"runaways" poems
Airports are intriguing lately.
They're your refuge.
They wake when ordinary people are in a sleepy bliss.
They hold secrets.
And runaways.
And hidden doors to the unknown.
Tender kisses.
Solemn cries.
Broken hearted lovers
No chance to say goodbye.
These airports feel things only poets seem to write down.
Emotion fills the halls.
As passengers avoid the fall..
This airport seems so lonely.
Take me with you.
Let us fly.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.
no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***
no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Serendipity.
You ******* what!
What you saying, pal?
Serendipity, oh aye, all right,
Aye, seren-fuckin-dipity; whatever!
Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino,
Look into his rheumy eyes, really look,
Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you?
Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out,
Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing,
Nothing except the rattle of change.
Tell it to the punctured ****** go on,
Cold body on a cold linoleum floor,
He can’t hear you either, maybe though,
Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life,
Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call,
‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the ****
Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars.
Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on,
Always falling; to them, falling forever,
In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death,
Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind,
Along with serendipity and bad choices.
And the young, oh they need serendipity,
Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes,
Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies,
Used and abused by those closest, the shame,
Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night,
Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison.
Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be,
Grinding machine of town-life hunting them,
Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling,
Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding,
Lapping up the young blood of runaways,
Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing.
With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide,
Dream of escape, for they all want out,
Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty,
After all, they live in a lucky ******* town,
So escape is not impossible, no,
Unlikely, yes, poor wee ********
Serendipity should shout a loud warning,
Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can,
Run for your lives, the rest of your lives,
Town-life’s grinding machine awaits,
Watches for you, so keep running,
Never stop, never look back,
Not ever, not ever,
Serendipity.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
She drives me away to a perfect getaway
She flies me to a land of runaways
She makes me want to stay
And I've got no say
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Life is a maze.
Life is a phase
Life is a craze.
Life decays
Life can amaze
Life can be full of clichés
Life filled with schooldays, holidays, long delays.
Life is a labyrinth, with a Minotaur in the shades
Life is full of constraints
So leave the maze, untangle your hair and meet me in a different cabaret, I'll be there
I'll show you how life is just one big malaise, we need to fill the maze with a blaze of glory.
After all life is a story. The ending the same, we all die, but in between, we runaways from the maze can drop the chains and create our own tales of the maze.
And those tales can be quite amazing!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
I hope you’re doing okay,
but from what I’ve heard,
I don’t think you’ll ever do well.
I heard you were wasted, puking
on *** that was shoplifted
by your friend. Your ***** smelled like
oranges and everyone took you home drunk
to your mom like it was their fault.
Because I remember when you were just cutting yourself
to escape the trauma of your mom beating you
and living with runaways. Your friends raised you,
but they’ve gone to college, and you’re left
with drunk driving drug dealing boyfriends
A couple summers ago you called me when
you lost your virginity in the bed of your
obsession’s truck and you thought you
would be pregnant and drank yourself
to sleep because you thought it was decent
birth control, even though he came on your back
didn’t see you for a couple of years and thought we lost touch
because we were broken down and giving up
and I thought if you could just find a place that didn’t
party or abuse their girlfriends that you could find
a place to be where you wouldn’t feel so numb
Way too long ago I remember stories of your friends
running away to Canada, being kidnapped
or arrested, sent to the emergency room
like when you tried to **** yourself over some boy
or because you hated your mom
or you thought you were too fat
when you’re trying to forget yourself
drinking cheap alcohol and skinny dipping
I hope that you won’t have to last as long
because you aren’t meant to be ******
intoxicated or depressed, when that’s
all you’ll ever do.
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 11:40 AM UTC
Runaways hiding in the abandoned warehouse,
Teenagers stolen, unwitting spouse,
Gangs and violence all around,
People disappearing without a sound,
Blood and drugs and stolen girlfriends,
Turf wars and kidknappings, is there no end?,
People vanish and are never found,
People hunt them down, like bloodhounds,
A world with knives at every turn,
People who live to watch things burn,
They never think about the consequences of their actions,
Just watch the news for the family's reactions,
Shoot old friends in the head because of a debt,
Slit a strangers throat because you don't like their pet,
Lock ememies in your bathroom; release them for money,
Beat them inch away from death; 'till they're crying for their mummy,
Tie a stranger to a raft and watch them drift out to sea,
When are these people going to wake up and see,
It's time gang members had an epiphany,
You can't lock people up and cover them in wee,
Karma says that bad things happen to bad people like them,
Every mean thing they've done, to them we will condemn,
Relentless bullying towards your colleagues and your peers,
You've had your brutal fun; it's the Day of the Disappeared.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
I have a purple heart
I used to have so many strings attached
I was the marionette, and you were the master
And slowly, you got your strings around my heart
I never saw you, thread in hand, approach me with such deceit
As you started to pull my new heart strings
I felt the aches as you slammed my heart against the locked door
A cell of bones and blood there to protect from an attack like this
Now trapped from within and unable to escape
The strings keep pulling and the aches never dull
I took it for a long while thinking this was affection
But effective protection would have expelled this spell from hell
Cast out witches! Burn them like they did in Salem
It’s what they deserve for the worth that they earned
I cast you down with stones in hand
Cut my heart strings thinking I would be free
After 16 months, I took a look inside my chest
My heart was gone – replaced by a smooth river stone
I saw the runaways note addressed to me
It said;
"Hey, I liked those strings. I worked so hard on them. It took me the whole 22 years we have been traveling together to create. After all, what do you know of love? You just cut away the ties you had to me. So I’m sorry, I have to go. That woman always cared about us, cared about me. And you cast her into the flames of indifference."
The epistle was signed with a purple heart
So I got my purple heart
From the heart that quit it’s job
I held the letter and began to sob
The tears smudged the ink and the letters ran together
I saw in the river of words a “P.S.”
"PS – I told you about this girl. The one you never talked to because you didn’t have the courage. I told you she was the only one I could care for."
I have a purple heart
And I have no heart at all
A girl took it, without ever knowing
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
For the first time ever; I truly do not care
if you, him, or her wished me a happy birthday;
But, I wouldn’t mind if you did. Though it is fair;
I am one of the lesser friends; I am a boring play;
A play so fake; I am of made up characters,
Sometimes I am the flattering villain in smiles,
And at times I am a copy of the Westerners,
At others, I am gullible, yet I never am;
I pretend to be; but I am miles away,
For interesting I am not; so funny at least be,
Says my brain; for maybe they will remember,
That my birthday was today; It is an endless plea:
I always remember and prepare pages of wishes,
For almost everyone, but all I get is 4 days late
One liners sent out of guilt; to stop the guilty itches,
Not out of care, love, or from genuine friendly state;
I deserve it; for again; I am merely a boring play;
A paradoxical headache of weird introverts,
And annoying extroverts; I barely even weigh,
To a normal person; I am made of endless alerts;
Alerted, focused, attentive; all on your acceptance;
I am what I feel you want me to be; a nice man,
A racist gangster, a diplomatic figure; I am resemblance,
I resemble everything I see in you and scan;
I am stardust that was never meant to shine,
I am a thread; intertwined as I feel pleases,
I am a road with temporary signs; I am grapes;
For you I squeeze myself into juice; or ferment
Into wine; I am a fake play where you write scripts,
I submit, because all I cared about is receiving,
A birthday wish. On that one day in the entire year;
I do not want even want gifts; because when you don't,
I feel like I am ceasing to exist; slowly deceasing
from everything that we were: teenagers ambitious,
WhatsApp stickers collectors, School runaways,
Kids deceiving; it feels like I am dead; for the dead
Do not receive birthday wishes; I feel peerless;
A white beans *** lidless, a body complete limbless,
A walking sickness, a moving flesh in stillness,
unpardoned by my faux and obvious silliness.
I do not care about not getting birthday wishes;
But I cannot not overthink what it means.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 4:25 PM UTC
I live in a shoe
And before you ask me any questions
Or if this a metaphor
Or try to sell me a spot in the latest **** development
Let me assure you, I most definitely live in a shoe
It is the left shoe to be exact
Worn down and some spots extra layers of duct tape
To keep out the winter cold
And when it gets icy, I have to be careful
For if I jostle it just right, the shoe can slide a couple feet
You may ask me why, when, what and how
And this is what I will say
I used to work at a school, a crossing guard in the morning
Lunch lady in the afternoon, and chaperone seeing the children off in the afternoon
And with budget cuts, my job was the first to hit the floor
And so was my pension
My retirement was limited and with no health care
It was impossible to see a doctor for my growing aches and pain
And I was left with nothing, until I came across this shoe
Abandoned and tattered, I took to fancying it up
Scrubbing it out, making it into a home
It took me a winter or two to get the insulation right
And the city has all but forgotten this area
So for now, I am safe
Before the corporate giants clamor over the countryside
Pulling up homes like weeds so they can plant their boxed in communities
I am okay in my little spot
Not long the runaways found me
In school the children always ran to me for safety, and now
Their children have found me, these lost children
We are a little family of misfits, foraging off the land
Keeping each other safe
In a world that doesn’t even care if we are alive
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 2:28 AM UTC
*Darkness covered the skies,
While my body was restless with the tides.
I tried not to wait for the sunrise,
Because, it just reminded me of your eyes.
I remember holding you in my arms,
While surrendering to the stars,
Hoping to never fall apart.
The touch of your hand with mine,
The smell of Calvin Klein,
The taste of cherry wine,
Intoxicating me inside.
I didn't see this in cards,
Or the rolling dice in our hearts.
I imagined a future,
With the definition of forever.
But, now I see-
We were never meant to be.
When tomorrow comes,
Without the taste of ***
We will find someone.
Now it is time for me to go,
And leave this pain for the runaways-
So, Goodbye, my Summer's Day!*
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
the Beats high on Benzedrine
wandering the upper west side
before there was an Upper West
Side; following the jazz to the
heat; scouting Times Square [& runaways]
for H & down to the Village; where pale
women w/ accents pick up strange
colored dudes on St. Marks Place,
dancing to hiphop; bobbysoxers
transition from Swing to Rock-and-Roll;
becoming universal Harlem hipsters
from anywhere on the globe; she,
a Japanese painter & body artist;
what bebop was to the beats; hot jazz
& jumping ***** jive, ****** & H,
***** & *** ******* **** drunk;
strung out, hitchhiking; writing poetry
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
His eyes
Pressed into her with the pull of polarity
A haunting indication of an impossibility too beautiful to protest
He looks
With a longing he has hidden deep in his sock drawer
So no one can tell him he’s wrong or irrational
A locket only to be worn round his pulsating mind’s mannequin
But she wears on her sleeve what he’s trying to leave
And dressed like a nightingale
In feathers so free
Her eyes with a fire that waves like the sea
Closer they crawl
Past night’s shadowed humans getting drunk off doubt and betting on beauty
Past the scratches on stools once straddled by sorrow
And Isolation, his lover
Who lost her last words somewhere under the covers
That they shook out in morning
To shake off the mourning
But the streets crave a sweep
For the ashes are thick and catch on their tongue
Reminding the runaways to stop feeling young
And as they both draw so near
With the friction of fear
And the whip of a wish
And a harsh hit of hope
For the call of a kiss
Her hairs stand on stilts at the nape of her neck
An impatient frenzy that’s waiting on deck
But the lights left her lonely
A bubble-bruised brain
And he left her only
The promise of pain
As he grabbed another hand and rushed out the door
She smiled a sadness that left her lips sore
And gathered her hollows
And the last of her trust
And took to the streets with the ashes and dust
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
In a street swamped by
An abundant sea of darkness
Illuminated by nothing but
The concrete glow of the moon
The shadow of an amorously dangerous man
Came into existence
His ****** aroma heavily polluted the air
With opulent seduction
Making helpless slaves of
All the women in the valley
As well as heightening
Their remaining four senses
He prances around in his
Fancy, black leather jacket
With a pocket chain
Dangling from his waist side
Jet black shades occupying
The masterpiece that is his face
He blows a royal kiss of glitter
Trailing after the runaways
A swift touch to one's forehead
And in seconds she'll be on her knees
Begging and pleading for more
Simply because she can't get enough
It's as if his body was a delectable tower
Of chocolate covered strawberries
Dipped in an ocean of the most
Exquisite tasting honey known to man
Each woman who had been cast
Under his precious spell
Was now imprisoned within
A mind controlling coma
They couldn't seem to lift their inquiring eyes
From the creamy complexion of his skin
Severe urges to kiss and **** his flesh
Possessed their bodies with great power
He lives the life that most men would **** for
With thousands of women wrapped around his finger
Fulfilling his every single wish and command
Tackling him with avalanches of never ending pleasures
In the eyes of these women
He was an icon of majestic worship
They bow down before him
Massaging his toes with kisses
Leaving trails of roses to rest at his feet
And to think this persona was conceived
From his supernaturally seductive abilities
The strangest thing about this man
Was that nobody knew of his name
Nor where his audacious soul
Had so suddenly escaped from
Only that he was unimaginably handsome
His charming hex of temptation
And superior intellect alone
Had transformed stainless virgins
Into despicable nymphomaniacs
Jeopardizing the entire female gender
With his smooth talking scandals
A luxurious craft of extravagant gold
A tragic truth yet to be told
This man was known as
The Poet *** God
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 1:40 AM UTC
Two friends, two lively runaways
Skin tinted light bulb white-
A vague starched contrast to pistachio Mays
So many tides of turquoise fears
Lave rooted feet in flight unseen thus far
In moon parade resulted earthly years
Few never landing kites are brushed against a shooting star
Wait! Now listen. There he comes.
Vein lianas pierce his pale wrists-
Pan plants steps on earthy lumps -
This straying soul the aging still resists
You may spot him in a forest
Leaving seasoned feral brae
With some berries wild in August,
Sweetening strangers' welcomed stay
"Have you seen my Darling, boys?
She wears ribbons in her hair
Darns old lovely teddy toys
Pray this life to her is fair."
"No, but say the author tells the truth
Lives your Wendy in a city
And her children know the sooth
They are little, yet so gritty"
Peter smiled :"Well, then I will bring them all
They'll attend the fairies' ball!
Now close your eyes and let us fall
If muffled in a fairy dust no harm will ever you befall
Onward, over a forgotten cave
Peter's flute in silence lays
Upward for a foggy cradle crave
Three flying figures in ablaze
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
I
Aspiring to reach the solar rabbit hole eclipse
--climbing up the well,
the photon test tube
sodden and crusted on the outside
by angsty
adults
snorting obsession
through The Manhattan Project straw.
The pirate boy wanted to be named
Skip--so determined Alice named him,
Skippy, conqueror of blueberry mucus
--he reminded her of sidewalks
she found far in the misty woods
--no one walked
the unexpected like him.
Each placement of a pore: a bat cave
a depressed skull
a hollow exploit
a lame *** joke
a mildew plop
Almost certainly this cadaver matryoshka doll
would be human by the time
the two runaways
were born again Hallelujah! The dish breaker is crowning again
back to the galleons, rotting awkward candles.
"Leave what is human in
inhumane
places." the well speaks.
Skippy tears the corners of his lips
to his ears. Alice turns her temple to the sharpest part
of the monumental
test tube
and cracks her childhood back to the bottom
--back to Euphoria. light poles open
up faces and throw their lights to the ground.
Both of the thrift store
lovers continue to climb--ripping off purchases
to the beggar's tin cup.
II
Severed hearts beat without metaphor
as the empty vessels that hold them.
Spines sing of freedom like centipedes
facing fan blades. Pirate boys mock the smoker's language
of mutiny.
Devalued skin,
dirty armor
casted,
lowered,
teased, by the cadence
of tumbling blood. Marking territories other brother's can smell
Obediently, we see what
gods are doing to them. They're paying
for drawing the different suits of God
on the cave wall. Hit jobs--vacuum spoils,
sucker punch postage stamps
--revenge from a peaceful creator
forcing the two to climb/climb/climb
back to a speck
where dandelions grow
from the revolution fetus and graphite,
& tongues, & lips, & nerves, & veins &
wolf spiders pour down/red matter clusterfucks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Dimly lit motel rooms
Dried tears of runaways on the vintage carpet floor
Emotions stain the walls like cigarette fumes
There’s a bible in the nightstand drawer
A reminder that there’s a piece of peace hidden amongst the chaos
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
I am leaving scratches on the ground; dragging
my feet: they no longer take me home
if there is one.
The tree in the backyard fell during the storm
and with it went the young years of my life
torn in half by the lightning
and took from me the shade I sought
in your hair and the thoughts they often led me in
and some belief in fantasies.
Even my dreams won't cross the threshold of the room
I confine you in; you haunt me
like homesickness and runaways.
You gave your life to the birdhouse
and waited for the wings to reveal themselves; flutter
and fly away.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
Let's steal my father's car
even though I don't have my license yet
even though you're not allowed to drive in this country.
Let's run away to a place
where your parents aren't fighting
where your mother is healthy
where my family isn't toxic
where I'm not burdened with crushing responsibilities.
Let's roam endlessly under the stars
with only the moon to keep us company;
let's escape to a place
where the cops won't pull us over
where only you and I will matter;
let's escape to a time
when you and I can happen.
Let's drive away to a place
where our laughter will resonate
for miles around;
where your face will bathe in starlight;
where we can be the only lovers left alive in the galaxy;
where your soft lips can touch mine again;
where your fingers can draw patterns all over my skin
with invisible paint;
where we can fight until we make out:
your lips
my hips
your hands
my hands;
let's run away to a place
where nothing else matters;
to a time
when we can forget about the world.
Let's escape and paint the world anew
in screaming color,
in bright lights,
in loud sounds;
let's leave all fears behind
because you've been hurt
and I've been hurt
but I've had enough of being wary,
I've had enough of guarding myself.
Let's steal my father's car
and run away together
to a time and place
when and where together exists.
I'm sick and tired of this pride,
Of building walls around us,
I don't believe in
amori vincit omnia
but maybe I can warm your heart up
and you can stitch my scars up
and maybe this will be enough.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
Where there's Stars beneath your soles
Reminder of those that made it
Such glamor n poise is thought
But it's a town of broken dreams
And where the poor sleep on stars.
Runaways, crooks, two faces
and aspired actors
All looking for their big break.
Some risk it all to come to LA,
Some don't make it n their soul
Sleeps on the stars where they're closest to their goal.
Broken city with false smiles
Where souls cost a dollar
N beauty is worth a fortune.
...............A place called Hollywood
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
When we stood by the lakes of fire
I knew trouble she had brought
she had ambitions in kind thoughts
I did pled with her, that we would be caught
We exchange a kiss or two
then on three ascended into the night sky
we twirled together in the black velvet
dancing with the stars in our eyes
Our mother and our mighty hand
she did never understand
oblivious then, knew nothing
knew nothing of what we had planned
We kept our sisterhood secret
we were runaways, you bet
and we left a little note both saying
Momma we ain't finished yet
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Weather whethers whither wow?
Picture Oregon Trail, version 2, the runaways.
A little banjo with your standstill open plain,
always waving wheatgrasses,
beckoning with wide fingertrails.
I tried to ford the river,
but my ******* oxen died.
Each breath worse than the last,
feeling filth in my bones,
dysentery behind every accidental shotgun wound.
What do you do when you know two right answers,
when everything feels correct?
Multiple choice,
multiple guess,
multiple uglies.
You touch my stereo,
volume and fingernails tune.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC