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."

Glenn McCrary Sep 2013

Bad blood.

Yes, that's the substance

That appears to be touring amongst us

Stains of a silent vendetta

Howling against my cranium

Classically, such a rhythm dances

With a carelessly, continuous tune

Am I but an indefinite design

In this fearsome game?

This poem is about the strangely feeling of alienation that raises its head if ever a time occurs that I'll be in the same room with family.

It's motion sickness,mal de mer
this feeling that I get when you're not there,
like I'm floating three feet in the air
upside down.
When are you coming back to town?

I can be your entertainment for the night,put out the light, and treat you right
I can be your breakfast waiter,on a silver tray,
what do you say,
when are you coming back to town,
or are you going to let me down and stay away?
I want this sickness that I have to be kept at bay,want you to come and stay with me,
we could be a pair
instead of me alone, just floating in the air,
what do you say
why do I pray
when are you coming back to town?

we're just tourists to this big world we live in.

Cassandra R Jan 2014

him:      if i were there, i'd be a tourist, you know.
me:       and i'd kiss you longer than i've kissed any tourist.
him:      if you kissed me, i'd be the last tourist you kissed.

adis g Apr 2015

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,

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.

inspired by my life in granada, spain.

I am convinced
that I'm a tourist on this planet,
in this body.

Things like knowing where my legs are,
or existing in the company of a spider,
shouldn't be such causes for
bewilderment and hysteria,
but they are.

And this is besides my awkwardness
with other human beings.
I attribute this to their being tourists too.
Why else would they take lots of pictures
and leave garbage everywhere?

It's like our bus broke down,
and we're surviving in ramshackle forts,
looking out with binoculars
and waving flags made of Hawaiian shirts.

It must be appalling,
and not a little shocking,
to the natives.
Quiet and peaceful, the plants and animals
watch us from a distance,
at once unnerved and giggling
just a little bit,
as they watch us stumble about
and run shrieking from the spiders.

Tom Orr May 2013

going to war to prevent war

they say every man will defend
when in fact it's a means to an end
something egocentric
a valour
a glory
a small gain for uncountable loss

a crusade ethos of the government
when the governor's meant
to be a guardian of interests
yet to guard his own interests
he'd rather tear a hole
in the only things some people know

a hero, a death
a medal, a death
an honour, a death
a victory, a death
or is it the other way around? i forget

a strong-hearted media
which will only feed to you
a story to spin an election.

and I can wholeheartedly say
the only state
which I possess the mind to believe in
is that state in which you've left this crater

devil's land once called home

John F McCullagh Jun 2012

The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a "Whale Hail"
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.

Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.

They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.

Their ride started slowly,
but pleasant enough.
But then came a hill
and the going got rough.

He groaned and he struggled
as he trucked up the road,
but not even juiced Armstrong
could handle this load.

With two tubby tourists
ensconced in the back.
He slowed to a crawl
then stalled in his tracks.

Something had to give
with those two in the rear
The cab then turned turtle
chucking him in the air.

The two tubby tourist
were down on their backs
Their driver unconscious
and two tires flat.

An Ambulance came
and gave him first aide
The two tourists rolled off
and he never got paid.

If we banned too large colas
and sixty ounce beers
could we hope that these
land whales
might,one day, disappear?

Until then its risky
to pick such fares up
unless in a limo
or a truck thats Ram tough

Taken from the pages of Yesterday's New York Post
RH 78 Jul 2015

Covent Garden.
Revellers and tourists combined.
The market is heaving.
Last trains are leaving.
An eclectic mix to broaden the mind.

Covent Garden.
The place is pretty quiet.
Pubs have closed.
Clubs.... God knows.
The tourists have frozen their riot.

Covent Garden.
A drunkard stumbles by.
Flood lit shops.
A rickshaw stops.
The backdrop against a reddish

Covent Garden.
Blokes lurk down Langley street.
The glint of a blade.
A blur in the shade.
Lava tip of cigarette falls to a strangers feet.

Covent Garden.
Commuters emerge from underground stations.
Workers prepare.
Visitors beware.
Pick pockets attracted like gravitation.

Spent a night shift at Covent Garden in London people watching.
Poppy Dec 2014

Thousands of lights shine the way
For ardor tourists who've come to play
Legendary skyscrapers wave hello
The jaw-dropped crowd stand frozen below

With bulging eyes they whirl around
By noon they've memorized every inch of the ground
When it’s time for bedtime they’re busted into confusion
(New York never sleeps!) But the tourists are ready to state their unsurprising conclusion

“It’s true! They chant. New York’s a jewel!”
“Their iconic hot dogs make us drool!”
“All Broadway musicals deserve standing ovations.”
“We’ll definitely include “The Yankees” in baseball conversations.”

They can't stop loving, singing, praising!
They can't stop thinking, "New York's amazing!"

This is my first poem! I know I ended it too briskly, but I wasn't sure what to write after the chanting. Comment?

Jenny Oct 2011

Rolling on by east west way
I could almost see behind me,
As I almost did yesterday.
In my right corner eye
I saw the sun shine setting
and on my left the ocean was swaying and swelling.
Rolling on by east west way.

The sand searchers toy store
was full and flowing more and more.
Yet while staring at it straight ahead
I only saw a light changing to red.
Rolling on by east west way.

So I glanced a moment to the setting sun
and to my right was the only direction
I could see the light.
But the sand searchers toy store was blocking the rays
and it only beckoned me to play.
Rolling on by east west way.

If only I could've rolled on by east west way
as the sun was rising over the ocean's sway.
Then perhaps I would see and stay
in the right light.
Not rolling on by east west way.

August 2008 thought of it while driving by a street sign called East West Way.
steel tulips Nov 2014

we used
to be
in our
own city
we would
go to the
art gallery
and whisper about
you would
hold my hand
as we walked
through gift shops
we would laugh
at over crowded
was lovely
we desired
to see
new things
in the old
we loved
each other
so well

i love you so much
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