"saunters" poems
sleep
it always seems to elude you
your mind, always trying to catch it as it saunters on by
but it never can, no matter what it tries
so eventually it gives up
it sits down, and doesnt even notice when sleep mosies by
and soon enough
sleep notices
and it comes by to say hello
chat with the mind
and if it feels like it, itll stay
and your mind will fall into its arms
allowing you to finally
sleep
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
"So the pen is mightier? who'da'thunk'it."
He said to the bleeding man tied down
to a messed, stained, bed.
The bound man figured,
even though he just got
to an LA plagued
by criminals, killers, and copy-cats,
that he wasn't getting out of here whole,
finally.
Holding a pen knife,
red-faced and sweating,
was his captor.
It had been a struggle
to awake and realize
who stood before him:
Quill.
The exact killer he'd been looking for.
He had heard about him in the Halo Herald,
An LA pun, it's not very popular,
but he liked the funny section.
"Are you just going to stand there?"
The bound man says, eagerly,
"Hey bud, you're the hanged man,
I'll do the talking."
"It's about time!"
"huh?"
"I'd been waiting.
heard you'd be at that
open mic. Knew you liked
the mealy type."
"Shuddup or I'll write you off."
Quill runs his pen knife over the bound man's right cheek.
"Stings a little.
Usually, I start with a rufie
and emotional damage.
But it looks like you
want to cut to the chase.
I'm a man of a similar mind.
spirit.
problem."
"Nobody's like me dude."
The bound man locks eyes with Quill.
"What're your trophies? huh?
I read you like to drain your victims,
cook'em dry.
don't you use their blood and powdered remains as ink?
Short stories or something?"
"Oh, an avid reader?! it's your lucky day:
you get to be part of the collection!"
The lamp nearby tumbles
to the floor as Quill lunges,
ready to ****
"Wait! Don't you want to know who I am!"
"Not really."
"I'm a ser-"
The sentence is finished by
nothing but the sound of blood
and air
gurgling
into places it was never meant to be
as Quill's blade passes through flesh.
"Pfft, what, you think you're special?"
Quill saunters over to the sink.
"I'd hate to waste ink.
but there'll be more.
there's always more.
isn't that right, Celine."
he says to no one
and stands there with a smirk
as if listening to her.
Oct 15, 2022
Oct 15, 2022 at 2:22 AM UTC
Puissant piquant and predatory
And observant from afar
He looks down on your slumber
Like a door that's left ajar
Plying with his manly vice
A reckless male visage
A rogue of masculine device
Seeks entrance to your mind
He saunters with a swagger
A macho savvy moxie
To personify virility's incarnate
His dream zone's metier
He sifts your ****** entourage
In search of sprawls recumbence
To tantalize climactic fervor
With lambent photic scenes
Grasping at your revelries
He spies the wanton lust
With swanky strut appealing
Your primal urge to sate
He leaves undone resistance
With innate resilience seized
The lavish wayward implications
Of unrequited livid deeds
Like passion's lurid lecheries
An insatiable torrid sooth
You wrestle with his adamance
Your carnal ecstasies revealed
You pounce on his exsertion
You splay your agile form
wriggling like a supple nymph
You accept his blatant storm
You writhe in your abandon
In a euphoric supplication
His machismo ****** enveloping
Your wildest latent needs
With no regrets or reticence
you awaken from this dream
To find yourself alone again
Like it had never been
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
Smoke signals from a silent cigarette
float to the heavens and linger
in the mucky conscience of regret
resting on the temple, my forefinger
Thumb lifted to expose
a metaphorical gun
countenance in prose
staring at a midnight sun
When will that monster again ****
another that I love,
Why did I so feel
like I could best the powers from above
I created a ghastly Adam
and I dare not create an innocent Eve
my future I cannot fathom
all time left to grieve
I will chase this gruesome snake
no matter where it slithers
across Hell's frozen lake
this calamity summons me hither
My final and only ambition
is to cast a life to silence
his and my cognition
will clash and bite in violence
I created a monster
and a monster created me
Madness! How it so saunters
and wails as if a banshee
Look over on the frozen horizon
a horrid shadow stalks
I, a fire stealing Titan
will march out to solve this paradox
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
You can never tell when/if they’re coming
will they reach/snag your sweater
with their mossy claws
and leave your body shaking/rigid in the darkness, and you
sucking/choking your own breath.
You might/never see them,
you can(t) always feel their
breath, sticky on your sweating neck/knees
as they stalk with practice/perfection,
keeping you blind/sided.
Perhaps they are circling/behind
but they still he(a)rd your dank mind and
they can taste/fear because you taste it,
acid/tar clinging to the back/tongue
clutching the roof of your mouth
s(l)eeping in(to) your lungs.
Your sense of direction(less)
lost in attempt to hang (on) tattered flesh
to remind your self of time/reality?
to wonder where/when you left you and whether
you’ll ever walk back to your body—
But this, this is yours/your mind/mindless
being surreptitiously shepherded,
invisible to your eyes/your intuition,
which seeks/bares(t) gasps of light.
Hang on to those/sustenance,
gaps in the cloth of your (de)constructed mind
that withers/shreds/hopes again
only to find claws closing closer.
Where’s your reality?
Find it/they’ll get you/they’ll have you
You’ll have you what’s the difference?
When your mind is severed from its guy wires
just as your earthquake saunters from quiver to roar
and it all (col)lapses, you swallow you
into cavernous depths where your calamities/
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
Two frowns wait for the other to speak:
One long and melancholy,
The other expectant, so fraught and weak.
The boy looks to his dog as though to his lover:
“I wish I could give you everything you wanted;
Life only interferes.”
His mate saunters on, lays low
So he fears, in resignation,
“What is it that keeps your devotion so clear?”
She, silent, in anticipation
“I do not know,” he responded. “But it is not here.”
So the blank canvas continued to be:
His mate continued sniffling unknowingly.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
Beyond the farms
of my troubled fears,
a path weaves through
icy slivers of bone,
glossed by Winter’s breath,
who sits enthroned
aside her onyx pond,
reflecting.
“The challenge you face is twofold:
confront me and confront yourself.”
A black jaguar saunters from
her ivory throne, holding
my gaze in the vice
of its assured indifference.
“That which you seek may not be found,
but earned.”
My dagger shakes,
frozen tightly in
my sweating palm.
The lush snow absorbs
the crush of my knees
as the jaguar closes.
“Your unearthed answer, clean of instinct or knowledge,
bids closer reflection.”
At arm’s length,
the jaguar stops.
“Change does not ride the wind,
for the wind has direction.”
The jaguar’s breath
warms my quivering lips,
and I exhale
my unbidden thoughts.
My eyes, still fixed in place,
are not aware
of my rising hand.
“To understand is to forgive,
and to forgive is to love.”
Her words chill the blood
pooling in my outstretched palm,
quivering closer to my host.
The ferric scent tickles its whiskers,
and the jaguar laps up my gift.
“Love, and you'll belong.”
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 12:54 PM UTC
Lazy days and choppy waves
Upon a copper sea,
A breezy, warming westerly
Is blowing down on me.
Sunlight striking wavelets
Below clouds of cotton cool
And seagulls hang in squadron lines
Aloft from oyster pool.
Road signs judder in the breeze
Ripples weave amongst long grass,
Mangroves bend in unison
And asphalt bakes in molten glass.
A parasol of brilliant blue
A picnic basket brimming high
With lemonade and icy beer
Whilst sausages and onions fry.
Two barking dogs cavort with joy
Chasing hard on sandy beach,
Leaping high in summer air
Running, fetching, ***** to each.
The lazy summer saunters in
Engulfing us with solar heat,
The pretty girls wear tiny shorts
Which breathless boys find such a treat.
Pohutukawa’s bursting forth
In waves of rich and scarlet red
Which juxtapose dark olive greens
Of leafage midst each flower bed.
A sky of brilliant powder blue
With salt spray aura in the air
As swimmers splash in gales of fun
Hot sunlight baubles kiss their hair.
Marshalg
Port Waikato beach
15 November 2011
© 2011 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
Marigold’s fever
Heavy heart griever
Saunters in the warm breeze
With an airy sundress tease
Soft and sturdy grassy patches
Where she matches
Rows of orange and yellow stashes
Named for the steady flower
With its strong stem tower
That humid air
Quite the flare for the flowers and her hair
She sits with her mind debates
Love and flowers she waits
Even on cloudy days
Without a phase
She sits there everyday
Pondering thoughts of flower devotion from mankind
Perhaps she has given up hope
There she is not known to be a good find
Her quiet place of solitude
Has left her not to be pursued
A day has come that’s too steamy
Left her not to be able to be dreamy
Quite the wind
Has taken her pink hat for a spin
She runs to retrieve as it flips
There she falls and trips
She hears a voice
That sounds like her choice
She looks up
Sees a man holding a pup
What has caught her eye that’s much too bright
She holds her hand up high in fright
There his hand meets hers
with marigolds held in golden light
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
He looks at her lying there sleeping with a smile on his face
He shuts his eyes
Opens them and sees her beckoning to him
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms and murmurs sweet nothings till she is asleep again
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again and he's still standing there watching her sleep
He watches her as she speaks so animatedly
The light from the harsh fluorescent bulb hardly diminishes the angles, the planes, the beauty of her face
He watched the pleasure in her face turns to sorrow as she recounts her troubles
And as he wished with all his might that he could take her in his arms to comfort her
He shuts his eyes
And opens them
He goes to her
Takes her in his arms
Comforts her as she cries out her anguish
He shuts his eyes
Opens them again
And he's still sitting in his seat
Watching her pour her soul out
He's standing by the door
As she bids him goodbye
She saunters over to him
Hugs him goodbye
As she walked away
He shuts his eyes
Opens them
And hurries over to her
With a whisper as soft as butterfly wings
He says "I'm in love with you"
He shuts his eyes
And opens them again
He's still standing by the door
As she hurried away to her ride
With the words still unspoken
He lay down in his bed
Thinking about the day
As he closes his eyes
He goes back to dreaming about her
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
“The Maiden”
Over her long legs,
Hips sway in a salacious manner,
As she strolls,
Past the gaggle of gentlemen,
Mustering the valor to face,
Their glances varying from curiosity,
To disgust,
Perhaps intrigue as these men,
Behold this exotic form of femininity.
An aura of mystery emanates,
From a tenderly warm demeanor,
Welcoming the viewers,
Who encounter this daughter of Aphrodite,
Capturing attention regardless of,
One’s alleged reasoning.
Intrepid knights receive the blessing,
To witness the hazel windows,
Into a maiden’s soul,
Deeply adorned with unbidden intensity,
Bestowing a small glimpse,
Into a beguiling beauty,
Mistaken as a cozening siren,
To an untrained eye.
Many chaps desire her,
Until revelations bereave these fellows,
Of security interwoven into the fabric,
Of society sewn with fine threads,
Uniting into an existence of conformity.
Some licentious men lunge,
At the maiden,
Gaping at what these fellows,
Observe as a tantalizing goddess,
Desiring to place lascivious hands,
Upon her soft skin.
Misguided stories allow life to be given,
To glaring spectators,
Spewing jeers of rancor,
Bemused as the unknown,
Deftly saunters near,
The valley of Oblivion.
Like the majestic Mona Lisa,
The maiden consists of subtle nuances,
Painting her tributes behind cryptic techniques,
Allowing one to inspect her façade,
Learning her similarities to the wind,
Feeling her spirit,
Rather than glancing upon visual proof.
The souls encountering the maiden,
Gain respite from strangling thoughts,
Placated by her light,
Revealing the contrasts,
The highlights to expose,
An extraordinary beauty,
Manifesting from genuine kindness,
Breaths of generosity,
And irrevocable love of all shades and tints,
Within a painter’s palate.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
They look at each other,
blush,
look away,
It seems to be choreographed like a dance between them
He looks at her,
She glances, giggles
He looks away
This is the infamous tango of hearts
They watch, They wait, They wonder
Until one day,
Someone makes a step that doesn't fit into the dance.
A new boy,
One who hasn't been observing their dance,
He walks up to her as she giggles
He smirks, saunters, and flirts
The dance shudders,
Stops.
Her heart has been won
He looks at her,
She glances up, meets his eyes,
Looks away.
The dance is still being performed,
This time though, it is a dance of friendship.
Of Worry
Of Desperation, both his and hers
For months he's seen her like this
The downcast look in her eye
A sudden pain when she is touched
An obvious flinch is she is so much as reached for
She comes to talk to him
They laugh
Almost like old times
Yet he can't mistake the pain in her eyes
He moves to touch her
A hand grabs her arm and jerks her away
He looks
She shakes her head
He frowns, pleads silently
She shakes her head again
He nods,
And he walks away
He looks
She is distrusting
She got out, alone,
The new boy, now old in her views comes to her
The boy is is apologetic, The boy pleads with her
She looks across the room to her boy,
Not one she's dated,
But one she shares an even more intimate relationship with
One she trusts.
This is the boy that has been with her all along,
He who danced the dance with her through it all.
The only boy that she could trust to know the steps
She needs help now, so she looks to him
He shakes his head,
Now she is the one who frowns,
He shakes his head again
And she walks away.
Away from her past
And towards her future.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
When she saunters
in a two piece bikini,
without making
any pug marks
even on soft sand,
"Which one color
adds more firepower
to her allure
enhanced figure?"
is a question
never heard aloud,
all the same,there
hovers in the thick air,
quite tangibly.
Even with all the intimate
knowledge on her at hand,
it is still too difficult
to suggest, as she moves
with the deadly confidence
of a sleek armored car,
every one that appears on
the line of fire along
the 180 degree curve
sure would go down,
that's a daily occurrence.
But if on a bikini in white
she would be seen on the beach
absolutely mysterious she looks
the decision on this is unanimous!
how does one know this?
-a stunned silence every time
happens is the clinching proof.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
When I see this
When I hear that
And when I am most hallowed out
The arrogant side of me saunters in
And quietly says, something boisterous and aloud
“Let me show you just how I can be“
It says most confidently
And yet I wonder those words
And if my arrogance also says such things to me
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
the lion tiptoes in circles around her.
her mind spins in opposite circles
while the voice in her head yells "run."
but her limbs freeze and lock into place.
she hides her breath deep in her lungs,
staring straight into the lion's eyes
hoping it won't feel the fear in the air.
each second crashes onto her shoulders,
until the lion slowly saunters away,
becoming a small shape in the distance.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 12:09 AM UTC
My time spent chasing rainbows taught me of pipe dreams,
and liars.
Dusting off the fairy dust,
I learn my limbs have life
Evolution saunters, entertaining kings
Picking fights, for the sake of the queen
Animals were made to bleed
Rainbows are made from rain.
partials of color
tend to escape
My time spent chasing rainbows, gave me bruises
cuts so deep, I never heal
there is beauty in the damaged flesh
solace in regret
Truth shines across the sky
colored in lies
I spent my time chasing rainbows, lost in the thrill
I should have spent my time admiring the still
the small feel, of standing beneath.
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
A spiteful taste of malice
Slithers across my tongue
Secrecy spoke in volumes
Before the words begun
This sensation it saunters
Into solar vacuity
Perpetrating sheer, faugh
Acts of congruency
In vain contempt I wallow
In the pillars of infamy
Whilst faint my ears waltz
To vindictive symphonies
Prolonged my strife be by humanity
Whilst I attempt to appease
As they flaunt their existence
To miscellaneous degrees
The English language resembles
Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies
In light of this hapless universe
They share an index of analogies
From behind cracked windowpanes
I peer at all that is inane
With repugnance I am slain
As I wince with disdain
I scarf reality in intervals
Reaping jagged grains of salt
Though helpless I am left
Pessimistic by default
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
NEW YORK STATE OF MIND
Walt Whitman
walks by me
somewhere in 1891
I nod to him...he nods to me
lost in himself
Clinton is being inaugurated
Brooklyn Bridge
saunters by
dressed in the summer of '67
the subway
wears its best graffiti
the music of trains and Coltrane
the Flatiron Building is jaywalking
the Empire State
chats him up
a child's hopscotch
almost washed away
a moment's masterpiece
Robert Moses
looks across Long Island
longs to build the city only he sees
he gazes into my future
I look into his past
I pass Robert Mapplethorpe
a man in a white suit
nailed to the darkness
by so many stars
an old saxophone player
busks Rogers and Hart in Central Park
"...I didn't know what time it was..."
two obese Chinese
take up most of the sidewalk
both speaking fluent - Irish
Leaves of Grass
lies scattered across the road
read now by the wind
a car caught in traffic
blares out Joel's
"New York State of Mind"
I laugh at such
a happenstance
a walk-on-part in my own movie
escaping the borders
of the body
I walk through times
I am all the times
of the world
they intersect in self
Walt and I
sitting on a park bench
waiting to go somewhere else
an 1990's rain
falls on an 1870's NY
they are beginning Brooklyn Bridge
I meet my self
coming and going
an older and a younger me
time held prisoner on the wrist
I turn and walk away
into this the newest of centuries
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
Maybe I've been out here
For close to half a year;
Or more
Adrift
Floating
If you lay on your back
(Like I have done)
You'd see that the waves
Have a pattern -
Not
Just up-and-down.
I haven't done it in a while but,
Sometimes I muster up the courage
To look into the water.
It's crystal clear usually
(My reflection is odd but endearing.)
Other times
The giant shadowy blackness
Saunters deep down in the clarity.
Out of the blue
Sometimes, I'll watch a tail fin
Circle my lifeboat.
Entranced by it's wake
I watch the sea-demon of the deep
Until it leaves.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
Death....
Death walks
on two feet
Saunters up
to you and me
Death,
Death comes
In night and day
In sun and rain
In joy and pain
Death comes for us on our day
In our way
Death....
Whisks you away
Takes you away from the pain
Death....
Whisks you away
Whispers are all that remain
Death comes in every shape
Death comes in any form
Silent as a shadow
And violent as a storm
Death...
Death crawls
on all fours
Has no mercy
for kings or ******
Death,
Death comes
For rich and poor
For saintly and sinful
Despised and adored
Death comes to all things in time
Just wait in line
Death....
Whisks you away
Takes you away from the pain
Death....
Whisks you away
Whispers are all that remain
Death comes in every shape
Death comes in any form
Silent as a shadow
And violent as a storm
Death...
Slithers
Into our hearts
And through our veins
Into our art
Death lives
Inside our souls
In all of life
It waits and grows
Death comes each and every day
Hides until it's time to play
again....
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
I feel like I'm your shepherd
Fighting off the wolf with a staff
But you
Oh you, silly sheep
Keep following the wolf
His claw curled in summoning
His howls soft and comforting
Yet they send shivers up my spine
And my blood to boil with anger
I beat the wolf round the head
Tearing his fur
I'll make him wish he were dead
For seducing my sheep with his hungry eyes
His honey gaze
His bitter glaze
I'll rip out his fur before her gets to you, my sheep
But the sheep doesn't understand me
THE WOLF IS DANGEROUS
I scream until my throat bleeds
But still
My dearest sheep tilts her head
And saunters off into the forest
Where the wolf it waiting with wet lips
Jaw twitching in anticipation
Maybe I should let you be eaten, little sheep
I could scream all I want
Show you my dead flock
But you won't listen
Maybe I'll just let you get eaten
I'm tired of saving your life
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.
The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street
slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted
morning
sunshine so thick
one feels like a fish
swimming through it.
Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle
turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.
Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."
He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street
pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false
teeth!
Then turning left into
Eccles Street
giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.
Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.
Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists
do then
poor things.
Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble
and the door will live again
some streets away again.
Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."
I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly
( Philomena her name is )
a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.
It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's
as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.
Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"
But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.
The 16th of
forever I am
"...walking through it
howsomever."
The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.
"I am, a stride of a time.
A very short space of time
through very short times of space."
A horse and cart as if
from the past
saunters by
timelessly.
Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."
My Molly who is really
a Philomena
spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert
into her
and yes she says
mmmm...yes....mmmm
Yes.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
Enter forest green and black
wherein treetops shade pathways leading back
the wind malevolent grins with mirthful eyes
a playful ill-will as cats before their mice.
It is not the fear of bitter cold
nor of darkness stories old
it is something moving in these aged trees
that brings shivers down to-- What trav'lers these?
Who walk with downcast eyes below the hidden sky
and bowing step forth unto demise.
When moon does show it's drowsy eye
and once red is blue as the night
what lurks between boughs of green and gold
has blackened heart from lies once told
saunters 'fore the wooden place
where young men end their race.
What trav'lers these who call before the fight
They- with no weapon- shout with might
To live and die in mighty storm
and one day take on heaven's form
The feared one raises head and claws
perching soundless to cause their painful fall
"Let me hear your ending call, that god or devil
may not forsake you all."
"We have no gods nor demons, no angels nor devils for us to call
for we are men of faithless earthly hall
who come to bear the earthly yoke
of life short lived and death's unrighteous stroke;"
"we walk to death and nothing after
as is custom of those with little faith
hear our cry oh merciful wraith
that we might pass under your yellow eye
as those who live and ask nought but time from life
that we may eat and drink our fill of what might be had
and drunken die before mad-ness take
and for other lives and worlds we save our fate
and we praise heavens and gods contrived in faithful tirade!"
Scrutinizing these travelers with delicate stare
the wraith had never seen such men that would enter the forest lair
With a laugh he let them pass
gods be with them and send them fast.
This last humor bore them along
to lands and drinks where their song is still sung
and the lives they lived were none too long.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC