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Matt Revans Oct 2015
My autism's a part of me,

But it is apart, you see.

...

Who are you?

With your ‘normal’ view.

Are you just one thing, or are you a person

With thoughts & feelings, that are your own unique version.

Preferences, ideas, talents, and dreams?

That are bound by senses that meet at their seams.

Are you fat, short sighted or visually impaired?

Are you ever wondering why I just stood and stared.

Those may be the things that I saw the first time I meet you,

But you’re more than just your ‘normal’ diagnosis…. True?

As an adult, you have control over how you’re defined.

Your normality means your perceptions are refined.

So why would you single out one characteristic of mine that you can make known.

As a child, I am still unfolding, I’m not fully grown.

Neither you nor I yet know of what I am capable.

If you think of me as just one thing, then one thing’s inescapable.

You run the danger of assuming I have no chance of achieving.

And my heightened senses know this, it’s only you you’re deceiving

For I am not endowed with any ordinary sense.

You need to know this before I commence.

You take for granted sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

Never once realising that these things can be as painful as hell

For me.

You see.

My world often feels hostile, and makes me so fearful.

I may appear withdrawn or belligerent, whilst others are cheerful.

Or mean to you, or antagonistic,

Defending myself, then going ballistic.

You tell me we’re going on a trip to the shops

And out of the world my safety net instantly drops.

My hearing, you see, is hyper acute.

But I’m put in the car, though I loudly refute.

At the shops, walls of people jabber and whoop.

The loudspeaker booms and adds to the soup.

Music blares and lashes and whooshes.

Tills beep and cough, a coffee grinder swooshes.

The meat cutter screeches, a baby starts wailing,

I’m starting to malfunction and am rapidly flailing

As trolleys pass creaking, and fluorescent lights hum.

I’m starting to panic, but also turn numb.

My brain can’t filter the input, the voltage is massive

I’m in overload with no chance of staying passive.

My sense of smell is stratospheric.

That fish on the counter is NOT atmospheric.

The man in front hasn’t showered today,

That Stilton cheese – someone take it away!

A baby goes past, it’s ***** needs changing.

Things are going faster and turning deranging

They’re mopping up pickles on aisle two with some bleach and a rag.

My stomach is churning, and I’m starting to gag..

And there’s so much hitting my eyes!

This trip has turned into the world's worst surprise.

The fluorescent light

Is not only too bright,

it’s that flicker.

The space seems to be moving, getting quicker and quicker.

The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or saying, or being.

There are too many items for me to be able to focus.

The world starts to drain me of my internal locus.

My eyes try to compensate by tunnelling my vision

Fans on the ceiling, twist my senses into nuclear fission.

All this affects how I feel just standing there,

and I can’t even tell where my body is in space, do I care?

You’re yelling at me now, and shaking my shoulder

But the fiery fog is down and is starting to smoulder

It isn’t that I don’t want to hear your instruction.

I just can’t understand, due to mass self-destruction.

You're shouting now, but what does "£$%^&&% NOW! !£$%^&*" mean?

My senses will **** me in a collusion so obscene.

Once we’re back at the kids home, it all feels less absurd.

And now when you speak, I can hear every word.

Simple instructions, that I know off by heart.

And I cling onto these so I won’t fall apart.

You tell me what you want me to do next and I’m able to reply.

Now I’m happy and it’s easy for me to comply.

Now I’m OK and I’m running about

And performing my ritualised songs, which I shout.

Then a visitor grabs me saying, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” – This means danger!

I can’t stop the horses, I’m me, not the Lone Ranger!

And I’m thrown into panic when what you mean is, “Stop running.”

But I don’t know that! Those stampeding horses are coming!!

That’s my life, you see, it’s not “a piece of cake”

When there’s no dessert in sight and you’ve made a mistake.

When you say, “its pouring cats and dogs,” I see pets flooding from the sky.

Tell me, “It’s raining hard,” so I won’t fear the animals will die.

Puns, sarcasm and allusion

Simply generate confusion.

Tell me facts and keep things clear

So I can live, yet not in fear.

It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when my senses are reeling

When I don’t have a way to describe what I’m feeling.

I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or perplexed.

But I can’t find the words, and lash out, angry and vexed.

Be alert for my body language, or my gestures and obsessions

Then you’ll handle my feelings like your own treasured possessions.

Watch out for me compensating for not knowing the right word

By mimicking my favourite film star, or something just as absurd.

Rattling off words or whole scripts, which will leave you confounded

That I’ve memorised from Disney, because they make me feel grounded.

They may come from the TV, or speeches, or a book

And though they make people give a funny look

I just know that saying them gets me off the hook.

Show me, show me! I’m visual, you see.

And I’ll understand rather than you just telling me.

And be prepared to show countless times.

I’m listening, despite my ritualised rhymes.

Visual supports help me move through my day.

They relieve me of the stress and I feel OK.

I don’t have to remember what’s happening next

For I operate on a visual text.

This makes for smooth transitions in my life

And we’ll finally progress without anger or strife.

I need to see something to learn it, because spoken words are like steam to me;

They evaporate before my mind's eye, and are gone instantly,

Before I even have a chance to make sense of them,

They've died in the ether, leaving me in mayhem.

I don’t have instant-processing skills.

Instructions and information are my life giving pills

Images can stay in front of me for as long as I need,

and will be just the same in years, for they'll never recede.

Without visual help, I live the constant frustration

of knowing that I’m missing big blocks of information,

Not to mention falling short, by being a misfit

And I'm helpless to do anything about it.

Unlike other people, I'm unable to learn

If it's normal interaction for which you do yearn.

I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough

And people are stern and people are tough.

They think I need taking in hand and need fixing.

Never knowing the world and my brain are tranfixing

I avoid trying any new things, for I'm sure I'll get 'dissed'

And another grown up will be angry and get 'real ******'.

But no matter how “constructive” you think you’re being.

Look for my strengths, though they're hard for the seeing.

There is more than one right way to do most things.

It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the swings

But it may be that I simply do not know how to start

They just think I'm weird, and set me apart.

Teach me how to play with others.

Remove my autistic shrouded covers.

Encourage other children to invite me along.

They might learn something of value from my life's different song.

And rather than spend my day as separate, secluded.

I might show an ethereal delight at being included.

I do best in games that have a clear beginning and end.

Random play is something my fears won't transcend.

And just one other thing, a sort of confession

I cannot interpret a ****** expression

Or body language, or other peoples' emotion

So in group situations I'm resigned to demotion.

I want to learn, I want you to teach me.

Reach into my mind and help me to see.

If I laugh when Tommy falls off the climbing frame,

It’s that I don’t know what to say, nastiness isn't to blame

Talk to me about Tommy’s feelings and teach me to say,

“Are you hurt, Tommy, I'll get teacher, then you'll be okay?”

If you don't I'll meltdown or blow-up, and get in a stew

And this is a thousand times worse for me than for you.

For my mind will go into overload

My sense of equilibrium will start to off-road.

For I'm well past the limit of my social ability.

As those off road lights glare at my own disability.

If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented

And my behaviours will abate, less frequently lamented.

Keep notes about me and a pattern may emerge.

As your understanding of me will gradually converge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication.

It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to each situation.

My behavior may have a physical cause.

Think for a moment, just have a pause.

Food allergies and sleep problems can affect my behaviour.

Just look for signs, for you might be my Saviour.

Because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

That blunt my affect and cause my mood swings.

Throw away thoughts like, “If you would just—” and “Why can’t you—?”

You didn’t fulfill every expectation your parents had either, that's true.

And would you like to witness a constant rewind.

Of the traumatic deficits by which you're defined?

I didn’t choose to have autism.

Or to live with this division

Remember that it’s happening to me, not to you.

But without understanding, my chances remain few.

With love and support, my horizons are broader

But I can't live my life by other peoples order.

Patience. Patience. Patience, are the three words we need to live by

For my dreams to be reached, and my confidence fly.

View my autism as a different ability

Rather than as a freak show disability.

Look past what you may see as limitations and feel for my strength

I may not be good at eye contact or conversations of length

But have you noticed that I don’t lie, or cheat at a game

Or pass judgment on people, and make them to blame?

I rely on you, if you can make me your personal vocation

All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation.

Be my advocate, be my guide

Be my strength, stand at my side.

Love me for who I am, and not what you know

And we’ll see just how far I can go.

Matt Revans 2014
©Copyright
Ben Brinkburn Jan 2013
Come on do The Locomotive with me
Shildon smoky days with black sheet cloud
terrace rows
buy some cheap beef shank for the dog
open shuttered butchers smell of blood
sit at the bar peel the sheets soggy New Statesman
by the glass
started reading it on the toilet at home
had to get out
sink the pints eat a chicken tikka masala flavour
pork pie isn’t that an oxymoron? and humour
Gappy slumped at the bar no longer violent new leaf turned
collects shopping trolleys in the Asda car park
he’s got a badge and a green jacket waterproof
which is nice
so come on do The Locomotive with me
roadside ****** familiar faces though not so many
these days
faded glory days wall images of train filled
old days of engineering and purpose and place
the starting point of a world phenomenon a
phenomenon that brought global joy and death
in equal measure but sod that
Darlington and Stockton
got all the glory.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
Caroline Grace Mar 2010
We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd  little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.

We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.

He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
Mike T Minehan Nov 2012
Today, I’m sharpening arrows
to aim them at
politicians with snouts in the trough,
clerics who preach peace for themselves
but hatred about others,
academics who promote freedom of speech
but run a Gulag Archipelago
for those who don’t follow their own ideas
or buy their textbooks,
hypocrites everywhere,
celebrities in general,
people who don’t smile,
people who aren’t nice,
(why are they here?)
fanatics, tyrants and power mongers,
(there are a humungous lot of these)
boring people,
(they wouldn’t be boring
if they could just try to engage a little more)
and those who block supermarket isles
with their trolleys while they stop and gossip.
I’d really like to put a few arrows in their butts
to puncture their pretensions and hear
the subsequent hiss of preciousness
unless they sincerely promise
to be more considerate
and try to love a whole lot more.
Now. I don't insist they have to love prodigiously,
but I reckon they could lighten the **** up
just a little, and try to laugh more frequently.
That's all.

Mike T Minehan
Christine Jun 2010
Who's that pale chick
Mumbling to herself about
Fictional schools of witchcraft and wizardry
And trolleys and snakes?

Oh that's just Christine
She's not that bad
If she tells you she's a
Reanimated corpse
Walking among the living by using brains as sustenance
Don't pay any attention.
She's probably just kidding.
Geno Cattouse Jan 2013
There in the corner resting silently the old wooden bench
reclines beneath the billowing sky. Peeled and pale much
the worst for wear.

"A couple of young fellas  down at Kitty Hawk flew like wounded ducks". Did you hear?
That was a humdinger. "Somebody swiped the Mona Lisa right under their noses"
Tick

witness to it all has heard the deepest of dark secrets whether tumbledown in solitude
or passed about in chatter.

"The Titanic went down last week ,What a pity." wasn't that thing impossible to sink"
well I'll see you later The Trolleys are running slow today.

There's  this young upstart playing at the picture show this week. Chaplin I think his name is
Moving pictures,oh what will they think of next.

I got a letter from William fighting in The Somme. Dont know when or if he is coming home.

Nights are cold in the rain. Tick

Bathtub gin.  A little nip every now and then can't be a sin.
The Lucky Lindy is the latest swing.
Tock.

Mickey mouse meet sliced bread.  The birth of a nation
Bring the kids out on Saturday The can play awhile.

Heard That ****** Trotsky got shot. What do you think that  will bring
Guess Adolf bit off more than he could Chew cause  that big air war in
Britain made him tuck tail.
Tick
The greatest generation has come and is all but gone
The park bench sits and awaits the dawn
past Y 2 K and on and on
till today, this very hour
waiting for another story to tell
like a morning flower at sunrise
Beautiful petals and leaves
No one grieves for the passing of time.
The park bench sighs and
Then reclines.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
'Oh Ainhara, you always seem to know what to
do...'
Esshi chuckles. "Thank you very much.
Have you done the Queen Mother's flower
arrangements?"
"Yes, all of them have been watered and
now they are being placed around the palace."
Esshi nods. "Good. Thank you very much.
Carry on then."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The florist smiles and leaves as Esshi places
the vase down on a clean counter as well as
the inkpot and quill while staring at the
paper.
'What should I say...?' she wonders as
she hears the meat sizzle. Bale is washing
the carrots and potatoes and chopping
them into medium-sized chunks.
Esshi blinks and smiles. 'Got it!'
Folding a paper in half she writes on
the paper, using her best calligraphy.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When she's done, she places the quill
in the inkpot and gently blows the paper.
'Perfect!' Esshi beams. "Bael? Where do
you keep the serving trolleys?"
"In the back!" he says as he pours in
the ingredients into the paella pan
and mixes gently.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi goes to the back room and sees
a rose-silver serving tray with wheels
which she rolls out, placing the
bouquet and note on it while waiting
for Bael and his team to finish cooking.
Bael smiles that proud smile before pouring
some soup into a bowl and placing it on the
serving tray.
"Thank you, Bael."
"Not a problem. Do give our Queen my
regards." he faces his working staff.
"If they're done, bring them over!"

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Almost instantly, the chefs bring small plates
of their Queen's favourite treats and top it
off, a fresh brew of Jasmine Pearls.
"Thank you all so much." Esshi says gratefully.
"It's our pleasure." A chefs says as Bael
claps.
"Well done, everyone. Now we best get on the
Queen Mother's meals. Go started! I will see
Lady Esshi out."
Esshi covers the food as Bael opens the door
for her to leave. She is stunned to see Ainhara
there.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Oh my, Bael!" Ainhara smiles at him. "You
certainly worked hard."
"The life of a Chef." he beams. "When you're
done, do come by again. I'll have some meals
waiting for you!" he winks at them and
returns to the kitchen.
"The shipments?" Esshi asks.
"All are being presented, documented and
stored away by the Queen Mother." Ainhara
says. When she sees the flowers, she smiles
and the words on Esshi's note makes her
smile even more.
"Let's make way." Ainhara says as Esshi pushes
the tray behind her, making their way
for the young Queen's chamber.
Surprise!
Part 5! Enjoy!
Lyn ***
namii May 2014
How are things going? I desperately want to ask
But now I remember how I called you that night crying and desperate
“Sorry dear, I have bigger priorities,” you mumbled nonchalantly in a tone that cut
I guess what was important to you was your short silver dress which you had to keep tugging at
And your layers of mascara which smeared in the heat and the sweat
Maybe you didn't feel like being responsible or putting up a fight
Didn't feel like talking in the pulsating strobe lights
Where you drank and danced and smoked,
Your hands around the masculine men with whom you hooked
I wonder if you still would have hung up if you knew I was crying for you.

And one year later you still haven’t changed
You’re out of school and awfully deranged
Lying at the side of the road in a drunken stupor,
Stinking of smoke and giggling hoarse
Your dress riding up mid-thigh and your heels strewn across the street
Ordering McDonald’s, planting fries in your friend’s garden throwing fits
Sitting in trolleys in supermarkets at 3 am in the morning screaming at the top of your lungs and I
Miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.
If I ever saw you again I’d bury my face in your long raven hair and whisper how much you meant to me, once.
I’d stroke your whiter than white skin, touched and kissed by fifty other men
Bruised by the very people you call your friends
And I’d cry in your chest and tell you to come back
If all you’d do is swig down a bottle of beer
And not look my way, but cackle cruelly wailing dear
I would die more than a little inside

You stopped caring about anything that was supposed to matter,
Like being better than everyone and writing beautiful badass essays about saving the sharks
(And understanding everything I never understood about myself and laughing at the things I used to say and pinning my name with stars on your charts)
You forgot your dreams of wanting to travel and petting kangaroos, carving out something of yourself so they’d remember you for your passion
and loneliness is the only place at which you’re stationed.

Now all you’re doing is living monotonously, “the *** life” you call it, your dreams all burnt up in the intoxication of the hookah you pretend to love and dissolved in the alcohol you swallow now pulsing through your veins.
Come back.
Just suddenly missing a friend who was bigger than life but let life itself trample on her under its hoofs. I wish she were still out there trying to save the sharks.
A Mareship Sep 2013
I dream of you -
My skull all draped in leather and
Badly lit,
And your hands punch
The tusk of my cranium
To get me started.

I dream of you
Skulking around a videogame,
Stealing trolleys.

I dream of you,
Talking in a language
That doesn’t translate,
You’re laughing at something I’ve said,
And I’m laughing back,
Because I don't understand
That I don’t
Understand you.

I dream of you cooking a fry up and
saving me from
Spiders,
I dream of you
In all butterfly colours,
Stuck at one age,
Face changing,
Pixels smattering,
Digestive biscuit hair
Crumbling in the wake of
waking.

I dream of you playing dice in the corner,
Or running from bombs.
I dream that you are bigger than me,
Far bigger than you
Really are.

I dream of you,
Wet dreams of you,
******* me from behind
Like a gold shadow that I can’t touch,

And when I wake up,
I feel like I've done everything with you.

(I dream of my sister,
My father,
And you.
I dream of the healthiest people that I know.)
for T.
Gretchen wept in her easy chair
And called for her husband, Karl,
They’d been together for sixty years,
Though both were worn and frail.
They’d met in the ruins of München, when
The ***** collapsed and fell,
Escaped to live in Australia
From their own idea of hell.

For Karl had served in the Wehrmacht,
In a Tank Corps at Dieppe,
Had served in the Panzergruppe von Kleist
Had roamed the Russian steppes,
His tank had taken him through Ukraine
They’d taken the plains by force,
But found their pain when the Russians came,
In their huge T-34’s.

But that was the world of way back when,
For Karl was old and grey,
He slept a lot in his tidy home,
The nurse came every day,
His wife developed dementia, she’d
Forget where she used to roam,
So she was parted from husband Karl,
Was sent to a Nursing Home!

He walked with the aid of a walking frame,
He couldn’t quite get around,
But listened for echoes of Gretchen’s voice
In the house that made no sound,
And all he thought was to rescue her,
To bring his girl back home,
But the powers that be said: ‘Wait and see!’
She was lost to him - Alone!

He went to visit her, once a week,
They held each other's hand,
She cried so much when he had to leave,
She never could understand,
And he was desolate every time,
He’d cling to her so tight,
That they had to prise his hand away
When they sent him away at night.

The nurses were harsh and businesslike,
To them it was just a job,
With no compassion for patients, they
Would leave all that to God.
Demented souls ran over his feet
With trolleys and walking frames,
When Karl grew angry, they shrugged and said:
‘Well - Everyone complains!’

One Sunday, standing outside the doors,
He saw his Tiger Tank,
It growled, and pulled up beside him there
And the diesel fumes, they stank.
He climbed aboard with his comrades there,
And ‘Schnell!’ they called, to a man,
Then lumbered straight through the double doors,
The nurses turned and ran!

The Tiger reared and it turned about
Tore carpet up from the floor,
The tracks ran over the matron’s feet,
Let out a fearful roar,
The patients cheered as the Iron Cross
Raced past their common room,
And smashed the glass in the office door,
And crushed the sister’s urn!

Then Gretchen laughed as he came in sight,
‘Here comes my husband, Karl!
He'll break us out of this prison ward,
Can you hear his Tiger snarl?’
He stopped and reached for his Gretchen then
Looked deep in her eyes, and swore:
‘I’ll not be parted from you again
Though hell should bar the door!’

They found them lying together there,
He held her safe in his arms,
They'd gone together where lovers go
Away from the world's alarms.
‘He went quite crazy,’ the Matron said,
‘He must have been insane!’
For lying outside her shattered door
Was his twisted walking frame!

David Lewis Paget
Tim Knight Nov 2013
Market square died down this afternoon,
the day of trading over and over all too soon;
and the now the trolleys have been left out,
lights left on waiting for those customers to come again.

They'll hurry into their jumpers the traders and customers of tomorrow,
weather'll kick up and run up the coast in a rainy fuss.


Temporary clad walls that are there all year round
are dressed up from the ground every day, tied at the ear
of the frames that hang over corridor of cobbles,
scuffed with the muck from Armani plimsolls
and the heels of this week's Alexander McQueens.

*When the rain comes trading will cease and
they'll flick out their notepads to calculate this month's lease.
from COFFEESHOPPOEMS.COM
Wack Tastic Nov 2012
It’s a place where an enticing bay sways,
Music dancing on the misty breezes,
Humdrums of level heads mingle effortlessly,
The constant waves lap up on indigo stacks,
The sun sits bejeweled in the sky,
Sandy stalks of sugarcane sweeten the air,
Drink and pleasure abound,
Vagabonds and harlequins twirl and chant,
The dusk and the dawn live together,
Creamy silver and golden haze weather,
The aesthetic is O so grand,
Celebrations of life here in the sand.

Mad trolleys take them to the city,
The hustle and bustle reduced to saunter,
Adornments of every shape and design,
Line the alleys and canals,
Flora and fauna engrained in the DNA,
Every bit of the city breathes, sighs and laughs,
Back at the bay they all rest together,
Making love by driftwood fires,
They sing like mad poets and howl to one another,
Everyone becomes an instrument,
Everything becomes equal.
Terry Collett Jul 2013
As you sit in the cafe
in the shopping mall
you see Sophie
and her man friend

smooching across
the table
he with moustache
and thinning

combed back hair
and she
with dark black hair
straight to the collar

of her white blouse
they purse their lips
he closes his eyes
leans forward

she likewise
as if
in some French cafe  
in some 1950s film

you sip your latte
watch the show
he once worked
pushing trolleys

in some super store
she unsure
but with a carer
sometimes seen

walking the mall
or in the bank
or shops
and some days

she’ll come up
and say hello
in a loud voice
as if she’d not

seen you
in a thousand years
other days not at all
or she’ll tell you

some news
about her life
or some small trouble
that’s got her down

today she sits
and kisses
and converses
with the man friend

and he’ll laugh
and maybe she too
and hold hands
over the cokes and cakes

you sit back
in the chair
and watch them there
repeat their kissing

or holding hands
the Romeo eyes
now open
leaning near

mouthing words
you cannot hear
she lips still pursed
says loudly

of a love
she feels
or how hot
the weather is

or how his scarf
untidy looks
or unbuttoned shirt
others who do not

know them sit
and gawk
and make snide comment
behind their hands

make judgement
in their bourgeoisie world
but you like others
who know them of old

sit and drink
and make no judgements
of what they say
or do but watch

the kissing
and holding of hands
like in a B feature
at the cinema

waiting for
the real thing maybe
but content to see
the movie through

having no where to go
or other things to do.
itsall iwrite Aug 2018
off their trolleys 02.08.18

very very clever
maybe poetic genius
ridicule like little mo's trevor
but can not ever minus.
there is no bigger wally
don't need to do graphic
you think sick and unwell and off trolley
going to avoid lego like bill in traffic.
never do i wonder stationary
in k.town there is treasure
safety in curb crawling and that's self explanatory
reading this headline was pain close to pleasure.
going to do you for liable
infarct going to call the police
bag over head so unidentifiable
bills love came to a immediate cease.
you no i worship and adore
but our communication broke
trying to ***** me like a *****
every single blue stand going to poke.
free paper is over
lego i am going to crush
you and bill trying to get me to ben dover
brb just reading if spotted in  hour rush.
hate to explain poetry.
Christmas excitement
Gaffers & gofers
booms & boxes
trucks & trolleys

They've chosen today
to shoot a movie
2 floors below me
No pics allowed

Twenty four tropical Christmases
It still seems so odd
so discordant
Disconnected

Gambling movies filmed
when most of my friends
are last-minute shopping
and thinking of Santa

They're wrapping presents
and keeping secrets
Thinking about how long
the turkey will take to cook

Dressed in jumpers
coats and scarves
Fingers blue
noses red

No puddles to slide on here
no snow
Just air like silk
and monsoon rain

Sweat trickling
in endless rivers
No goose bumps leaving tracks
across my skin

Out the window
cheeky mynah birds chatter
a white bellied eagle soars
Not a robin in sight

As the sun sets
painting the sky
a kaleidoscope
of gentle colour


A nomad soul wonders
why she's happy to wander
And yet
she so longs to belong
Singapore. Christmas Eve, 2010

© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2010 All Rights Reserved
Terry Collett Nov 2013
Lydia's father said
she could go with you
to Waterloo railway station
mind the roads though

he said(in his
sober moments
he could be quite
considerate)

and not too near
the edge
of the platform
can't have you

falling in front
of a train
so you took a bus
to Waterloo station

both sitting at the rear
of the bus
on the side seats
having paid

the conductor the fare
and sitting there
watching
the passing views

she in her pale
blue dress
her dark straight hair
pale features

thin arms and legs
you thinking
of the steam engines
the power

and the puff of smoke
grey white
and she thinking
of her big sister

coming home
in the early hours
puking in the bog
her mother giving one

hell of a loud scream
of abuse
and her father saying
O give the girl a chance

and Lydia turning over
in the double bed
dreading her sister's
arrival stinking of sick

hanging off
the side of the bed
with a bucket beside
throwing up

what was once inside
the bus arrived
and you got off
and you said

hang on to my hand
we'll cross together
and so she held
your hand

her thin bony fingers
wrapped about yours
her hand cold
thin nails chewed

got to keep an eye
on you
your old man said
you said

and you crossed
running to avoid
the rushing traffic
and once across

she said
that man next to me
on the bus
put his hand

on my thigh quickly
but then we got off
and I didn't know
what to say

she added
you should have told me
you said
she looked anxious

and bit her lip
no matter now
too late
but if you see him again

tell me
and we'll get
the ******
you said

she nodded
and so you walked
into the station
past crowds of people

and porters
pushing trolleys
of luggage or mail
by the tall copper  

with hands behind
his back
and on to the platform
and took a seat together

to watch trains
and hear the sounds
and smell the acrid
smoke and engines

come and leave
sense the overpowering
sounds of released steam
and whistles blown

and flags waved
and passengers
boardings
and disembarking

and you taking
a side view of her
sitting there
anxiety

in the features
of her face
her hair straight
and well brushed

she unaware
you gazed
and took it all in  
and she thinking

of her sister's moans
and occasional vomiting
and she hardly sleeping
and now here

watching trains
you beside her
in your short
sleeved jumper

and cowboy shirt
and jeans
and sniffing in
the smell of smoke

and steam
and listening
to the engines
start up

and sense
the thrill of power
in the huff and puff
and she for once

happy just being there
far from her sister's snores
and her brother's tease
here to be

with you and be
as she please.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1950S AT WATERLOO RAILWAY STATION.
Connor Reid Mar 2014
Motions croak in crimped t-shirts
Peace hurts the leg of 3 wheelers
Spit in a book, carefully holding hands over healers
Frosted articulation of bricks hitting off buildings
The doctor resumes surgery on the filming
Actress gummy mouthed backpacker sharing rooms with a jet-lagger galvanizing goo
If I phone myself, I’ll phone you too
Ad-hoc hop around dentures holding saxophones, laziness is the common king around here
Match the sketch with the deliriant fear free freedom and sneer
Shut the promo drunk and dolo
Potions of pogos bouncing so low
Both bones focal, keeping in a smile from an eye perched over the edge spitting on the populous
Attacking formulas with cruel gruel from the oesophagus
Wilting oxalis wooded in obelisks
Mortal coil in amphetamine greed for the sleep
Positioned slightly awkward and barely out of reach
Been seen being dreams piercing holes in the purple of the seeds
Peace is deemed green, free me from the iron between the sheets
Coins flipped in a river and an etude rings out with a profound sense of urgency
Won't wake up faces blindly painted deranged by a 5 sided box that gave fame to what was contained
Warp the wattage, walk in nervous
Hold cosmic stardust in one hand
Another a phone to call the best man
To marry the two hands and I’m sure the priest will understand
Hairs on the ceiling float through the window and provide an outspoken account of how they are feeling
Canisters of friendship huffed in the backs of vans till passing point seizures explain themselves
9mm film reel candy bars and ring modulation skeletal structure cat gut harps
Never finish a walk to work without beginning the start
Trolleys of Dolly Parton facelifts
Knife cutter butterfly anaesthesia makeshift
Hollow bellies of pardoned mop heads becoming a commodity
I can't say sorry if I begin to speak so oddly
I’d say probably yes if you lit a fire beyond the fence where the old man gambles drop-***** with 50 pence
Bite down on copper, synchronise the action
Winter comes and goes like conversation going out of fashion
Morbid, terra-fin switches waterbeds
Hints home at spit-roasting ostrich heads
Cost and effect, cause and intellect
The castle puts his foot down only to find a horses neck
Zipped up in honey, the combs hive mind should reconsider its self lucky
Unorthodox autodidact naturally diffracting compound eye composes paranoia and lies
The patronage of the savant is murderous and contrived
Its better out than in
The constant metaphor for unluckiness
Is where we begin
Radiance in a hot water semi permeable membrane crescent
Strokes the backs of frogs in the desert, stars iridescent and sun bears a weapon
Hammocks, ****, sweat on the brow, split lips on cornerstones of the solstice in the dead of now
Space-age ape on the country road lets out a cough
Caution to the hissing hills ****** in hidden zygotic havens
Actors have no time to cut themselves shaving
Austro-Bavarian chemical burns Molotov cocktail sewers
Crayons let me draw this face on, paint the day on and on, it gets newer
Its the context at which you and I notice the separation, that cues canned humour
2012
eatmorewords Dec 2012
carried buildings around
in his head, not real buildings
just un-sketched plans,
you understand?

He had always wanted to build a replica of
the town where he was born
not from mortar or bricks
but from spaghetti and matches and
lollypop sticks.

He wanted to build the fire station and a church
and the supermarket where he would make
tiny shopping trolleys and scatter them over
the make believe car-park where tiny
people would be carrying on with their daily chores
holding tiny bags and thinking big thoughts

He wanted there to be a spacious park for
imaginary children to enjoy wholesome picnics.
And ponds where geese, ducks and swans would
glide on the surface
near broccoli sized trees.

The town in his head would be better then the town in which
he walked but he had one big problem
he spend hours wondering how he could make the sun.
itsall iwrite Aug 2018
glass houses and stones and trolleys 27.08.18

we run on hypocrisy
our system is corrupt
voted by the so called democracy
ending never abrupt.
poetry to gets battered
mistakes seen transparently
into a million peaces shattered
no evidence apparently.
pointing the finger
lens ready to shoot
weak and pathetic a terrible stigma
guilty of association the pollute.
cover up as all merry
all pristine top house hold
under the thumb nick berry
may the truth never be told.
shame on the stones
its going to take a  historian that's clever
we need more CCTV and millions of drones
otherwise building glass homes is great for ever.
Jiminy Cricket Aug 2013
Hold hold hold and
FALL
Down,
past  supermarket trolleys on either side, ready for acceleration into upset stomachs.
Every trolley has a lady.
A lady who asks "what are you doing?"
Unable to respond, you keep falling uncontrollably all over the place.
Time doesn't exist for you.
This will never be over.

And you're on your back.
In a house that has no resemblance to anything inside your clogged mind.
Trying to get out, you kick and kick and kick and you're out?
Just to loop back to where you fell.

Faint voices bring you back into a reality that isn't the same as you once remembered.
Your head cemented to the floor, able to only move one half of your body.
The world is gone.
You are the only one remaining.
And as you realize this, tears start to fall.
Not because you're the only one remaining, but because your closest friends who were so near are gone.
You never want to feel this.

But this doesn't last.
You can hear the sound of your friend who snaps your memory back into order
and you realize what has just happened.
You won't be going down there for a while.
Mary McCray Apr 2019
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 18, 2019)

Let’s just say we are builders of wagons.
Yeah, cowboys building coffee wagons.
Smart cowboys who had good hubs.

Even though the wagons give us plenty
of problems to be solved,
bonnets to be painted with advertisements,
commercials to be played on screens
out the back. But we were the best

wagon building team there ever was.
We liked each other; we laughed a lot;
we kept trying to improve our processes.
We shared life tips and work tips
and hiking tips and campfire tips.
We were grateful for each other.

Ester would visit me every morning
and we’d talk about our mothers
or she would show me how to paint bonnets.
Well, one surprising day
they escorted her out of a wagon
and sent her down the trail
without so much a howdy do,
after 28 years of painting wagon bonnets.
And they expressed no gratitude for all her bonnets.

And for this, the rest of us felt grief.
Elmwood picked up painting her bonnets
but he never wanted to work on bonnets.
Gwendolyn moved to another work team.
Ernie stopped caring about the wagons.

And then Bruce came to tell us
we weren’t even making wagons anymore
and that we would be making something else.
But we never found out what that other thing was
and our systems were disassembled
and all our projects were halted
and no gratitude was expressed
for all we had done.

And we felt grief for missing the wagons
and missing Ester and missing our sessions
of circling the wagons.

Entropy came and some cowboys began to feel
more than grief, they started to feel grievances instead,
grievances that Bruce and Betty and Barbara
from Corporate never visited and never knew
what making wagons was about.
And after a while we couldn’t tell the difference
between grief and grievances.

But maybe Corporate was right
because nobody is selling ******* coffee
out of wagons these days.
Or trains or trolleys either.
The work is nothing, after all that,
but spinning wagon wheels.
And all the wagons are melting right now
in the hot, dry sun.

Work is the moments and nothing else.
You can be grateful for that.
Grievances will get your out the door.
But your grief will never quit.
Prompt: write a poem about grief with tangible particulars.
Bring me a lantern dear ,
Strike out the fire ,
for my bed awaits me at this late hour .

The curtain is drawn ,
my blanket lies o ,
I rest my weary head ,
and Oft to bed I go .

Awake me in a thousand years ,
Why don’t you ,
and watch over me as I sleep I pray ,
until I awake. .

For as long as I slept the earth froze ,
or cooked ,
or both !
and hell ( they called it that ) men died from its Icey breath ,
        and even they cursed the day they were born .
Vermin rats mice scurried then froze to death as even they found no
relief from its polar vortex .

For babies were left out to die in its falling snow ,
Old men stumbled and fell near their homes ,
of which even they did not see again .

I turned and the earth burnt ,
It’s heat burnt forests and grass land as I slept ,
if the suns rays didn’t then man set woodland alight ,
for the thrill .
Men abandoned their pursuit of recreation and kept indoors ,
Until the heat from the sun had ran its course ,
and the earth found shade in the shadows of its night .

I turned again ,
Fly tippers left their unwanted garbage over farm land ,
at the end of the streets ,
In the country where ever they liked ,
for no one cared ,
Certainly not them .

Silt turned to mud and buried towns and fields ,
and man looked ever on lost in grief ,
or weighing their silver on scales of death .

Creatures of the deep of every kind lied dead from plastic bags and toys of every kind ,
Mattresses.,
Supermarket trolleys dumped .


Cans of fizzy drink were left discarded tossed on beaches .

Migrants sailed from their captive shores on dingy unfit for the sea .
they were swollowed whole by the great waters .
.
I turned again ,
Children wrote obscenity s on walls for their thrill ,
carried knives and stabbed each other ,
for their own gratification.

Then
A man who slept in a doorway awoke to freezing wind ,
a lady bent down with  hot broth to warm his poor heart again .
Children with bags in hand picked up litter ,

And I awoke after a thousand years of wrong ,
the sun cranked the ice on rivers and lakes ,
and the man fell in love with the world again .
Back
         when       we still saw things
through Incandescent eyes &
undiscovered memories
                        waited for us
like
             a first snow in January
She showed me the midnight sky &
                      All the blinding pinholes in it
     where
                     angels peeked at us
The
watercolor sunrises
        while lying on the hood of her car
                         How
kisses                on the forehead
              could mend shattered hearts &
    scattered                         thoughts
         & chasing each other
through art galleries
        out         into droplets of rain
                brought us
closer        
               to
                          god
Those days when
riding on trolleys or
         drifting off to sleep    next to each other
Meant believing in love
           because
                            we wanted to
Furthest from my mind was
              the simple fact,
                        That she
        could make my entire     atmosphere
Collapse into nothingness
                &                        She did
She introduced me
                        to the stars & the sky
&
              willfully brought them down
         on top of me
Repost
This world is a swam with
a broken neck,
rotting on the canal side.
While the junk of human
life floats in the deep-dirt
water; The cans,
wrappers and sunken
shopping trolleys.
Rancid under a sun
sweating light.
With all the eyes
that dare not look
on the physical,
nor the metaphysical;
for fear of clarity.
phil roberts Jul 2016
I've been to the doctor's today
For a change (I wish)
The problem being, on this occasion
A left ******* the size of a bus
And as painful as a nail through a nerve-end
Naturally, it was a lady doctor I hadn't seen before
And she asked if I minded a student being present
Weeeell, they gotta learn somehow....right?
So, that was a young lady too

Questions and discussions,
She seems a good doctor
Ultimately of course,,
I ended up stood there
With my trolleys round my ankles

Upon sight of the offending *****
Which was literally three times the size
Of his constant companion
The doctor reassuringly uttered
"Oh my word......!!
That looks very painful!"
D'yer think?

When all comes to all
It's some sort of nasty infection
So, I've got the tablets and having a scan
Now then, what's my to-do list?
Hospital tomorrow for kidney monitoring
A day or two after that
I've got a scan about another part of me
That also seems to be falling to bits
Then this scan soon as she can arrange it
And what else was it....?
Ah yes, that was it
Remember to dream

                                      By Phil Roberts
Nico Reznick Dec 2018
“But maybe your real job is shopping…”

Sleepwalk through stock footage.  Life as
documentary.  Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs.  Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead.  We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.  
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?
CC Capie Apr 2014
I've been getting up to watch the local traffic patterns. I have a big plan to improve the traffic around town. It's appalling people have trouble getting around i swear. I'm going to turn this plan over to the highway department at the end of the month. it will revolutionize things. Its all just slow moving traffic creeping through town. Turn left turn right or go straight. Lots of cars. when my father lived here Main Street was one way and there were still trolleys that went up the street that took you to church on sunday morning. You still get the feeling that all the streets meet at the same place but too many people are going there and no one is going to church. The point is most days come and go with no more significance than the morning coffee or pieces of paper blowing in the breeze getting caught in storm drains soaking with ***** water and falling to pieces. On this day however or night I should say something changed in me. It was a grey saturday in early spring and I was drowsy at the park on a lone bench after having read the local paper. It was election season so it was all about the candidates. Johnson supports this while Crenshaw starkly opposes the same measure. It was boring to say the least. I had fallen asleep and woken up about 4 o clock and found my paper to be missing. Some passer by had probably picked it up thinking i was through with it. And I suppose i was through with it. I did find a bit of humor in it remembering how i had drawn over several of the politicians faces. A mustache on him devil horns on her. It was something to pass the time i guess. I decided i had nothing better to do so i closed my eyes and fell back asleep. Only waking after the sun had disappeared from the horizon and the moon graced the sky with her presence. I suppose I will walk home now i said to myself.   Standing in the pale moon light with her beams comin down to the left and an airplane flying on my right. For a moment i imagined them smashing together in a cloud of moon dust and jet fuel throwing off tides and sending the earth careening off into space but i knew they wouldn't. I see a bench in the distance and i make my way over as i found i was not quite ready to find my way home after all. A lonely newspaper holds the seat for me and i briefly pick it up checking to see if it was mine from earlier. too much of a coincidence i suppose but still i checked. I set it aside and place my hands over my face and breathe hot air to warm myself up. The ticking of my watch seems to keep a rhythm with the passing cars and gently falling rain that wets the tops of my shoes and it all slowly blurs into a whirling blue and when i open my eyes im at the foot of your bed and i find myself saying "When i lay down to sleep beneath the tree i dream of blue water because my river speaks to me she comes and goes she ebbs and flows like the winter spring summer and fall i am a sinner but i sing to pierce the fog do you hear my call? do you hear my voice carry through this cave filled with rags and ***** cards? Do you ever come out here at night to see the stars?" Who am i talking too? "In the early morning before the sun when the snow falls with just the right weight to cap the dark stone along your wall and pile up like lazy cats on a fence. I think of you." Ive never owned a cat i dont know if im afraid of them. snakes and cats are demons to be worshipped revered and feared. Again i find myself saying "I would try to escape the dull light but Her has big eyes and dark hair. her is in love with an island and a feeling. Mine is still afraid of an island but it still occupies mines thoughts" how strange a feeling but its warm here so i stay for awhile longer. "And the look in your eyes when you speak of your wife in germany can make tired dry men cry violent blue tears." Upset by what i had said in my dream i will myself out of it and find myself on the bench with the newspaper beside me. It is the day after valentines day.  Thoughts return to yesterday and a feeling of deja vous comes over me. Had i been here yesterday? No I spent valentines day in the city with the bike rental guys and pepsi not really knowing what it meant to me. One bike rental guy i spoke with at length had a sad reply to a comment i made about how much i enjoyed his conversation and i said truly you are a good man. He said "truthfully, all my talent and tact i make up for it with what i lack. Im jealous and competitive but id rather step aside than talk about my pride and ill hide behind my wine." A sad and haunting verse as it rings in my head tonight on this bench with the old newspaper. I get up to finish my walk home.
Terry Collett Nov 2014
Lydia
pale and thin
lanky hair

lightish brown
walks with me
to see hot

steam engines
at Kings Cross
train station

her old man
grudgingly
said she could

go with me
we get on
a bus there

sitting on
a side seat
some big guy

stares at us
his deep eyes
drinks us in

then gawks at
Lydia
she blushes

looks away
I give him
my John Wayne

cowboy stare
he looks back
then away

we get off
at our stop
at Kings Cross

smell of steam
sound of trains
huff and puff

and people
rushing by
on to trains

off of trains
we both sit
on a seat

watching this
unfolding
train drama

with porters
with trolleys
and luggage

and parcels
passengers
going by

rich and poor
Lydia
beside me

wanting this
as I do
the grey smoke

rising high
to the roof
turning blue.
BOY AND GIRL AT KINGS CROSS TRAIN STATION IN 1950S
alidelaR Mar 2016
What were you thinking as you pushed those trolleys through Zaventem?
Were you calculating how many minutes, seconds you had left
Was every surreal detail amplified
The incessant rumble of a suitcase wheel
The bright pink silk in a stewardess’s blouse?

What were you thinking as your eyes rested on the family at check-in?
Were you wondering which of them would live or die
The excited young girl in a blue corduroy dress
her ribbon slipping down the shiny braid of hair
Or her smiling father, hand resting gently on his wife’s waist?

What were you thinking as the time drew nearer?
Were you remembering the taste of your last breakfast
The flaky pieces of pastry
cascading onto your plate like exploded tiles
Or that final swallow of hot sweet tea?

What were you thinking?

Or were you cold-hearted
Deciding where to stand
to inflict maximum carnage?
Thinking only of the brothers
who would whisper your name with reverence?

Tell me.
What on earth were you thinking?
Allen Page Apr 2015
Was it I who wondered
Sipping on a concrete straw
Waiting through the renegade
Pondering the diamond before me
It was made of paper

Defer through me
Subvert the Zipf distribution
It fades as the cicadas in the leaves
The starry nights close in
like curtains covering the sun

The sky a theatrical production
The structure effacing complexity
One on hand conflation, projection, fuerza
One the other, subversion
What is a hand

Black dog wanders through the meadow
Sing me an odor of the breeze
Trolleys carve out ravines in their wake
The past has with it this mystique, this ambiguity
to understand is to circumambulate
M E Sills Nov 2011
In San Francisco
I had a dream
that no one noticed
when the trolleys
ran the wrong way
and completely missed
the stop at Union Square.
Instead of going to work
people went home and
chose to eat peas for
dessert instead of cake.
At the dinner table
they spoke of the universe
rather than politics and
believed in themselves,
settling for nothing
less than perfect.
I headed south to
Oakland and everything
seemed so alive for once.
The people were the
happiest I've ever seen.

I woke up by your side
the next morning and
watched as your hands
shone like silk in the sunlight
coming through the
room's only window.
The dream resided in those
hands, if only I could
touch them without
waking the dreamer.
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
The car horns toll the knell of parting day,
The toxic fumes creep slowly o’er the park,
The traffic homeward plods its weary way,
And leaves the world to joggers and the dark.

Now fades the shimmering lakescape on the sight,
And to the air the dusk its stillness brings,
Save where mosquitoes wheel in droning flight,
Ross River virus loaded in their stings;

Save that from yonder television tower
The besieged magnate to his “mates” complains
The A.B.T. has exercised its power,
Sent him packing without ill-gotten gains.

Beneath those tiled roofs, that mortgaged shade,
Where heaves the serf in many an exhausted heap,
Each of the dole queue mortally afraid,
Whose forefathers once rode upon the sheep.


The wheezy cough of beery-breathing morn,
They swallow Berocca for their straw-filled heads,
The clock’s shrill clarion, or their arguing spawn,
Once more shall rouse them from beloved beds.

For they no more have savings in their banks,
Both busy partners toil to meet their ends;
No children run to lisp their heartfelt thanks,
They clamour for Air Jordans like their friends.

Oft did their annual jaunt to Bali yield,
Their furrows smoothed by oily massage strokes;
How jocund were their Customs trolleys wheeled!
Their cases bowed by extra grog and smokes!

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their media-fed dreams have learned to stray;
The Holy Grail of the Lotto life
Has taken free out of the word Freeway.
Copyright Andrew M. Bell. This poem was written in 1992 when I was living in Perth, Western Australia. It is an affectionate parody which seeks to update Thomas Gray's famous poem, Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard, for the modern, urban environment that is the norm for many of today's readers. The A.B.T. referred to in the poem is the Australian Broadcasting Tribunal which, at the time, was trying to devolve some of the media power concentrated in the hands of only a few media barons. The poet wishes to acknowledge The West Australian newspaper in whose pages this poem first appeared.
thunder volleys
roll across the evening's sky
thunder volleys
drumming like the wheels of trolleys
a crescendo so loud in ply
as the grumbling noise trundles by
thunder volleys

— The End —