"sellers" poems
The Flower Sellers
Rushing with their bundles
The Milk Vendors
Cycling with their milk cans
The Newspaper boys
Sorting out their packets
The Morning walkers
Warming up and stretching
The Chai-walas
Pouring out their teas
The scarfed mill workers
Speeding for their shifts
The vegetable vendors
Carrying their head loads
The Suprabhatham
Flowing from a distant house
The night shift workers
Returning home.
The Municipality workers
Cleaning the streets..
*The city is waking up
Or did it ever sleep?*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.
Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.
This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware.
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.
There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
She worked in the market
She sold flowers and jewellery
but, nobody there knew her name
With fifty young vendors
Of flowers and jewellery
Each teenaged young girl looked the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
She was hitch hiking home
From the market one night
A car pulled on up for a ride
He told her he'd take her
If she needed a lift
It was cold, so the girl got inside
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
No one has seen her
She's been gone for three days
She never arrived at her home
Nobody saw him
All cars look the same
And besides he was travelling alone
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
The market still bustles
With sellers of flowers
Where everyone looks, shops or buys
But, something is missing
A young girl is gone
The girl with the smiling blue eyes
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
*Boat was ready to leave the shore
An Old man waving hands to get in fast
People come running to the boat,
The only transportation of the village
Sitting in a tea shop watching
The boat leaving with school students,working women,
Fish sellers, vegetable vendors,
Old age youths
It was raining to make it more worse
Back to home with an umbrella of palm leaves
Calling out the number of coconuts ready to pluck
A man on top of the coconut tree with his loops
Courtyard was full of blooming flowers
My favourite the jungle flame flowers
Frog hops after the raindrops
Some hot rice porridge and coconut dip
Was kept ready on the table
Drying my hair with a towel
Had my porridge watching the rain, flowers, flies
And my mother standing near me
With an innocent lovely smile !*
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
*we won't die for ideals we once held dear, we'll now simply die for the numbers we can simply keep, but when it comes to ourselves, we'll die to simply keep a mistook numbering in order to readdress the ideals that are no longer appreciated in our numbering a loss of a tiger's roar, and more the microscopic ant digestion auditory exploding into a h-bomb for man to imitate by number but no essential authority: since once mammoth the authority killed man, now some sub-insect (virus) can **** man.*
if there's a group of people
who are assumed to be possessed,
then there's a group of people
who are dis-possessed,
and there's always the middle
interval mediating sales and
necessary priesthood
the two polars never mediate,
once the priesthood used to
cradle the illiterate ones,
now the priesthood uses the literacy
of the once illiterate ones
now literate, consecrating them
with something apart from holy water,
selective reading they testified
to be as calm as a lake, but turbulent
as a river the salmon swam against
the current to spawn:
the once illiterate ones now literate
are taught a second illiteracy:
watch the television, read the best-sellers..
this second illiteracy is worse
than the original one... half of us will
be water and fat... and half of us epileptic zombies
enslaved by a television... i preferred the first
illiteracy... at least we died for love...
this second illiteracy is worth a jackal's
cry and a ******* of paedophiles.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
Wine cellars, under a blanket reading the best sellers.
A room big enough for you and your wealth.
A car as expensive as a house.
Classy lifestyle, expensive taste.
Her breath mints, taste like money.
Rich girl.
Million dollar smile with one more million every year.
I mean, Rich Girl, smile and show me your million dollar smile.
Average kid, chasing a dream.
Never known money, so he chases it blindly.
A heart full of dreams, a mind full "get rich" schemes.
Average kid, don't know wealth so he... He looks up to the wealthy hoping he'll get the chance to have a million dollar smile, with a background of only a dollar.
Average kid, born into a struggle.
Passed down from parents to heirs, every meal a blessing as the rich girl throws a stare at her salad.
Rich girl meals are fancy foods, with fancy prices.
Average kid who checks the prices for the next slice of bread.
Average kid ain't known nothing but the struggle.
Relying on the grind with a million dollar work ethic, and a $10 minimum wage.
Reached the age of independence, scraping the bottom of the barrel, for a few extra cents.
Average kid asks the rich girl for a dollar, and she say she don't have.
Meanwhile, she doesn't know what it means, not to have a dollar.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Girl, put down the pocket knife fist and pick up that pen of yours.
stop...
They aren't worth the status updates or the 140 character #hashtag
They are worth books. Trilogy novels of witty 'should have' banter and Good wins over Evil plot themes.
Rake in the millions.
Then put down the skinny jeans and wear the Tutu.
stop...
They aren't worth the clone bulimic fashion trends.
They are worth ballets. Extravagant classical shows where millions come to see. Each one hanging on you like fish hooks.
Because you got that audience hook, line, and sinker.
Then, go home.
stop...
They aren't worth the boastful air you inhale.
Exhale humility and stories about best sellers and the view from a ballet hall in Germany.
You are worth it.
You are worth the pens,
and tutus,
and a home.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
YOU gave, but will not give again
Until enough of paudeen's pence
By Biddy's halfpennies have lain
To be "some sort of evidence',
Before you'll put your guineas down,
That things it were a pride to give
Are what the blind and ignorant town
Imagines best to make it thrive.
What cared Duke Ercole, that bid
His mummers to the market-place,
What th' onion-sellers thought or did
So that his plautus set the pace
For the Italian comedies?
And Guidobaldo, when he made
That grammar school of courtesies
Where wit and beauty learned their trade
Upon Urbino's windy hill,
Had sent no runners to and fro
That he might learn the shepherds' will
And when they drove out Cosimo,
Indifferent how the rancour ran,
He gave the hours they had set free
To Michelozzo's latest plan
For the San Marco Library,
Whence turbulent Italy should draw
Delight in Art whoSe end is peace,
In logic and in natural law
By ******* at the dugs of Greece.
Your open hand but shows our loss,
For he knew better how to live.
Let paudeens play at pitch and toss,
Look up in the sun's eye and give
What the exultant heart calls good
That some new day may breed the best
Because you gave, not what they would,
But the right twigs for an eagle's nest!
December
2.2k
Somewhere near to three years old in the hot dust of another country, a strange woman comes to me.
She is not like my mother but she calls herself Mama.
My family tell me that she is my grandmother.
This does not sit well with my infant self,
I inform them quite certainly that my only granny is across the seas in her big house of roast dinners and gardening and apple picking.
That was the time when I adored her.
And I vaguely remember haribos on a bed that wasn't my own
And streets that didn't know quiet.
Loud ladies who turned their attention to me
And sellers in the roads dancing between cars and waving their goods at my mother's inherently wealthy white skin.
And there were rural parts,
Sometimes the women didn't wear tops but that didn't matter as much as people think it does
And I separated the rocks from rice with this black imposter who insisted she was my grandmother.
My parents say she would place them before me to find and present them proudly-
She wasn't so much an imposter as a stranger.
And there was a shower
Not in the village but an urban area,
Where someone left a bar of soap
That my feet were too eager to meet,
Things spiralled out of control and I was heels over head, forehead becoming closely acquainted with tiles
Dented.
And marked.
To this day that skin stain remains on my forehead but I forget where.
Time gives way to more accidents and mistakes
I wouldn't say that my visit was a mistake or a waste,
Though I only remember dubious seconds of blurry scenes and the split between reality and imagination isn't always too clean,
But it wasn't a waste.
It was the first, but more importantly, the last time I ever met
That black stranger who called herself my grandmother.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
They make their way through the crowd.
Beneath the sky amber in the last sun
the retrieved spark steers their feet
to explore the gorgeously festive town
smelling of discovery at every turn
of people and shops and sellers
and food tempting to be tasted
women too lovely not to be noticed
houses illuminated like light is free
flying as in a dream long in the coming
but arrived too glorious for any regret.
The younger when a few paces ahead
stops so the other could catch up
always remembering the six years
matter much in the count of speed.
The sky above grows older and paler
but their blistered feet feel no pain
from the four hours of rewinding years
glistening as night dew in their eyes.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
this past week the cattle sale went very well
all the vendors were keen and eager to sell
the buyers had loads of money for purchasing
they bought over six hundred cows for breeding
record sales such as this are rarely seen about here
the buyers always reckon the cattle prices appear to be dear
but the auctioneer was sweating for quite a while
he sold many pens of cattle with a beaming smile
all in all the sale day was a successful affair
everyone who attended were glad that they were there
this sale will go down in the history books for sure
cattle changed hands quite literally by the score
the next sale is scheduled for the seventh of May
and the district cattle breeders can't wait for the day
sellers will be hoping that the prices keep following an upward trend
and that there will be a goodly amount of cattle penned
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
My dreams are compact
and filled with bored accountants waiters leaving second hand shops
in fashionable post codes,
dressed like bit part actors
carrying spare hands,
gripped at the wrist,
dangling.
Their voices are a magical shrill,
a goats bleat
a synthesizesr whoop,
mesmerizing pigeons
and paper sellers
alike.
And you know how it is,
when you find you share a name
with a famous person
you look for frames of references,
points of similarities
but you find none,
only that you share the same name.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
In the market I'm a popular man.
So very nice they say
he doesn't even ask the price.
I'm the sellers' good mate
they decide the weight
or rather the mass,
So very kind they say
he's the buyer top class.
I'm the sellers' idol
the quote they call
I pay
So very good they say
he's our man every day.
They decide the rate
decide the weight
even the item
while my mind thinks of a poem.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:12 AM UTC
*They’re almost gone now a vanishing tribe
Peddlers of fresh sweets honeys from hive
Sellers of fish heads such sundries on head
Toys and bangles and blankets for bed.
Don’t see them around those struggling men
Making the choice of voice trudging the lane
Hoping to sell one piece in dream of gain
Faceless wind ringer in sun’s bite and rain.
Gone are those plaintive cries on summer noon
Raising road’s dust on trail singing the tune
Traders of trinkets girls’ ribbon hairpin
Yoyo and plastic top with endless spin.
Why the times ruined them made them a flop
Sellers travelers with head-full of shop
Sending their song of hope past locked in door
None could now fill that space nothing anymore.*
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
The festive season is here,
And shoppers busy on their feet,
Are looking for bargains
At every corner of the street.
The lantern-sellers stand,
Right outside the market square;
Trying to entice passers
To buy their curious tinsel ware.
If during this time, you chance
Upon this bustling way,
The sparkling lights and lanterns
Are sure to brighten up your day!
Some of the glittering objects,
That decorate the stalls,
Seem to mesmerize the shoppers
As they step into the malls.
Articles of myriad colours
And lanterns that disperse rainbow light
Decorate the city streets
All through the joyous night.
I rushed to the market square
To see what I should buy
And found a brilliant lantern
That caught the fancy of my eye.
I made a quick bargain
And now that lantern adorns my door,
And it really dazzles me
When it mirrors in the floor.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
A Long Long Time Ago
Came a Man without an Ego.
He would Sell Fine Lemonade.
And as Time Passed by
Many Many did accolade.
As time passed by
His clients got bored
And slowly dwindled.
So he had to offer perks
And good discounts.
Soon came many more
who would offer Lemonade and more.
The Market Place got Crowded
And Thousands also doubted.
The Original Seller
had to do something
Else would be wiped out forever.
Retorted to Brainwashing his Clients
Spreading Lies and Deceits.
Some came in his sway.
Soon many Sellers went away
And a few still decided to stay.
Now the Original Seller is still selling.
The Old Lemonade in a new way.
But is always so scared of a few.
Aware that the lemonade has to change.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
I could write best sellers
Just about you
But instead I'll just say
Thank you for the love I felt
Among the grass, under the sun, you kept
Running your fingers through my hair
And I couldn't believe it
When I could see your beautiful soul staring back at me
If I could go back to that Sunday
With the clear blue sky
And your head right next to mine
Everyone else just seems to fade away
And you can't say that it didn't mean a thing to you
*** is *** but love is gentle
And your fingers caress slowly
In my stupid head you love me
My hearts on the line, on my sleeve
My dignity is something I wonder if I can keep
You didn't have to hold me like you did.
There was nothing ****** about it.
But I know if I was anyone else
They'd be thinking the same thing.
And you cover your tracks
You take it all back
But I know what it really meant
I know how you really felt.
It's a sunny day
And I can feel my heart breaking
Thinking about how you smiled at me
Thinking about that hand in mine
Fingers intertwined
There's love in the air; you said it yourself
I felt a click, I hope you did too
Otherwise all these thoughts are moot.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
#*If you ever travel under rain dotted blue
stop at the ten mile haat.*
Sellers there are not smart
buyers don't ever bargain
strange is their dealing art
both parties feel having gained.
Small is all they have
except the smiles on the face
the little the garden has saved
is sold to fetch happiness.
There's no haggling on price
never mind if you don't buy
no price is needed to be nice
peace is just an easy try.
Small men with not much of need
who easily make you their part
an island that lies far from greed
enchants you wins your heart.
And it's not a story that I make
I happen to be there once a while
return with a bag of big take
from the village haat at ten mile.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
Dear David, you may not know me but I know you very well. Does 1957 ring a bell.
I have been given this opportunity to contact you through some sort of portal that has opened up, which allows communication to the past. For example I know your deepest secrets. I know the first girl you had a crush on, it was Andrea, do you remember her, of coarse you do. Later on in high school you had a fondness to a girl named Lisa. You were always to shy to make any approaches to these girls, but still remember them in your youth. You will grow to be a strong man and will enjoy sport and the outdoors and maybe a little to much to drink. I should know. You will graduate from college in 1979 and move away from home to seek employment that pays you well. You will meet your wife here in this new place you will call home. You will soon be a father. David things will go wrong from here. I am sorry to say. Your house will no longer be yours, you will be like an outsider your wife will seek divorce custody of your son and maintenance on top of that. Just remember although you will feel like giving up on life all you need to do is just take it day by day, you have friends to talk to they will help. Your family understand the situation. You have your job and the strongest foundation. You will fight, and you will win. David you will also meet someone new she will care for you more than anyone else has at this point in time you will have a wealth of knowledge. This wealth will be tested time and time again by the ignorant and snake oil sellers. You will have peace again once more. I am you best friend,,,,, I am you in 2013
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
*Under the banyan few bamboo stalls
Baskets of garden’s produce
Whiff of fresh fish from fishing trawls
Buyers the sellers amuse.
Brinjals and pumpkins papayas and gourds
Small catch from neighborly streams
With buy and sell exchange few words
Alike a sketch seen in dreams.
Small things small price wish don’t soar high
A few coins to relieve bowel’s pain
Will do enough to let the hopes fly
No need for too hard bargain.
Will be left behind not all will be sold
The fragrance of freshness will stale
They won’t rue hearts of true gold
Having learned this hard fact too well.
Some hours spent when shadows grow dark
Sun decides to recline in west
Wind up they all under moon’s arc
Happy souls homebound for rest.
Sighs the banyan long standing witness
Pains it the quietude of stars
Holds it through dark watches endless
Coming and going of pedlars.*
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC