"tootling" poems - Hello Poetry

Times between night and mornin, Just when the chill about sets in, Limbs frantically search for that crumpled quilt Increasing warmth and ahh sweet grogginess. A dream floats in my blank sleep You and me tootling along a forgotten, familiar street In a battered old Hyundai Santro?? it is. Twenty years of acquired cobwebs melt Evoke fond memories and unexplored possibilities Overlaid with a wild imagination, the images move in slow motion Me driving, your gaze surveying the landscape You are older and plumper, I have a beer belly and a bald patch There is not much to say, or too much to say but no time. Four Eyes frequently lock and search for something Knowing it but daring not to say. Your sultry liquid voice breaks into a song, an old Urdu ghazal, Of obscure origin and meaning, The notes glide and acquire shapes in your husky abused throat, Silvery quicksilver, flowing, and always round at the edges Unfettered and undisturbed by the bumpy ride and noisy springs Brings whole of creation in the Battered old Hyundai Santro Still. The vocal vibrates and resonates in my bones and skull and in my soul Stimulates humours I didn’t know exist Eyes lock again, a mild smile is exchanged, We understand each other Know the limits and improbabilities Its not going to be in this life time dear. Let’s seal it with a kiss An embrace exchanged over the gear levers and handbrakes Oblivious to the barreling old Hyundai Santro Your tiny ******* and Pantene scented hair Your lips still perfect, soft, warm, moist and downy at the corners,. Unfamiliar yet so familiar.

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Nov 22, 2016

Nov 22, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC

ajit-patel

A Forgotten Song

Times between night and mornin, Just when the chill about sets in, Limbs frantically search for that crumpled quilt Increasing warmth and ahh sweet grogginess. A dream floats in my blank sleep You and me tootling along a forgotten, familiar street In a battered old Hyundai Santro?? it is. Twenty years of acquired cobwebs melt Evoke fond memories and unexplored possibilities Overlaid with a wild imagination, the images move in slow motion Me driving, your gaze surveying the landscape You are older and plumper, I have a beer belly and a bald patch There is not much to say, or too much to say but no time. Four Eyes frequently lock and search for something Knowing it but daring not to say. Your sultry liquid voice breaks into a song, an old Urdu ghazal, Of obscure origin and meaning, The notes glide and acquire shapes in your husky abused throat, Silvery quicksilver, flowing, and always round at the edges Unfettered and undisturbed by the bumpy ride and noisy springs Brings whole of creation in the Battered old Hyundai Santro Still. The vocal vibrates and resonates in my bones and skull and in my soul Stimulates humours I didn’t know exist Eyes lock again, a mild smile is exchanged, We understand each other Know the limits and improbabilities Its not going to be in this life time dear. Let’s seal it with a kiss An embrace exchanged over the gear levers and handbrakes Oblivious to the barreling old Hyundai Santro Your tiny ******* and Pantene scented hair Your lips still perfect, soft, warm, moist and downy at the corners,. Unfamiliar yet so familiar.

33

Low-lit along the coast young boys play bones upon the stone, and the elders, waiting for the sea, conceal their interest. The waves are far enough to ignore but the salt mist has lingered: blurs the tracks about the strand made by creatures whose names you once knew; lost now amongst the streaming lists and orchestral sounds that drown the young before bedtime. for some time prophesy or tradition, the journeys tracing symbols down to the sepulchral cities that rust under water – Sometimes bring droughts, reveal spires and penthouses, weathervanes and aerials. lose a notebook and die elderly gardening temples. fear life in sustenance. fear primordial words that chime like glass honey traps dull and shallow. fear the panoramic shots of cattle , a great still herd shivering breakers of light, the temporary herder, you weren’t permitted to see, chasing away baboons with long-ish strides behind you. poetry is always chasing and each step will always chase better, transcribing the soughs of the meadow (or other inhuman acts) to speak with running subtitles: in the translation of a voice to be some natural thing singing like the humpback corrupting the grace of the older song whilst tootling along the coast

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May 26, 2015

May 26, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC

didiot-vynberber

Word Document

Low-lit along the coast young boys play bones upon the stone, and the elders, waiting for the sea, conceal their interest. The waves are far enough to ignore but the salt mist has lingered: blurs the tracks about the strand made by creatures whose names you once knew; lost now amongst the streaming lists and orchestral sounds that drown the young before bedtime. for some time prophesy or tradition, the journeys tracing symbols down to the sepulchral cities that rust under water – Sometimes bring droughts, reveal spires and penthouses, weathervanes and aerials. lose a notebook and die elderly gardening temples. fear life in sustenance. fear primordial words that chime like glass honey traps dull and shallow. fear the panoramic shots of cattle , a great still herd shivering breakers of light, the temporary herder, you weren’t permitted to see, chasing away baboons with long-ish strides behind you. poetry is always chasing and each step will always chase better, transcribing the soughs of the meadow (or other inhuman acts) to speak with running subtitles: in the translation of a voice to be some natural thing singing like the humpback corrupting the grace of the older song whilst tootling along the coast

29

If slow could show itself as being fast the driver of this bus would still come last. And then we wonder why productivity once so high has gone into decline, it's down to bus drivers tootling along and taking their time. Almost to a man they don't give a **** never a please or a thank you, they shunt you in to a forty foot coffin and we're off in what appears to be a snails pace it's no wonder they're laughing There's a lot to be said for closing your eyes and staying in bed but not a lot of people say it instead they'll pray for Saturday which'll be a long time coming if it takes the bus.

0

Apr 21, 2017

Apr 21, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

By a passenger in the city with a bus (not Cluedo or cricket )

If slow could show itself as being fast the driver of this bus would still come last. And then we wonder why productivity once so high has gone into decline, it's down to bus drivers tootling along and taking their time. Almost to a man they don't give a **** never a please or a thank you, they shunt you in to a forty foot coffin and we're off in what appears to be a snails pace it's no wonder they're laughing There's a lot to be said for closing your eyes and staying in bed but not a lot of people say it instead they'll pray for Saturday which'll be a long time coming if it takes the bus.

26

To me there was never any drawback it was just simply child's play looking back down the old track it was a typical British railway. It was just brilliant in its heyday chugging along with a smokestack through tunnels and the odd archway I can safely say I never looked back. All those hard workers on the payroll leaving memories along the track spending all day shovelling coal everything they wore and owned black. Some days their breath dried and they cried from the young lad to the station guard but they all had something called pride even though their memory's were all scarred. The whistle could be heard "all aboard" and off it would go chugging the steam puffed and the engine roared regardless of the carriages it was tugging. Through every village an every vale it relentlessly ploughed along each track and each trail leaving its white fluffy cloud. Travelling along tootling down from hill to hill down the track from coast to each and every town and I never looked back.

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Aug 2, 2017

Aug 2, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC

cheryl-love

I Never Looked Back

To me there was never any drawback it was just simply child's play looking back down the old track it was a typical British railway. It was just brilliant in its heyday chugging along with a smokestack through tunnels and the odd archway I can safely say I never looked back. All those hard workers on the payroll leaving memories along the track spending all day shovelling coal everything they wore and owned black. Some days their breath dried and they cried from the young lad to the station guard but they all had something called pride even though their memory's were all scarred. The whistle could be heard "all aboard" and off it would go chugging the steam puffed and the engine roared regardless of the carriages it was tugging. Through every village an every vale it relentlessly ploughed along each track and each trail leaving its white fluffy cloud. Travelling along tootling down from hill to hill down the track from coast to each and every town and I never looked back.

28