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"tourists" poems
*be ever gentle to thy words treat them, your tools, well, cleansing and protecting, wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin that they may be well conditioned and pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous, reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage, they are well-intentioned to exist far longer than your meager temporal life, upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit give them all respect, their fair due, they are treasure immeasurable, for which you have been granted guardianship, custody received from others to be gifted onwards, yours, but for the duration so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body, without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction more truffle than trifle, find them in the dark forest of your life, use them sparingly, just for soaring, take them from the roots of your trees, shave them with a paring knife, counts them in bites and measure them in grams, even in grains, for words are the seasoning of our lives, agent provacateurs that can modify the moment, bringing out to the fore the flavor of the underlying speak them slow and distinct, for they arrive slow to you, a trickling of refugees for your sheltering, harbor them as full companions, protected by natural law, provision them well, prepared and ever ready for a quick departure, moor them at the embarcadero, for the next restless leg of endlessness, which they themselves will inform you will last longer than eternity, long after there are no humans to speak them*
0
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
oh poet! be ever gentle to thy words...
*be ever gentle to thy words treat them, your tools, well, cleansing and protecting, wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin that they may be well conditioned and pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous, reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage, they are well-intentioned to exist far longer than your meager temporal life, upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit give them all respect, their fair due, they are treasure immeasurable, for which you have been granted guardianship, custody received from others to be gifted onwards, yours, but for the duration so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body, without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction more truffle than trifle, find them in the dark forest of your life, use them sparingly, just for soaring, take them from the roots of your trees, shave them with a paring knife, counts them in bites and measure them in grams, even in grains, for words are the seasoning of our lives, agent provacateurs that can modify the moment, bringing out to the fore the flavor of the underlying speak them slow and distinct, for they arrive slow to you, a trickling of refugees for your sheltering, harbor them as full companions, protected by natural law, provision them well, prepared and ever ready for a quick departure, moor them at the embarcadero, for the next restless leg of endlessness, which they themselves will inform you will last longer than eternity, long after there are no humans to speak them*
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46
Eroding brick wall all that remains refracted, fading fishermen shadow red dawn’s early light brackish still water shocked violent green seeps from the desert to be subsumed by an unrelenting sea restless dreamers rise muscle sturdy pangas into the churning tide seeking quicksilver at the continental edges returning boats ride low the shrinking horizon race to safe harbor cold beer on ice under palm palapas in the restaurant a young man shows off tuna half as tall as he is to admiring tourists like me, seeking the deep, slow burn salt, jalapeno, lime a fitting end to this unraveling dream Pueblo Mágico of “no bad days” walls of contention in a fractured land will never separate us one margarita, two another raised in defiance of those who would try to confine and define free-range spirits the Pacific touches this contiguous shore from equator to pole we could catch a clockwise current follow Polaris up North arrive transformed magnetically charged disparate souls fused together bound
0
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
denel-kessler
Pacific Drift
Eroding brick wall all that remains refracted, fading fishermen shadow red dawn’s early light brackish still water shocked violent green seeps from the desert to be subsumed by an unrelenting sea restless dreamers rise muscle sturdy pangas into the churning tide seeking quicksilver at the continental edges returning boats ride low the shrinking horizon race to safe harbor cold beer on ice under palm palapas in the restaurant a young man shows off tuna half as tall as he is to admiring tourists like me, seeking the deep, slow burn salt, jalapeno, lime a fitting end to this unraveling dream Pueblo Mágico of “no bad days” walls of contention in a fractured land will never separate us one margarita, two another raised in defiance of those who would try to confine and define free-range spirits the Pacific touches this contiguous shore from equator to pole we could catch a clockwise current follow Polaris up North arrive transformed magnetically charged disparate souls fused together bound
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50
Little Birds are dining Warily and well, Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters Gorgeous in their gaiters - I've a Tale to tell. Little Birds are feeding Justices with jam, Rich in frizzled ham: Rich, I say, in oysters Haunting shady cloisters - That is what I am. Little Birds are teaching Tigresses to smile, Innocent of guile: Smile, I say, not smirkle - Mouth a semicircle, That's the proper style! Little Birds are sleeping All among the pins, Where the loser wins: Where, I say, he sneezes When and how he pleases - So the Tale begins. Little Birds are writing Interesting books, To be read by cooks: Read, I say, not roasted - Letterpress, when toasted, Loses its good looks. Little Birds are playing Bagpipes on the shore, Where the tourists snore: "Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling! Take, oh take this shilling! Let us have no more!" Little Birds are bathing Crocodiles in cream, Like a happy dream: Like, but not so lasting - Crocodiles, when fasting, Are not all they seem! Little Birds are choking Baronets with bun, Taught to fire a gun: Taught, I say, to splinter Salmon in the winter - Merely for the fun. Little Birds are hiding Crimes in carpet-bags, Blessed by happy stags: Blessed, I say, though beaten - Since our friends are eaten When the memory flags. Little Birds are tasting Gratitude and gold, Pale with sudden cold: Pale, I say, and wrinkled - When the bells have tinkled, And the Tale is told.
0
14k
Lewis Carroll
Little Birds
Little Birds are dining Warily and well, Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters Gorgeous in their gaiters - I've a Tale to tell. Little Birds are feeding Justices with jam, Rich in frizzled ham: Rich, I say, in oysters Haunting shady cloisters - That is what I am. Little Birds are teaching Tigresses to smile, Innocent of guile: Smile, I say, not smirkle - Mouth a semicircle, That's the proper style! Little Birds are sleeping All among the pins, Where the loser wins: Where, I say, he sneezes When and how he pleases - So the Tale begins. Little Birds are writing Interesting books, To be read by cooks: Read, I say, not roasted - Letterpress, when toasted, Loses its good looks. Little Birds are playing Bagpipes on the shore, Where the tourists snore: "Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling! Take, oh take this shilling! Let us have no more!" Little Birds are bathing Crocodiles in cream, Like a happy dream: Like, but not so lasting - Crocodiles, when fasting, Are not all they seem! Little Birds are choking Baronets with bun, Taught to fire a gun: Taught, I say, to splinter Salmon in the winter - Merely for the fun. Little Birds are hiding Crimes in carpet-bags, Blessed by happy stags: Blessed, I say, though beaten - Since our friends are eaten When the memory flags. Little Birds are tasting Gratitude and gold, Pale with sudden cold: Pale, I say, and wrinkled - When the bells have tinkled, And the Tale is told.
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60
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by. As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine, past memories wash over me. Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees, hikes through the bush and walks along the beach. Watching dolphins play at dawn and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores. The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks; a surreal beginning to this adventure. Wringing every drop from days spent, finding a new world with each step. Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you, maturing, becoming my own. Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend, carrying me through fire and back. My life was undone as I first saw your shore. Feeling my heart would break with our first goodbyes, unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged. Tracing back over the years since we met, I’ve been given more than my share. Making me ponder how I have been blessed, to count you as a true friend.
0
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
vicki-kralapp
SITTING IN CIRCULAR QUAY
Sitting in Circular Quay in a bistro on a warm winters day dreaming while watching the tourists and ships sail by. As I eat oysters and drink the day in with my wine, past memories wash over me. Morning teas, chats, and paper bark trees, hikes through the bush and walks along the beach. Watching dolphins play at dawn and fishing the waters on New South Wales shores. The Harbor Bridge alight with Bicentennial Fireworks; a surreal beginning to this adventure. Wringing every drop from days spent, finding a new world with each step. Discovering myself through the wisdom and eyes of you, maturing, becoming my own. Like family, you’ve been both mentor and friend, carrying me through fire and back. My life was undone as I first saw your shore. Feeling my heart would break with our first goodbyes, unknowing that an permanent bond had been forged. Tracing back over the years since we met, I’ve been given more than my share. Making me ponder how I have been blessed, to count you as a true friend.
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24
Salto Angel dances an Aqua-Skirt Such Fashion pleased the Tourists below How else can the Latin earn your Fervour But surpass your Record of height and snow? Funny, how her Majesty can suppress Even more when viewing up from this Point Like a Crone who often tries to oppress A Revolt which a Priest failed to Anoint And lowering my Camera, I see The many Prizes I did Hit-and-Miss But she roared with showers raining gently And, enough! They saw Rainbows turn to bliss. So I sat on a Rock to watch and live Hoping my Partner would rise to forgive.
0
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
xavier-paolo-josh-mandreza
SONNET FEATURE NUMBER THREE
Salto Angel dances an Aqua-Skirt Such Fashion pleased the Tourists below How else can the Latin earn your Fervour But surpass your Record of height and snow? Funny, how her Majesty can suppress Even more when viewing up from this Point Like a Crone who often tries to oppress A Revolt which a Priest failed to Anoint And lowering my Camera, I see The many Prizes I did Hit-and-Miss But she roared with showers raining gently And, enough! They saw Rainbows turn to bliss. So I sat on a Rock to watch and live Hoping my Partner would rise to forgive.
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14
Visits of condolence is all we get from them. They squat at the Holocaust Memorial, They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall And they laugh behind heavy curtains In their hotels. They have their pictures taken Together with our famous dead At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb And on Ammunition Hill. They weep over our sweet boys And lust after our tough girls And hang up their underwear To dry quickly In cool, blue bathrooms. Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."
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9k
Yehuda Amichai
Tourists
Visits of condolence is all we get from them. They squat at the Holocaust Memorial, They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall And they laugh behind heavy curtains In their hotels. They have their pictures taken Together with our famous dead At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb And on Ammunition Hill. They weep over our sweet boys And lust after our tough girls And hang up their underwear To dry quickly In cool, blue bathrooms. Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."
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22
Rusty nail by rusty nail the floors come down. Floor by floor the old men of the old town slip away, and leave old shells like the stone bread of Pompey. We board these windows and bolt these doors and slate them in the young sun for the hungry cranes, but I return in the twilight of going home traffic when five o'clock lets loose blue collars to fumble through the ruined rooms of time gone by, I kick through our broken bricks. Their red dust stains my shoes and wears on my cuffs. A hopeless hearth, discarded news, a crippled doll with matted hair and I all share the crumbling of the day, but only I shall not remain come compline. Neither can I pack these walls with me. So this is adieu to former strongholds. To our old fidelity, adieu. It is not fit to go forth less than brave, for they built seven cities over Troy, seven worlds not knowing where they stood so long the first could not be said to be. The docks of Caesarea sleep in the sea, and tourists sit for lunch on the prone pillars of Jaffa.
0
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
paul-s-eifert
Demolition Day
Rusty nail by rusty nail the floors come down. Floor by floor the old men of the old town slip away, and leave old shells like the stone bread of Pompey. We board these windows and bolt these doors and slate them in the young sun for the hungry cranes, but I return in the twilight of going home traffic when five o'clock lets loose blue collars to fumble through the ruined rooms of time gone by, I kick through our broken bricks. Their red dust stains my shoes and wears on my cuffs. A hopeless hearth, discarded news, a crippled doll with matted hair and I all share the crumbling of the day, but only I shall not remain come compline. Neither can I pack these walls with me. So this is adieu to former strongholds. To our old fidelity, adieu. It is not fit to go forth less than brave, for they built seven cities over Troy, seven worlds not knowing where they stood so long the first could not be said to be. The docks of Caesarea sleep in the sea, and tourists sit for lunch on the prone pillars of Jaffa.
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21
Behind all of the glamour Hidden by the glitz Under all the spray on tans And distracted by the **** Lies a Vegas like no other Not the one you wish to see The other side of Vegas Has a cost, it isn't free A parade of homeless people Far off strip are daily seen Heading for a bed and meal Away from where the grass is green The locals all accept it It's a darker part of town Where there's fewer painted smiles On this Las Vegas clown Every other building Is boarded up or framed In steel bar covered windows With no winners at the game The goal of all the walkers Is to get to the next day They can't afford to leave here They can't afford to stay Each walkway full of hawkers Selling water for a buck Passed out drunks all sleeping Hoping you will toss a buck Some saints and many sinners Came to find the life they lead Is not the one they looked for When they came here to fill their greed Don't look behind the curtain You will not like what you will find The darker side of Vegas Is not one that's in your mind A parade of desperate people Walk the streets each night alone Past the empty buildings Pass the bail bonds, guns and loans To truly see Las Vegas You have to venture off the strip Into a world of darkness And in truth, it's a short trip Behind the glitz and glamour Away from where the tourists go Is the dark side of Las Vegas That only few will ever know
0
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
roger-turner
The Dark Side of Las Vegas
Behind all of the glamour Hidden by the glitz Under all the spray on tans And distracted by the **** Lies a Vegas like no other Not the one you wish to see The other side of Vegas Has a cost, it isn't free A parade of homeless people Far off strip are daily seen Heading for a bed and meal Away from where the grass is green The locals all accept it It's a darker part of town Where there's fewer painted smiles On this Las Vegas clown Every other building Is boarded up or framed In steel bar covered windows With no winners at the game The goal of all the walkers Is to get to the next day They can't afford to leave here They can't afford to stay Each walkway full of hawkers Selling water for a buck Passed out drunks all sleeping Hoping you will toss a buck Some saints and many sinners Came to find the life they lead Is not the one they looked for When they came here to fill their greed Don't look behind the curtain You will not like what you will find The darker side of Vegas Is not one that's in your mind A parade of desperate people Walk the streets each night alone Past the empty buildings Pass the bail bonds, guns and loans To truly see Las Vegas You have to venture off the strip Into a world of darkness And in truth, it's a short trip Behind the glitz and glamour Away from where the tourists go Is the dark side of Las Vegas That only few will ever know
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48
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?* isabella: the french psychology exchange student -     hung up on her ex-boyfriend - really in anime movies -       and that american i competed with on an edinburgh pub-crawl for freshers - and lost my virginity to -                   probably the only time i had the ontological parameters of your atypical man -   "hunting", competing -    oh so, so, enthralling....     (spot the irony mingling with ridicule, when people "know" how the modern man behaves, with his caveman predecessors: dragging a woman by the hair type of cartoonish depiction) - the other fun time i've had encounters with h'americans was in Soho - two colts, texan tourists asking for directions, or where this or that place was... it almost warmed my heart hearing that twang                        of the tongue... perhaps someone from arizona? that has that - "mid" western twang of the tongue                  added to the bite... snub the Boston high-mind eloquence, like:     you really really want                to sound european... never mind...    people say that water is tasteless... hmm...     so last night i was heating up one arm of scissors...                  and sniffing it... then licked the other arm of the scissor... what's in water again?    minerals... a subtle presence... magnesium, potassium, iron... you name it...    so yeah... water is... "tasteless"... eisenzahn that i am.
0
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
water is, "tasteless" (eisenzahn)
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?* isabella: the french psychology exchange student -     hung up on her ex-boyfriend - really in anime movies -       and that american i competed with on an edinburgh pub-crawl for freshers - and lost my virginity to -                   probably the only time i had the ontological parameters of your atypical man -   "hunting", competing -    oh so, so, enthralling....     (spot the irony mingling with ridicule, when people "know" how the modern man behaves, with his caveman predecessors: dragging a woman by the hair type of cartoonish depiction) - the other fun time i've had encounters with h'americans was in Soho - two colts, texan tourists asking for directions, or where this or that place was... it almost warmed my heart hearing that twang                        of the tongue... perhaps someone from arizona? that has that - "mid" western twang of the tongue                  added to the bite... snub the Boston high-mind eloquence, like:     you really really want                to sound european... never mind...    people say that water is tasteless... hmm...     so last night i was heating up one arm of scissors...                  and sniffing it... then licked the other arm of the scissor... what's in water again?    minerals... a subtle presence... magnesium, potassium, iron... you name it...    so yeah... water is... "tasteless"... eisenzahn that i am.
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51
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions. MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ****** Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North". At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress, laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums. Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs. Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom, while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement. Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises, but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
0
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
jj-hutton
Caged Gorilla
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions. MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ****** Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North". At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress, laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums. Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs. Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom, while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement. Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises, but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
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14
everyday they bloom pink popcorn sprouting on trees cotton candy flowers soon to be devoured by hundreds of hungry tourists at the click of a button one flash and the moment is over beauty becomes litter and litter turns to dust
0
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
rin
Sakura
everyday they bloom pink popcorn sprouting on trees cotton candy flowers soon to be devoured by hundreds of hungry tourists at the click of a button one flash and the moment is over beauty becomes litter and litter turns to dust
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13
so someone remarks and thus a poem commissioned... *a better world, a wish no one can turn a back to... a literacy of mine own, a bridge too far... but such a lie too glorious to ignore... blessed be the wisher for he gave this day water and wine to a lapsed Jew who reincarnates the containership of body and soul from the Star of David,* it, burr~etched upon his chest, and embraces lost tourists who unfated unfazed stumble upon the guide dog of his verbal chicanery and funny bone, smiling for as long as it takes to cross that last bridge, nearer our god, you than me..
0
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
poetoftheway
“a better literate world of your own making”
so someone remarks and thus a poem commissioned... *a better world, a wish no one can turn a back to... a literacy of mine own, a bridge too far... but such a lie too glorious to ignore... blessed be the wisher for he gave this day water and wine to a lapsed Jew who reincarnates the containership of body and soul from the Star of David,* it, burr~etched upon his chest, and embraces lost tourists who unfated unfazed stumble upon the guide dog of his verbal chicanery and funny bone, smiling for as long as it takes to cross that last bridge, nearer our god, you than me..
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13
Fresh caught fish and chips at the harbor side shop - fog. Tourists' photograph.
0
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
chris-t
Seafood Haiku #1
Fresh caught fish and chips at the harbor side shop - fog. Tourists' photograph.
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3
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world. Quickly fantasy comes alive through a corporation of disguise. The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life -like costumes to charm little children’s hearts. They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business. The flying trapeze is too elegant, people now want to be strapped in, buckled up and whipped around to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment. Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest. This is vacation, strangers of people in massive conglomerations with confused expressions and burnt faces. Even the food seems wickedly unnatural, like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise. Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance fixation of lights and whistles. They line up like schools of lemming, plunging on rides, one by one. This is the place Where memories are made And dreams come true
0
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
carly-salzberg
Walt Disney World, Orlando Florida
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world. Quickly fantasy comes alive through a corporation of disguise. The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life -like costumes to charm little children’s hearts. They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business. The flying trapeze is too elegant, people now want to be strapped in, buckled up and whipped around to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment. Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest. This is vacation, strangers of people in massive conglomerations with confused expressions and burnt faces. Even the food seems wickedly unnatural, like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise. Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance fixation of lights and whistles. They line up like schools of lemming, plunging on rides, one by one. This is the place Where memories are made And dreams come true
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29
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
0
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
alexander-k-opicho
VERSES OF CAUTION TO AN AFRICAN GIRL
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen, That tall old man with white hair all over his head Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself, Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift; A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution For you dear little African girl. Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness, It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts, His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl. Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk **** Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty, Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism, Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs, Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy, They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
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36
Goodbye  wasps Goodbye  bees Goodbye  pollen from the trees Goodbye  midges Goodbye  flies Goodbye  scorching cloudless skies Goodbye  seagulls Goodbye  ants Goodbye  sunbathers in tiny pants Goodbye  sunburn Goodbye  oiled skin Goodbye  iced drinks laced with gin Goodbye  tourists Goodbye  throngs Goodbye  men wearing sarongs Goodbye  hosepipe Goodbye  lawn  mower Welcome  to the noisy leaf blower Hello  Autumn Hello  cool bright day Hello  rolling around in the hay Hello  harvest Hello  fruits Hello  hiking in hiking boots Hello warm colours Hello warm hearts Good riddance Summer Autumn starts
0
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
shaded-lamp
Goodbye Summer
Goodbye  wasps Goodbye  bees Goodbye  pollen from the trees Goodbye  midges Goodbye  flies Goodbye  scorching cloudless skies Goodbye  seagulls Goodbye  ants Goodbye  sunbathers in tiny pants Goodbye  sunburn Goodbye  oiled skin Goodbye  iced drinks laced with gin Goodbye  tourists Goodbye  throngs Goodbye  men wearing sarongs Goodbye  hosepipe Goodbye  lawn  mower Welcome  to the noisy leaf blower Hello  Autumn Hello  cool bright day Hello  rolling around in the hay Hello  harvest Hello  fruits Hello  hiking in hiking boots Hello warm colours Hello warm hearts Good riddance Summer Autumn starts
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Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun Suns overhead it, must be noon Don’t really know ain't been to sleep My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep My Costa’s are filtering out the sun I seem to be suffering from too much fun Only one cure, I need another drink Maybe then my clouded brain can think Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see Maybe later on, just her and me I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar Strolling along, while I watch her sway Can only imagine, if I had my way Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime Mexican girls and ******* tourists Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist Seeing the sights, and doing well Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell feelin' swell.... Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
0
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
jed-johnson
Panama Hat and a Cuban Cigar
Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun Suns overhead it, must be noon Don’t really know ain't been to sleep My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep My Costa’s are filtering out the sun I seem to be suffering from too much fun Only one cure, I need another drink Maybe then my clouded brain can think Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see Maybe later on, just her and me I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar Strolling along, while I watch her sway Can only imagine, if I had my way Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime Mexican girls and ******* tourists Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist Seeing the sights, and doing well Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell feelin' swell.... Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
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35
There was a pirate who came from afar Who sank his ship for a h'penny o' tar He had a scar on his cheek, Gold in his teeth And like Prabhu, a thing for the noir There was a vicar from Kent Who gave up religion for lent He enjoyed a spree Of being un-holy Nobody knows where he went For the tourists to impress She wore traditional dress She liked the grass skirt And the flowery shirt But the coconut bra caused distress One of the tourists she knew Was really enjoying the view He bought her a drink Tickled her pink And said may I remove it for you? The limerick man was on top He was writing such a lot The barrel he dredged He lost his edge And didn't know when to stop
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Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
martin
Pirate, Hawaiian, vicar, and other limericks
There was a pirate who came from afar Who sank his ship for a h'penny o' tar He had a scar on his cheek, Gold in his teeth And like Prabhu, a thing for the noir There was a vicar from Kent Who gave up religion for lent He enjoyed a spree Of being un-holy Nobody knows where he went For the tourists to impress She wore traditional dress She liked the grass skirt And the flowery shirt But the coconut bra caused distress One of the tourists she knew Was really enjoying the view He bought her a drink Tickled her pink And said may I remove it for you? The limerick man was on top He was writing such a lot The barrel he dredged He lost his edge And didn't know when to stop
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25
Over staffed and under fed Spanish waiters rush around with waistcoats of wisdom wearing black shoes of sordid shift-work soles. They greet and speak to every new tourist, and regular, as if a brother, sister, mother, second-cousin-twice-removed stepmother, yet really they are: the ephemeral fodder of the cheap, low-cost-airline, the flash and it’s gone spine of most cities on the map, the ‘Sorry, I left it in a Barcelona Café, could I get it back on insurance?’ baseball cap, that most sightseer marionettes wear, back to front, the standing in line, waiting to complain, tourists that know nothing of decorum. So the Spanish waiter served me my coffee and whispered in my ear, ‘Disfrutar de su día senor’, that was, 'Enjoy your day Sir’.
0
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
tim-knight
'SORRY, I LEFT IT IN A BARCELONA CAFÉ'
Over staffed and under fed Spanish waiters rush around with waistcoats of wisdom wearing black shoes of sordid shift-work soles. They greet and speak to every new tourist, and regular, as if a brother, sister, mother, second-cousin-twice-removed stepmother, yet really they are: the ephemeral fodder of the cheap, low-cost-airline, the flash and it’s gone spine of most cities on the map, the ‘Sorry, I left it in a Barcelona Café, could I get it back on insurance?’ baseball cap, that most sightseer marionettes wear, back to front, the standing in line, waiting to complain, tourists that know nothing of decorum. So the Spanish waiter served me my coffee and whispered in my ear, ‘Disfrutar de su día senor’, that was, 'Enjoy your day Sir’.
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a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy ~~~ the divers’ recovery, diverse, shipwrecked salvage from different locations, auctioned to the highest bidder, tho the excised excerpts are exceptional, none come to do the bidding, for the provenance of words belongs to all, and to none ~~ “so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body, without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction” “the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few, like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am, evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings, how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty to love the crafted content of our human essence to better comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit” “murmur me, with soft downy charms, these words discovered recoursed and intended well to pointedly offset and contradict their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering, tear tongue me with calming, lapping word  wages, hymns harmonious and fine homilies, a call, a request, a bequest to sedate my shrill life “some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally, aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes, making me speak in tongues I do not recognize, but fluently possess, no wonder there, the memory place fairly empty, room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery                                                          ­ of the vaguest of dearly departed skin is not the only mot shed,                                                 sloughing of woeful words” “speak them slow and distinct, for they arrive slow to you, a trickling of refugees for your sheltering, harbor them as full companions, protected by natural law, provision them well, prepared and ever ready for a quick departure, moor these words at the embarcadero, for the next restless leg of endlessness, which they themselves will inform you will last longer than eternity, long after there are no humans to speak them”
0
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
“diving into the depths of my words”
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy ~~~ the divers’ recovery, diverse, shipwrecked salvage from different locations, auctioned to the highest bidder, tho the excised excerpts are exceptional, none come to do the bidding, for the provenance of words belongs to all, and to none ~~ “so oft we trifle words, expel them from the country of our body, without passport and earnestness, as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler, day tourists, to be treated as leavings, refuse for daily discardation, barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance, but leaving not, a mark of distinction” “the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few, like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am, evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings, how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty to love the crafted content of our human essence to better comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule, becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit” “murmur me, with soft downy charms, these words discovered recoursed and intended well to pointedly offset and contradict their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering, tear tongue me with calming, lapping word  wages, hymns harmonious and fine homilies, a call, a request, a bequest to sedate my shrill life “some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally, aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes, making me speak in tongues I do not recognize, but fluently possess, no wonder there, the memory place fairly empty, room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery                                                          ­ of the vaguest of dearly departed skin is not the only mot shed,                                                 sloughing of woeful words” “speak them slow and distinct, for they arrive slow to you, a trickling of refugees for your sheltering, harbor them as full companions, protected by natural law, provision them well, prepared and ever ready for a quick departure, moor these words at the embarcadero, for the next restless leg of endlessness, which they themselves will inform you will last longer than eternity, long after there are no humans to speak them”
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Fairies live in the Enchanted Forests Where breezes cool their beautiful faces A forest where there are never tourists Where Fairies are dressed in pretty laces Where sunrays shine across the Forest path So picturesque, beautiful, and divine Have you seen this place? No one ever hath Except me and the Fairies of Sunshine This is where the beautiful Fairies dance Forever and into eternity Where breezes blow and in one quick sweet glance They fly away where I cannot them see Tonight they'll be singing a lullaby And the Moon will watch from the deep blue sky ~Marian~
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Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
marian
Sonnet: Forests
Fairies live in the Enchanted Forests Where breezes cool their beautiful faces A forest where there are never tourists Where Fairies are dressed in pretty laces Where sunrays shine across the Forest path So picturesque, beautiful, and divine Have you seen this place? No one ever hath Except me and the Fairies of Sunshine This is where the beautiful Fairies dance Forever and into eternity Where breezes blow and in one quick sweet glance They fly away where I cannot them see Tonight they'll be singing a lullaby And the Moon will watch from the deep blue sky ~Marian~
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15
Sing a song of Tajmahal a fine nazm or a ghazal Of this landmark for lovers Ah, a lover's edifice Complete with medieval bowers It's a Mecca for tourists! Tis sensational, tis exceptional tis truly a touristy place. Watch the shimmer of its magnificent marbled dome Moonlight or sunlight, it glimmers of imperial chrome It's ironical then that though Indian-Arabian I am I haven't yet been to this touristy place It is truly as they must say, a lover's shrine a place where hearts duly incline They find it steamy I find it dreamy Oh, I've got to see for myself this touristy place. Each of the marbled minarets conceal such romantic secrets for lovers to silently explore to admire and to adore A place human lovebirds couldn't ignore. Ah you've got to visit this touristy place! Two famed lovers lie in the legendary vault below and the stream too it has a romantic flow It's a lovers haven and paradise on earth Even dead passions there undergo a rebirth Ah, rekindle my love for you in this touristy place! Extol I may this awesome imposing edifice A greed for pure love is perhaps better than avarice Löng live the legend of Shah jahan and Mumtaz mahal Long live love and love like a Moghul so forever we have this monumental grace! Yeah take me my luv to this touristy place!
0
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
S-zaynab-kamoonpury5
Sing a song of Taj Mahal
Sing a song of Tajmahal a fine nazm or a ghazal Of this landmark for lovers Ah, a lover's edifice Complete with medieval bowers It's a Mecca for tourists! Tis sensational, tis exceptional tis truly a touristy place. Watch the shimmer of its magnificent marbled dome Moonlight or sunlight, it glimmers of imperial chrome It's ironical then that though Indian-Arabian I am I haven't yet been to this touristy place It is truly as they must say, a lover's shrine a place where hearts duly incline They find it steamy I find it dreamy Oh, I've got to see for myself this touristy place. Each of the marbled minarets conceal such romantic secrets for lovers to silently explore to admire and to adore A place human lovebirds couldn't ignore. Ah you've got to visit this touristy place! Two famed lovers lie in the legendary vault below and the stream too it has a romantic flow It's a lovers haven and paradise on earth Even dead passions there undergo a rebirth Ah, rekindle my love for you in this touristy place! Extol I may this awesome imposing edifice A greed for pure love is perhaps better than avarice Löng live the legend of Shah jahan and Mumtaz mahal Long live love and love like a Moghul so forever we have this monumental grace! Yeah take me my luv to this touristy place!
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35
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock that Ebony met her first thresher shark He was five feet long or so two feet shark, three feet tail, and had just been pulled from the surf to be proudly displayed by the fisherman who had caught him Ebony stood transfixed her every muscle poised her feathered tail twitched as she leaned closer to inspect and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty still dressed in fleetingly iridescent blues and greens and purples - As the sun’s fading beams highlighted the magnificence of this dying shark I mourned his loss that night. The noise and tourists in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars did not detract from the peacefulness of the Pacific in her chaos for this was August and they would soon go home I watched a distant storm at sea flashing fire against the deepening twilight I stood, and Ebony, gazing at the flashes of lightning My hand felt her softness and warmth as I stroked the waves of her black fur relishing the cool wind on my face listening to the rigging of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier Thinking about thresher sharks Willing them away from this place with its fishermen and cold, baited hooks Cori MacNaughton 13 Sept 2000
0
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
cori-macnaughton
The Santa Monica Pier
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock that Ebony met her first thresher shark He was five feet long or so two feet shark, three feet tail, and had just been pulled from the surf to be proudly displayed by the fisherman who had caught him Ebony stood transfixed her every muscle poised her feathered tail twitched as she leaned closer to inspect and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty still dressed in fleetingly iridescent blues and greens and purples - As the sun’s fading beams highlighted the magnificence of this dying shark I mourned his loss that night. The noise and tourists in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars did not detract from the peacefulness of the Pacific in her chaos for this was August and they would soon go home I watched a distant storm at sea flashing fire against the deepening twilight I stood, and Ebony, gazing at the flashes of lightning My hand felt her softness and warmth as I stroked the waves of her black fur relishing the cool wind on my face listening to the rigging of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier Thinking about thresher sharks Willing them away from this place with its fishermen and cold, baited hooks Cori MacNaughton 13 Sept 2000
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38
Our eyes filled with wonder Our minds twisted in change Much like hobbits going afar Then returning to sweet home Our lives were changed forever We rode slow and flew so fast In tin cans from here and to there Never taking off our shoes Hardly touching the ground Hardly touching Africa Hiding behind camera lens Wearing our face in masks As a people not African black Who worry not the future Living easily in time’s moment Like sardines aligned in tight Wild creatures within confines Electricity, steel, and wire Tall fences stopping escape To other worlds and realms afar Except the leopards of night Who easily roam across All defined or artificial borders Escaping cramped tin cans Basking in Africa’s buttery light Except for our African guide With Christian name of Dexter But named actually as Tichayambuka Nekutenda Nenyasha Chikerema More comfortable sleeping in Deep bush amongst beasts Without down comforters, perfumes, socks, or shoes Living life in happy quiet freedom A man raised speaking Bantu in a small Shona tribe Born in the Zimababwan village Of Mutekedza in Mashonaland East in the Chivhu Area. From his father’s family Given a totem of Zebra Brown Then recited in love poem daily by his proud mother To affirm him as a man Although he must also be like the leopard Unconfined in simple borders Or tin can walls all around Able to traverse the world We as tourists were and are Salty, smelly, near rotten sardines I see him smile And I laugh, and I know Ndino ziva anorarama se  mbada ©  2017 Jim Davis
0
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
jbdvet75
Sardines
Our eyes filled with wonder Our minds twisted in change Much like hobbits going afar Then returning to sweet home Our lives were changed forever We rode slow and flew so fast In tin cans from here and to there Never taking off our shoes Hardly touching the ground Hardly touching Africa Hiding behind camera lens Wearing our face in masks As a people not African black Who worry not the future Living easily in time’s moment Like sardines aligned in tight Wild creatures within confines Electricity, steel, and wire Tall fences stopping escape To other worlds and realms afar Except the leopards of night Who easily roam across All defined or artificial borders Escaping cramped tin cans Basking in Africa’s buttery light Except for our African guide With Christian name of Dexter But named actually as Tichayambuka Nekutenda Nenyasha Chikerema More comfortable sleeping in Deep bush amongst beasts Without down comforters, perfumes, socks, or shoes Living life in happy quiet freedom A man raised speaking Bantu in a small Shona tribe Born in the Zimababwan village Of Mutekedza in Mashonaland East in the Chivhu Area. From his father’s family Given a totem of Zebra Brown Then recited in love poem daily by his proud mother To affirm him as a man Although he must also be like the leopard Unconfined in simple borders Or tin can walls all around Able to traverse the world We as tourists were and are Salty, smelly, near rotten sardines I see him smile And I laugh, and I know Ndino ziva anorarama se  mbada ©  2017 Jim Davis
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56
Thank you, tourists For pausing. For capturing Every moment. Your cameras draped, Quivering below your necks Your necks rosy with sun. Sunscreen scents Swarm the air But the air bursts Diverse Dialects, Dogmas, and Dreams. Thank you From a resident, A student, A visitor, A wanderer. Thank you For immobilizing Glorious minutes For impeding time Just for a moment. For acknowledging- So that those who neglect to notice, Once again realize their riches. Thank you For your quiet grins As you regard The world. Thank you, travelers.
0
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
adis-g
Ode to Tourists
Thank you, tourists For pausing. For capturing Every moment. Your cameras draped, Quivering below your necks Your necks rosy with sun. Sunscreen scents Swarm the air But the air bursts Diverse Dialects, Dogmas, and Dreams. Thank you From a resident, A student, A visitor, A wanderer. Thank you For immobilizing Glorious minutes For impeding time Just for a moment. For acknowledging- So that those who neglect to notice, Once again realize their riches. Thank you For your quiet grins As you regard The world. Thank you, travelers.
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