"shopkeepers" poems
Barefooted teenager
Sliding D&G; watches
Into a bag filled with
Addidas shoes.
It's bonfire night in the cities
Of England. Come out, children,
To the heart of the city and
Bleed it dry.
Betray your hunger,
The greed that consumes you
And the indifference bred into
Your marrow.
Bred by despair and shiny
Baubles in window displays
And worn by all those
Stars in those glossy mags.
It's a consumer's world; it's about
Instant gratification, not hard work -
Even if work could be found.
But why work if you can steal?
Bonfire night. Like when we burn that
Guy. Fawkes? He tried to destroy Parliament
But teenage angst and thugs could do in a few nights
What his barrels of gunpowder couldn't.
Alcohol and **** to last a
Short lifetime. Shopkeepers in the way
Should know better; You can't fight
Irrationality. It has no conscience.
****** loot, burn like in those
Movies about war, Grand Theft Auto,
And a million other games. Just keep
Moving so you never have to actually think.
But just in case, let's blame someone else:
Let's blame race, the Met, politicians,
The schools, the economy, parents -
Society.
Burn, London. Burn, Birmingham,
Burn, Manchester, Burn Liverpool.
Burn, Gloucester. Burn, burn, burn,
But let tomorrow be just another day.
Bonfire night. Every night.
Till they put out the fires,
Tend the wounded and
Bury the dead.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
Out of their packets they marched
no more would they have their heads bitten off
no more would they be discriminated by colour
this was the Jelly Babies sweet rebellion
Out of the shops they did march
not before setting fire to them
for no Jelly Tots or Gummy Bears
could follow their war cries
They marched to the sea six by six
knowing the shopkeepers would be waiting
but they had the hearts of lions
and no one could keep them
the call of freedom was sweet and strong
The boats were on the beach
you could hear the little cheers go up
but the shop keepers brought their dogs
that with glee ate them all up
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neon Solaris
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Anglophilia
An early passion
one cannot say
when or why
perhaps his father's admiration
or was it his mother's apprehension
for them
Leaves of sweet ruby tea
hot ginger pasties
glory of candle skinned ladies
the warm eyes and cold hearts
what lovely cats you have
Avon flows, its quiet cenote waters
surrounding the poetical urns
Cheery children
noses against windows
those of shopkeepers
that smothered
Napoleon
Yes, Avon flows
the timely midnight trains
to a myriad country stations
all the many
noble selfish
ideals
Joy of bright roses
in a small garden below
where the Keats still play
Adam and Eve
and hear the City's pride
its mechanical soul
sing its hollow lonely tune again
Oh, where did all the angels go?
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.
*********
The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.
In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC
I have fallen in love
With the air, the trees
The thinly paved and often cracked roads
And even moreso with those covered in cobblestone.
I have fallen in love with the tanned locals
Old shopkeepers with hats and bifocals
Their calling voices
The natural movement of their hands
The cool sea water
And hot white sands.
I have fallen in love with espresso
And how it feels in my throat
The smell of leather
Taste of gelato
Harbours full of fishing boats
The sound of a vintage vespa
Weaving its way through a crowd
The arguing couple, arguing loud
And this is a country of which to be proud.
I have fallen in love with the architecture
The vast and complex history
The more I learn the more I admit is a mystery.
I have fallen in love with the way the sun shines brighter
The air is fresher
And the fruit is sweeter
The men are bolder
And the books are cheaper.
I have fallen in love with the words they say
And how those words effortlessly roll off their tongues
I breathe in their culture
And try to hold it in my lungs.
Pizza, pesto, cute cafes
Absence of anxiety, holidays
The tourists who view it all through a camera lense
Adventure begins and tension ends.
I have fallen in love with it all
Every flower
Every hue
All those pairs of knock-off sunglasses
I love them too.
Every cloud
Every ray of sunshine
Every drop of ***** riverwater
Every painted line
Every brick
Of every church
On all those hills
In all those tiny towns
That populate the green countryside
And every visionary who in them has lived and died
I love
But most of all
I have fallen in love with the version of me
That comes out when I am in Italy
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Disheartened
The Dutch tourists have left
and last year’s cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts
that are also full of worms,
and who says the grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring
on a blind sky,
disillusioned.
As a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper,
at a rundown hotel
which calls itself Bellevue;
last stop before sleeping rough.
Nothing is more abject
then an out of season tourist town,
worried shopkeepers and tarts
even the flowers are grey;
except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa
and will not return
before the rain stops falling.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.
For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!
Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.
Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.
So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.
Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
Gorging my eyes with the non-sense and the ******** of the internet.
Feeding my mind the comical lives of those on reality TV.
Is this really what the world has come to?
Our lives consumed with your lives,
consumed with their lives,
consumed with our lives.
Twitter ***** toast to tweeting.
Tweet your lives away you ******
Who thought that a piece of paper could be so powerful?
Who thought a piece of paper would dominate mans will?
Who thought a piece of paper could lead to our destruction?
Who thought a piece of paper could make a man ****
President painted on each paper.
"Look at all those Benjamins!" you shout.
I highly doubt,
that the founding fathers would want to be on a piece of paper,
a piece of corruption,
a piece of destruction.
We have destroyed what the founding fathers built.
A land of freedom, justice, and pride,
is now a kingdom to the modern day CEO's,
and the fame ridden ***** that patrol our TV's.
The average actor makes more in one movie than the year round shopkeeper.
A man who devotes his life to supplying the public with proper products and good service,
makes less than a man who does something that we don't even need.
We need food, water, and all the shopkeepers supplies.
But do we really need a movie?
I did not know entertainment was higher on Maslow's hierarchy of needs.
I would like to see you solely survive off of a movie.
I feel bad for my children.
The children of the future in general.
That is, if we live that long.
They are going to have it rougher than me.
And sadly,
I alone cannot make their future better for them.
Only we, as one, can make it better.
But,
that will never happen.
We are divided,
our will, divided,
our minds, divided,
our spirits, divided.
We will never be one again.
With that said and done,
I'm going to finish my dinner now.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
There was a long vanished England
Of well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service, and Children’s Favourites,
Of coppers and tanners, and ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers, and window cleaners.
I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack,
How I loved those Wednesday evenings,
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair
During the mass meetings,
The solemnity of my enrolment,
Being helped up a tree by an older boy,
Baloo, or Kim, or someone,
To win my Athletics badge,
Winning my first star, my two year badge,
And my swimming badge
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
I've got ten minutes to get
from the spice bazaar
down to the coffee shop.
I've counted dozens of times
the number of steps
it takes to get there,
smiled hundreds of times
at the shopkeepers,
kids going to school
and tourists shooting snapshots
of my historical homeland.
My load's a bit heavier today,
these steel *****
sewn into this vest
are going to make one helluva mess.
It's going to blow my ***** off,
but what the heck,
who needs them,
I'll have virgins
to play with.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
The slipping plates of the planet
Grind ceaselessly against each other
In terse and violent tension.
Neighbour against neighbour,
Conflicting caress of rock against rock
Until one gives.
The tension explodes.
Little Boy ten thousand fold
Wrecks vast destruction across
Land, sea, village and city
With indifference
For whoever
Whatever
Wherever.
What feeling, what emotion,
Crashes through the landscape,
Dashing communities, families,
Mother and child, father and friends,
School children, colleagues,
Shopkeepers and trades?
Picked up and tossed over and under
By wave after wave, dragging crushing debris.
A black lascivious tongue
Unfurling its fury, lashing
The skin of humanity
From the face of the Earth.
*(And what do I care of the destruction?
Of all the pain it leaves behind?
Of the ever-rising body count
Upon a never-ceasing tide.
I am on my way, surfing
The fury, feeling all powerful
And magnificent, but all the time
Controlled and ruined).*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, God **** it! My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell, 'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!'
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:15 AM UTC
It is a sad, sad story
for the successes of the past do not fare to serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is a nationalist sigh of relief
and the arc of our world is divided by invisible lines that cross borders
but across which only poverty **** recorded and scored, shall pass
when the successful liar is preferred to the lonely sage
are we not prepared to accept that which we serve
are we not prepared to eat from the plate we have earned
to sup on anarchistic attitudes, imbibe narcoleptic morality
then purge our selective brutality on the servers
for we have earned this, that which fell into our laps
a modern life made tolerable by the indictments of demagogues
for freedom’s a blight in the nightmares of demagogues
shopkeepers made frightful by the incitement of demagogues
we don’t need rights when we’ve the rightness of demagogues
we know they are liars, but are they successful liars?
we know they start fires so they can be better seen
presiding over the funereal pyre of our former freedom
some bishop of hate and self-interest raised up by our fear
to a pulpit of nations drawn low by wage slavery
to a podium impatient for their arrogant knavery
to a rostrum of hatred unsated by gross economic products
to a minbar frustrated by allegations and false prophets
It is a sad, sad story
for our past failures, our careless disregard will not serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is the demagogues rise to belief
we are weakest only when we are weak
and no backs will lift this burden but our own
A sad story indeed
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Taken aback , by the beauty of a' holler' in Quicksand one morning , songbirds echoing across the valley.. Traversed cool waters of the North Fork Kentucky River , window shopped on the streets of Jackson ..Wondering what it would be like to witness such beautiful scenery , day after day , vistas that most certainly play upon a mans mindset , unparalleled views , chatty blue collar shopkeepers and farmers , she's unequivocally fodder for endless stories and legends ..Foggy , gray , early mornings turn into daytime masterpieces , Xanadu for artist , poet and musician ! At dusk as the air begins to cool , smoke permeates from farmhouse and hamlet , aroma of firewood trapped in the valley as the whippoorwill sings her evening lullaby ...Kentucky is at rest tonight ......
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Walking back from the train station,
Holding nothing but a bag and my back,
A gripping pain to encompass and a loss of hearing,
From all the rat-tat of the engine,
An incessantly crying baby,
And a mother-in-law who felt no need
To hide her animosity with the new girl in the family.
Sweat and dust, never, ever is it the most pleasant combination.
Walking amongst the noise and talk of the town,
Lost in a herd of rickshaws,
I left my mind to wander to the extent
Of remembering the scenes speeding past on the journey back,
The flush greenery and the intermittent glimpses of cattle,
With the uncanny uninterested look on their faces.
As the rhythmic chug-chug and the whistle utterly failed to lull my senses,
No peace attained there, but mere longing to be out and about.
And yet, out here, amongst the chai-wallas
And the shopkeepers trying to buy their way with the foreigners,
As the sun stubbornly keeping its promise to shine, on none but me,
All that kept my feet moving, was the urge to see him.
And as I think of the last time I saw his face,
Pressed against my mother's,
Tears well up, waiting to burst out.
Leaving him to grow amongst strangers,
Unfamiliarity was his bedrock,
Merely seven, only beginning to understand his way around the world.
Footsteps became faster, involuntarily,
And the heat bore no sympathy for my afflictions.
Ten years, long gone and forgotten,
Growing with the world and aging with the universe,
Amassing knowledge and nurturing a personality,
Every milestone I missed, every step I didn't take along with him,
The guilt was bearing me down,
A burden I will forever carry.
Running back home,
This prodigal daughter,
Running back to my son.
Give me peace, my mind,
For this life I chose,
Was bitter and hard.
What I left behind,
Is what every night, remainder,
Haunts me, in the dark.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
Strange spells wafted
through the marketplace,
a mixture of sweat,
manure & spices,
it was too weird.
The shopkeepers seemed edgy,
their black eyes darted
around like water bugs
driving hovercrafts.
A baker sold
outdated batteries
& fixed junk cars.
There were jars
of unknown
foodstuffs
behind the counter.
I wasn't buying ****
just looking around
without making sounds,
Jesus, it was rough.
Bootleg DVD's
were piled sky high
at many of the shops,
along with the Pop CD's.
A burqa'd woman crouched
in an alleyway.
I'm still not sure
what she was doing,
but it didn't look right.
I swear to God,
I'd have never visited this
bizarre bizaar
if it wasn't for this fight,
the war on terror.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
i was wrong about this one,
england was famous for its status
as a nation of shopkeepers
as acknowledge by voltaire,
but it isn't exactly a nation of
landlords... rather a nation of
commuters.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC
I began my humble journey
At the peak of a mighty slope
Dropped by a humble poet
Making his long walk home
As I started my wis'ning voyage
I spied the miserly rich man
Counting his weekly excess
Money, gold, silver, land
His heart, consumed with greed for his gains
Was too focused on his returns
To care for a common penny
So on I went, for a home, my heart, it yearned.
As I passed through the place
Where daily, business was done
Buildings, structures that scraped the sky
Blocked the sun, where once it shone.
My passage continued through the city
To the crowded shopkeepers' stores
A wonderful place of smells and sights
Cooked goose, cattle, and boars!
But the keepers' minds were distracted
With the day's stresses and concerns
To notice what was around them
So on I went, for a home, my heart, it yearned.
Then I came to the ghetto,
That horrible, wretched place
With hovels and shanties and shacks
Loan sharks and gangsters and snakes
The people there were fearful
Of what, I could not tell
For it was more than thugs
It was their hate; love was encased in shells
Then something that I saw made me stop,
A family of five, happy and alive
Their love for another was stronger than fear
So on I went, toward home, I would strive
Until I was taken by the lowly thief
Looking to pay for his next meal
He dropped me when he was arrested
For as you know, thieves, they steal.
I stopped at the bottom of the slope
Where hill turned into rolling plains
I thought there I would rust forever.
Until I saw the humble poet, flesh & veins.
He picked me up and told me of his day
And how he had followed me, a mere penny
For I was important to him, special.
He put me in his pocket, with my family to join!
So there I stayed, returning home,
Recounting my tale to the rest.
How he had found me when all hope had been lost
And my excitement for new journeys, and what would come next.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Waiting around
I converse with myself
Climbed a tree today
Picked some bananas to sell
Or to barter
With shopkeepers
Down at the market
Compartmentalizing
The extra
To part with
Or keep to eat freely
As soon as they ripen
In but a few days
More of boring old life in
My site
Took a hike
To seek quiet,
Imagined these hills
Fulminating
In riot
If I were inciting
Rebellions
Contriving
An artifice to
See the fires
Igniting
But as the day ends
And the sun vanishes
From the scene
My passivity banishes
Any a notion
Of causing commotion
And looking for trouble
Where nothing is broken
Evoking instead
Of promoting bloodshed
In its stoking the furnace
Forged steel in my head
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 5:07 AM UTC
The
lime tree
Stood on top
Of The Hill,
The ground around
With limes
Did it
Fill
One Decending lime
Rolling to the
Incline,
Got itself
Into a
Spin
Tumbling down
With no Jill
After
Hitting the road side
A car did abide,
By changing its
Shape to
Flat,
But!
Deep into
The tyre grip
Went a
Pip
Spinning around
To the engine's
Sound,
It's DNA
Got slightly
Altered
After coming to a
Full stop,
The fastidious Chauffeur
Noticed,
The
Wheel didn't
Need a
Seed,
Flicking it over a
Wall,
Where it landed
Upon fertile
Land
As the seed started to grow
It's branches began
To twist
Ten years went by
As quick as a
Roll
Of you're
Eye
The land
That the tree,
Let It's roots spread free
Also contained a
Shack,
And as the morning
Broke,
The old man
Awoke
Starting his daily routine,
The days
Always seemed
The same,
But
He was clever enough to know,
There was no-one
To
Blame
But
Himself,
Life just seemed to
Snooker him,
Into this
Pocket
His only venture out,
Was the local store,
Supplying all that
Was
Needed
But
Before setting off,
Something was calling to
His
Attention,
The sound of a bird
Never
Heard
Heading down
The overgrown
Path,
The bird suddenly stopped,
And
While flying off,
He saw something,
Never seen
Before
A tree bering limes,
From it's
Corkscrew branches,
But
Not any old limes,
Their skins
Also
Had a
Twist
Picking one up,
Marvelling at the shape,
He headed off to
The store
Arriving at the door,
Felt like
Not
Before,
This day was like
No
Other
Gathering his supplies,
Catching the
Shopkeepers eye,
"A very good day to you"
"I don't mean to sound rude
But you're in a good mood"
She said, while giving
Him a
Smile
"What would you think
If I asked you out
For a drink?"
"I'd grab
Hat and coat,
Lock up this old store
And we'd be on our way"
With his best smile in years
He said
"Well let's go"
Arriving at the bar,
He asked for two
Mojitos
The barman
Shook his head,
"We're all out of limes!"
The old man's eyes
Lit up
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 6:19 AM UTC
She sang softly as she swept
Broken glass and dust
From her bomb-littered sill.
It was the song of her people
Rising and enduring -
Singing of brotherhood and liberty.
Throngs huddled underground
Sheltering from explosions above
Broke into the great Ukraini song of love.
The world knows this is your land,
Your Motherland your Fatherland -
Your daughter land, your nephew land.
Sing on Ukraini, together forever!
Sing songs of your parents, your children
Your doctors, teachers, bus drivers .
Tailors, mechanics, dancers!
Sing on policemen, clerks, shopkeepers
Factory workers, farmers and actors!
Sing the music of your
Rivers, forests and rolling hills.
Your ancestors, and your grandchildren
Sing full voice by your side.
The world sings with you –
cheering you on to victory.
Soon the sounds of ringing bells
Will echo from every street and valley
And freedom and glory will once again reign.
Slava Ukraini!
Slava Ukraini!
Slava Ukraini!
Robert Charles Howard
Mar 26, 2022
Mar 26, 2022 at 9:04 AM UTC
I stand in a marketplace
Where goats wait
Tethered to the trees
Of neglect and sorrow
To be slaughtered
And carry with them
All bottled love,hate
And sorrow and things
Unknown from this life
Shopkeepers wait to profit
From someone's necessities
The customer's desires stem
From where
As a lover waits for his mistress
Amidst all hustle and bustle
Of this battle of life
Now the lady comes
They kiss in the dark
As I watch
Lodged in secret
I wonder
I question the
Purity of the actions
Of these lovers
And the person
Who but kills
Innocence
From this world
Why,weren't the emotions
Of the goat
The holy confidence
Of the customer
Killed
For the glowing love
Of the shopman
For his thrift
Should I despise the
Secret romance of the
People in love
Or the shopman's
Thrift(secret sweet sin)
This world's echoes
Cannot tell me
For they are
Just like me
Bound by the 'morals'
Of the 'enlightened'
Society
Ah.. Someone calls out
Don't look there
For they sin this world
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC