"stopovers" poems - Hello Poetry

Your life is made of distant springs and falls, a straight route is not what you own for hurricanes and storms divert your path to new horizons. Will you find horseshoe ***** mussels, clams on the stopovers? Food awaits you if the shores are not ravaged by human greed, ignorance. Your resilience is written in B95's ordeals, a mosaic of adventures ingrained in his own cells. The threads of your trips assemble the places of Mother Earth connected in its roles; nothing is detached in the collective harmony of souls. Red knot shorebird, peaceful messenger, icon of strength without rage, your story is the universal flight of awareness waiting to be heard.

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Jul 29, 2018

Jul 29, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC

julia-hones

Moonbird

Your life is made of distant springs and falls, a straight route is not what you own for hurricanes and storms divert your path to new horizons. Will you find horseshoe ***** mussels, clams on the stopovers? Food awaits you if the shores are not ravaged by human greed, ignorance. Your resilience is written in B95's ordeals, a mosaic of adventures ingrained in his own cells. The threads of your trips assemble the places of Mother Earth connected in its roles; nothing is detached in the collective harmony of souls. Red knot shorebird, peaceful messenger, icon of strength without rage, your story is the universal flight of awareness waiting to be heard.

20

The English language is my home articulation, my forte. So when I ask: "Where is the smoker's section?" I expect to hear a response in English. Instead I must stand ashamed beneath a giant no smoking sign in the a cubicle of the women's washroom.

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Jan 2, 2013

Jan 2, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC

nora-agha

Stopovers in Airports (2)

The English language is my home articulation, my forte. So when I ask: "Where is the smoker's section?" I expect to hear a response in English. Instead I must stand ashamed beneath a giant no smoking sign in the a cubicle of the women's washroom.

10

I used to love learning so many different voices Creating stories to fit languages I will never speak But now it all sounds Ugly. It doesn't fit the stories that I try so hard to fit like puzzle pieces to the voices from languages I will never speak My wide eyed wonder is converted to heavy lidded dependence on caffeine. My excited edge has now become a craving for more nicotine to take the edge of crowded culture clash in No Language I Will Ever Speak.

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Jan 2, 2013

Jan 2, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC

nora-agha

Stopovers in Airports

I used to love learning so many different voices Creating stories to fit languages I will never speak But now it all sounds Ugly. It doesn't fit the stories that I try so hard to fit like puzzle pieces to the voices from languages I will never speak My wide eyed wonder is converted to heavy lidded dependence on caffeine. My excited edge has now become a craving for more nicotine to take the edge of crowded culture clash in No Language I Will Ever Speak.

21

The concept of being deceivingly perfect. For you were the someone who I wanted to stay. I‘d constantly remind myself not to expect cause you were a race car in a speeding highway. I thought that I’d actually be getting somewhere. We were going in full speed but never stopping. With the familiar cool breeze running through my hair, You were just speeding past while I was still walking.

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Sep 15, 2019

Sep 15, 2019 at 7:30 AM UTC

marietta-ginete

No Stopovers.

The concept of being deceivingly perfect. For you were the someone who I wanted to stay. I‘d constantly remind myself not to expect cause you were a race car in a speeding highway. I thought that I’d actually be getting somewhere. We were going in full speed but never stopping. With the familiar cool breeze running through my hair, You were just speeding past while I was still walking.

8

On the highways of utopia stretching pleasure to people insane with passions pages I rolled along on tyres trundling down mountains and valleys salt swamps, honey mustard nights pumping iron clad nozzles energetic bursts of ******* countless stopovers unburst wheels mechanical breakdowns of the minds metaphors of meaning I settled then on a roadway in Alaska destroyed broken beaten used and dirtied by grease monkeys and maniacs unkempt gearshifts of dollars and dimes life was touch and go when I parked in a nirvana slot for good. Out on the dusty **** emblazoned with fingerprints a wisecrack wrote: I wish my wife was this ***** Author Notes A ***** Truck. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

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Oct 30, 2014

Oct 30, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC

marshall-gass

Slogan

On the highways of utopia stretching pleasure to people insane with passions pages I rolled along on tyres trundling down mountains and valleys salt swamps, honey mustard nights pumping iron clad nozzles energetic bursts of ******* countless stopovers unburst wheels mechanical breakdowns of the minds metaphors of meaning I settled then on a roadway in Alaska destroyed broken beaten used and dirtied by grease monkeys and maniacs unkempt gearshifts of dollars and dimes life was touch and go when I parked in a nirvana slot for good. Out on the dusty **** emblazoned with fingerprints a wisecrack wrote: I wish my wife was this ***** Author Notes A ***** Truck. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

28

Lucky I am, as no one walked before me. But I had to go, so what I walked became the path! When I walked for the first time, it was not easy, The course was coarse and the team was unwilling, Challenges were many both physical and psychological Milestones were few, if someone not traveled, would never know! I pushed ahead, one stretch a time, Learning the terrain and conquering simultaneously! We had to walk on it, through it many a times We created a lot more milestones and stopovers Others also came, put on signage's, Thought aloud, how this path could have been better! Some even asked, 'Where does this path lead to?' There were many onlookers, travelers, part-time travelers Many such people were wondering, 'Why are we walking on this path?' Few team mates wanted to settle down along the path, One or two launched out on the mission to walk their path! Travelers poured in and so do the administrators, Experts came in broadened it, added platforms, Beautified it, levied tax and even named the path! Criticisms were plenty from the first step that I took, But I know people will follow this path! People after people, ages after ages, will follow this path!

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Feb 22, 2016

Feb 22, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC

martin-robert

Lucky Man

Lucky I am, as no one walked before me. But I had to go, so what I walked became the path! When I walked for the first time, it was not easy, The course was coarse and the team was unwilling, Challenges were many both physical and psychological Milestones were few, if someone not traveled, would never know! I pushed ahead, one stretch a time, Learning the terrain and conquering simultaneously! We had to walk on it, through it many a times We created a lot more milestones and stopovers Others also came, put on signage's, Thought aloud, how this path could have been better! Some even asked, 'Where does this path lead to?' There were many onlookers, travelers, part-time travelers Many such people were wondering, 'Why are we walking on this path?' Few team mates wanted to settle down along the path, One or two launched out on the mission to walk their path! Travelers poured in and so do the administrators, Experts came in broadened it, added platforms, Beautified it, levied tax and even named the path! Criticisms were plenty from the first step that I took, But I know people will follow this path! People after people, ages after ages, will follow this path!

24

Sometimes, one of these days when it rains, I want to sit by the window sill, And read her my favourite book, And watch her wonder at the rain drops But before there were rains, There had been a summer, Never the same, but this, Not quite like any other Sure not like her first When she’d crawl more and walk less, Garble more and talk less, Yet each time her lips parted, She brought me a feeling uncharted. A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed In summers to follow, She’d put on her school dress, Wave out to me Like a sun in her prowess, Then there was a period when she sketched, That was also the time she started caring for her tress Season changed, and cold was common again, To give her company, I too would feign a pain, She had started dancing now, Sometimes I’d shake a leg too, Solving her math problems, I’d learn some math too But there were lessons, A little few on hope too Because that’s how I kept up, I could’ve given up too And then came the last summer, The one that was unlike none, We drove around a lot, And stopovers for lemonades were fun Last summer, our car broke down a lot too, Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to Soon, she took to a habit, That of me fixing it for her, So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit, She said, my daddy would fix me sir Who was to say what Daddy could do? He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to The hope that he had taught her, Today was Daddy’s test, One he couldn’t falter So that’s what I have been telling you, Now you tell me something too, Sometimes one of these days when it rains, Should I not want to sit by the window sill? And read her my favourite book? Should I or should I not? Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.

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Nov 9, 2016

Nov 9, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC

animesh-ganguly

Wonder

Sometimes, one of these days when it rains, I want to sit by the window sill, And read her my favourite book, And watch her wonder at the rain drops But before there were rains, There had been a summer, Never the same, but this, Not quite like any other Sure not like her first When she’d crawl more and walk less, Garble more and talk less, Yet each time her lips parted, She brought me a feeling uncharted. A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed In summers to follow, She’d put on her school dress, Wave out to me Like a sun in her prowess, Then there was a period when she sketched, That was also the time she started caring for her tress Season changed, and cold was common again, To give her company, I too would feign a pain, She had started dancing now, Sometimes I’d shake a leg too, Solving her math problems, I’d learn some math too But there were lessons, A little few on hope too Because that’s how I kept up, I could’ve given up too And then came the last summer, The one that was unlike none, We drove around a lot, And stopovers for lemonades were fun Last summer, our car broke down a lot too, Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to Soon, she took to a habit, That of me fixing it for her, So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit, She said, my daddy would fix me sir Who was to say what Daddy could do? He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to The hope that he had taught her, Today was Daddy’s test, One he couldn’t falter So that’s what I have been telling you, Now you tell me something too, Sometimes one of these days when it rains, Should I not want to sit by the window sill? And read her my favourite book? Should I or should I not? Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.

53

But it was all while in fugue, even as a neighbor stood there barefoot, the trilling cicadas barely heard. A climate rippled the calm like a faint heartbeat beneath damp ground. I knew these people; the sort to meet in stopovers. Briefly, modestly, passively. They carry conversations by vibration, not talk. Withdrawn moans, grunts, edgewise glances more potent words. One night, I touched him. He needed to be touched. To be so far away to forget warmth, how? He touched me back. I allowed. His body melted onto the floor, leaving only a lit cigarette. I unlatched instantly, like a derailed train. His body gathers; the marrows retreating to their proper places: blood, bone, muscle, skin assuming back a shape. The town held a quiet night the way newborns are held. No one needed to know. He will forget. I will, too. The cigarette belched a thin trail of smoke until its fire ran out.

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Feb 6, 2018

Feb 6, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC

chickflavor

Small Town Myths

But it was all while in fugue, even as a neighbor stood there barefoot, the trilling cicadas barely heard. A climate rippled the calm like a faint heartbeat beneath damp ground. I knew these people; the sort to meet in stopovers. Briefly, modestly, passively. They carry conversations by vibration, not talk. Withdrawn moans, grunts, edgewise glances more potent words. One night, I touched him. He needed to be touched. To be so far away to forget warmth, how? He touched me back. I allowed. His body melted onto the floor, leaving only a lit cigarette. I unlatched instantly, like a derailed train. His body gathers; the marrows retreating to their proper places: blood, bone, muscle, skin assuming back a shape. The town held a quiet night the way newborns are held. No one needed to know. He will forget. I will, too. The cigarette belched a thin trail of smoke until its fire ran out.

37

To all the stopovers and endings the delays and the in between and the waiting. I know that it was God's plan so I will keep still while pouring all my faith and trusting God's hands.

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Apr 1, 2020

Apr 1, 2020 at 10:53 PM UTC

kolsmusing

trusting Him

To all the stopovers and endings the delays and the in between and the waiting. I know that it was God's plan so I will keep still while pouring all my faith and trusting God's hands.

9