"promenading" poems
Why did she leave at a time like this?
Why does her house feel so empty?
Because it is.
How will I ever heal from this pain?
When will I -- what is that?
Is that a leaf? It's probably a leaf.
That green thing. Is that -- ?
A woman
Promenading through the trees,
With a scarf hanging down to her knees,
A handiworker's pleasant surprise,
It's one shade deeper than her eyes.
She's clutching her tote
As I try to stay afloat;
I'm drowning in this beauty.
She's gathering blackberries
And singing our tune,
The one with no words that oft' ends too soon.
I'm lying in the weeds,
Her green scarf clutched in my palms,
And it's getting easier to breathe.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
The ancient church of St James.
Lead-edged windows, each portion given stained glass faces.
Sunlight rippled on those faces, each face a tale to tell.
Sheltered from the elements, donated from above.
Safety under a covered roof of green lichen.
The bell tower shouted its cheerful peals.
Bridegroom proud. Standing in regimented battle regalia.
Epaulettes almost glowing with excitement.
Matching his shiny shoes.
As he waited for his bride that day.
To make his life complete.
He knew for now, deep in his heart.
That very soon he would depart.
Church bells rang, excitedly, as if missing every second beat.
His heart was missing more.
Glances up.
Between the external aisle, the now laying; no longer living, brothers under standing stones.
A picture of pure innocence in her ivory wedding gown.
Promenading through the church yard to catch her wanted man.
Escorted proudly by him, by the father of the bride.
Into the church they drifted upon ethereal glow.
The vicar bade them welcome.
After hymns and prayers of three.
Holy man he gave his blessings.
Pronounced them man and wife.
As the following morning sun she rose, forbade the joys of married life.
He wanted not to wake his bride.
He left just a bunch of flowers, mauve and blue, forget me nots.
In his heart he hoped he'd see her soon.
Before the wake of summer's moon.
For off to war he went.
Both knew he had to go.
Proud man departed for war, with rivers of silent eyes.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
it is high noon
and white sunlight blazes the sky
the air becoming a wall of heat
it is a miracle anything survives
at the bottom of the sky,
long blades of grass climb upwards
rustling with movement
veiling all life in shadows
mother cat is promenading
striding with babies in her belly
they push against their mother
her stomach expanding gently like a rock
somewhere beneath the canopy
a shifty dragon lies
his snarling tongue is sniffing for something alive
slowly crawling towards a dent in the grass
a newly born litter of kittens
their mother still wandering for shade
their life snuffed out before they’ve opened their eyes
do they feel the sun kiss their sleeping heads goodnight?
Jul 19, 2022
Jul 19, 2022 at 11:14 PM UTC
Sometime before dawn
You curls in my dreams
And got me smiling
Like a promenading butterfly
Who aback;sights a garden phlox
I whirl enchanting on my cot
Until I hear the **** crow
And plug the melodrama
Though I wish relentless
I wing my arms like a baby
Thinking about you
I don't know how you do that
Or does it
But it seems you're an adept
Or probably a witch
To have cast such a spell on me
Ton!Ton! I picks my cellphone
And reads your messages
Thought as much,is her;the witch
Who incessantly sparks my match-sticks
And brighten my day
But am cowed,and wholly gobbled
Whenever I reminiscence about the oratories
"Nothing lasts forever"
So now tell me!
Your days and times
The protractions of your sojourn
And let me know"Witch
Though I'm hog-tied for your premium
I'm hog-tied for your rob too
Infatuated by a witch
©Historian E.Lexano
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
We must not ignore the pachyderm in the attic.
Trying to pull knitted fabric over our visual orbs.
For I am sure, although it's home is vacant.. the electric bill must be huge!
Maybe it requires a soupçon of his own panacea?
But we all know the summation of a pair of pairs..
And will come to the realisation.. it is a cadaverous fellow promenading.
We should all indicate the direction with our index finger...
And declare.. Pachyderm!!!
*We must not ignore the elephant in the room.
Trying to pull the wool over our eyes.
For I am sure, the lights are on but no one is home!
Maybe it needs a taste of it's own medicine?
But we all know, adding two and two together...
And come to know.. he is a dead man walking.
And we should all point
And yell.. Elephant!!*
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Butterfly's searching
On the wings of an enraged wind
Within the shivering leaves of a willow tree
For her footprint
Lurking on the desert hillocks
Athirst
Around midnight, promenading lame
“Have you seen my footprint?”
Asked of every being: The butterfly
“I've seen it!”
Uttered: The scorpion
Inside the intestinal curves
In the belly of a horned viper
Was looking for you!
09/19/2014
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Welcome to the party
welcome to the show
this is for the tired beauties
promenading the watering hole
searching for another
stand in for the night
back in the darkest corners
where they lose their fight
And when the sun goes down
the feelings start to stir
another chance to redeem yourself
have you really found your cure
loneliness and desperation led you to this place
stuck in a world
where deceit is common place
Take a look in the mirror
tell me what do you see
are you proud of what looks back now
who you want it to be
wasted days and nights go by
soon turn to years
hopeful dreams and pleasantries
vanish into tears
Standing at the crossroads
of life uncertainly
past choices and decisions
stare back impassively
nothing comes easy in this life it seems
is all what appears to be
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
Secret Gardens
Made for whispers and peculiar things
Slight breeze hums over trickling waters
Vines reaching for their piece of Sun
Blooming peonies
Hushed lavender
A single auburn rose
Not afraid of different
A wooden swing hung from the lilac tree
Moving to the beat of the wind
Giggles formed from the years spent
A plutherea of delightful times
A whist is heard
A cascading leaf?
Or a faery bride
Promenading down a pebble isle?
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
A rude dawn over the city
Where Pepys once fought with his beautiful wife
After seducing whatever servant-girl chanced
To be around, where kings
First ruled from cold castles full of cockroaches,
Murderous cousins
Lurking through the baleful halls of history
Eyeing the empty throne. The stinking
River long shorn of fish sweeps elegantly before
The crimson petticoats of multiple ******
Promenading along Thames Street,
Winking at under-washed gallants.
Vauxhall gardens a pithy cavalcade of priests and doxies,
Of flower girls, flaxen haired girls selling fruit,
Anxious to reach home before the ****** hour of early
Evening when beaus gather in alley ways establishing
A testosterone gauntlet in the dust-spawned gloom.
The road to Tyburn is littered with lost hopes!
On hanging day bodies swung like debutantes dancing
To jazz tunes-
Aristocrats quartered with precision squealed like common folk,
Bleeding as much. The city watched all this
And didn’t murmur-never complained-
Smiled, as only a city can smile, at gin-drunk matrons, pie eating aldermen
And the ****** activity in street shadows by relieved young women on
VE day 1945.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
The sounds of the city
she was so young
only sixteen
walking in solitude til hell freezes over
Always, always a cigarette hanging out out of her mouth
sweet smoke just a poke
Promenading me and my shadow
Offbeat gazes
brusque antiphon
vague tracks of paces left from penitence foot prints
She wants to stupefy
she wants to feel without a hitch Numb
Emerging out of the pavements of south philadelphia a metacarpus grasps onto her oxford
Dragging her to the subways of the city
Underfoot, underground
Who’s the conductor?
Who’s driving the train of anarchy
At a screaming halt, the train stopped
the metacarpus flings her off
fall
she scrapes her knee to see she’s remaining at the same locus
Unaltered
Where’d she go, she dont’ know
Arise!
She continued to linger through the streets
Julliet wanted romeo but romeo wanted another
Lifes a toy
she desired just a boy, maybe then life would be a joy
tooth for a tooth
bleed for me
a desire to conspire, a must for a bit of lust
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
In the rain we met
On a Sunday too
A day for promenading
With a girl round Hyde Park
From nowhere you sprang
You appeared before me
Fresh faced - like the sun
Peeping through the rain clouds
Your pretty features - blonde hair
What - nineteen?
Too good for me
Yet you chose to stay
And you smiled as we walked
Laughing through the rain
As we shared my umbrella
And listened to the racists
And the Marxists,the athiests
Even the preachers too
And those who did announce
'That the end is nigh'
Your eyes sparkled
With the mirth and joy of it
To the world did we appear
Like another couple in love?
Perhaps - but then
I let you slip - I had to
And you joined the crowds on Oxford Street
And I chose to stay
With the Marxists in Hyde Park
In the rain
My love owned by another
On that Sunday afternoon.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
It was a memory of me
sitting
on a donkey,promenading
along the sandy beach,I feel sad
that yesterday is out of reach and yet
I can still touch upon
that ride along and still I see
the dripping nose of that grey donkey as I
hung on,but yesterday has gone
the donkey too and memory's no use to me or you,
still it comes,
with sherbet dips and real cap guns and I still sit
and take my ride
somewhere deep
deep down inside,
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
There are notions which prove impervious
To the forces of nature, the whims of politicians and philosophers
Perhaps even, in the final analysis, to time itself.
Tell me, what epiphany is realized
Through the parsing of prepositions from the Hebrew or Latin,
Why should we hoot and shake our fists in some battle to the death
Over some microtonal discord lurking behind a bassoon?
What is revealed in the lolling gait of the harlequinesque priest
Promenading down the aisle, incense burner clanking in time?
Observe, rather, the ancient, scarf-clad women among the muzhiks,
Bent as if entreating the very ground itself,
As they feel, smell, taste the soil,
Unearthing what peasants and saints
Believe to be the fingerprints of God,
And what is revealed to them in that rudimentary yet holy act
Is that which brings down Czar and prime minister,
That which exposes the proclamations and directives of commissars
As supercilious cant, the howling of a lost child into the wind.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC