creep
wanting a peep
you said
peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful
yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said
what then?
she asked
oh something
he oughtn't
you said
and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew
and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.6k
Lydia's father said
she could go with you
to Waterloo railway station
mind the roads though
he said(in his
sober moments
he could be quite
considerate)
and not too near
the edge
of the platform
can't have you
falling in front
of a train
so you took a bus
to Waterloo station
both sitting at the rear
of the bus
on the side seats
having paid
the conductor the fare
and sitting there
watching
the passing views
she in her pale
blue dress
her dark straight hair
pale features
thin arms and legs
you thinking
of the steam engines
the power
and the puff of smoke
grey white
and she thinking
of her big sister
coming home
in the early hours
puking in the bog
her mother giving one
hell of a loud scream
of abuse
and her father saying
O give the girl a chance
and Lydia turning over
in the double bed
dreading her sister's
arrival stinking of sick
hanging off
the side of the bed
with a bucket beside
throwing up
what was once inside
the bus arrived
and you got off
and you said
hang on to my hand
we'll cross together
and so she held
your hand
her thin bony fingers
wrapped about yours
her hand cold
thin nails chewed
got to keep an eye
on you
your old man said
you said
and you crossed
running to avoid
the rushing traffic
and once across
she said
that man next to me
on the bus
put his hand
on my thigh quickly
but then we got off
and I didn't know
what to say
she added
you should have told me
you said
she looked anxious
and bit her lip
no matter now
too late
but if you see him again
tell me
and we'll get
the ******
you said
she nodded
and so you walked
into the station
past crowds of people
and porters
pushing trolleys
of luggage or mail
by the tall copper
with hands behind
his back
and on to the platform
and took a seat together
to watch trains
and hear the sounds
and smell the acrid
smoke and engines
come and leave
sense the overpowering
sounds of released steam
and whistles blown
and flags waved
and passengers
boardings
and disembarking
and you taking
a side view of her
sitting there
anxiety
in the features
of her face
her hair straight
and well brushed
she unaware
you gazed
and took it all in
and she thinking
of her sister's moans
and occasional vomiting
and she hardly sleeping
and now here
watching trains
you beside her
in your short
sleeved jumper
and cowboy shirt
and jeans
and sniffing in
the smell of smoke
and steam
and listening
to the engines
start up
and sense
the thrill of power
in the huff and puff
and she for once
happy just being there
far from her sister's snores
and her brother's tease
here to be
with you and be
as she please.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife.
A little while, and at a leap I storm
The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,
The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
No innocent child, to think of as I near
The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.
Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick,
And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:
My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.
Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready.
But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
You carry Caesar and his fortunes--steady!
1.2k
I hear you
in the music
I see you
in designs
I smell you
in pints
I taste you
in *******
I feel you
everywhere I go.
I hear you
In all the funky jazz beats
I feel you
In the rhythm
Even when I'm dancing with other men
You never leave my side
Our bodies
Electrified
Our souls
Intertwined.
Got me mesmerized
All wrapped up
In your rap tunes
You know how they make me feel
Like I'm floating
On the *** vibes
Totally lost in our world
You understand
My art
My love
My ***
They're all the same thing, you know.
I see you
In passing
In stores
In movies
In products
In fine dining establishments
This is when I know
I know you
When I can see you in the designs
In clothing
In an artist's painting
In a pair of shoes
The colors and shapes in a tie
All the art I see
I see you.
I smell you
In spliffs
Rolled in the finest tobacco
Packed exquisitely by you
Late nights after ***
You'd roll one up for us
I'd feel like a ******* queen
In your arms
But now
I smell you in the morning
When the coffee's being made
Never have I ever
Woken up by your side
Without the boldness of your coffee
Greeting me
With your love
I taste you
In every whiskey cocktail
In every bartenders ice cubes
In every microbrew
I taste you mostly in the IPA
But some nights I taste you in porters
And chocolate beers
Most of the time
Your flavor shows up
In the finest French restaurants
That we used to adore
I'd always have my red wine
And you the whiskey.
We were in love
With each other's art
And that's when I figured out
That's all life is, is
Sharing each other's love
Through art
***
And mystery
You are my love
My past
My present
And my future
Even when you are not in my present
Or my future
You will always be with me
I will always hear you
In the music
See you
In paintings
Smell you
In spliffs
Taste you
In whiskey
and love you
Like I've never loved before.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
dilapidated memories of
porters holding luggage
pointed north, south, east, west
till above greasy lighted seas
a semblance poses:
broken windows hanging in
melancholic cadences of
dank repair and
doors of half remembered cabarets open and
close on treacherous gardens seething
tiny bones of lost dreams
a lover's whispered kiss hiding betrayal
a ballerina's advent through billowing pink clouds
a yacht moored to the docks of a mansion
slow winter sunsets kindling false yearns
naked summer skin now
expanse of cautious smiles and tender smokes
beneath the azure skies of
answered praise and fall
to each gathered day
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
The old ones seem haunted
even with ole Presidents
making their whistle-stop
campaigns.
Blacks on their exodus from the south,
streaming into them, one can visualize
with their souls and
spirits accompanying them as they seek
a decent life.
Imagine the shoeshine stands with their shoeshine “boys” and black attendants in the restrooms
which was probably as far as some of
them got.
The newsstands with their variety of
newspapers and sundries alerted
the lonely travelers to Wall Street
and elsewhere, businessmen
who would stream in with a sophistication
the common traveler feared.
The smells of leather baggage,
the cleanser that porters used
to keep the coaches clean wafted in.
The smell of cigars and wrinkles
of old men’s skin let us know
that the porters would be appearing
with a bevy of special guests.
History speaks in these stations
as well as some bus stations
around the country with their
dangerous drifters who would serial ****
and the ambitious young talents off
to the big city to seek success who we would
later never hear of.
The local Union Station in Champaign has been
turned into businesses, but I can
just see Abe Lincoln arriving
speaking from the caboose and making
his way to a horse and buggy
outside to go to the local county courthouse.
Long live ghost-filled train stations
everywhere, and don’t let us forget
the homeless and destitute street people
who need to use their restrooms and
sit down in the waiting area seats
to take a needed load off.
They’re that important in the general
pictures of things, at least to me.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
And she's gone
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marsh mellow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
That grow so incredibly high
New paper taxis appear on the shore
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
And you're gone
Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstyle
The girl with the kaleidoscope eyes
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
The forgotten essential workers
Who is seldom mention.
Who is so often belittle,
Porters,
Cooks,
Laundry workers
Dish-washers,
Elevator-repair men
Recreations,
Front Desk clerks
Certified Nurse’s Aide
Home health aide
Waiters,
God! Oh how hard we work!
Private’s aides
Now as we celebrate Juneteenth 19
Black lives matters, can we really be seen
After four hundred years of oppressions
Can we tossed back river of tears
we are in 2020 is this our commission?
We as Essential workers in your nursing homes
Being tested twice a week,
By your essential worker phlebotomist
Who puncture my vein with his cannula?
For the governor executives order
listen up you uncouth nurses who poke
The swab sticks deep into my nose.
Listen this quackery has to end!
Pandemic, politics, election strategy
We essential need more respect.
You with your white privileges, and your treats
(RE: PCR swabbing, week being on Wednesday and ends on Tuesday.
If you work 4 or more days you need to be swabbed 2x per week
In a 48hrs time frame, if not you will be taken off the schedule
You will be humiliated, said the Administrator Mr. Sal
Because he is not a babysitter there to reminds you..
Said a non- professional white privileges)
as the city navigate the pandemic
moving on to injustices of systemic racism,
poverty, militarism and
a war economy:
Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe..
I
Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 9:16 AM UTC
Lydia
pale and thin
lanky hair
lightish brown
walks with me
to see hot
steam engines
at Kings Cross
train station
her old man
grudgingly
said she could
go with me
we get on
a bus there
sitting on
a side seat
some big guy
stares at us
his deep eyes
drinks us in
then gawks at
Lydia
she blushes
looks away
I give him
my John Wayne
cowboy stare
he looks back
then away
we get off
at our stop
at Kings Cross
smell of steam
sound of trains
huff and puff
and people
rushing by
on to trains
off of trains
we both sit
on a seat
watching this
unfolding
train drama
with porters
with trolleys
and luggage
and parcels
passengers
going by
rich and poor
Lydia
beside me
wanting this
as I do
the grey smoke
rising high
to the roof
turning blue.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
So Are You A Conformer...
Or A... Gangster Shot Caller... ?
Or The Type of Fast Talker...
Whose Talk Walks With Porters...
Or In Other Words Those...
Who Serve Those On Thrones...
And DON'T Walk The Walk...
of... All Their BIG Talk... !?!
Cos' It’s Clear Now That MANY...
Like To Talk Like Their Ready...
To Make Things Unsteady...
When It Comes To Our Lives...
And These Leaders Who Lie...
And Leave People Downsized...
So Of Course Run Their Gums...
About Being... " TOUGH "...
And How They'’ll Stand Up...
To Modern Systems...
... Until Money Comes... ?!?
And Then They CONFORM...
To... Walking The Walk...
of Clowning Like MORK... !?!
Or Souls Who’ve Been BOUGHT... !!!
Now I’m NOT Gonna Lie...
l’ve Conformed In My Life...
Simply To Survive...
But NOT To Make Money...
To Live Life... CORRUPTLY...
Cos' People Act Funny...
To Run With The Chumps...
Who Run Governments...
As Well As The Punks...
Within... Entertainment... !!!
Who Conform To Do Stuff...
That Clearly Corrupts...
Just Like Our Leaders...
And The Money They Love... !!!
A Thing That Makes Some...
Embrace Taking Drugs...
And Forsake What They CLAIM...
To Behave Like A Stray...
Whose Veered Off The Straight...
To Bend Like Chicanes...
And Start To Act Strange... !?!
It’s The Way of Today...
CONFORMING Away...
To New Gender Ways...
And This New Virus Strain...
That’s Caused Many Pain...
And Forced Us To Play...
The Masking Up Game... !?!
And YES I Mean ME...
Conforming To Please...
But Mainly To FEED...
And Avoid These Police...
And Having To Pay...
A Fine Or Face Jail... !!!
Because OBVIOUSLY...
I’d Rather Be FREE...
Than Face Life In Prison...
And Being Conditioned...
By Those Who ARE Villains... !!!
So CERTAIN Conformers...
Should Cut Their Talk Shorter...
Instead of Make CLAIMS...
That REBELLIOUS Ways...
Seem To Get Locked Away...
When THEY Are The Ones...
Who’ve Let Money Become...
What CONTROLS How They Live...
So Are Quick To Submit...
To New Age Politricks’...
That Shut Down Businesses... !!!
That Right Just Like THEIRS...
Because They’ve Conformed...
To Levels of Thought...
Where Cash Is The Source...
of Talk That They Court...
That Helps Them Breathe Air... ?!?
CONFORMING To Think...
In Ways That Are Linked...
To Something That STINKS... !!!
That’s RIGHT CONFORMISTS...
Who Are Clearly TOO QUICK...
To Start RUNNING THEIR LIPS... !!!
Like A Fast Mouthed Dumb Kid...
Who Cannot Raise A Fist...
Just Like John Carlos Did... !!!
A TRUE NON-Conformist... !!!
Now I’m NOTHING Like Him... !!!
But I THINK And RESIST...
Conforming Through Scripts...
And Poems I Bring...
Cos’ I’m NOT A Performer...
A Big Money Baller...
Or Gangster Shot Caller... !!!
But I Am A STRAIGHT Talker...
Whose Really NOT DOWN With...
All These NEW AGE...
..... “ Conformers “.....
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
The nurse said
she's outside on the lawn
don't take her out
to the pub though
she's been banned
ok
you said
and trotted out
to the lawn
through the double doors
of the hospital
to where Julie
was sitting in a chair
by a white table
smoking
she was clothed
in a white dressing gown
and slippers
she sat with one leg
over the other
with one of her elbows
resting on the knee
did you bring me
any more ciggies?
she asked
when she saw you
yes
you said
and passed her the packet
you'd bought
at the railway station
thanks I am getting desperate
she said
I was on the point
of offering myself up
for a smoke earlier
but one of the porters
gave me one for nothing
cigarette that is
she said smiling
she put the packet
in the pocket
of her dressing gown
the nurse said
you'd been banned
from the pub
along the road
you said
Julie looked towards
the ward doors
which were open
to let in
the afternoon sunlight
and warmth
someone gave me a joint
and the landlord saw
and chucked us both out
and said I was banned
she inhaled deeply
on the cigarette
you saw how thin
she had become
her wrists seemed too thin
to hold her hands
she exhaled
now I can't have a drink
or **** or blow
my ****** nose
she ranted
looking at the horizon
of hospital buildings
and trees and sky
sorry about that
you said
not your fault
she said
I should have been more careful
should have said no
to a smoke of that ****
but I couldn't
she inhaled again
and you saw her thigh
where her dressing gown rose
as she moved her leg
it too had become thinner
are you eating properly?
you asked
you're becoming
like my father now
she said puffing out smoke
when he turns up
that is
you're thinner
you said
the hospital food is crap
she said
I'd rather starve
than eat some of it
she stubbed out
the cigarette ****
in an ashtray
on the table
looks like you have
you said
have you come to talk
about how thin I've become?
or to cheer me up?
to cheer you up
you said
she looked towards
the open ward doors
they've locked that cupboard
we went in last time
she said
do they suspect anything?
you asked
I guess so
she said
some of the nurses
make hints about it
call it the love room
just because they have a life
they deny me of one
you took out a cigarette
from a packet you had
in your pocket
and offered her one
and take one yourself
she lights hers
with a red lighter
then lights yours
you both sit smoking
sitting in silence
watching the smoke rise
she thinking
of another place to ****
you wondering how far
she'd fallen
from her middle class home
through drugs at some party
and the long ride down
the slippery slope
she thinking of no ***
no ***** no dope.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Paddington
train station
is busy
Lydia
and I walk
through the crowds
of people
passengers
and porters
with trolleys
and voices
calling out
about trains
smell of trains
smell of steam
of people
keep with me
I tell her
so she grabs
hold of me
by the hand
and we swim
through people
they pass us
or swim by
us quickly
hers hand's warm
inside mine
me thinking
us 2 kids
aged just 9
swimming through
this vast sea
of bodies
and their smells
high perfumes
or B.O.
over there
I tell her
on that seat
so we rush
to a long
wooden bench
and sit down
studying
the people
passing by
either way
whistles blown
loud voices
trains shushing
puffs of steam
and her hand
still in mine
holding on
her green dress
slight fading
her white socks
I notice
have holes in
brown shoes
have scuff marks
it's lovely
seeing trains
she tells me
all the steam
and the smell
and the sounds
yes it is
I agree
I tell her
and we sit
as the train
shushes loud
and pushes out
a monster
of blackness
the steam train
from the long
wide platform
out of sight
like some large
dark phantom
of the night.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
In dark dreams
I walk again
those empty
hospital corridors
with their dull lights
and smell of disinfect
and death
in those dreams
I look for you again
my son
passing by
the blanks faces
of others
looking at
their eyes
for glimpses of life
or concern
or such
as humans
sometimes have
I go by
room after room
pass porters
pushing
the occasional trolley
by the various
side wards
passing by
the bright lights
of hospital shops
in the dream
I am hoping
to find you once more
sitting there
on the bed
your back turned
your head lowered
but this time
I am hoping
for a healthier you
my son
not one so ill
so lost
in this dream
sunlight shines
through the window
of the small ward
a bird sings
not that dull curtain
the murmur
of voices
the usual limbo like
air about the place
this time my son
I wish to find you well
looking at me
with your own
familiar smile
not that haunted
expression
and tired eyes
that draw from me
a steam
of deep felt cries.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
_Hire purchase, Hewlett-Packard, hand phones and - just maybe - Harry Potter have got nothing on Hello Poetry. A house party of honey pies, head pixies, and horizontal plotters hot piping their harmonic power from Hyde Park to Hunter’s Point, the High Plains to Himachel Pradesh. Household profilers, home porters, health practitioners and - it may be said - the odd human particulate here to engage in high-priority human performance.
P.S. Heart points and historic preservation aside, what the hoi polloi is up with those hit-by-pitch holding patterns, Eliot?_
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 2:33 AM UTC
The hustle and bustle
of people everywhere
rushing by
in suits and skirts
and some in bowler hats
some in trilbys
and some hatless
running for a train
the steam engine
letting out steam
with a sudden gush
and me and Lydia
standing back a bit
to allow it all to happen
I kept her near me
protectively
the porters
pushing trolleys
with bags and suitcases
the smell
yes the smell
of the trains
and the crowds
the sun shining shyly
through the gaps
in walls and rooftop
and sky
we both looked there
watching the steam rise
the smoke ooze out
and Lydia said
so loud
can hardly hear
and I couldn't
for a moment
then the engine stopped
and it went quieter
for a moment
and I had just begun
to say
makes you feel DEAF
the last word echoed
around the nearby
part of the station
and she laughed
and people stared at us
and one man
with a bowler hat
stared at us
and walked on with
brolley and case
and some woman
looked down
her nose at us
standing there
by the gates
waiting to get on
the platform
with our platform tickets
and the smell of the trains
seeping into our noses
and I loving it
wanting it more
the bite of it
and then
once the crowd
had gone in
the ticket collector
let us in
with a wave of his hand
and clipped our tickets
wish we could go
somewhere nice
on one of these trains
Lydia said
somewhere where
there's sunshine
and beaches and sand
and ice creams
and donkey rides
maybe one day
I said as we walked
along the platform
one day we will
you and I
and we followed
the big people
along the platform
and watched
as they got on
the train and closed
the carriage doors
and we sat on a seat
and waited
and watched
the steam rising upward
from the engine
the power
of the black engine
the driver looking out
at us
the stoker black faced
smiling
the guard waved
his green flag
and the train
huffed and puffed loudly
and he got on
and closed his door
and opened his window
on the train
and it moved
it chugged loudly
like some giant awaking
and we sat
and stared
and cheered it
on its way
that morning
that bright
sun
giving off
heat
day.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
CORTÉS
Trailblazing pioneers, God’s harbingers:
The shining daylight of the Renaissance
Now swiftly dissipates the blindfold gloom
Of this benighted, dark, and iron age.
And as this dawn of culture greets the globe,
Our own Castile, of all the hosts of Europe,
Emerges as its greatest modern power.
If we receive the bounty of these lands,
So must we bear our duty to convert,
And shall redeem these hell-bound debutantes.
Coincidence?- That as the graceless Moors
Were drubbed and shunted from our Christian sands,
And in the very year our spiring cross
Eclipsed that toenail paring of a moon-
That new horizons opened in the west?
Do you not feel, my fresh adventurers,
That you are precious to the Lord, and chosen?
Strike sail! Exit.
ALVARADO You heard the captain. Up and at ‘em.
You porters, lash the tents to tame these winds.
The horsemen will untwine the provender. Exit Garrido.
SANDOVAL
The women must find tinder, turf, and fuel.
The sun is down. We race against the dusk. Exit María.
ESCUDERO
These heavy, gathering clouds have opened up,
And threaten to bestow unwanted gifts.
DÍAZ
It is the cyclone season out at sea.
SANDOVAL
Such scuddy weather bodes a sudden turn.
ALVARADO
Let’s hustle then to fumble up a camp,
And save our “oo-” and “ahh”ing for the dawn.
Exit all but Olmedo.
OLMEDO
Thus shall the ardent lights of Europe come,
And pour upon these newfound neophytes.
But will they be enlightening Catholic lamps,
Or a consuming fire to destroy them? Exit.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
We've been maids.
We've been butlers.
We've been porters.
We also been called some of the very best lovers.
That's us.
We've been called this.
We've been called that.
We've been called many things.
That's us.
Until you tag us with the wrong slogan of words.
We've been preacher.
We've been teacher.
We've been part of legislatures.
That's us.
We have partake in various military wars.
Without credit sometimes been afforded to us.
We've been judged.
We've been slaves.
We've been taught several trades.
And fought many struggles along the way.
That's us.
To us , there's so much more.
Somethings, we never thought was possible.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
john porker was a friendly man who was being tortured by voices of his youth
like his mates would say, trying to be a young dude, when he was trying to live his life
and his father was a very strict person who wanted him to be an adult at the age of 8
john hated it, but the young dudes also wanted john to be an adult as well, and if he doesn’t
they will come and bash him up, john said, you just try and bash me up, if you do, you’ll be fucken toast
tomorrow morning, the young dudes said ok, but be careful or we’ll bash you.
this made the porters very angry, which made them want to wrap john up in cotton wool, which john hated
john went through his life going through stage after stage, which forced him to break the cotton wool and
attempt to argue with or bash his parents, saying he can look after himself and his father said, we are doing
this cause we love you, john, john threw his fist at his parents saying i can look after myself, really i can
and then told his dad we better stay away from you, for you are an aids carrier and this made mrs parker
very very concerned for her family’s well being, saying oh no, our special little guy is having a few problems
we must help him, and his father said, let him help himself, he thinks we hate him, and john said leave me alone
i really do hate you protecting me because i can look after myself, mr parker said, you are a fool john, you really are such a fool
and john told mr parker to **** OFF, mr parker slapped john across his face saying, john, you are a flaming fool
and then john got up and brought his father to the garage and banged the door on his fathers head, and his father said
be careful, you realty hurt your daddy, john ran up to his room and slammed the door very hard and his father followed
him and when he got to the door, he knocked on the door very hard, but john said, go away you great big old fogie
and mr parker went for a walk to escape this whole mess john is putting on him, and all the outside hooligans said to john
your father is like us, now man, you’re not, so stay in your room, you see mr parker got home in 1 hour and john started
up again, and was sent to his room, what are the parkers going to do with john, dunno mate!, these fights happened every
time mr parker tried to discipline him, it’s hard to medicate him, because john is very violent, he said to his dad, i want to
stab you in the back, but the big question is, where’s the knife.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
TEUHTLILLI
Then down to brass tacks: These wan wanderers
Indeed match those who skimmed our shores last year.
See- Here’s my schoolyard scribbling of their looks:
MOTECUHZOMA
What are these? Iron pipes on lumbering wheels?
TEUHTLILLI
A roaring, dragon-mouthed machine of war,
Whose entrails discharge hails of shooting stars.
When leveled at a mountain’s rocky crags,
The cliff face cracked, disgorging its rich veins,
Then, splintered into chips a knotted pine.
Their porters picked their teeth with the remains,
Like sullied spirits in a sulfurous haze.
MOTECUHZOMA
What is this shambling menagerie?
TEUHTLILLI
Some over-magnifying strain of hound,
Whose urine-yellow eyes flash sparks of flame,
And lolling tongues lob down to glut for blood.
MOTECUHZOMA
And these? Some hybrid hash of man and stag?
TEUHTLILLI
No, sire, but merely stilted, toothy does
That suffer men to play at pick-a-back.
Their plate-wide hooves dig wells at each impress,
And lofty eyes peep over the city walls.
MOTECUHZOMA
What is their destination?
TEUHTLILLI Here, my lord.
They’re full of inquiries, but send you gifts:
These chokers of green glass- Quite lovely things.
MOTECUHZOMA
What is the subject of their questions?
TEUHTLILLI You, my lord.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
The old ones seem haunted
even with ole Presidents
making their whistle-stop campaigns.
Blacks on their exodus from the south,
streaming into them, one can visualize
with their souls and
spirits accompanying them as they seek
a decent life.
Imagine the shoeshine stands with their shoeshine “boys” and black attendants in the restrooms
which was probably as far as some of
them got.
The newsstands with their variety of
newspapers and sundries alerted
the lonely travelers to Wall Street
and elsewhere, businessmen
who would stream in with a sophistication
the common traveler feared.
The smells of leather baggage,
the cleanser that porters used
to keep the coaches clean wafted in.
The smell of cigars and wrinkles
of old men’s skin let us know
that the porters would be appearing
with a bevy of special guests.
History speaks in these stations
as well as some bus stations
around the country with their
dangerous drifters who would serial ****
and the ambitious young talents off
to the big city to seek success who we would
later never hear of.
The local Union Station in Champaign has been
turned into businesses, but I can
just see Abe Lincoln arriving
speaking from the caboose and making
his way to a horse and buggy
outside to go to the local county courthouse.
Long live ghost-filled train stations
everywhere, and don’t let us forget
the homeless and destitute street people
who need to use their restrooms and
sit down in the waiting area seats
to take a needed load off.
They’re that important in the general
pictures of things, at least to me.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
Travelers knew the destination,
Porters knew the way,
Explorers knew the pain,
And here we are, jolly l-a-y-m-e-n
We know the story!
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 10:41 PM UTC
Frosty stares match withered trees; fallen leaves
deck cobbled floors and faces. Coffee cups
lick fur-lined fingers, shirking morning freeze.
The wooden gala poignant porters sup
their taste of morning revel. Flocking geese
set down to bristle 'gainst stone steps. Scattered
voices pool by slumbering streams, each fleece
a dot of pride and presence. The battered
boats are drawn out from their silent dreaming,
lined along the cusp; left to bob. Voyagers
teeming take their seat 'midst shivers; scheming
paddles mutter threats in slurful rages.
The coldest figure takes to stand with gun,
takes aim, takes breath, McHammering fun.
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC