"sidetrack" poems
The London*
underground
Shoes Chatterbox
Choo Choo train
Mr. Earl Gray
Greyhound
Doing cartwheels
Head over heels
Milk the Cow
"Going Moo" in her
Jimmy Choo
Yahoos
Kickapoos
The Odd Mom
Cocker Doddle Doo
Goody Two shoes
'Peekapoo"
The women living
in her shoes
All Mighty God
The dog to chew
Her most expensive
shoe
Lasous
The genius
La Cruz
Goody two shoes
That's show biz
Vacation Dr. Seuss
John Hughes
The master of clues
La mousse
Love truce X-File
Instagram, please smile
In her ballet slippers
He's at the Hub
drinking beer
In the London Fog
Her wooden clogs
Ladybird chirper
He's down to his
goulashes?
Got sidetrack hot
fever lovesick
La muse shoes
Cozy at the caboose
Playing golf in the
Gulf of Mexico
You ain't got a thing
if you don't have
the shoes to swing
Kick up your shoes and
start to sing
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
BOX cars run by a mile long.
And I wonder what they say to each other
When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.
Maybe their chatter goes:
I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.
I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.
I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.
I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year.
Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners
when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look.
Then the hammer heads talk to the handles,
then the scoops of the shovels talk,
how the day's work nicked and trimmed them,
how they swung and lifted all day,
how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope.
In the night of the dark stars
when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle,
in the night on the mile long sidetracks,
in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners,
the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams-
and sometimes they doze and don't care for nothin',
and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars.
The stuff of it runs like this:
A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way.
Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman's lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all.
People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.
3.6k
IN the cool of the night time
The clocks pick off the points
And the mainsprings loosen.
They will need winding.
One of these days...
they will need winding.
Rabelais in red boards,
Walt Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And there is nothing...
To be said against them...
Or for them...
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
A man in pigeon-gray pyjamas.
The open window begins at his feet
And goes taller than his head.
Eight feet high is the pattern.
Moon and mist make an oblong layout.
Silver at the man's bare feet.
He swings one foot in a moon silver.
And it costs nothing.
One more day of bread and work.
One more day ... so much rags...
The man barefoot in moon silver
Mutters "You" and "You"
To things hidden
In the cool of the night time,
In Rabelais, Whitman, Hugo,
In an oblong of moon mist.
Out from the window ... prairielands.
Moon mist whitens a golf ground.
Whiter yet is a limestone quarry.
The crickets keep on chirring.
Switch engines of the Great Western
Sidetrack box cars, make up trains
For Weehawken, Oskaloosa, Saskatchewan;
The cattle, the coal, the corn, must go
In the night ... on the prairielands.
Chuff-chuff go the pulses.
They beat in the cool of the night time.
Chuff-chuff and chuff-chuff...
These heartbeats travel the night a mile
And touch the moon silver at the window
And the bones of the man.
It costs nothing.
Rabelais in red boards,
Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
2.5k
My family doctor suggested bed rest.
If that was a statement rather than a suggestion,
I wouldn't know, because the redundancy of those
two words was enough to keep me idle,
awake, agitated for days.
It was around the time he carefully
scribbled his script onto the blue pad
that I began to chuckle. This prefixed
prescript was only a temporary solution
that was barely legible. Whether or not
a scribe in this profession is meant to
be as erratic as nomadic cavern canvas,
it speaks volumes that the DSM IV considers
substantial. Until a once thought preconceived
notion becomes precedent in the ongoing
sought after expansion of knowledge.
A continuation of disorder and disease,
the facts and fallacies,
all become testing.
The standard practice is only as strong
as its weakest hypothesis.
More so when it becomes general practice.
I would like to believe
this to be an emergency,
but the white-coat before me
felt the need to sidetrack,
and thought it appropriate to mention
youth in Asia.
The deadpan humor
was disconcerting.
But not as unnerving
as the redundancies that
were given to me as a solution
for my sporadic sleep.
Some insurance!
Reassure me, doctor!
So, he did,
through his proclivity
for pharmaceuticals.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
*Newfangled Biosphere Pyramid Scheme In Dwelling To Sidetrack,
Sanities Seduced So You Never Will Retort.
Threaten the sanctity of the delusion,
Unlearn. Start altering the definitions.
Force fed more dread so you relinquish control,
Cravings we must return.
Unfetter the soul,
In a system where acceptances esteemed more than the veracity,
Flawed perception of tour progression through that which we consume.
Exposed through The Earliest Of Eons.
Resistance-Resistance is Demarcated
Subversion-Subvert the Paradigm
Stirring Within A Ecosphere
Numb And Incarcerated
Stirred On My Own
In Prehistoric Of Existences
Slumbering. Visualizing. Bleeding. Conscious.
Appreciations bolted in a collective delusion
Lulled by ease and consumption
An entire realm of souls visualizing their existences.
Mankind is not superior, we’re just folklore's in our own consciences.*
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
He asked me why we couldn’t do it in the basement.
The answer isn’t a simple one;
I couldn’t tell him about that poem you wrote me.
I blamed it on my irrational fear of spiders
To sidetrack his incessant inquisitions.
It was the only place I used to be able to be myself.
With trying to improve the area,
It turned into more of a hell.
The carpet feels like knives on my feet.
The ground is much colder than I remember it being.
A place that was once so dear and warm
Is now filled with empty wine bottles and full ashtrays
And a sewing machine that just represents
All that I’ve tried and never succeeded in.
I could hide this from him, but not from you.
Next time he asks if we could do it in the basement,
I should say sure, why not, because
It’s not like I have a past that will keep up the empty bottles and full ashtrays.
It’s time to face my irrational fear that has
Absolutely nothing to do with spiders.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
I have been reading more.
I have been tipping my waitresses more.
Stopping on intersections to pet the passing canine.
Attempting to watch what I eat.
Having strong work ethic.
Bumming a smoke.
Paying the electric on time.
Talk less about me,
Let's hear more about your day.
You, you, you.
That should sidetrack the deafening of my thoughts.
Throwing pennies into fountains,
Tossing a dollar or two to the street performer.
Seeking fulfillment.
Not there,
Not yet,
Not happy,
Not a ton.
With this pattern I await a beacon.
With this pattern I await direction.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC
(I) seaweed skin
today there is a
crevice where my
lungs used to be
(II) brass arteries
i took the long
way to work this
morning trying
to sidetrack my
mind with new
roads but there
are some bits of
you creeping up
my spine and
burrowing into
my hair and
nuzzling my ear
i had thought that
by now i would be
able to take breaths
without chunks of
sentences meant for
you breaking off
from my bronchial
tubes but they are
somehow still lodged
in there like they
have been called home
(III) umbrella heart
i used to wish no one
would ever touch me
ever touch me ever
touch me because their
fingerprints would last
too long and i can't scrub
them off like i want to
please let this be different
please let this be the end
of you aching at the base
of my skull and robbing
me of my purple dreams
and green hopes i want
to feel myself in my arms
instead of you
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
the story started with hairline cracks.
cracks that were so fine, thin and insignificant.
let us not sidetrack,
and go straight to how it all happened.
somehow the pressure got to us all
widening the tiny fissures in the wall
slowly the walls started crumbling
and the decorations started tumbling.
the pieces of the walls started to fall off
and each piece that almost hits me
i dodge, dust myself off and cough
it never did hit me that this really could be.
eventually i became enlightened
and my perspective was brightened
suddenly the rug fell through the floor
and i am out the door
plunged into darkness, i ask
since when had the fault lines widened to swallow me up?
into an endless abyss of darkness
unlike that of dusk
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
What’s the color of the sky in your memory?
I know you loved your twinkling mansion
But with misty eyes I realized that-
You’re awaiting just beneath my heart.
I hummed melodies lacking pace
And studied verses to sidetrack you
But do you remember the days
I talked to you endlessly?
You kicked me with at most joy
And somersaulted all around me
But you never knew that I dreamt-
A thousand dreams of loving you!
I’m sorry for all your dreams
I’m sorry for all your smiles
You deserved to be born
But I butchered you!
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
take money out of the equation, and sack all the waiters and return to tribalism, the former statement of non-intellectual socialism, the sort of inherent: in us there is a togetherness, no more service from strangers in the hierarchy of enriching a piece of metal or a wavy rectangle of paper with “necessary” symbolism of authority of the status quo... but that’s not going to happen... the pickpocket picts are no more... the normalising normans glared at the hastings pinnacle and integrated with the saxon women... the saracens became surnames in poland... actually that last one is very true... a branch of my family has the surname saracen.
so i’m reading this article
and i’m hardly debasing myself,
it’s not that i’m referring
to sartre’s negation of certain things
whether animate and essential or
inanimate and existential... in that formula:
i deny therefore i am... because i can’t deny my existence...
and 2000 years down the line i’ll be pitchfork
argument in an atheist’s mouth anyway (nothing is certain in the realm of cognition, hence the cartesian invocation of doubt),
it's not like i'm referring to inappropriate pronoun usage...
so **** a doodle do... twang the strings on the mandolin...
i’m referring to this classical reference of the shy literary figure
unable to spark conversation with strangers...
god, i really love strangers, and talking to them!
why? there is no personal history, there’s no past,
there are no reference points... it’s just the moment and nothing else,
the perfect anonymity project...
not the matrix philosophy (easily invoked because
it has a flimsy plot-line and loads of images...
just what the doctor ordered for the english speaking masses
with a very naked orthography - i.e. if it’s on the internet
it’s not “real life...” as is this computer i’m using
it’s not even here!)
of using the deep web to join the rats and etc.;
i love talking to strangers, i can forget myself
and enter the realm of discretion about how within randomisation
of eggshell, yoke and cockroach there’s also the randomisation
of the interactants to balance out the need for a theological unit, god...
it’s great... it’s like... it’s like... life.
defining the genre of biography proper? never backtrack...
always sidetrack... i can’t be bothered living a life with cocktail parties
and romps and romantic comedies to look forward to
once all the animalism becomes domesticated and a
gym-session complaints column in a newspaper.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Seawater on summer
Is what my tears are
When they race down my cheeks;
Hot and salty.
And I knew they did not sidetrack
To evaporate on my lips
But I tasted that bitterness
Caught in my throat
Which my eyes have no power
To splash like the waves
That normally surf my face;
Only accumulate
And let them slam inside me
Repeatedly.
And I wish I did not have to
Watch that movie,
Watch that part of the movie,
Watch that movie's credits rolling,
Repeatedly,
Just to admit
That I cheated on this taste test
And my tears are not salty.
At all.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
Distract us
Sidetrack us
Engross us
Refract us
Or offer
A glimpse
Just a slight
Of what's real
While we march
In our sleep,
While we are
Standing still,
We’re still reigning
Still falling
Still fighting
False stalling
And cannot see
The ground with
Our heads in
The clouds with
Our eyes And
Our ears Cotton
Wool-ed From
Our fears A
Divine Inter-
ment our shins
Creak on
Cement and
Our boots
Thump and grind
As we march
On the blind
Silent lips
Bleary eyes
Muffled sounds
Freaky minds
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
Screamed at the cat,
thought he toppled the cage,
turned out to be the shelf,
didn't have enough time,
to rinse my hair.
Powered to work;
enjoyed the brisk excersice,
accompanied by grotesque ambience,
"What is that ****
From the arrogant.
Three man close,
ends as slow as it started,
the ride home had a sidetrack,
acoustic grassland band,
self proclaimed leader was a real *****
wouldn't let me play,
when I finally did they liked it,
but I didn't give two *****
Accident on the freeway,
as the faces passed by,
none of them saw me,
but the whole congregation was there,
police, bus driver, Metro insurance man on the side,
in full regalia,
witnessing yet another,
one of those days.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
When you whisper close,
My hair rises...
I get the chills...
Feel thrills...
I'm in first grade again,
That first crush feeling...
And frowzy-headedness comes reeling...
Delicious ticklings up my spine
Sidetrack me for a little bit,
Like that first glass of wine....
I even lose my place,
My bookmark I can't find...
Should have folded down the tip....
Doesn't matter...
I think I'll let my reading slip...
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
If these razors could talk, they'd spin tales of stories so intricate like the inside of a body, funny because that's how it felt every time a thin red line pouring out failure always seemed to feel like. If they could tell you anything I'd hope they'd tell you how hard I fought to keep it hidden and inside a box. Instead of thinking outside that box I would be caged inside it shoved in like sardines, that must be how it felt when they found the tools of new beginnings inside a container that blared the words normal in a big red sign. The color red will never seem normal to me I've seen it on sheets pooling out over my hands. The metal was a sidetrack a bump in the road the only one to feel it was the inside of these clothes and now they have left their mark. If the skin I crawl under could somehow paint you a time of when everything seemed "fine" I hope to god it twists your stomach like the veins inside my wrists curl around the bone woven together like the sewing needle my grandma just can't put down. The doctors glares were as cold as how each and every razorblade kiss was . if these razors could somehow show you that it was not their fault but mine, even the slightest twitch makes it seem impossible to not go back again and yet they are still there they chant the same tune every night and if you'd listen a little closer it'd go something like this "you got a little something on that clean skin you've covered up just enough and its time to pick your weapon and let the ritual of sins begin. Come a litter closer we can show you the world you won't have to feel and it'll be like a drug. Don't think just let the sharp begin to bite and I tell you now you can sleep tonight" the singsong rant is as empty as my box but yet it wounds deeper than I ever could. If these razors could talk, I hope and pray they tell you of every time there words got wedged into my skin like tiny little slivers from a wooden deck I had never sat on. If the sheets I tied over ever open wound showed you the evidence of an unfinished crime scene would you be able to stomach the fact these blades have control. If these razors could talk they'd tell you they aren't finished with me yet.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
Lost
in your heart
You wonder
if anyone will want you.
You don't understand
the wrench
the stealing force
taking you
away.
Away.
Away from me.
It's not enough.
To want,
It's not enough.
No.
Because the twisted sheets
whisper a story
and the worn deep mattress
murmurs
the truth.
When sleep won't rob you
When desire won't heal you
When fun won't sidetrack you
When your mind can't stop going
back there
So don't you know that you matter?
No
You know, I don't say it, just to say it.
I say it because...
I love you.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:31 AM UTC
In a world of filled of hate
Love is not the enough
We need a clean slate
We have given up on believing
The superior, then there is the inferior
The rich and then there is the poor
The celebrities and there is the followers
Then comes action, follow by reactions:
Politics and politicians:
Beam us up Scotty: beam then down Lucifer
I read this morning that Kanye W
Is thanking the lord for his S68 million refund
Here I am thanking the lord this morning
Not to be gun down, by the drifters
Or to be sidetrack by co-workers,
Only if peace would come sooner,
And haters would vanish…..
Like the children of Hamlet town
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 5:11 AM UTC
Have never felt such pain before
Never this kind of suffering
Used to love life but now I yearn
For the relief death would bring
Skin hurts in the absence of your touch
My heart breaks again each time I wake
I try and try to sidetrack myself
But nothing whisks away the endless ache
It is so much harder to breathe the air
Now Winter is almost gone
I choke on each breath I take
Filled with fear of you moving on
I no longer see the beauty
You introduced me to a long time ago
It has disappeared from everything
Except love we used to know
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
A life beyond your thoughts
Prison, the old term Penitentiary
Penitentiary which means
Sacraments of penance
Which means to receive divine mercy for the sins committed against God.
Now in the law it's not much different
There is a Judge that sits high above the court, called your Honer
You are sworn and you say, the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God
Right there you asking for God help or for God to help you
Everyone states there case and you can plea to the mercy of your Honer
So actually who is closer to God.
The priest, the judge or you.
I've gotten sidetrack, prison.
Just do right in life.
Because it ***** it ***** it can hurt you
It can change your life.
For me, because of my knowledge. Everyone looked up to me.
Young, old, black, white, weak and strong.
Knowledge is the most important thing to have in prison.
My time we t by fast and I don't miss it.
But it is the reason for me being on Hello Poetry. I started writing in prison.
Yes I could tell you many stories about prison. Some are even to unbelievable for me to believe, but then again I never laughed so hard in my life.
Prison made me a much stronger person, not in strength but in morals.
I do everything I can do keep kids and teens from the life of prison.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
distractions
imagine going through a day with no distractions or you distracting yourself
i don't think it's possible
no level of determination can break the foundations of distraction
i'm caught up in a vast cloud of nothing
i can't seem to make sense of my thoughts
pathetic how i control my mind but instead i let it control me
i am the main character in my story
no this is not me being depressed or sad or anything like that since i don't believe in any of that
i'm just confused as to why i succumb to distraction when power is a second nature to me
i let it derail and sidetrack me
all i crave right now is to take control of my life
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC