"townies" poems
When backpacking, there are certain
rules that everyone knows like
take less than you can carry;
you’ll pick up things as you go.
Be careful when hitchhiking;
follow your gut instinct. Always.
Stick to your budget;
you don’t wanna run dry in Kansas.
What no one actually tells you is:
Don’t fall in love
with a town or
with a boy in a town.
Oops.
A boy who is settled and nestled in a town is dangerous.
The other roaming, free-loving boys are fine, because
they understand and you understand
that, like a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, your
both freebirds who must be traveling on.
These boys are easy to love and set free.
Townies, on the other hand, are like rose-colored poison
which seeps into your every thought,
but then you don’t really mind.
They show you that their quaint little town
doesn’t just look like magic.
It is magic.
They show you that there’s something beautiful in
greeting the mailman with
“how’s the wife?”
the charming town diner
where the pie is county-famous
the declaration of love on the water tower
written in red spray paint.
The boy shows you how to fall in love with a town,
and in the town you fall in love with the boy.
They should start printing warning labels on backpacks:
WARNING: don’t fall in love with a boy
who is settled and nestled in a pint-sized town
because he will clip you wings.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Crawl with me back
behind the the Midway glare of lights
so bright they blind you to the inevitable.
Slink into the shadows
where the carnies laugh at the marks;
the sound of their mirth
decomposing at the edges of their mouths,
falling to the ground to slither away
in the darkness.
Sneak behind the glowing banners
where the peeling paint is stained
with a thousand yesterdays
and there is no happy endings
or smiling child with over-sized toy.
See? There beyond the glow of the calliope
sleeps a girl, thumb in tear stained mouth,
curled into herself in the hay. Momma's busy
where the ***** sound drowns out other noises.
And there, where the fat lady hangs her garments
to dry in starlight, she watches the townies stroll
and wishes she had a different role to play.
Behind the warped boards of the spinning wheels
the boy strains to hear coded words
to know which lever to press, unless
he sees the shiny toes and knows
to vanish into the night.
Walk the Midway with me now--
the cotton candy spun dreams melting;
the grainy taste no longer sweet.
The bolt is loose on the tilt-a-whirl but
it is late and tear down starts when the last rider
bolts for home. Magic and fantasy
are folded into boxes, packed away like
disjointed clowns in an undersized car
until the next day, the next town,
the next nameless place
and all the dreams are spun once again
for the believing, the foolish and the blind.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
The ideosyncrasies of the cities are not
found in the small towns,
the dirt poor brown towns,
the twitching of curtains and dressing gown towns,
but the **** pulls us out of the towns and into the city where the
sewers are home to the rats and the mountains built up on
the streets are a home for the cats,the fat cats,the purring cats, the sharing caring who am I kidding cats,
they are the leeches
weekdays in suits and the weekends in knickerbockers,breech loaders,the feeding free loaders,the gum boot brigade,tea,toast and marmalade,raid the pension accounts and they get an accolade brigade.
The small town mentality will be the death of me,I can see this is wrong but go along with it,up to my neck in it,with paddles I row in it,
the city is full of ****
The cranes,
new age pterodactyls, chomping their way through the last of the daffodils,sending them downstream to a landfill in East Cheam,sometimes if I dream,I dream in black and white and the city then looks alright but in my heart I know it's crumbling,falling apart at the seams,held together by nightmares and more dreams from the townies,cub scouts and brownies,I don't dream a lot anymore.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
A sweep of a paintbrush
Is the only thing that could capture this angelic devil of a place
All that could create the crumble of this sidewalk,
Or the tickle of this wind and these stabs of sleet.
Or the dashing of the shadows by this Spring's happy rays.
All of this wonder and this common rarity
In this baby of a town
That cries to be heard and loved
For the mind that sits inside it
Wanting to be known for more than the just it's beauty of a school.
It sits as a daisy in a field of sunflowers,
Unnoticed until the ladybugs that fly from it are seen
Fluttering to great heights
Showering wonder on all the witnesses.
But what of the aphids,
The townies,
Those that call this home?
Do they get no credit
For building a life,
A family,
A dream,
Within this cozy corner of the country?
They see this place as home,
Looking at it with comfort and nostalgia.
It is their point B.
Their finishing line.
Or maybe even their starting point,
But still a place of birth.
Through their eyes,
These cracked roads and looming trees
Are glazed in memories
Of hopscotch and snowmen.
But no matter to whom, there is love and there is hate.
There are those who wish to flee this beautifully forsaken prison.
There are those who wish they had never been elsewhere.
To everyone though, there is beauty in it some place.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
THAT ADLESTROP MOMENT
Train stops.
Stranding us in real life countryside.
Townies gobsmacked.
Silence attacks.
The world melting
in a heat haze.
Where has our real
reality gone?
Tracks lead away from us
be we are going
nowhere
fast.
As if the future
had ceased to exist.
We are like the male member
caught in the teeth
of a too hastily
done-up zip.
Yep,,,,,,,doesn't go up!
Oooops,,,,doesn't go down!
A kestrel free
of our dilemma.
Laughs at us
"Humans, eh....who'd 'ave 'em!"
Smaller birds gossip
discussing this all too human
situation.
I recite Adlestrop
in my mind
to my reflection
staring dumbly back at me.
"There is a countryside
in my face..."
I Marvell.
As if Nature
had invaded my physiognomy .
"Unwontedly...something
something something or other."
Oh bother!
"No one left and no one came."
The birds stop to listen.
"Yes, we remember Adlestrop!"
they twitter.
"Hear it one day
in what you humans
call
the Past.
Wot a laugh!
They unaware that there is only
one great big forever."
I fell silent.
Deserted by all thought.
"Give us some more
of that good old Adlestrop stuff!
The birds chirrup.
"No what less still and lonely fair
through cloudlets in the sky."
I ventured.
"Naw...naw...naw mate!"
a crow caws.
"The bit 'bout us birds
if you please!"
I cough and continue.
"Farther and farther, all the birds
of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire."
The birds all cheep and cheer.
"Hip hip hooray for Edward Thomas!"
The train remembers itself.
Rouses itself from its slumbers.
As if all this
had been but a dream.
"Yes, I remember Adlestrop"
But not all of it.
It was June.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
That’s Speedwell
and that’s Red Sorrel
Jane said
pointing out
the wildflowers
as you both walked
down the lane
that led to the empty cottage
with apples trees
in the garden
and gooseberry bushes
in fruit by hedges
They all look the same to me
you said
Just flowers growing
she shook her head
and smiled and said
You townies
do you know nothing
of nature’s beauty?
I’m looking at beauty now
you replied
and as you both walked on
down the lane
she in her summery dress
and you in your
open neck shirt
and faded jeans
you felt the morning sun
touching your head
like a fond mother
and the smell of flowers
and sound of birds
and she said
after a minute
or so of silence
Father says beauty
is only skin deep
real beauty lies
in a person’s soul
if that soul is not blemished
by sin that is
and you looked at her
hand by her side
swinging as she walked
and the fingers curled
as if she held
something invisible
yet ready to throw
and you took in
her white ankle socks
above her brown sandals
and the calves of her legs
and her thighs
just showing
as the dress moved
and you breathed in deep
like one immersed
in water about to drown
of love or the feeling of such
and you said
I guess he’s right
but I love the beauty
of skin pretty much
and she laughed
and her laughter
shooed off birds
from the tree tops around
who probably never heard
such a beautiful sound.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
I left at first light.
Packed my bags for the 23rd time.
(Or was it the 24th?
I've lost count.)
I went south,
To a sad little factory town
Where I spent part of my adolescence.
I thought it would be interesting to see if
The townies still remembered me.
If their booze-soaked brains had
Retained the memory of the strange
Little homeless girl with crooked hips.
I have changed quite a bit.
And I've just seen the medicine man,
He knows who I am.
I saw the fear in his eyes when he came in.
To him I am
A ghostly amalgam
Of memory and imagination.
A dream.
A nightmare.
Something he never thought he'd see again.
He walks right by me without a second glance.
I let him pass.
I only exist in the rear view.
Just a minor case of déjà vu.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
In the corner, a sign: “Welcome back students!”
(Oh, who could doubt Bud Light’s sincerity?)
“The townies are nice,
(As far as they go)
But the size of their tabs doth butter no bread.”
Merchants of spirits will always prefer
The deluge over the modest trickle.
Full for a weeknight, this place seems to me.
The close, thick air,
Breathed in by too many lungs,
Shows off proudly its perfume
Of grease, old sweat,
And stale, sour hops.
How many paramours have been drawn by that scent?
Lines of glass soldiers stand at attention,
Waiting to be drained of their courage,
Shot by shot.
Bitterness is sweet here,
A flavor to be savored,
Rolled ‘round the tongue then swallowed down;
An arid rain to dry wet fields.
An old, kind, self-conscious biker-type,
My grandfather’s ghost tends bar.
A red bandana over a ponytail stirs black and white memories;
Long legs astride a battered black Harley,
Easy grin tearing the corners of his lips,
Faded, cliché bald eagle tattoos
Adorning weather-leathered arms.
Grampa Chuck serves drinks with a smile
To the hot press of bodies that encircle him.
Sounds of glee and mirth pierce through the murmur
Of robot buzzing bees,
And generic rock music,
That no one listens to but everyone must talk over—
They did not come for the music any more than they came for the alcohol.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
She sits.
Wondering how to reach the sky.
A fix of magic tricks.
To make her fly.
She'll cry for it.
Lie for it.
Maybe even die for it.
She sighs for it.
You can see it in her saucer eyes.
She's flying at last.
What happened yesterday's only the past.
Sky scraping.
Risk taking.
Meat hooks.
***** looks.
Bouncing on pavements with forbidden ones.
Daughters together and unholy sons.
Sniffing a thin line.
A hit, at a wild time.
It caught her badly.
Cut to ribbons.
Bites with sickness.
Bleeding out silently.
Mellow sounds of Stevie Nicks.
Beat through her brain, like kettle drums.
Living life supporting bums.
The gorgeous dolly.
Off her trolley.
Biscuit crumbs.
Missing mums.
Snatching supreme highs.
At the back of her chemical eyes.
Defiantly deviant.
For the life she once had retreated inside.
Her very soul defeated.
By the touch of the dealer man.
She beaten inside and out.
Uppers and downers.
Picks up out of townies.
And she's a singer.
Her song is sung for punters.
A taster.
A sample of what they're gonna get.
She looks at her discarded needles.
Set of works that work.
Another ugly fella.
Just another ****
The working girl she goes berserk.
Ask her, she'll tell ya.
She's just gotta work.
Jupiter's rising.
Ecstatic moon.
Needs another hit now, it's hellish too soon
Slaps on her heels.
Finds appalling man, somehow appealing.
She plays for the pimple who stranded her there.
She no longer feels.
Life ebbing out of her.
Sold her soul for rock 'n' roll.
Questions the beautiful place that she lingers in.
Not beautiful.
Abysmal.
Dismal.
No choice.
Her song always the same, has little choice.
The singer wants her song to stop, but just can't find her voice.
Drugs sicken her.
Money all spent.
Stand up.
Be counted.
****** repent.
You bet ya, she can't.
Stuck in a hole, with a drug ridden soul.
Hunting for dragons, in the back of their wagons.
A ***** for old rope, a little more dope.
(c) Livvi
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
She's not a big city girl,
lives just outside it
on the outskirts,
where living
them slickers say
is not as tough
as the mean streets.
But she can skin a ****
bale hay all day long &
knock a bottle off at 40 yards.
I saw her once run
up a thousand granite stairs
like an Olympic runner
& she picks tomatoes
by the bushel.
And at night,
when the moonlight
comes around,
I can smell her sweet cornbread,
she feeds me just right,
tames the beast in me
& that ain't easy townies.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
Had the time flown, after Bagan was gone
Bravery in Mystery, Glory in History
Taungoo, Center of Second Empire
Which, the ******* of Emperors
Surrounded by Moats, mounted by forts
Covered with shields, scattered with fields
Divided by River Sitaung, Shed by religion in town
Buddha in the west, Jesus in the east
Land of Poets, chanted in Wats
King Natshinnaung mastered at rhymes, Wind of Hell got relaxed under his shines.
Have been here for 500 years, Get townies out of tears
Peace treaty killed fears, Peak content says cheers
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
my favorite thing
about you was the way that
you fell
from the sky and
set my entire universe aflame
with a white-hot
accidental fire
and the way you let everything
burn down
instead of roasting marshmallows
over the ashes of our
minuscule town
because if we can’t celebrate
the inevitable destruction
of our lives
then maybe you should’ve
stayed in the sky
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC