"runways" poems
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F
~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green
it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual
"record breaking warmth"
yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen
traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived
so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day
"record breaking warmth"
for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night
indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
I've always wanted to know how it feels to be a flame, or a dime.
I've seen people looking like they were born in perfection, with no regrets about their reflections. And looks were never a lesson they had to learn.
I've always wanted to know how it feels to be a flame, or a dime.
I've seen them smile with a perfect smile, with faces clear from lines. No scars, cause they look like stars.
I've always wanted to know how it feels to be a flame, or a dime.
I mean, looking so pretty and you do it so effortlessly and every second person throws a flirt, just to see if they could be with thee.
I've always wanted to know how it feels to be a flame, or a dime.
When you put on pajamas and still look like a runway model, while other run away from run ways cause they aren't model enough for runways.
I've always wanted to know how it feels to be a flame, or a dime.
I guess it feels like perfection cause you're in love with your reflection and you get compliments every second.
I've always wanted to know what it feels like to be a flame, or a dime.
I guess I'll never know.
Cause that's just how things go.
Looks aren't for us all.
Just for you, and your all.
You look beautiful.
I noticed that perfection fell for your reflection. I hope that was the right decision.
I hope your voice, personality and heart are just as beautiful.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
imagination
my only currency
in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
february-white
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light
but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens
in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess
I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls
I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
oh how we worship the pretty people
despite them being the source of so much evil
and lust to be just like them
we find so much ******** believable and think each of them a gem
the glamorous, the beautiful, the ****
"did you see the new tweet? after the show I hope they text me!"
we follow them through the movies into their church steeples
hollywood and all it's heights of it's anointed peoples
the magazines are their bibles and we hold none of them liable
for the lies they've told or the lives they ruin being unreliable
with every story they're spinning
they want us to believe they're "winning"
marriage, divorce, wife number three
new baby carriage, move to the golf course, life under palm trees
remain calm and know things are always ok if you can sing and be pretty
I pity the soulless with hot faces, no social graces but lots of *** in the city
and we love their scandals we can't get enough
every news stand proving america has more than a crush
on the movie stars, on the models, on their cars, on the rush
of thinking we could be them if we just got a new nose and a tuck
who put Brangelina's kids' new brother on every magazine cover
but never the military heroes who live to protect you while they duck for cover?
**** the sheep who keep the weakness in our families
who want the news filled with the new runways fashion and grammys
instead of the problems that need solutions and what real life should mean
we need action and my reaction is to lift the small faction of thinkers up to be seen
we need a cause to cut loose the famous like weights and hate their **********
ignore the models, shun the actors, pay the teachers, appreciate the surgeons
being pretty is a gift not a skill
being hot isn't exactly curing cancer or healing the ill
but we still want what we can't have, much worse than reality
another prada handbag under the disposable christmas tree
them or us, I don't know what's a worse diversion
I guess I'm just not pretty enough to be a "real" person
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
my thoughts are paper planes
that don't seem to see the runways that i drew
on the blank sheets in front of me.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
Oh such lonesome lives in the west
When the sunshine stings bleary eyes
and telephones receive no calls
How does one survive in the city
When the angular buildings suppress creativity
and free-thought is despicable
See the man, laying in bed for days at a time
With ASMR videos playing on a smartphone propped against a pillow
and his arm draped over that pillow, imagining a body
Bob Ross love affair, the television drones
Each night spent alone, praying for passion, or acceptance, or anything
and joyous noise when paintbrushes glide evenly
A collective of poets, posing as one man
Fraudulent minds, each with distinctive style
and all with crooked broken teeth
Trumpets in the jukebox, cat-calls in the world
Outside the window children are playing
and he cries, for the years are growing weary
She peels skin from her fingernails, mindless on morning commutes
He stares from bus stops, train stations and runways
and never blinking, never blinking, never blinking
The intrinsic value of repetition falling short of artistry
Given that metal machines are perpetual
and when the crow lands on fences in the morning dew,
there is no more life in Ironville, not for me, not for you
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
She wore the wild winds
Like wasps in her hair
Flinging locks furiously
Letting them settle
Wherever they will
Long and gorgeous
Raven black and full
Crushed poisonous rose petals
To further blush her bloodied lip
Knees scraped with grand adventures
Arms bruised with strange activities
Feral and fearless
Catlike climber with such feline agility
No landscape was to daunting
No night life to haunting
Just beauty and wonder
Seeing her eyes wander
Seeing each stone turned over
Seeing each sea shell collected
And carefully inspected
No tea parties
No fashion runways
No mindless musings
About prince charmings
Princesses or queens
But books and dreams
Scarlet schemes
Rivers and streams
That ran as far as she could see
She watched it all
Each daring doe that darted by
Each bird that perched or took flight
Each fish that shimmered searching nearby streams
Nature was her discovery
Life was her poetry
As the oceans battered the shores
As the tundras whitened the landscape
As the stone strewn pathways
Searched for new towns
As the mountains strained to touch the clouds
The wild wind warrior woman
Conquered it all
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Nothing lands here anymore
Except swallows and sparrows:
The fields cannot remember
The last airplane that landed
On what was once an airport.
The runways have slowly yielded
Inch by inch, every corner,
To hungry weeds and silent woods;
The tufts of coarse September grass
Have reclaimed most of the land.
The wind blows through the wild grass.
Twittering larks have replaced
The cough of busy engines;
Only wild flowers and prickly weeds
Bear testimony to this change.
In the overgrown sal thickets
An owl proclaims what is obvious:
Nothing really was meant to last.
In the end there’s always change.
And that is fair compensation.
Diptesh Ghosh
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
To the models on runways, ribs protruding, who walk the plank to only stop, pose, and turn away, remember, it's survival of the fittest,
To that cancer patient, who's dream is to someday regain the everyday feeling of their own hair against their warm hand, remember, it's survival of the fittest,
To the back alley junkies, who are stuck in the closing hole of their own personal hell, arms stretched, hands open, screaming for help, remember, it's survival of the fittest,
To the rural women of the world, who know someday they will leave and find dreams in the big city, only to miss their home more than ever, remember, it's survival of the fittest,
To the mom's working two jobs, plus graveyard shifts, just to put food on the table and keep the lights on, remember, it's survival of the fittest,
They put us in different boxes, daring us to break out, daring us to stand up, daring us to do something about it!
But to the boy who's running from his fears just so that he can chase his dreams, remember Booboo, it's survival of the fittest...
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
The 787 Dreamliners
tickets sold but not going
Would you really get aboard
a plane whose name is "Boing"?
Because of counterfeit parts
There are no Dreamliner flights
There is also a new rumour
That the crew is scared of heights
There are only a few airports
Where the Dreamliner resides
The rest have too short runways
Though they all are extra wide
I am sure that in the future
They will resolve the growing pains
And that the Boeing 787
Will fly high above the "planes"
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
My love like a lone penny in the street,
Fell far from your wallet, claiming no trust.
Sitting idle where cement runways meet,
Black copper stained by love's untimely rust.
My love like the paper of yesterday,
Read over and then thrown away quick.
This torture you have given me to weigh,
Could make even the invincible sick.
My love like a needle of addiction,
Clawing at the vein of your youthful grace.
Mind and soul in a bold contradiction.
A hunger that no mere pill can erase.
My love like a burning candle in night.
My love denied by your ignorant sight.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
Up and down strange alleyways,
We ride our bike into fences,
knocking over garbage bins,
spilling out all pretences.
Look at the side of my face as I speak,
my mouthed syllables’ suit.
Recognize the shapes I am known to make,
hear my clubs on mute.
Short runways are carpeted tarmacs,
take offs for toy planes.
Neon flags guiding us to square landing strips,
ignoring shin splints and ankle strains.
It's much too late again,
I'm in the bathroom practicing ****** expressions,
locking them into muscle memory
for my future confessions.
Let’s repeat the same mistakes,
until we have them perfected.
We’ll loop our lives,
what's not a refrain will be rejected.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Having borne witness to the attachment of wires around lunar geographical parameters, I am curious about the voltage limits of electric chicken.
In its southern-fried condition, I now draw your attention to celebratory flutterings around the Maypole whilst masticating upon ancient crop circles.
Apollo may be affiliated with Grecian mythological ancestry, but I have found harmony within the branches of dendrology.
As the seas of our sovereign forefathers cry aloud from palaeolithic runways, a multitude of timeless deities cluck amidst the hay of eclectic Kentucky.
It is only one minute to midnight.
We must depart now.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island
This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS
Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds
Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity
I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair
Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement
Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...
That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:
*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
I mute my surroundings so I can hear myself thinking
about the birds and the bees and the beautiful things
Believing is seeing but we all wake up dreaming
so who is to say we shouldn't just believe it ...anyway?
The mistress of misery tried taking happiness from me,
but I fought her fearlessly holding on to the could-be's
forever and for always we roam airport hallways
leaving specks of what once was on carpets of used runways
now this is the next chapter,
so lets see what they're after?
were you intending to stir the *** of disaster?
or did you want the blood to pour out a little faster?
lift her hand you puppet master
pull the string that turns tears to laughter..
ashes became,
the fire that blazed
and burned the whole city
with regrets and mistakes
*Sing to me on my dying day,
a beautiful song of childish play*
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
flying into Chi-town
Altoids of various sizes
litter the scenery.
An artfully constructed
playset thrown off
by the skilled placement
of refreshing breath mints.
Maybe they’re off brand,
or perhaps ecstasy,
though I don’t see any
smiley faces or hearts.
I like to look for high school
tracks as we descend.
Forget the football fields,
they’re far less interesting.
Mostly black, though
sometimes gravel, dirt
or red and even
purple once,
though not in Chi-town.
The homestretch extending beyond
each curve;
no hurdles in sight
much less a sand pit.
A mile inland
there is some sort of water.
The body scattered
and split like some
kind of man-made accident.
shallow sand banks
invisible from the ground look
like dead whales.
floating (submersed) there
like lifeless, sandy corpses.
Maybe it’s because of my “Free ***** spree,
but I see whales.
I’ve never been to Chicago,
only in and out of the airport
and catching glimpses of what I
can see through the windows
of Midway.
My good friend has flown with
me once, but we parted at the
big city.
Have you ever wondered why
cities are built like mountains?
the tallest buildings in the
center with everything
else leading up to it?
Kinda like that Verizon commercial
with the magnet and lead…
Maybe I’ll Google it
to find an answer.
There’s a private airport a
little closer.
(Too good for Southwest to land
there). Private jets and runways
too classy to have a White
Castle across the expressway
from it.
They have cornfields.
Even closer now.
The houses larger with matching
sheds and identical roves.
Almost all have pools, makes
sense for a windy city like
Chi-town.
Some are covered and
nasty for the impending
winter. Playsets and driveways,
minimal trees.
I wonder if the children
ever get scared when
the shadow of a 700 series
darkens their windows and slides.
If they look up and feel warmth
in their Children’s Place pants,
throwing their ice cream to the
wind and catapulting into
the comfort of their father’s
arms and then
write about it 13 years
later after they get off that plane.
“Thank you for flying with us
today, please come back and
see us soon.”
A desperate cry for profit
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 5:45 AM UTC
I'm on the runway,
Taxiing as they say;
But I can't remember
If I'm coming or going;
Deporting or boarding;
Lifting off or landing.
All runways look alike,
All security checks the same;
I'll know where I'm going
When I reach the baggage claim.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
three little kids
spend every friday
after school together,
make fashion runways
out of eachother’s
building halls,
went from going
on field trips together
to each discovering life
in separate ways,
one grew more popular,
one grew more reliant
and one more in peace
with her surroundings,
how can it be that
they learn to accept
that bodies grow and
distances increase
but not that hearts change?
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 4:27 AM UTC
The walls are vibrating
with sweat pouring
my artificial heartbeat
is the recorded sounds
of feet taking flight up sidewalk runways
pouring with sweat
heart exploding
and maybe if it does
I can get something on the page
for you magnificent sons of *******
but my appetite will be vanquished
in t-minus one hour
the extended release of last nights beer
and smoke permeating through skin
blow it in the air
to show the trip wires
my desk chair dusty and lifeless for too long
“how’s the writing going, Harry?”
about as well as when poets try to be real people -
so a lot of complaining and selfish procrastination -
but my crosshairs are all aligned
trigger finger itchy
the sarcastic, ***** dropout, “just rolled out of bed”
cynical wordsmith
with a chipper chip on my shoulder
and just like lays you can’t just have one
so I’m quick to 86 any competition
who are too quick to toe over my line
you don’t wake a hibernating bear
and you certainly don’t poke the starving wolf
when the grease from last night’s dinner
coats your skin like slime
my hands are shaking
and homework is due by the start of class yesterday
But I’ll be fine, Ma
I’ve got a mouth full of big talk
and eyes full of short sighted leaps of faith
my soul blows through alleys, avenues, and storm drains
and it tastes just like little kid medicine
something artificially sweet masking the bitterness
When I was a little **** -
making dens, kicking cans, and ringing doorbells -
they told me I could be anything
except tall enough to ride all the good roller coasters
so now, I’m a carnie in a booth
getting revenge on the world
by ignoring all the kids screaming
for me to stop the ride
I’m no artist
far cry from a poet
I’m a kid, too smart for his own good
too dumb to know better
to confused to guess at the ending
of this movie
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
Separated by gravel roads
burning rubber tires
and airport runways,
I am alone.
A blue lit up screen
is not the same as
feeling your breath
on my cheek.
A gust of wind brings
the smell of pinecones
and cigarettes—
I am choking
on your memory.
I glance at a window
and I think I see your face,
shimmering, glowing,
but it’s just a reflection of what could be—
what could have been.
Misery chills my bones
and freezes my heart
but I remember porch swings
and handwritten letters,
catching snowflakes
and counting stars
and the promises we made
fills me with a glowing fire.
I remember you and I remember us,
and the ocean waves could not drown
the life we breathe into our love.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
you cannot seize to pace
when will we ever leave this place?
an aqua-free drowning
their tormenting voices in our heads;
the constant pounding.
all i want to show them,
all i want them to see
is when we're flying
oh darling
quite the flawless soul
you were truly meant to be.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
The ear,
The oil, resists
Stubborn word water
She locked her neck target
Like a missle mother
I chimed in
Like a dusty daughter
But she loaned attention
To someone further
Away I go
To ground control
So my flighty feet
Embrace the mold
Of the runways and get-a-ways
For which I've packed
Will busy mother
Want me back?
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:51 PM UTC
I think
your back still arcs
like a feather.
But I still called you *****
from time to time.
When you put your eyeliner
on, I thought of different dreary places
where darkness could reside
peacefully.
Dream catchers litter too many of the beds
we have occupied.
When I hear about your new best friend,
I want him to know that you
know how to pull teeth out with your tongue.
The creamy bowl of the clouds
laundered the sky, pulling pollution
against the washboard of our love;
and your legs were always open underneath the table,
waiting for my fingers
jaundiced by nicotine.
Sometimes u didn't know if
no
was the right word.
No
was the right word.
it would have retained
both of our
sanity's
even in vanity.
It seems that
no
is the better kind of stain
than
yes
and all of its incumbent pain.
No
would have been better
than twenty-five feet of intestines
being tugged constantly..
Better then
the peeping heart
and
broken warbles.
Better than matinees.
Better than
runways
and
leaving landing gear
on my heart.
Better than
love itself.
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Strips glazed over my kids wish list,
airline emergency runways razed
upon the rivers of Indian burial sites.
Cursed pavements of evermore, how
could we have forgotten the sacred
sanctum’s of Columbia’s yesteryear.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC