"traipsing" poems
In the sweet of early morning
and only for a few precious moments
I thought of nothing at all
I stared blank at the dim lit walls
in a state between awake and dreaming
only until the startle of the first bird singing.
I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees
light traipsing through the garden lilies
I heard the chirp and groan of frogs
newly green, all the unfurling fronds
and from the broad leaves
the dew fell sparkling in rivulets
and drank the carpet moss
softly green and splendorous.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
If fools could speak of geometry,
you would be the right angle,
while me, obtuse,
I find light in the darkest places,
where the glint of the moon turns back time,
I look back,
And find you cloaked in fog,
traipsing towards me,
with no rhyme,
strafing while they bleed,
we are cogs in the handset,
we are all lost teeth,
broken and shattered,
fallen to those underneath.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Sitting here alone with people around
But I only see one person in mind
She is the person so fortunate I've found
She is the person who loves me in kind.
My head is spinning as I sit here thinking
My heart is aching for the girl I'm missing
My lips they mutter, words of love they're saying
My hope is wishful that these words you're hearing.
I feel this love in my heart, it's growing
To proportions of unfathomable enormity
Sometimes it feels like my boat is sinking
When I think of the undeniable reality.
This reality that I wake up to everyday
Keeps hurling obstacles that I must face
I need the strength so my hopes don't fray
Wishing for more so I can finish this race.
I love her dearly; without her a life I can't imagine
I love her deeply; I never thought I was capable of such
I love her strong; with hopes so high, I would pin
I love her furiously; never thought I could love this much.
She is the sun that around, my world does spin
She is my star that I always look up to see
She is my moon that so clearly I have seen
She is my universe that I'm traipsing through helplessly.
I've never stopped wishing for a life beside her
I've never stopped wanting for her to be with me
I've never stopped hoping for the a life we'd make together
I will never stop trying for I believe it's meant to be.
I have pined for her so, many a sleepless night
I have yearned for her through the hours of the day
I have craved for her; craved with all of my might
I have longed to utter the words I've wanted to say.
Countless of times, these words I've spouted
In my heart I've said them oh so many more
These words are strong like a volcano just erupted
These words are true for they come from my core.
So I sit here still with these people around
They don't know why my heart aches so
It matters not if my feet don't touch the ground
I'd still dare to dream and to her they will go.
Dreams of you I'll never stop conjuring
Thoughts of you I'll never stop thinking
With words so sweet I'll never stop praising
For the woman in my dreams, my heart is loving.
So let me be, you people; you never will know
You'll never know who it is who excites my heart
You'll never understand what makes my love grow
She's the one who had ensnared me from the start.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
past wavering lights
B. Serrano and Bagong Ilog
love struck us down — sees no votive
clearing of the fog or a word sharper than any blade wrought from frays.
i have a photograph of you
somewhere in the ken of my silence
and on it paints lightsome hue
and sometimes pale when it rains.
KM 24 on a blue alloy and underneath,
a Baguio — some memories we keep
almost left by the last carriage homeward
from too much fire in our hands
only tremors could extinguish both
striking a balance and counterbalance;
the frequency of the electric and the
immense decibel of lions drowning
the disquiet. some places or some
looking back makes you want
to lose yourself in slight wonder and when
a memory comes back with the dreary
weight of its forgetfulness,
we fall asleep traipsing the steeples
of our dreams of each other
all-telling, still dizzy with the pirouette
of some distant longing bracing
the fall, triggering our darkness
and shooting out
ourselves, small,
love striking us down. arraying a triplicate
of hazy trails forking all roads
and we cannot find each other again;
throwing stones rippling
multiplied waves by the sea arriving
at separate mornings beneath
our feet,
bends on the bludgeoned curves
of love and hate ascertaining something
so unsure as a door agape and swiveling
in tense wind, tender is the night
and love continues
to smite us down, locking in, predatory precision,
running away, and away, and away
from the ache of it all.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
Home that's where I go
To recalibrate
To recoup lost energies
To recount all those tales
That filtered in so much lies
To the sea by the shore
Traipsing on the sand
Salty air clears the head
Of false thoughts lingering near
On the bed under clean sheets
Looking at excel worksheets
Joggling figures in thousands and millions
Trying to close in all the gaps
All but creative accounting lies
With books under wraps is hidden more lies
Officers here to uncover gave up their find
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
*"Mere seconds in time
and
specks in space"*
- Kristy Renae Dalton
We are seconds and specks,
you and I...
We meet, crash into each other,
mingle and coalesce.
Not knowing where we'll be
in the next.
We exist in one another...
But never together.
A perpetual dance
between time and matter.
An eternal struggle
to share a plane.
You and I...
We live as nothing but
mere seconds in time
and specks traipsing in space.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
Not a wanderer stuck on the crest of lonely waves.
Nor running ragged on the sands of time.
Traipsing wearily through the wracks of sodden salty ****
As cold water laps over their feet abandoned on craggy rocks.
Not always at sea.
Vagrant migrants.
From rock to rock.
Hark,
Ungodly whistling, clicking and howling.
Wailing and bemoaning.
Poseidon knows that they're around.
They strut around the rocks, all knowing.
Their lives they live as one of two.
Choose their one for life.
Should you see one in your salty path.
Foreboding spirit, a warning of turbulence to come.
A past sailor boy seen in totem of bird.
Not so swell, an evil omen.
Moons long past, the only witnesses to a killing crime.
Saw Albatross have his feet cruelly hewed.
Tobacco pouch for jack tar and his pals.
Ancient mariners in a doctrine of distortion.
Sky sailors slept on the wing over night.
Such misdemeanour,
Their perceptions were not right.
The birds perished in the dead of night.
As they did not ever rest in flight.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
bare chested and open to the sky, I wish I knew what
it felt like to see the future. At this moment, all I know
is that the rocks are making grooves in my shoulder blades
and my ******* may very well be burning. It’s time to turn
over; try facing the earth and be captivated by ants
traipsing across the rock.
Minutae.
Mundane.
The tide may swell over and engulf me, fresh, to rock me gently
maybe underwater I’ll catch a glimpse of strong words
or the place where I die.
I’ll see my lover amongst the seaweed
and our children laying in shells.
But on my back, by this
sea, I hear friends praising each other in French
and see the sun’s outline when I close my eyes.
I am still 23 with purple fingernails and shaved legs.
I am no closer to the water.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
My lambs wool jumper.
My merciless mind goes traipsing through my time bank of bad memories.
Other people's bad management, misuses from my past .
Coming from nowhere. Coming from everywhere.
The memories just keep on coming .
My brothers . My mother . My father . And my sister.
Not a nice memory . Not a nice word form me.
Egregious individuals. And a devastating pack .
Three letters came one school morning.
I was six and my brothers a little older
The postman posted three brown envelopes
All a little weighty .
With a little bit of money .
We all three got a sixpence.
We all three got a letter.
So unexpected. A complete surprise!
The excitement of a letter.
The two older boys got theirs from God .
They were good boys .
Mine came from the devil .
I was a bad boy .
I was a humphy backit wee nyaff .
In writing . From the devil .
But thought I was a lovely boy .
Big brown eyes brown hair and dimples .
I never felt bad .
I never sought danger or conflict.
But I was .
In the middle of a battlefield.
Theirs .
You are a bad boy . I am a good boy .
You are being a sook . I am being a good boy .
You always want attention. I am an ill boy.
You always show us up . I am a funny boy .
You are stupid and lazy . You are trying to break this boy .
There I was as their swords flew and I battled their rages.
In my armour.
Made from my grandmothers soft wool jumper .
So soft and gentle and protective .
She let me choose the soft lambs wool.
It wasn't jaggy .
It didn't irritate.
It wasn’t abrasive.
And she made up the cost .
With every stitch .
She stitched with love .
With love for me .
Her boy!
The battle rages on inside .
The shell shocked boy now a man .
Still wrapped in the warmth of his gran.
And her protective lambs wool jumper.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s élan vital
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically phatic propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s xenobiotic barratry
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Y'know whenever I go to my brother's to watch a football game
He always brings out a lovely big platter of cheeses, with a selection of crackers
This and some hummus, nuts and potato crisps
Along with a nice cold beer
He really likes his cheeses does my brother
Me! I don't mind a bit of cheese myself
But Him, he's a real connoisseur.
Anyway last Christmas I was looking for a present to bring him
And in my local supermarket, guess what, they had these lovely big platters of various cheeses
Wow! I was delighted, that was his present sorted
No more traipsing around shops, tiring my poor feet out
And this was a good present, something he'd really like;
So I brought the cheese home and put it in the fridge
Next morning I was up early sorting out the presents, who got what
Putting them in nice Christmasy type bags
I then packed them in the car and took off,
An hour later I'm sitting at their table and we're talking about some poor celebrity movie star who's just passed away
Their saying he had some Brain disease, just like Alcheimers except it wasn't Alcheimers
My brother's wife is there trying to articulate, to explain
"It's like his brain had holes in it"
And I'm thinking "Holes in the brain, hmmm... just like...like a Swiss cheese"
Then, of course, I remember. **** I say out loud in front of them all,"I forgot the cheese, I left the feckin' cheese in the fridge"
Really ****** me off
Then I start thinking, that's actually quite funny
We're talking about Alcheimers disease and it reminds me I left the cheese in the fridge
What do you call that, is that ironic or what ?
What's a Paradox ? Sounds like a washing powder.
Wait! Is this a poem at all or am I in the wrong place ? (LoL)
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 10:31 AM UTC
Traipsing through alleys,
Awash in an alcoholic glow,
We play Frogger,
Headed to our usual spot.
PBR's and Mai Tai's disguised as Powerade,
The night elapses
In a haze
Of elaborate bottle passes.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
#
*Parading through these beautiful Hills..
--You, and your entourage of a mixture
of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
and also of men.. whose tattered boots
you are unworthy, of even tying..
Traipsing across the Badlands--
your long red hair, flowing..
giving off a stance, (as if)..
--You, and your entourage of a mixture
of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
and also of men.. in tattered boots
that you are unworthy, of even tying..
Raining down havoc, on the Beautiful People
simply for their having within them ;;
Faith:
In the Great Father.. and Substance of Spirit;
Neither of which your cowardly Egostroke
will ever garner, or ascertain..
But oh, you could steal..
And pilfer..
And destroy.
You will pay, oh General Bastard-boy
Your long, curly locks..
will take on a whole new color, red
There will be a gathering..
A showdown..
A Holy Reckoning--
In that Montana field, between the Hills
Along the Little Bighorn..
The River of all Beaten-Down one's, dreams*
#
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 7:51 PM UTC
Aardvarks and Applesnarks,
filling in between the quarks.
Scratching and scraping behind the door.
Shuffling and snuffling all across the floor.
I hear them tapping, hear them scraping,
wonder where they've gone a traipsing.
Aardvarks on the move,
Applesnarks in the groove.
Looking like land sharks after the ants,
Make sure you don't get one up your pants.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 4:25 AM UTC
little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
i
there does seem to be a lot of nosey parkers
things can rapidly become darker
a momentum of their own
soon,again,be traipsing across broad
fields of fresh bone..intellectuals are
usually the first to go the written word
suspect decadent art the smooth hand
and on till we are all looking over our
collective shoulder..work worshipped
lord what we believe in the name of
collective security and a bigger better
future..!?
ii
the goldfish in our park pond however
seem very happy together
they patiently wait their turn
and take a small bite as required..
they know they are many small smaller
all the various colours and the big ones
but there is the sun and there is suffice
they will circle love and say ola..
*
inspired by executing society
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:17 AM UTC
head sways
from left to right
arms swinging
back and forth
walking traipsing
treading
the careful
surface of your
teacup filled with
the bitterest coffee
no sugar
no cream
no teaspoon
to save you from
falling
do
w
n
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
An unexpected caller came
in the middle of the night.
Had me traipsing downstairs,
guided by candlelight.
(I’d suffered a power cut
sometime earlier in the day,
A temporary arrangement
until I arranged to pay.)
“Who is it?” I calmly asked,
trembling behind the door,
Cold striking up my legs
from the clay-tiled floor.
“Who is it?” I asked again
with cautious trepidation,
Fighting back the fear of
an unwanted confrontation.
No one answered back,
not one single, solitary, peep,
from the unexpected caller
who’d ruined my beauty sleep.
The letterbox then rattled again
giving me something of a start!
Jumping flame-lit shadows
jumping in my fluttering heart.
The identity of the caller rolled
around my searching brain.
The ghostly rattling letterbox
then startled me again!
Carefully, I opened the door
with safety chain in place.
Prepared to slam it shut again
you know, just in case.
What greeted me was not
something that needed sorting.
Just my amorous cat, returning
from a nights, hectic courting.
(Lucky thing.)
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
*Stirring the lemon balm and spearmint
carpet with naked feet , traipsing the nine a..m.
red-tipped grass to the Pileated beat
Drenched , rolled pant legs covered in
seeds and hitchhikers , emboldened morning
rabbits and Apricot skies , Alabama tell tale
breezes tilt broom sage on rustic homestead
drives* ...
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
We fell, for what was thought to be Love.
We held, on to what was thought to be Hope.
The Days went into Months and the Months went into Years.
We even lost count of those pages in the book of Promises we dogeared.
Those summerdays we spent traipsing in the sun
and the starless nights spent watching life slowing down in motion.
All these time we shared and get involved in each other's emotions,
The Youth we spent consumed wondering about our actions and reactions.
The carefree times lovers should have were filled with paranoia,
Even Freedom was robbed by another person's act of denial!
Disappointment and Hurt, tears and Sadness;
the desperate pleadings of the Heart were taken and thrown into the wilderness.
The bank of tears has dried up, the Heart has gone weak.
The Mind stopped working and the Body has lost its Spirit.
Finally, it is time to say goodbye.
So goodbye, goodbye. I end this with a sigh
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
Before hearing about your death
I began a novel inspired by you
and your struggle with the truth--
The truth of who you were,
what you wanted of life and of me.
And it became a journey
into the past, into a life
that had happened before
we met, decades ago,
and after we parted for good,
I wove a new life out of remnants,
of things I knew or just supposed.
And like a good researcher,
I told of your parents' failings,
the darker side of love.
Of your grandmother and friends,
and even your cousin who
brought you to me,
Luring you out of the homogeneous crowd
and into our perfect valley--
"the land of spires and dreams".
I even spoke warmly of our artless love
and our drifting apart like ghost ships.
After our second parting,
when you left the mortal coil,
I tried not to reminisce about us,
for the story was yours, not mine,
But I fear that a mirror kept
cropping up behind me and
around corners, erasing mystery.
Narcissus caught me time and again.
Even so, I created times for you
that I had never seen or heard.
I have you swimming off La Jolla,
traipsing on mountain paths
in the wilds of British Columbia,
or arguing with your wife
in that mansion you dreamed of.
I invented a girl you would like
and two kids who loved you
in spite of everything.
Your memories of me became
less urgent, locked in a chess box,
in songs or on film, hidden away.
I analyzed your youth, your vanity,
lust, boredom, mistakes and age.
And when it came time for you
to make a decision: to stay or go
again, either west or east,
I stopped and looked over your life,
rolled out flat, like the American plain
from western crags to eastern city
and like a broken record,
the choice shuttled back and forth,
not letting me decide for you.
Glancing at a photo
of your childhood home,
I realized at last,
not that you had died too soon,
but that I really never knew you.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 6:00 PM UTC