"tarpaulin" poems
Watching her sit with her crossed legs
And her gaze upwards
Like the world is too petty
For her eyes to surrender.
She was magnificent, yes
But her looks feigned a lie
Her eyes could **** with intense fire
Her scent was amicable
For her preying hands
And if a being so unfortunate
Crosses her path
Or meets her eyes
She springs like a cheetah
And rips them apart,
Metaphorically, of course.
.......
My eyes wander off
.......
His frenzied looks
And unshaved face
Ruffled up clothes
Looks like he has had his worst day
Wonder what's got him so worked up
Must be a hangover
Must have had a drink too much
Last night
Yes, I can see a wife
Beaten up in an alcohol-fueled mania.
But those petunias in his hands
Beautiful
What a contrast to the man himself
A mistress?
Or an attempt to gain forgiveness
From his wife?
.......
Sipping the best local tea
Sit back
And let my mind have its spree
.......
Pick pocket
Such an adorable face
Blue-eyed, her tiny hands
Slipping in and out
Procuring knick knacks and wallets.
Life was never fair
Mother's sick and in a tarpaulin roofed
Shack off the main street.
Dad's a drunk
And she's had enough with that nonsense.
Her timed precision and skilled fingers
Workings its way for a loaf and
The extra change for her mother
Curled up like a ball
In pain.
.....
Change for the tea
And morning paper.
Picking up a stride
Take a left from the plaza
Into a throng of living bodies,
And to be one among
The many lives
Toiling,
Living,
Breathing.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
Tonight is a cluster of
Recognitions, remembrances
Mostly reminiscence
Which sift in the breeze
Gusting beneath the temporary
Tarpaulin tent
Backs are slapped
Arms embraced
Smiles predominate
As shiny faces and gleaming foreheads
Illuminated by flashing cameras
Twinkle like fireflies displaying
In a muggy June meadow
Photos pulled from stained
Billfolds move from hand to hand
Displaying glossies of babies, graduations
Weddings and “The big catch”
Relatives, friends and officials
Find their place on folded metal chairs
For a wedding ceremony
Tonight has become a gathering
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
Pintuan palang malalaman mo na,
Na ito ang bahay ng mahirap na pamilya,
May nakasulat pa sa itaas na "Welcome to Miano Family" at " God bless our home".
Mga katagang matagal ng iniukit ng panahon,
Pag pasok mo ay sasalubong agad sayo,
Ang mga mga kagamitan na bigay,
Mga gamit na pinagsawaan na ng kapit bahay,
Mga Tv, relos, at orasan na di na umaandar,
Sa iyong unang hakbang iyong maaapakan,
Ang mga lumang tarpaulin na ginawang floormat,
Upang takpan ang madumi at maputik na sahig,
Lingon ka sa kanan,
At makikita mo ang gawa kong hagdanan,
Hagdan na mayroon lang tatlong apakan,
Ngunit di kelangan mabahala,
Pagkat gawa ko iyan, kaya dapat magtiwala,
Sa iyong pag akyat makikita agad,
Ang kahon na sa laki ay sagad,
Sariling gawang kahon para sa speaker at amplifier,
Di sapag mamayabang pero kalahating araw ko lang tinapos iyan,
Partida nga at wala pang kompletong kagamitan,
Mapapansin **** ganun din ang set up sa taas,
May mga tarpaulin nanaman paloob at palabas,
May mga pira pirasong damit na tinahi para magsilbing kurtina at pantakip,
Pantakip mula sa mga butas na ding ding,
Pag lipat sa kabilang kwarto at makikita mo,
Ang sahig na gawa nanaman sa kawayan,
Na ginawa upang maging daanan ng hangin sa mainit na panahon,
Walang masyadong kagamitan,
Pero masasabi mo talagang magulo,
Magulo at parang wala nang paglalagyan,
Ng mga damit at mga unan na pa kalat kalat,
Konting pagmamasid pa at iyong mapapansin,
Ang basag naming salamin,
Mga LED lights na di nagagamit pag sapit nh dilim,
Mga wires na napakagulo at gutay gutay,
Batterya ng motor na gamit ng ilaw pag gabi,
Pag napagod kana sa taas,
Bumaba ka ulit at makikita mo sa gilid ng hagdan,
Ang Mga gawa sa kahoy na upuan,
Tingin saglit sa taas at masdan,
Pinag tagpi tagping yero na bubungan,
Mga bubong na maaliwalas kapag tag.araw,
Pag tag ulan naman ay nagmumukhang talon sa buhos ng tubig,
Sa kusina naman tayo ay magpunta,
Bubungad agad ang mga basag na baso,
At mga plato't kutsarang di kumpleto,
Naubos narin cguro ng tatay kong lasinggero,
Sa hugasan makikita mo naman,
Ang gawa sa kahoy na hugasan,
Mg lalagyan ng plato at basong may sabitan,
Isang hakbang pa at welcome to our lutuan,
Lutuan na gaw asa lupa nq ipinatong sa yero kahoy at kawayan,
Mga maiitim na na kawa at kaldero na laman,
At syempre mga kahoy rin na panggatong na nakalagay naman s abandang ilalim ng lutuan,
Tuwing kakain kailangan mag kanya²,
Pagkat pag nag sabay ay tiyak na di kasya,
Pagkat plato't kutsara'y kulang na,
Pero ganun paman kami ay masaya.
Simpleng bahay, simpleng buhay, simpleng pamumuhay 😊
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 2:25 AM UTC
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson…..
The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere…..
The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world…….
The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder…
The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning……
The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being…..
Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside…..
The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer…..
The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode….
A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face…..
The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith……
The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness…..
Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
The old man mumbles in a dying voice
had my sons been alive.
A tear wells in the daughter's eyes.
She pours a spoon of water in his mouth
and wipes his lips and her eyes.
Having lit the pyre of his three sons
he was willing to barter his daughter's life
if that made God grant him another son
and here is the daughter by his bedside
feeding, cleaning and even shaving him
her only prayer to God being to save his life
bartering her entire means.
Outside the thunder cracks the sky
and she spreads a tarpaulin over the bed.
my son laments the father.
Inside her is no cover for rain.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
WHAT woman hugs her infant there?
Another star has shot an ear.
What made the drapery glisten so?
Not a man but Delacroix.
What made the ceiling waterproof?
Landor's tarpaulin on the roof
What brushes fly and moth aside?
Irving and his plume of pride.
What hurries out the knaye and dolt?
Talma and his thunderbolt.
Why is the woman terror-struck?
Can there be mercy in that look?
2.2k
You and Ingrid
bummed a ride
on the back
of the coal truck
the spring holiday underway
Ok
said the coal truck driver
but keep
your heads down
don't want to get
pulled over
by the rozzers
and so you both
climbed in the back
of the truck
settling down
between sacks of coal
covered over
by tarpaulin
with just a slit
for light and air
and you and she
just sitting there
she clothed
in an old green dress
and cardigan of grey
brown scuffed shoes
and grey socks
you in jeans
and blue shirt
open necked
and sleeveless
patterned jumper
never been
in the back
of a coal truck before
Ingrid said
mustn't get too *****
in case Dad finds out
and leathers me one
you watched
as she sat there
in the semi-dark
gazing out
through the slit
at the thin
aspect of sky
hands on her knees
biting her lip
been once before
with Jimmy
but then it rained
and we got drenched
you said
what did your parents say?
Ingrid asked
nothing much
you replied
Mum moaned a bit
but the old man said nothing
just stared
as he blew smoke
from his cigarette
through his nose
God my dad'd go mad
if I had done that
she said
pulling her knees
together hands
holding on the top
I'd not be able
to sit for a week
he'd beat me such
she added
moving
with the movement
of the truck
you said nothing
knowing her old man
seeing him often
walking through the Square
swaying with the *****
or seeing her mother
bruised and battered
crossing to the shops
enduring neighbours' whispers
for a while she was silent
looking through the slit
as the sky drifted by
as the truck moved
you swayed
side to side
her shoulder
against yours
her arm touching yours
the smell of wet washing
and of yesterday's dinner
captured on her clothes
seeping in your nose
now and then
she spoke
of this and that
of kids at school
of names called
of hair pulled
and how she liked it
when she saw you
enter school
and your kind words
and helpful ways
and when the driver
pulled off the tarpaulin
to get out sacks of coal
daylight blew out
your eyes
and made you smile
and cheered your hearts
you shared the sandwiches
you'd brought
and bottle of lemonade
factory made
sitting on the truck floor
she nibbling a sandwich
and drinking shyly
from the lemonade bottle
after you'd wiped
the top with the palm
of your hand
her eyes on you
her lips open for words
her knees pressing together
to keep the balance
as the truck
moved on and away
just you and she
on a bright spring day.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
For Ricky*
Ricky Williams, Miami Running Back (2002-2003, 2005)
When the news broke and the camera pointed at a torn tent
on the outskirts of Miami where you sat knees-up-to-chest
professing enlightenment, the football world sacked itself
wondering how good your *** really was. Must have been
growing straight from Buddha’s back yard because to give
up 16 million like that, to go from bachelor pad demigod
to hippy hero of the pimply *** smokers, requires some
kind of unfathomable spirituality. I wonder if the Sadhu
could even find a desk big enough for your frame. All 230 pounds
lurching forward with brittle bones towards some kind
of endzone sanctity not represented by a smiling porpoise
but a transcendent 1st and ten where maybe you’d be happy.
After your final game I imagined you’d do what so many
washed up athletes do: find meaning in the parking lot
of a used car palace or open up a Dairy Queen, maybe
join your kids PTA and tell fourth graders stories that
you now half-believe. I didn’t think it be like this: you smoking
****** under a mauled tarpaulin, brushing fly’s away from
dingy dredlocks, running forward, exasperatedly free,
while a nation wonders why you’ve failed us.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Lips became rock face wounds,
chapped and sore and high and heavenly
and I’d still kiss them breathlessly.
And though you walk among
the fields and fences of
my heady acre,
I’ll run the risk of failure with
all my devotion
and hand-woven, written emotion.
*It was last year when the snowmelt came, that your tarpaulin skin grew tighter around your peg pin bones.
And it was then that your coat zipper split and broke; let me take you home.*
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
princesses made of freckles, wild nettles, vitamin C
strawberry-preserve smiles, backdoor-screen
dreams, pockets full of pencils and pink jellybean
lip gloss, wearing summer and skinned knees
these types of princesses don’t practice their lives
in stone-and-mortar towers. they take dives
into lake-blue unknowns, sunflower skies,
break their falls on vanilla sunrises.
these types of princesses only build their
castles made of tarpaulin and filled
with oak-tree pillars and moons that tilt
into the soft iridescence of rose-gold winters.
these types of princesses conquer backyards.
these types of princesses catch falling stars.
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 3:48 PM UTC
Stagecoach trundled, rutting, wheels
Soily grasp, grabbing at the earthy recipe
Cart....horsing around the outdoorsiness
Ferris wheel spun, gathering passengers
To overlook the show ground, smattered
Four legged races, saddled with encumbents
Bobbing in display formation. Far above
I caught sight of circular ribbons emblazoned
Lapels holding onto prize winners, suffering
The pin ***** jabbing at willing winners
Left foot first, hopscotch to the flap of tarpaulin
Billowing their precious overgrown greatness
Of perfect vegetalia, proud, excessive....of the
Dinner plate variety. Don't touch their polished
Surface, they deliberately await photographic
Validation; future growers, challenging champion
Chompers, terrorising super-veggie heros
I wonder what becomes of former ground growers
Do they take a back stage bow? Uprooted with
Those of a lesser kind, jostling for saucepan space
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
heavy faces
like rainwater
on tarpaulin ceilings
sinking into the meaningless
prose of daily life
cliched, cafe, journal writer
asking for someone
to answer
the why.
and everyone is wearing earphones
everyone
's an empty magazine
cover
stories
photos
colors, forms
edited,
taken
from somewhere else
we are no longer
ourselves.
thin, fat,
black bars
trapped
in a white box
we willingly enter
reluctantly leave
to feel
the joys of coming in
again.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 7:16 AM UTC
This is my only moment
Of lucidity.
I lie on this bed,
On top of blankets
And pillows
And the ghosts of my lovers.
And I see the room, in which I lie
On this bed.
I am aware.
But this is not reality,
This dream-state.
My body does not move the way
It should.
I am twisted,
And frozen.
But not cold,
The icy streaks
Which paint the cement outside
Silver,
Have not taken me
As home
Yet.
Yes.
But I have forgotten that I have joints.
My hands and feet
Are backwards,
Connected to
Wrists and ankles
Which were removed,
When, I know not,
But replaced upside down.
Are they even mine?
I can see the lamp,
And feel its small light,
Like words,
Calling to me.
But I am paralyzed and cannot answer
It.
I hear, too,
A howl,
Like the howl
Of one hundred
Lost souls
Of a generation,
Not looking to be found.
And certainly not in
Any sullen art.
The howl settles
Like white noise
Into my gray matter.
This drone holds the only truth;
Ploom ploom tra da da da
Watching from within the room, but outside of my body,
I saw you,
The phantom.
For that phantom had
To be you,
Jeremy.
And you,
The phantom, stood over my body,
In its paralytic
Dream-state,
And he,
You,
Ripped through the flesh
And bone
And grabbed at its sin.
And he, you,
Ate my tarpaulin colored
sin.
It was then that I knew
That is what fills our
Porcelain,
No limestone,
Shells.
We are afraid of our own
Nondescript insides.
Get down from that perch
Above my head,
Jeremy.
You sit
Like a lead crown.
I wish to see you,
As you were then,
But also as you are now,
A figment of my subconscious.
I lose myself to my sullen art
And wish to sleep forever
In this dream-state,
In you,
My phantom,
My lead crown.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 9:58 AM UTC
Skin’s crawling, the edge of square roofs glowing
with a cold sweat,
eyes are sharper at the crack of a brown dawn.
Dogs own dominion
in fish markets that smell of yesterday.
Their lives and mine are perfect
by the all too human reckoning
of a life’s worth calculated by wants supplied.
A lone cyclist pedals a basket of dew-drenched vegetables
to his usual earthen haunt and tarpaulin,
swerving around the territorial pack
as they change course, trot over and throng me
muddy paws on the best clothes I own,
breath smoking in the dry chill,
I buy myself a pack as the cigarette vendor
unpacks his wares out of damp sacks,
it is a miracle that my breath does not catch fire
or that my eyes have not turned into cotton-balls.
Yet another stranger has brought me home
to the sputter of a third-world petrol engine.
He gets his fare, it’s only fair,
and I’m just glad that I will sleep,
I have nowhere to be in the morning,
I have adventured and now
I am tired and there is a yawning hole
that I slip into without knowing.
It is warm at last,
I cradle my head with the soft side of one hand,
as if it were mother’s,
and this is well, for as things stand,
my dreams welcome me in
and their characters are so familiar,
that I may have just woken up
from a foggy, unmemorable dream
into childhood sweet and clear.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
It's raining
The sky bleeds
But who am I to say
that the dying flowers and coral reefs
will smile at its coming?
I watch the water wash away
weariness
despair
the unknown
You are the one standing in the rain
Staring at the clouds
and
screaming her name
And while the
ever torrential rains
tear down the
tarpaulin facades
While the
bursting plastic storms
creep into
our hearts
It rains
and the world
shatters
like
glass embers
of mirrors
crashing into dust
And purple diamond fragments
sprinkling down the wells of time
It's raining
and minds together
you and I
hear the dashed colours
the beating of sentient cores
crawling down the empty cities
mixing up the storm.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
I like the smell
of pavement
after rain.
It reminds me of camping trips
from when I
was a kid.
I would lay awake
listening
to the rain hitting the tarpaulin roof.
ping
(pong)
ping
A symphony of raindrops
sounded like golfballs
to my childish ears.
I imagined a barrel
tipped over
with those dimpled spheres cascading
into the
air and onto
the roof of the camper.
But in the morning
I would step outside and
would only be met with the smell of the rain.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
Beer floats
So does glass
And the trains
You pass them every weekday and sooner or later it looks like some sort of tarpaulin or a giant business-white circus tent.
It gets to the point you want to approach one of the security guards and ask how it all stays up there.
But the announcements are on and you have time to keep.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
OK lads and lassies we're going to take a walk, just 10 short miles
in that forest over there
WHAT!!!! Yes I know its dark and gloomy but then some forests are
but there's nothing there to harm you, nothing there to fear
I see you have the rucksacks I told you all to bring. Right folks
open them up and we'll see whats contained within
Ah theres no surprise at what you've got in yours, a tiny flask a magazine and your lucky rabbits paw.( Obviously it wasnt lucky
for the rabbit)
In yours just a make up bag now that'll really do some good,
at least you'll still look beautiful when your dying in the woods
Right lets take a look at what I've got in mine, a 10 x 8 tarpaulin
and a ball of nylon twine
Ah yes a survival knife the handle holds a flint for striking fire,
and in this bag 3 snares each 18 inches of supple wire
Now this small tin contains my means to stay alive, 2 small containers of lint from in my tumble dryer, perfect tinder for
making fire
This little brass things with holes in the top is my small trangia
cooker
2 ounces of spirit poured in there gives 15 minutes of fire
A picnic blanket aint much use if your stranded in the woods, well this one is because the underside is completely waterproof
This old tin mug has served me many times as a makeshift
cooking ***
A litre bottle of water and it weighs 15 pounds the lot
So heed the lessons carefully, it might help you to survive
Carry the 15 pounds that I do and you might stay alive
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Reach to the back of the old,
Reach behind the boxes entrenched with dust,
Reach beyond the shelves of tarnished trophies,
Reach beneath the tarpaulin brittle with age.
Reach and ignore the stains of the years
Stretch, ***** seek
And your fingers will brush
Against unfamiliar, new-to-you gems.
Reach and from unexplored corners
Reveal new treasures from the storeroom;
Treasures to enlighten
Treasures to surprise
Treasures to delight
The disciples of the kingdom.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
We both live in Mumbai,
He is Harish, I am Jai.
He lives on the pavement,
Next to my luxurious apartment,
He lives in a shack with metal covered with tarpaulin roof,
It has a T.V dish and WIFI
Mine is hi tech and fire proof.
He sells Samosas on streets and trains,
I am a CEO of a huge company and its top brains.
He rides a small scooter,
I move in a a posh chauffeur driven car,
We are both dressed according to our status.
But, life is ludicrous,
He is always carefree, laughing and most happy,
Whilst I am always stressed and snappy.
He sells 4000 to 5000 samosas a day,
Free, sometimes by midday,
He gets a profit of rupees one for each samosas he sells,
Mostly he gets orders to deliver on his cell.
He earns as much as I do,
Makes me seethe red and blue,
He is his own boss,
Net income, no tax, no loss,
While I slog day and night for others,
Thinking of it makes me shudder.
He is even the owner of the house I live in,
My company has rented from him,
He even owns two more houses in the neighbourhood within,
And a garage not far,
Where it services our company's cars.
Life's like that.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 7:02 AM UTC
Pieces moved out, dropped piece
By piece; splitting off, renting space
Wherever they land, barging past
Squeezing in with the preoccupied
Shapes moved out, old ones fought
Hard to survive their sacked history
The trick was to disregard their tight
Fit, change and feel comfortable with
Old tarpaulin moved in, tore the
Edges, wrapped around, familiar bite
Tugged frayed frail fibres, threading
Shreds splitting apart unconjoined...
Fibrous endings moved in...closer
Maybe a reef that secures, flexing its
Knuckles, voice cracking right over
Left, left over right, repairing temporarily
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC
We wane when we wait
Beneath an overcoat of
Hopeless jokes that
Slope our flatline honesty
Aimless wars waged to
Satisfy our boredom
Our inner void thickens
The tarpaulin sheet
Congealing around and
Over our honesty
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
I miss summer
I miss all its apparent infinities
Possibilities like pebbles on a shingle beach
I drowned in them
The infinite skies
The infinite ocean
And clouds strung up like garments on a washing line
Time was like bubble-gum
And my freedom could be stretched by just breathing into it
I miss summer
I miss wading in blue rather than grey
Or brown
Or orange
Because the trees played
Ring-a-ring-o-roses
And the wind sang the refrain
The sunsets used to suspend themselves just for me
Like a child was commissioned to paint all over
That great big blue tarpaulin
I miss summer
I miss procrastinating minus guilt
I miss flicking through my life
Like the weeks were library shelves
I miss sitting by the fountain in town
Until the word ‘Deadline’ had no meaning
I miss catching busses and the sun dust on the windows
I miss the fact that we had forever
To lick windows and ice-creams
I miss flip-flop days
And catching-rain-in-T-shirts days
And pretending to be limitless
I’ve lived about a decade and a half
So The Time Of My Life is just about due
But I walk home from school
Via the swing sets and roundabouts in the park
And watch the kids who’ve not yet learned
Why trees scrape back their leaves
And strangle themselves with gossamer nooses
In autumn
They fling like drunken spinning tops
And down their hysteria like shots
And I can’t help feeling old
I’m not a young and beautiful love affair
I’m a cast-aside leaf
Who’s only too aware that she’s thin as paper
Shrivelled as morning bed sheets
Grey as the cigarettes God’s smoking
I’ve started to wonder
Why these aren’t known as my Autumn Years
Because breathe me out
And watch me fall
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC