"walkways" poems
Foreboding walkways
With weight of a million wreaths
Pulling in the walls
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
The braches of the faint oak were bewitched to a dark gold under
the orange, thick silk sunset.
The wood, as the sun lowered, changed from apple green
to golden billow
which swept foamy,
rose clouds along a now cucumber, blurry horizon.
Plump plums and fruit rinds
litter ripe walkways alongside the flower beds who's tickled buds
are closing slightly as the fickle sky, gone nine, turns to a majestic
Indian blue and the June monastery's milky swirls are lit by the sugar lump stars.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
On the East Coast of England there’s a small resort
Called Cleethorpes, where I happen to reside.
And out towards the Pleasure Park
A short way from the shore
There is The Boating Lake.
I love to go there on a still, sundowning evening
When the parking is free.
To walk those walkways around the lake,
Dreaming I’m on Starfleet Academy Campus.
Walkways flanked by lawned hillocks and shrubs.
The lake is fringed by red-flowered reeds
And punctuated by ducks and geese.
Families and couples roam about
As I sit in meditation
Watching and listening
To the central fountain play.
Such a tranquil scene,
Far from the madding crowd.
Go over the bridge and cross the mini-railway line:
Before you reach the saltmarsh and the sea
You’ll find a stretch of shrubbery and trees
A haven for the birds
And for me,
As I walk my favourite path.
The lake is thus a prelude
To some splendid growth
As nature does its thing.
Serene and tranquil everything
A spiritual feeling
As I meditate
Beneath multi-layered clouds
Under endless sky.
Paul Butters
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Why do the worms fiercely dig their way to the surface
During rainstorms
As though they're afraid to miss the spectacle?
Don't they know they will end up drowning
In pools of chilled sky-tears
And get stomped by careless and hurried feet?
Strewn across drenched brick and concrete walkways,
Thousands,
Yet each somehow alone in his own conquest.
Drawn
Like the moth to the flame
And my eye to the sun.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Bleached walls, and incandescent lights
The mind illustrates it’s own world
With dreams, desires and abstractions
What it wants, but can never have
Droned out vocalization, and exaggerated sighs
The mind fills in the gaps
With chatter, remarks and laughs
What it wants, but can never have
Concrete floors, and tiled ceilings
The mind creates it’s own scenery
With grasses, mosses and trees
What it wants, but can never have
Constant progression, and flooded walkways
The mind orchestrates it’s own utopia
With sunshine, breeze and cloudless skies
What it wants, but can never have
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
I
Shine on you little, dismal light
Shine on, Shine on, Shine on
Your light is but a speck in a sheet
A dot in a yellowed text book
So many like you
So little time
To become what we want
Noticeable
Your light must shine
Outshine the rest
It must shine like the sun, little light
The sun is beautiful, the brightest light of all
It is the life-giver and day-bringer
Give life, Bring day
Don't spark in the night
The dark does not foster
The shining light you will give
And you will give
Little Light
II
Shine on, little light
There are so many just like you
The sheet you stain is stained by many
The blanket of the sky
Shine as bright as you can
Before the sun bleaches you out
You must shine and touch a soul
Fill a heart with your little light
Shine, Shine, Shine!
III
Glow on me, little light
Glow a dense, fuzzy ivory
Bring your warm white to the heart of my grey
A jungle of dampness
Clean clay muddied and wet
To fade away into a drear
Eroded into black
Glow so the white revives
And purity cleanses the walkways
The haze is hard to break through
But you can do it
Little Light
IV
Shine and Glow
Glow and Shine
Whine and Row
Bow Divine
Swine and Sow
Go drink Wine
Fine hand Sew
Grow a vine
Grind and blow
*** and Mine
Mine is low
So is Nine
So Shine on, Oh
Shine Shine Shine
Shine on So
The world can't lie
V
Little, little light
So harsh on so little
You are beautiful
Beautifully insignificant
I write to you in prayer
Little Light
Bring peace and tranquil
Tranquilize the blackness in my heart
Touch my soul in the way only a little light may
So small
So pure
With a divine life I can never understand
A force so powerful it can be seen so far away
Stain my sky
Bleach my night
Do not leave me be
There are so many like you, but it takes many little lights
To make something special
You are a speck on my safety blanket
When I despair
I look to you
And suddenly
I'm okay
So shine on, little light
Shine on, Shine on, Shine on
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
patient, optimistic travelers
gliding soundlessly along
moving walkways while sun falls
across gleaming surfaces
of aluminum, glass and peace
Jun 1, 2025
Jun 1, 2025 at 12:49 AM UTC
I am a Harbor
Moss-covered barnacles
govern my legs, and my back
is drenched in fog.
My wooden walkways creak,
and the wind makes me
groan with loneliness;
but life stirs underneath,
in waves.
Ships arrive at the worst hour,
full of regrets and suspicions,
and aches and envies,
and troubles and fears.
I welcome angry sailors,
the worst of all mankind,
to drink at my tavern,
and dangle their feet
off my docks, and
stare at the sea.
They look
east by southeast, north by northwest,
to home, where only
memories
return.
Some men are bustling airports;
they welcome millions a day,
and millions a night,
see them off to other skies
and do it over again.
But I am a jealous Harbor.
I keep my vessels with me forever.
I guard them with an icy peace.
And relish in the slap of the sea.
And bathe in the salt of the wind.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
The slot machines remove my cash
with Dyson like precision
The operation's painless
There isn't even an incision
It's gone as soon as I sit down
For that is just their mission
I lose as soon as I sit down
I made a bad decision
The table games are even worse
Distractions everywhere
Table dancers walk and dance
But most folks do not care
In shorty shorts and thigh high boots
They flick and fling their hair
And we sit losing wads of cash
As though we do not care
The strip itself is free to walk
It's a breaking even quest
Unless you take the monorail
Then you get put to the test
Long walks between casinos
Through the homeless where they nest
Once you walk to where you're going
You need to sit down for a rest
The walkways littered with lost souls
Our society's open sores
selling water for a dollar
blocking all the hotel doors
tourists cueing up to see
shell and ball games by the score
We walk by glancing down on them
For we are Vegas ******
A city based on excess
Where the winner is not you
There are some that leave with money
But, in truth....there's very few
The derelict and drunkards
beg for change the whole day through
and their dogs beg from the beggars
It never changes....nothing's new.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
There are walls waiting,
crumbling
as pockmarks of decay
beside sidewalks
along motor cities’ streets.
There are terminal
and forsaken structures
colonized
with ungrateful squirrels
that abandon
attics for creaking kitchens
with corroded sinks.
Un-shoveled snow melts
slow on walkways
unfamiliar with worn heels
or rubber soles.
There are forlorn relics
patient and waiting
for us to join them.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
My sweet angel I fear with the stones I shall remain,
I am doomed to repeat this unhappy existence,
Where my memory lives on when the vines and the leaves are gone,
And I become inhuman, merely an energy
My love the warmth of your skin and the melody of your song,
Will haunt my being while I haunt the living,
These brick walls, this concrete jungle, this manufactured light
From where I come I shall return
And I may never ascend in this lifetime
I may never leave the next one
My summer seraph who guards the one who wears the crown,
Who smiles at the trumpet Gabriel plays as she makes her way back home,
And gates open, pearly and golden, and to those trapped in this cycle unknown,
I shall be caught in a never ending story when my ability to speak has gone
My sweet angel, soft voices, feather hair, and love,
I only want to hear what is better left unsaid,
How can I know that when I die, my body, my blood
I will not become a ghost, still with desire to touch you?
And my memories live on imprinted in stones, and cobble walkways, and iron-wrought fences
When I wish nothing more than to be forgotten, and to forget
I may never ascend in this lifetime
I may never leave the next one
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Come Glastonbury, demand your suitors
Eliminate the negatives of their days
Show the signs of cheer and promise
Crystal clear and sun bright
The walkways between the tiny shops
Where escaping through to back doors and out
Inside spirits claim your soul
Wrestle your pathetic reliance on consumerism
Your slavish concern for fashion
And your unhelpful TV dinners
There in Glastonbury only truth is spoken
Revealing the weaknesses of our human frame
Our minds that suffer from prejudices and bigotry
Cleanse your soul, become yourself
Give up the senseless living that has dominated
And driven our daily chores and lifestyle
Discard them all and believe that man
Is just a tiny part of this cosmos
A spirit and energy of the completeness
Not the embodiment
Not the utmost but a small part
Perhaps a much lesser being than any other...
Despite everything we are special
You are special in your individual capabilities
Each soul a grain of stardust
Waiting to be reunited in the cosmos
With the rest of the wonderful plethora
Be calm in the knowledge that you
Your heart and soul
Are one and only
Unique
Even today in Glastonbury
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:48 AM UTC
He is who you want to see at the airport,
half asleep, pastel sweatshirt half zipped.
Half length shorts ending just above the knees.
Eyes matching the green and blue abstract swirls
patterned into the carpet to hide passenger sick-up.
The background to travelling japanese circus photos,
they’ll look back in their scrapbooks,
past the ponies on the baggage carousel,
see him waiting for the delayed international arrival.
Stiff legs tread quietly down grey hallways,
stringing a stickered suitcase along moving walkways,
thoughts caught between continents, in escalator’s teeth.
Tiptoeing over the hot coffee spilled like oil,
the taste of morning breath clinging to the back of the throat,
chalky as chilled ashes, abandoned and unswallowed.
When the taxis are cold and the day’s been worn out,
before it’s even begun; patchy fabric stretched over toes
rubbing thin on the inside of your shoes,
he’ll circle your head like a daisy crown.
To hold the tiny scars on his broad shoulders,
traces blemishes like a mine sweeper,
would be like orange juice at 40 000 ft.
Intimate in a way only TSA agents know how to be,
looking for explosives behind the ribcage, to the left.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
December 24th: Slow down,
breathe, and relax.
Save your problems
for tomorrow
and calm your racing heart
Today.
December 25th: We pave the walkways
into the hearts of others
with ipods and gaming systems.
It's sad.
December 26th: The anxiety is over.
December 27th: Everything and everyone is beautiful.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
We take a shortcut
through the narrow walkways
of the old village
across the cobblestones
and by the white-washed tabby wall
to the waterside where slave ships
once plied their trade
My dog lingers nose down
as if each stone has a story to tell
and ***** an ear to the wall
where the auctions were held
She looks at people differently now.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
it operates like a revolving door
there are no hinges
but it extends from ceiling to floor
it is fashioned out of multiple parts
in various geometrical shapes
each with an intricate pencil etched
message that speak of the ways
to reexamine the perplexity
of what remains behind the walls
of your bedchamber calls that
became trapped in long
recondite walkways and halls
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
i enjoy england
with its little houses
hips brushing, faces smushed
together to revel in quaint rumour
among gentrified lilies and pink
lady apples that blush in the summer
its walkways and alleys
dribbles of soft lamplight guiding
the drunkard, moth-brained and ill
with silk threads to a blind spot
of amber where muck can be spilled
the people on transport
with their airy talk, their mindless
silence, heads lolling idly on
windows, eyes crumpling like napkins
against the leaking crumbs of warm scone sun
pretty little England
where exploitation is vintage
and runs like rosé
down the dusty store windows
here we are free to stumble
down streets with sweat
in our hair and manic karaoke
reverberating off the walls
glee drinking is government protected
I'm quite in love with england,
this field of dew and white roses
fed by gore and sweet tradition
where fresh-faced, sunny children play.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 9:48 AM UTC
Among the silent,
thunderous
halls of the mind,
there are pathways
one should seldom
roam, for, often,
the bitterest of
fruit grows between
the walls of an
intricate cognitive
labyrinth.
Still...
I walk the very
walkways that will
either lead me to
complete
self-destruction or
to enlightenment
and divinity.
I walk quietly,
tiptoeing around
certain memories,
so as not to awaken
them from their
slumber, and
incur their wrath.
I walk on glass
footsteps, as the
shards make their
way in through
broken arches,
in search of a place
to call home,
among the ruins of
a broken spirit
and a bludgeoned,
weeping heart.
Such is love and life
and the ever present
shadow of remembrance,
and still I walk,
leaving scarlet
footprints along
the way...
to remember
where I've been.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
There is a trail in Pennsylvania that is barely tamed
That winds on down the mountainside and fractures into veins.
It lashes through the trees and wood, like man-made ligh-ten-ning
And offers streams of water tasting pleasantly of spring.
This way is framed with micro-caves and fissures in the stone
Where sweetest water rivulets feed moss that's overgrown
Haphazard wooden walkways dot the snake-like trodden path
Their clumsy steps all akimbo; they bridge the wild gaps.
And even further down the trail, dodging brown tree roots
That point like gnarled fingertips and target untied boots
Below, like uncut diamonds lodged into the mountainside
Gushing waterfalls sing aloud, in ranges far and wide.
Their surging torrents babble in a distinguished harmonies
The wordless wind responds by rustling through the countless trees.
There, at last around the bend, before the lumbered river
A bench there sits within the shade where coolness draws a shiver
The wood is at the mercy of the lichen and the rain
That rush to bring that broken boards back to the earth again.
And there, amidst the other foolish carvings in the wood
Scrawled with hopeful youthful hands that did the best they could
The chips and angles buried in reveal what once was true
This is the final place where I will always love you , too.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
I miss the warm tethered entanglement
Of white hot invading veins
And boiling blood slithering
Innocent lust for rage
Driven by underdeveloped
Over stimulated blessings of adolescence.
Age hardens the stone of flesh
Once fluid magma erupting
From volcanoes of mole hills
Turned mountains by the quick tempered.
Spitfire tongue incinerating old walkways
Patience and time cool the ferocity
Burning rivers now gentle streams
Chisling rough roads, eroding paths.
Ancient doors reopened
Ready for the next adventure to take place.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
you are walking the streets
you do not walk the boards anymore
your trousers are frayed, your shoes dusty
and the hard walkways have worn them out
you are not presented in the glorious costumes
and the stage crowns anymore
the illusion is gone, it’s reality
that’s permanent now
you’re the beggar, the recluse, the plain and shadow
you walk down to the shops
and your speech raises eyebrows
where’d he learn to speak like that?
they ask, in whispers, like conspirators on stage
your actions are too lofty, your manner too distant
it threatens them, they must crush you –
so that’s why you’ve learned to blend in as well as you can
those were the days
when they heard your words, and they felt it resonate
when they noted your pronouncements
and there was acknowledgement
but those were the days, a long time back when they
looked at you, and they knew you, and they looked in awe
now the children sneer at the old man,
and when it’s too cold, your nose runs
and you need to **** more often
and the women notice you hobble,
you leave the art of significance
and you learn the art of the indistinct
and you’ve learned
which practice is more difficult:
acting the prominent, or acting the anonymous
*Go, old man, old actor, every dog has its day;
the new breed eats the bones today*
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
The peace in this seclusion
Of a tranquil park in green,
With stately trees of ancient years
And walkways in between
There's deep shade under foliage
With sunspots everywhere,
And a velvet sense of peacefulness
Pervading in the air.
But:
Should you step beyond the green grass,
Should you venture onto seal,
An abrupt and harsh transition
Manifests, as quite unreal!
There's a cacophony of engine noise,
The headlong rush of cars,
A kaleidoskope of steel and glass
And frantic men from Mars!
The grind of wasted hours
With inertia breeding dread
And putting up with maniac's
Ignoring stop lights turning red.
There's a quagmire of congestion here
A head ache for the Tsar's
And for myriads of people
Who queue daily in their cars.
There's a White Knight in the future,
There's salvation in the air
For the God's of your deliverance
Will relieve you of despair.
They will forge a mighty tunnel
Deep beneath the grassy park
And divert congested traffic
Out beyond congestion's arc.
Melding with the motorway
To make breathing space for all,
The Victoria Park Alliance
Guarantees their clarion call.
Energetic men and women
Who are planning round the clock,
Engineers and excavator's slave
To work without a stop.
Concrete slab and steel amass
To build the tunnel strong
And sleek attenuators
Keep the traffic flowing on.
Salvation in the form
Of a tunnel underground
Beneath the spreading boughs
Of an oak in green surround,
Beneath the peaceful turf
Of a verdant park as planned,
Found amidst the million souls
Of Auckland, New Zealand.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Auckland City
New Zealand
6 November 2009
www.worthyofpublishing
Nov 5, 2009
Nov 5, 2009 at 9:59 PM UTC
Ro-
mance is in the air – or
so they say at this time of year in
the heart of the Thousand Islands.
No-
thing quite welcomes summer
like the morning smell of seaweed fresh-
ly caught on some vacationer’s
pro-
pellers - excess water
draining from the boat’s engine, creat-
ing sporadic puddles up the
street.
I see no romance in
Alex Bay – too many tourists; too
old, too young – No young lovers. Not
E-
nough privacy in the
souvenir shops or bustling streets for
young lovers to embrace and watch
the
sun set or rise off the
Dock of the Bay. Mother duck leading
her ducklings towards the bread crumbs the
old-
er generation has
cast aside for them in the fishy
water. Kids just don’t know what ro-
mance
is anymore. Perhaps
because Spring is ending and not be-
ginning. I must find the romance
in
these islands. There was a
story passed down through the years of Boldt
and his lady and Hart Island.
He
re-named it Heart Island
and with his millions he made it just
that. A castle he built her, a
Play-
house for the kids. Gardens
and walkways, a Yacht House, a Tower.
All this he built for his love.
Can
you imagine, waking
up every morning to the smell, the
sounds of an island called yours? In
the
midst of the St. Lawrence,
the freshness, the cool, the sun beating
down on your grass, your estate. How
ro-
mantic an idea.
Of the one-thousand, seven-hundred
and ninety-three islands, this one
be-
longs to you and your love.
To travel by Ferry each day to
the Bay, to dine every night at
Cav-
allario’s Seafood
and Steak. Oh the wonders of Alex
Bay – I found romance after all.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC
Do you ever feel like you're trapped? You know - stuck somewhere or in something?
Doesn't it feel horrible, doesn't it make you mad?
Isn't the best feeling in the world; that feeling that washes over you when you finally step out of the darkness and into the light - freedom?
What if, like me, a rather unfortunate soul, the darkness - is the twisted corners and walkways of your mind?
There is no escape from your mind. From the deceiving thoughts. The conniving feelings. The cannabilism of life itself. The pain that enfolds you; embraces you; lovingly with cold hard passionate hate. The burning embers of hate spilling from the eyes of rage and the ruthless, cold slap of the slithering tongue.
While others dream of clouds and fairy dust, cotton candy and summer romances - you smother your face in a pillow and cringe at every sound, you chew at stubs of ****** finger nails and gently caress the scars that possess your arms.
For you, sleep is a rare luxury - one that comes when your crowded mind is finally at rest, those precious seconds of freedom and peace.
Though troubled soul; it does not last long. For the demons find a way through the peace and once more they are at war.
So you will seek the comfort of others. Who will pretend to understand what you feel - and take you for all you have and with it; they will disappear.
From then you will have trust issues and be skeptical and pessimistic of every thing good that comes your way and eventually, broken soul nothing good will come any more and you shall be left alone - to face the demons again.
It will drive you mad withered soul and, you will begin to claw at the very skin you feel trapped in. You will furiously claw and tear at your flesh craving the sweet release of freedom - and it will be painful, pale soul and it will not come quick.
You will lay still in surrender and with every seeping drop of madness that adds to your angry red sea you now drown in - you will become numb, your eyelids will begin to flutter and close then with a small sigh from your battered lips you will be lead into euphoria.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC