"wayfarers" poems
For half a revolution she spends her days
in caliginous caverns
where worms like silver thread
weave through moistened walls.
Water, endless dripping,
howling, whining, stalagmite fangs.
It began with a stranger,
shrouded with shadows.
Petrichor breath,
and beetle black eyes,
twisted root fingers,
and scattered seeds.
It was lonely at first,
death and loss and
weary wayfarers with tired souls.
An estranged husband,
a trio of rumbling growls,
and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps.
Waiting for a someday,
that will never come,
her titles, a mantra,
repeat in her head;
daughter, lover, mother and wife,
stealer of souls and giver of life.
So when the daffodils bud,
and the world awakens,
when she blinks through sunshine
and steps into the light,
she holds her head high.
She is Queen of the Underworld,
bolder than before,
she will evade their pity,
and transcend them all.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
Celestial wayfarers of the night
Dancing damsels with the light
Fading phantoms at Phoebes’ sight
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.
3.4k
I don’t need wayfarers to make me look cool
And you don’t need less of you to make a man drool
We’ve been lied to
By advertisements and executives
Best friends and the Internet
Eat well, be fit
Buy this, get rich
It’s hard enough to see the light
Why buy shades in the middle of the night?
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
under the slanting rays
of the December sun,
silhouettes of this sin city
eke loneliness,
eating the timid
and spitting out carcasses.
its skies, ash gray
the refrigerated air moody
reminding wayfarers
that here is no place
to come seeking solace.
as apathy rains
sirens howl
and crime soars
the need to look over the shoulder
more pronounced than ever before.
the bottom line is
everyone’s looking to make money,
fast, furious and frenzied
in this,
my hometown- New York.
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 7:29 PM UTC
the burnt throat, sour as strawberries
*maple leafs gathered up into punnets,
syrups into leaks of old milk bottles,
with red strawberries, they read sonnets;
in stillness and grace, among daylighted face.
Some wayfarers' time, tedious, delight and gradual,
meretricious and surreal, like whimsical moon's moral;
yet so gentle and fine, ruther foul, alike of snow.
the smells of red berries with angel cakes coalesced,
a gallery of yarn meadows unhang, collapsed.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
i never pegged you for someone
swept up by razzle dazzle,
infatuated with muscle men,
acrobats, and stars.
your view on animal rights,
seemingly discarded,
for an elephant's tricks,
the lion tamer's whip,
the tent apparently blocking out
harsh judging light.
i viewed you as critical,
skeptical of spectacle,
squinting unsure,
behind those black wayfarers,
the image constructed in my mind,
supported by that vintage dress,
the style of your hair,
the music you listened to
on the car ride over,
how can you be satisfied
with this carnival fare?
frivolous displays favoured
over subtle gestures,
superficial appearances favoured
over chemistry,
hollow showman dialogue
echoing over loudspeakers
favoured over a conversation,
perhaps i'm a hypocrite,
your attributes simply skewed,
by my being swept up in the
razzle dazzle spectacle
of you.
(i'll be in the hall of mirrors)
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC
O! Beloved, O! Beloved who created the sun,
Created the atoms, and made the stars.
When we are united, Beloved, I will see your light,
Majestic than the sun, and I will be free of my desires
As the morning sun frees the lilies from the night.
O! My Beloved, I was not in existence but then You
Fashioned me and brought me to witness Your
Beauty. I am in awe of Your beauty, o! Beloved.
They say it is a gift, but you said it is a test.
O Beloved, guide me in this test you put me in.
O! My Beloved, O! Beloved that is not imperfect
I have been conquered by my ego yesterday
But to you I return and bow to purify myself,
Praise upon you after marveling at your beauty and mercy,
Your Mercy that is greater than the milk of a mother.
O! My Beloved, O! Beloved who said and wrote the first,
There is a longing inside me that all the wideness of
Life can’t give an answer to. O Beloved, I await
For my meeting with you to fill me,
As you fill the bellies of the birds, but eternally!
O! My Beloved, O! Beloved that is forever infinite
I have known but so little, expand me, my Beloved
As you have made the seas so wide to contain the
Liquid. So that I will know you more and contain
More of your love in my expanding self.
O! My Beloved, my beloved, break me if that will
Open me to you. A seeker of light will accept
Everything that has come to cleanse him of his
Darkness. For your mercy, give me soft cleansing
With the water of kindness, and breeze of love.
O! My Beloved, Beloved, with questions comes wandering,
And it is with wandering that then come answers.
The more I wander and seek, the more I get closer.
O! Beloved, I long for the taste of the moment when
I will arrive at the hall of those that have arrived.
O! My Beloved, O my Beloved that guides the seeker
If I get all that I seek in the moment of a wish,
Then there wouldn’t be all the wonders of seeking,
But you know, guide my way, O Guider of wayfarers,
As you have done to the path of those You have blessed.
O my beloved, I am like a river, O my beloved!
My existence is like a river and you are the Ocean.
I am flowing from you, and then back to you,
Accompany my flow in daytime with the sun of Your
Love, and at night with the moon of your mercy.
Dec 16, 2021
Dec 16, 2021 at 6:56 PM UTC
Two aging message senders
and receivers, circumspect
men of reflective thoughts
and words spoken, written.
Wayfarers from divergent
oceans converging.
Both Harpooners of the
unexamined life, seekers
of truths and wisdom.
Kindred spirits different
and yet the same,
A spiritual awakening,
a brotherly bond in the making.
Both touched and renewed
by a voyage taken
upon a common sea
of curious self discovery.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
Why do You tempt us so?
or attempt to tempt as I may say
to intrinsically covet us with your beauty?
your feinted image but puddle-rooted
waver as you may...
For is it every flower's duty?
to lure in weary enamored travelers
and be loved only by blinded wayfarers?
hence the expression stop and smell the roses-
no?
And yet You have come to be known
as the pinnacle of beauty and love
whilst You would know not of either
compassion, romance, and emotion...
more of a lack thereof..
for true beauty is not measured
by the magnificence of your flower
but is rather found in beauty of your roots
the same can be said for love
it requires but one to do the digging...
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
There was a time in former years—
While my roof-tree was his—
When I should have been distressed by fears
At such a night as this!
I should have murmured anxiously,
‘The prickling rain strikes cold;
His road is bare of hedge or tree,
And he is getting old.’
But now the fitful chimney-roar,
The drone of Thorncombe trees,
The Froom in flood upon the moor,
The mud of Mellstock Leaze,
The candle slanting sooty-wick’d,
The thuds upon the thatch,
The eaves drops on the window flicked,
The clanking garden-hatch,
And what they mean to wayfarers,
I scarcely heed or mind;
He has won that storm-tight roof of hers
Which Earth grants all her kind.
1.6k
I am unafraid tonight
To write and sign my real name.
To like what I read which is almost everything here
For the sake, for the pain, for the unashamed, for just
Celebrating those who breathe life for the just
Trying.
I am unafraid tonight
To disclose that I live as an
Agonist
In a city that ghost taps on my windows,
( thank you Ilion gray for that),
When the quiet is pockmarked by so many crying the
Loudest tears.
I am unafraid tonight
To express my dissatisfaction with you.
I am unafraid tonight
To express the miracle of those across oceans,
And across town,
Welcoming me into their hearts and wonder
Where else do the wayfarers gather
I am I am
unafraid tonight
To curry your favor,
Despise your silence
Expose corners of me
That should be buried
Before my body later follows
I am unafraid tonight
To use or abuse punctuation
For their are spaces and ,
Between us that can and cannot be closed
But I am compelled to try to narrow the differences
For
I am unafraid tonight
Tomorrow, we shall see,
If the shale within can yet be fractured,
Brought to the surface
To be consumed,
Or the fractures spread
Destructing the whole.
But tonight,
I am unafraid.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
In Rājagaha the Well-Farer lectured
On wisdom, concentration, morality…
The monks listened, devoutly, calmly,
To the message replete with practicality.
On to Ambaliṭṭikā they journeyed,
To Nālandā and Pāṭaligāma as well.
The Buddha continued to spread the Dhamma--
Or teachings--at which he was known to excel.
After passing over the Ganges,
To Koṭigāma they made their way.
The Buddha repeated the Four Noble Truths
That still guide many people today.
At Nādikā the Teacher referred to the Mirror
Of Dhamma and said to always begin
By looking first at yourself to discover
The truth that lies deep within.
On to Vesālī the ascetics wandered,
Where their Master continued to share
The power and value of mindful living--
The importance of being clearly aware.
During the rains the Awakened One rested
In Beluva, where he postponed his trek.
While staying there he grew ill, but he knew
It was NOT his time, so it kept it in check.
"Live as islands," he said to Ānanda,
"With truth as a refuge. And grasp not, for I
Have always told you that all things dear to us--
Whatever is born--eventually will die."
After the rains, the group traveled
To the Great Forest--to the Gabled Hall,
And the Buddha repeated the Eightfold Path--
A message of wisdom pertaining to all.
Bhoganagara was their next stop,
And then to Pāvā the wayfarers did go.
Their host, Cunda, served "pig's delight."
The Buddha grew ill. Why? We don't know.
Despite his illness, he continued
To Kusinārā and lay down to rest.
Music sounded and flowers fell
From the sky to honor the One-Who-Is-Blessed.
"The Dhamma will now be your teacher.
Strive on untiringly. My time has passed."
After entering deep concentration
The Great One died. Those words were his last.
Thunder sounded and the ground shook--
As it does when any great teacher "goes to sleep."
The Buddha is Dhamma; the Dhamma is the Buddha.
Because of that there's no reason to weep.
The compassionate Buddha's Teachings have spread
For over two thousand five hundred years.
His Message of living in wisdom and compassion
And loving mindfulness perseveres.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
1.4k
THE SHADOWS PALMS
STRETCHED IN THE EBONY ROADS
MUSING ON THE BLOCKS OF RUGGED STONE STEPS
GARNERED AND GATHERED BY CHAFED PALMS.
STRADDLING OVER THEM
THE DEEP FURROWS AND HEATED BROWS
NOW BROWN AND TANNED WEARING
A RUMMAGED MOUSTACHE OF CLIMBING VINES.
EVERY STEP AMUSES,
A MUSE THAT DOES NOT CEASE TO AMUSE,
IN THE HEAT OVERDOSES.
AND WHEN THE ARECA PALMS PALIPATING
IN ARRAY
HOIST ABOUT LIKE ROWS OF MEN DOPED
IN CEILED BANKS OF DISTRUST
A CYNICAL NILA CRIES ,
HER PLUNDERED SANDS.
NOW THE SUNKEN FERRIES ,
HAVE APPEARED AT HER BAY,
AND PAINFULLY CHAFE EACH OTHER.
A ***** FROM THE BOTTOM
STIRRING THE BELL FOR THE REQUIEM
PAY THE FERRYMEN.
FOR THE WAYFARERS WAFFLED WRITINGS
ARE ADDRESSED
TO THE MEN WHO PLASTERED HER WALLS ALONE
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
you made quite an impression on me
old man. Something about the dichotomy
of your mangled mechanical motion
and the cobble stone streets of Portland
-and every other city constructed with a bipedal complex-
made about as much sense to me as a lilac shooting
upwards through the parched desert earth. From the other
side of the street I saw your ***** calloused
hands grasping the wheels of your entrapment.
Hands for horses crooked legs for reigns,
your mind harbors the immutable knowledge that your
wheeled prison can't be escaped. But then, for a moment, it happens:
With a desire for movement unparalleled by even the most
diligent of wayfarers you break free from
the confines of immobility.
you are a great steamboat disembarking
from a familiar port, traversing the
***** rivers of black tar and cement,
fires stoked by the thoughts of what was and is no more,
drifting along to the tempo of a softly beating heart and
the feel of a woman's touch....
it pounds and you listen
and you and her are wrapped
tightly under sheets of linen again,
legs intertwined, arms embracing
the undulating curvatures
of a supple young body
and she says she loves you
and you say its requited
and she says we can make it
and you begin to run your
clean youthful fingers through her hair
and then boom,
your ship runs aground
and you once again become enslaved
to your affliction. Upon the curb
you sit old man, stagnant,
face in your ***** hands
thinking of where
you've been
and where you will never go.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
*Where the city spills into the sea
Where amber lights reach o'er the invisible waters
God is saving blue ocean and sunshine for tomorrow
A miracle for the sinner , to touch the heartbroken ,
for wayfarers in the throes of falling , for his forgotten
In turbulent upheaval striking the sea wall
For the receivers , the wallowing and the swallowed* ...
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
1981
was much more fun
Synthesisers, leather studded caps
Wayfarers and lipstick for the chaps
Skinny microphones, dubious jerky dancing
Cheap promotion videos of singers romancing
Cfc propelled hair spray, hair gel and dandruff
Child like watching YouTube "I just can't get enough"
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
cannonball bodies
in stagnant ponds
tossed-out towels
under browning legs
fluttered words
and humid spit-kisses
mean that for now
our stray-mutt mouths are fed
discarded burnt butts
and whisper-splash bottles
angry coffee caked on tires
from nights of broken speedometers
and a.m. dinners
frustrated waitresses
and chuckling short-order chefs
shadow the backs of polaroids
august breaks in,
with cars on lawns and
weeks with relatives.
the sun sets early
and the moon predictably dims.
our blood hardens,
and we all stop simply flowing.
june is born
and our arteries melt again
watch hands are ripped off
pagers recycled
clouds make critters
and our coughs make clouds
lazy insects and
sweat sit on eyebrows above wayfarers,
reflecting summer’s praying,
under black glass, youth decaying
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
Into the Clearing
I make note
Of the uninterrupted
Brightness, Unbroken
This makes for instant
Accountability
naked at best
Unveiled
Unfiltered
Unspoken
Interim testing ground
Stop and take a look around
When Elements invade
The private places object
Unknowing of the merging
Of a natural nature unto itself
Oh, the soft and sacred
Whispers softly unto
Those with ears to hear
Let the mystery of the Holy
Slowly unfold for thine eyes
Once distracted from the
Wonders of my Wooded
Recreation
Here stands You,
untethered by the
Winding ropes
Of illusive lore
We no longer care for There,
Now that we are here
It is Here
where we Refuel and
Recenter for our next
Adventure.
Choose with careful
Consideration
then Commit
This is It
Next Lesson
Or Level
I will revel
Boldly...
*From my
Place of Power
And Knowing*
Journey Onward my fellow Wayfarers :-)
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
I’ve seen you in the morning
With your hair spilled on the floor
Drinking drops of sunrise
Seeping through the door
Staring at the ceiling
With satin in your gaze
Dreaming of tomorrow’s
Amber yesterdays
Last night you said something
About the Hoover Dam
And running with the clouds out west
Beside the ghost of Gram
You always were a dreamer
The dark romantic kind
But it takes one to know one
So don’t leave me behind
When you tame the wild ponies
Along the windy coast
High above the breakers
Evermore to boast
Of albatross wayfarers
And gypsy lullabies
Peeking through the sunset’s
Smiling bloodshot eyes
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
*The Moonlit Aethers bleed Titanium Rays
As mine Forlorn Eyes
Saunter thine Porcelain Skin:
Platinum Matriarch upon Swarthy Expanse reigns
Azure Luminaries cascade
Upon The Forested Glades of my Airy Soulwaves.
Ensorcelled is that Sylvan Shrine,
The Reliquary of the Starry Wish.
(O, that
Loveless Blight
might cease)
I Besought the Firmaments
From Dusk to Dawn
Lamenting in Dirge
Of the
Revenant Skies;
Eons transcended yet no hand to hold
The Benediction of Romance
An Ephemeral Throne.
The Pandemonium corporealizes
Wraiths in my mind;
(Perdition is Thew
The
Poltergeist's Might)
Ivory Visage of the Impearled
Hallows my Spirit
Quells the Abyss.
The Thew of Deities
Purged from my veins
Quaking my quintessence,
I fathomed
I was naught.
A mere figment,
An existential vagary:
~BUT NOW I SEE
We are
All
But a
Dream
Clinging yearningly
to the
Promise of Hope
(The Covenant of Ensouled Dust)
Groping for Eternity, Memory, and the Lightwaves
To be
Vested in our pulse;
For Corporeality;
Ascendency
To the Chrysalis of The Astral,
The Cradle of Cosmogenesis:
Our Cosmos,
Our Zephyr,
Our Magma,
Our Torrent,
Our Tremor,
Our Thunderclap,
Our Time,
Our Space,
Our Nexus to Efflorescence,
Our Incorporeal Sublimity~
I shall surrender to
Providence of the Supernal
His Empyrean Wings
(An Impregnable Aegis)
A Strewn Vestige once was I
But the Somnolent Beloved was roused
Whence I glimpsed into thine eyes.
The Vagrant Loveless is resurrected
Reawakened as a Doughty Knight
Warring against sequestration
(Until by Nirvana)
Abeyance devours this blight.
~Dream
You starry-eyed wayfarers,
Surrender sovereignty to credence
When Star-crossed
Conspire against the Fates
For when Elysium
Is your Beloved
The Ancient of Yore
Shall lead you nebulous streams
To the Holy Oracle
Prophesying the fulfillment
Of your Intemerate Hope
(For Love, myriads doven the skies)
Please Believe,
Just,
Believe in me.~*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
lots of people
and lots and lots
of travelers, wayfarers
and activists and visionaries
and canvassers
and vendors
and realists and romantics
They have all asked for my love
but my constant answer is:
*“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”*
it’s the same with family and friends
strangers, neighbors, children
and relatives and enemies
eccentrics and couples
They all ask for my love
but my unwavering answer is:
*“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”*
it’s the same with strangers
and politicians and organizations
and great leaders and haloed monks
and Heavenly Saviors
and sports personalities
and charity organizers
They only want my love
but my immutable answer is:
*“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”*
The point here is
it is my task to help you see
the world is full of such
good people
They only want love
It’s never money they’re after
They only ask for my love
Never, never for my money
But still, cruel as I am,
my non-negotiable answer is:
*“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”*
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Like time, are we found through serendipity.
Minutes, a mere tick to unfounded revelation.
Past, are the days when we go subtly by, dissipating into the night sky.
Like time, our corporeal spirits aloft into the pitchy sky.
The tender kiss, a gentle stroke, nuanced by the caressing love of the lunar above.
Like time, are we imprisoned in our own conscious. A mere abstract picture, blown into the winds, caught adrift, and veered into the dark streams of reality's heavy rift.
Like time, we are ethereal wayfarers: youthful beings marked by ephemeral nature, merely to trance the universe's wake.
And like time, our departure ticks till the last grain meets, and the sand flipped, to start all over again, and again, and again.
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 5:53 AM UTC
His rusty doorknob moaned as it peeked open,
The glare from his synthesizer irradiated through the small crack
Yet trekking into my companion’s habitat, my eyes wander down a path
As I examined:
The creamy-white ‘65 Fender Jaguar strapped to his back, idolized like a son to his father
His scattered Rolling Stone magazines, strewn, across his clearly visible unmade bed
His imitation Bob Dylan wayfarers, rested gently on his nostril, accompanying a mischievous smile
And mountains of flannels that he claimed made him appear ******** and “hipster” at the same time
Obscure in a corner, his preferred foreign films organized in a stack
North of his bed… hundreds of pictures of Lennon and McCartney, signifying his shrine and slight obsession with the 1960’s
To the left, his personalized skateboards, festooned with mainstream company seals and psychedelic band logos
The framed polaroid of us sitting effortlessly on his bedside table
And directly 12 o’clock: his father’s turntable spinning early Lou Reed, beside his collection of dusty records I granted him..
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC