"provinces" poems
I march to a different drummer
My life it is my own
I'm an explorer of experience
That is how I'm known
I've seen snow in South Dakota
I've been on the Vegas strip
Had barbeque in Kansas
My life has been a trip
I'm a gypsy of the railways
I'm a legend in my time
I move on in a boxcar
Brother... spare a dime?
I've been through all the landlocked states
Five provinces as well
I've seen Niagara Falls all frozen
I've seen it flowing fast as well
I've had margaritas in Key West
And Bourbon in Kentucky
Craft beers out in Oregon
In my life I have been lucky
I travel on my stories
Feed myself with all my tales
I'm an explorer of experience
I'm a gypsy of the rails
I never stick around too long
I don't wear my welcome out
I come and see just what I want
That's what life is all about
I've railroad friends in Texas
Some up in BC too
We've shared drinks in San Diego
And had a great Alaskan brew
I'm not one to live by your rules
I find my rules suit me fine
I'm an explorer of experience
And I'm riding on the lines
You can find me down in Georgia
Or eating spuds in Idaho
I never know just where I'll be
Until my ride begins to go
I'm a gypsy of the railways
I'm a legend in my time
I move on in a boxcar
Brother...spare a dime?
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Volunteers, PSGs, Staffs
Executive Directors
And higher task allocators.
People pass by
Mic's were off
Facade was the banner of hope.
Voices all over the provinces
All with the same goal
Rightly urged with own reasons.
Two faces were present
Painted with grimace
Or with broaden smiles.
*The screening was stern and severe
Camera rolls on with Level 2
"Next," "Give me another song"
The voice sounds no roughs of plead
A voice pushing rivals
To their very own frontiers
I was startled
So this is how they do it
Selection, great screenings
There're expectators
There're hope hurtles
Dreams will sooner be pulled of.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Being respectful.
Keen to etiquette.
Vent humanity.
Unleash kindness.
We are all of diverse provinces,
Evade the chasm.
It's now all for one,
That we call,
Unity.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
If you want to be a true influencer
you should put in some actual work
****** the Archduke of Austria and his wife
The Duchess of Hohenberg
Gavrilo Princip did not have many followers
He did not have any discount codes for his online store
He had a simple dream to break off Austria-Hungary's South Slav provinces so they could be combined into a Yugoslavia, and instead he started a world war
If you want to influence society
for centuries to come
Stop being a coward posting vacation pics online
Go out and get yourself a gun
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely
but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create
ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly
when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^
when you understand my poems perfectly then,
*their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the* nth reinterpretation,
*a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration
some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last*
p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...
9:15am April 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
His old age fell on years of abundant harvest.
There were no earthquakes, droughts or floods.
It seemed as if the turning of the seasons gained in constancy,
Stars waxed strong and the sun increased its might.
Even in remote provinces no war was waged.
Generations grew up friendly to fellow men.
The rational nature of man was not a subject of derision.
It was bitter to say farewell to the earth so renewed.
He was envious and ashamed of his doubt,
Content that his lacerated memory would vanish with him.
Two days after his death a hurricane razed the coasts.
Smoke came from volcanoes inactive for a hundred years.
Lava sprawled over forests, vineyards, and towns.
And war began with a battle on the islands.
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When he was a youth of fifteen or twenty,
He chased a wild horse, he caught him and rode him,
He shot the white-browed mountain tiger,
He defied the yellow-bristled Horseman of Ye.
Fighting single- handed for a thousand miles,
With his naked dagger he could hold a multitude.
...Granted that the troops of China were as swift as heaven's thunder
And that Tartar soldiers perished in pitfalls fanged with iron,
General Wei Qing's victory was only a thing of chance.
And General Li Guang's thwarted effort was his fate, not his fault.
Since this man's retirement he is looking old and worn:
Experience of the world has hastened his white hairs.
Though once his quick dart never missed the right eye of a bird,
Now knotted veins and tendons make his left arm like an osier.
He is sometimes at the road-side selling melons from his garden,
He is sometimes planting willows round his hermitage.
His lonely lane is shut away by a dense grove,
His vacant window looks upon the far cold mountains
But, if he prayed, the waters would come gushing for his men
And never would he wanton his cause away with wine.
...War-clouds are spreading, under the Helan Range;
Back and forth, day and night, go feathered messages;
In the three River Provinces, the governors call young men --
And five imperial edicts have summoned the old general.
So he dusts his iron coat and shines it like snow-
Waves his dagger from its jade hilt in a dance of starry steel.
He is ready with his strong northern bow to smite the Tartar chieftain --
That never a foreign war-dress may affront the Emperor.
...There once was an aged Prefect, forgotten and far away,
Who still could manage triumph with a single stroke.
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Starting way up north from
from fair head in Antrim to
mizen head in Cork there is
not a Border Collie in the 32
counties wishing for a return
to The Troubles before the
Good Friday agreement when
meat was forbidden by the
Catholic Church because fish
is for felines and it was seen
by many canines as a blatant
act of segregation, racism and
even discrimination for which
the animal kingdom of Eire
(In the absence of a Monarch)
has been audibly vocal in all
of the four provinces, many of
the nations kennel clubs and
at last years Crufts Show in
Earls Court London, a Kerry
Blue refused to stand on the
winners podium with a Poodle
who shared first place, because
she was a vegetarian and not
at all sympathetic or supportive
to a universal diet for all breeds
on the island of Ireland.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
(Happy 150th, Canada!)
Canada Day - Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
For ’tis my outward Soul,
Viceroy to that which then to heaven being gone
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her Provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
These hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do’t; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled when they’re condemned to die.
Whate’er she meant by ‘t, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into others’ hands these relics came;
As ’twas humility
To afford to it all that a Soul can do,
So ’tis some bravery
That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
1.4k
Trees and the menace of night;
Then a long, lonely, leaden mere
Backed by a desolate fell,
As by a spectral battlement; and then,
Low-brooding, interpenetrating all,
A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky,
So beggared, so incredibly bereft
Of starlight and the song of racing worlds,
It might have bellied down upon the Void
Where as in terror Light was beginning to be.
Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night
(Night and the wretchedness of the sky)
Is it the hurry of the rain?
Or the noise of a drive of the Dead,
Streaming before the irresistible Will
Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land
Between their place and ours?
Like the forgetfulness
Of the work-a-day world made visible,
A mist falls from the melancholy sky.
A messenger from some lost and loving soul,
Hopeless, far wandered, dazed
Here in the provinces of life,
A great white moth fades miserably past.
Thro' the trees in the strange dead night,
Under the vast dead sky,
Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead
Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell,
And the unimagined vastitudes beyond.
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the door is still ajar and there is still a lamp lit
and hue spills out in a straight line
where I follow markings on the
sides of highways to forget
how I won't forget the impression
you leave on the sidewalk through
season after passage of next to
brightlit stripmalls somewhere
with snowcapped mountains
and lakes and lakes and lakes away know
I'll probably miss you
when streetlights burn down
when stoplights wear out
I'll be out on the ocean
you'll find me in
hillsides on
indian summer mornings
or in
rain flecks on train windows
winding trails around
provinces I'll
never figure out how to pronounce
you won't miss me
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
If you should ever mourn
for the trickery of distance
take heart, my clever love
for I am there.
I never left you.
Close your eyes.
Can't you feel me?
The Trans-Canada Highway winds all through your veins
and I'm travelling from limb to limb, leaving mementos in all your provinces.
Inhale, your cranium is my house.
Our mingled memory, the portraits of every hallway
reanimating CBC radio conversations of our own frequency.
Now...
Open your eyes.
They are my electricity.
You need merely to exist
to keep turning me on.
Listen to the silence, the thrum of blood in your ears
is my car pulling into our driveway-
Speak words of love, for your mouth is my bedroom-
Look closer-
And I know you will see us plainly.
We are never, ever apart.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
over the edge of the unitary verse written in the solitary confinement of the mind is where you went insane and began hallucinating the life you live today. there were flowers and knives. flowers and knives, waterfalls. countless counties all incorporated into greater provinces which collapsed into imaginary boundaries rung-up at the cash register as 'nation-states.' you waited months for nothing, only to toy with more escapist sentiment in the forked decision between reckless abandon and suicide. who are you to feel so entitled? who are you to imagine this life is something one could arrange from the silk and ore left strewn throughout the clear-cut forest of your atomic quarks or dendrites from string theory you can only create as a mental mural and never more? in the wake of your last moment in-sanity (prior to your exit from the womb) - you asked me what I meant when I was silent. I told you nothing - not as statement, but as silence - and you simply whistled and wailed in an ecstatic blend of distress and joy, happiness and sadness, elation and indifference, loathing and love - who was the angel detaching your pod from the mother-ship? you have never seen your mother from the outside before. you have only known her intimately - been a part of her. been her very soul. you have never multiplied like this before and that's what it is to know yourself. having children is your soul in transit - your soul multiplied by 2 - finally, the child gazes into your eyes and knows itself. knows who it used to be. knows it's departure is simply the addition of its perspective to the ever dividing multiverse. dust to dust, ashes to ashes one whispers upon the death bed. light to dark, something to nothing one whispers upon the death bed. the multiverse is a binary sequence of 0 and 1 in perpetuity - from birth to death to death to life to life to gone to gone to found from something to nothing to nowhere to you
reading these words
hearing them spoken
you are dreaming
you are always dreaming
you are a truth come dream and a dream come true
and you forgot. you still forget. you will never remember.
you will never remember.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With *********** privileges, their fortunes were foretold.
In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With *********** privileges, believers bore no blame.
In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With *********** privileges, such sins sustained the throne.
Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With *********** privileges, you’re free to rip and ****
We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With *********** privileges, the riffraff look alike.
One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, tit-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With *********** privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
I've been writing poems all evening.
They all come of age in my head in the span of a minute.
It all seems to easy. Are they any good?
Was Bukowski right? Should I not even try?
If I don't give it my all, my undivided attention
does it even count?
Terrible movies on a too-expensive big screen TV, sitting on a love seat like everyone's grandmother had.
This can't be a place where I can make something real.
Can I make art here?
or is it wrong?
Shouldn't I be sitting under a single lightbulb,
at a typewriter
wearing a collared shirt bought second hand?
Shouldn't I cheat on my girlfriends
and drink too much
and gamble,
Shouldn't I owe money in three different provinces to twelve different people?
Shouldn't this be torn from me? Ripped from the darkest reaches of my proverbial soul?
I don't know if I have soul. Or If I'd even want one.
What I do know I have is bills to pay tomorrow.
And a long walk to the bank.
Its half past two in the morning, and i don't have any beer worth drinking.
I've got to work on Tuesday, and I don't get enough hours.
I have nobody to talk too, and I just fought with my girlfriend.
I don't feel terrible, but I don't feel well.
My throat hurts from bad cigars
and cheap wine.
If I wasn't supposed to try
I guess this was the time.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
C'est la nuit ; la nuit noire, assoupie et profonde.
L'ombre immense élargit ses ailes sur le monde.
Dans vos joyeux palais gardés par le canon,
Dans vos lits de velours, de damas, de linon,
Sous vos chauds couvre-pieds de martres zibelines
Sous le nuage blanc des molles mousselines,
- Derrière vos rideaux qui cachent sous leurs plis
Toutes les voluptés avec tous les oublis,
Aux sons d'une fanfare amoureuse et lointaine,
Tandis qu'une veilleuse, en tremblant, ose à peine
Eclairer le plafond de pourpre et de lampas,
Vous, duc de Saint-Arnaud, vous, comte de Maupas,
Vous, sénateurs, préfets, généraux, juges, princes,
Toi, César, qu'à genoux adorent tes provinces,
Toi qui rêvas l'empire et le réalisas,
Dormez, maîtres... - Voici le jour. Debout, forçats !
Jersey, le 28 octobre 1852.
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Canada Day? Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee 1 never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, completing
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not –
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
That grandiose colossus who
Stood astride
The envious assaults of sea
(Essaying, wave by wave,
Tide by tide,
To undo him, perpetually),
Has nothing on you,
O my love
O my great idiot, who
With one foot
Caught (as it were) in the muck-trap
Of skin and bone,
Dithers with the other way out
In preposterous provinces of the madcap
Cloud-cuckoo,
Agawp at the impeccable moon.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
A dream of pitched skies.
My complexion illumined,
By nocturnal radiance of gloom,
Shined steel rays from the moon.
Creeping coastal winds on my right.
Frothing waves approaching my skin,
Sand constricting my flesh like pins,
Doomed to deep rapture, I could not win.
The shores of scorching Tripoli sands.
With Arabic fire potent of golden alchemy,
Above burning desert, under molten sea,
Lies Ottoman provinces, drowned at scree.
Were I to become a victim of Siren's call?
To sink without ship or a captain's crest,
Was a fleeting frig sailing to sea-change, lest
I collapse bellowing into Mother Earth's breast.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
Marcus' Homeland wave said the source of suffering was Mad Max's flexibility in the area of the New Museum; The world is in error, and the delight of my work be done; John. . . John, if you are a good soldier, Newly Risen Dawn is the youngest of the cereals; And in general, the shadow of the light at the end of the United States is the shadow of death; women, now totaling six, highly clothed with strength. Satan stood up, raised up for the sake of the tree of life by Irinka as a seething mass of light; the waves of the fish, as it were of the six lakes of Asia, and the black ants of Africa at Allen's service; and turning to the women with every right, that is, from his exploration of the variety of their fantasies, the abuse of drugs, and her eyes, as the source is according to Mad Max; A ****** and the toes, and mouth to mouth, mouth to mouth, and the mouth of the mouth to mouth, and speaking face to face to face, and she loveth not knoweth not; the name of the feet, and she besought the people go, that they may not merely be in one oven; and showing a red color, indeed, it is his work, all the problems of the world of the high-priest of a fever which is la-la-la; The discourse with the Holy Spirit, named Carlos, who is the fountain of bread and one from us, drunk in the night, when the weather is very clear, as in Isaiah, the Breath of Freedom! In recent years, the image is of the girl singing the song as good as the song exchange; 1 Go the Cam, she tells them! The letters speak of the world next to this world in the next case, and another voice from the prostitutes and learning their culture are the shadows of the others; The Reforms of the DEA are limited to the crowded sands of the US, which at the end of the day includes jewelry, ornaments and decorative accessories. § If it is not, as is true, the competition is in the form of the exhibition; global players, and as it were, Maecenas paying much for most of the pages, and it came to pass from Asia to Cicero, and that was the history from the common people of the mountains and the hills, to the provinces of Asia, that is all the way around the world, and they will not be in the memory after the destruction of the hill, is the plan of Haman for the city that opens onto the broad places of the Jews, who were out in the restaurants where a stranger with a very little **** teaches that the way of God into the belly is the way of destruction, but whose end, however, he will bring to pass.... for he is he who doeth, and has made the signs and wonders, and with his Aussie lass and other drugs only to be known to _him_ ...
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
To see the Big Dipper
In the prairie provinces
How clear this diamonds you be
A bright
With not light
In sight
What I night in
The bucket list
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 9:05 PM UTC
I was up early,
Put clothes on in the blue black frost,
The moment singular
As splintered light speaking indifferently
Had driven out the cold.
Listening,
Space inserted — found in breath,
Awakens gratuity
In the austere and lonely provinces.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
(Sur la prise de Maastricht.)
Sonnet.
Grand roi, Maastricht est pris, et pris en treize jours :
Ce miracle était sûr à ta haute conduite,
Et n'a rien d'étonnant que cette heureuse suite
Qui de tes grands destins enfle le juste cours.
La Hollande, qui voit du reste de ses tours
Ses amis consternés, et sa fortune en fuite,
N'aspire qu'à baiser la main qui l'a détruite,
Et fait de tes bontés son unique recours.
Une clef qu'on te rend t'ouvre quatre provinces ;
Tu ne prends qu'une place et fais trembler cent princes ;
De l'Escaut jusqu'à l'Ebre en rejaillit l'effroi.
Tout s'alarme ; et l'Empire à tel point se ménage,
Qu'à son aigle lui-même il ferme le passage
Dès que son vol jaloux ose tourner vers toi.
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