"wayfaring" poems
Many were their numbers
Living in city streets and slums
Brothers and sisters torn asunder
Gathered up like bums
Nineteenth century’s answer
Created by Children’s Aid Society
Indentured servants to farmers and ranchers
Shipped in cattle cars like propriety
Struggling in their suffering
Confused used and oft’ abused
Terror in their wayfaring
For being parentless accused
The disruptive ones placed in chains
Scattered to the winds across the land
The far west and the Great Plains
North to Canada and south of the Rio Grande
Billy here, Danny Boy there, and Sally who knows where
The Children of the Orphan Trains
r 13 Nov 13
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
I
__
i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.
i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
and toss
of its fabulous force
rippling
churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
so indistinct,
flapping,
furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
and i know
a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
and goes
out of its own control,
but,
i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.
II
__
when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
rolling
rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
driftwood
sailing
slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
rumbling,
rolling
away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.
III
__
these trees towering
above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
(in my lifetime)
blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
falling,
dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
again...
--and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
like a seed
beneath
the ground
never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
of being.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
A solid center presages
two generous edges
to shoulder the weight
of the curve: the bow
relinquishes tension
to the anchors of the
taut bow-string.
The wayfaring archer
tends to the curve,
notches the arrow,
selects the target,
gauges the wind,
surrenders --
*Riding like an arrow on the wind,
sure to find its mark in Breath,
and the end of Breath it portends.*
A reveler
abiding the flirt
of angle and arc,
finite and eternal,
arbiter of the holy
moment, the dance
linking death with life;
So unbearably
near the horizons,
desire yields its grip
to the coaxing
womb of the curve: tension
sighs into the space
between arrow-head
and its mark.
*And in the transmission of feeling
is the spirit of Life,
clinging - so gently - to free itself
of its own burdens.*
A sudden violence
voids archer and stag:
Continuity rushes forth
to meet the sacrifice.
The heart of the bow
resumes its tension.
And the curve
evaporates,
all but a trick
of Timing.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
You followed down through the gathered pages
to the labyrinth that leads back through the changes
A long and twisted line of unmapped rivers,
*** holed low-roads and tattered mileposts
glancing homeless back-alleys as dark as lonely crossroads
Past the broken wings that fell from skyward treetops
scattered feathers amongst rose petals wilted
at the hand of tear stained faded photos
of frozen black and white faces;
hidden ghosts in the closet that fell from grace
The pathway narrows where the traces dissipate
passing under burning bridges, beneath locked stairwells
A fickle feather floating upon rivers ragging
like the hubris disconnectedness of time rolling out to sea ―
Shadows growing darkest as you reach the blackest silence
and you kept the answers to all the questions at arms length
hidden in the darkness ― where you saw love disfigure me
It was then and there I knew I'd dreamed of someone like you
looking for someone more than I could ever be
Just an unsated curiosity, trying to see beyond
your own misunderstanding, to feel and touch
an unknown depth beyond reach
As sunset pales the distantness, the night is yours alone
when tomorrow's morning rain
hangs on the falling leaves ― I’ll be gone
Just a wayfaring loner in a lonely world
Where rivers are only water
and love was once a flowing river
I thirst to swallow ―
to wash away these tracks of my tears ...
rivers ... 2017
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
when you start
feeling as if
just being you
is not enough ,..
when you see
the sunlight slipping away
sliding into the ocean
and the outbound tide
is pulling strong ,..
gravity throbs downward ―
you see it's weight groan
pacing in lonely eyes,
you feel it's burden
bear down on
a wayfaring stranger
wandering away alone ,..
wondering what went wrong
stalled by a riverside
frozen in time ;
walking on slippery rocks
and fallen stars,
searching for peace
along the meandering shoreline
the waterfall surrenders
a river's silent lament ;
the storm gales' surge stirs
the urge for moving on
a heart broken knows
how fickle tides change
which way the wind blows ,..
which way the rain
comes falling down ―
watershed moments
undulating
serpentine rivers,
unbridled terrain waters
veritably cascading beyond
blurred latitudes,
uninhibitedly drifting
in shapeless symmetry ―
a deep ocean rises
with the calling tide's
murmur,
the shorebirds linger ;
hole up with the peace
of the unsullied sands
at the sea stained
tide-mark ―
barnacles cling
to the pulse
of the tidal sway
where starfish hold on to
slippery rocks ,..
being enough
to while away
just a little bit longer ―
to simply let it all be
and wholly wash out
in the water
waiting for the tide change,
to swallow whole
the rivers stagnant flow,
immersing
the stars in swirling silence ―
in the unrestrained
rhythm and the sea ...
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
*for T.M.R.
our "fellow" southern friend*
the southern way,
she-poet
teaches me
via long distance
breaking of the
braking neural inhibitions of
the loudest silences
that only humans can
mistress
photos, stories,
Facebook posts
how the earth rebirths
taking unasked
unwitting but wisely
both of us
to be refreshed,
so verily
the southern way
sharing worldly
southern words
betraying a
more than
passing
(how I hate that word)
expertise
in spring colors
glorious to every sense,
best described
as nature's way to humanize what we wordily call
hopeful,
self-betraying herself by the
she -poets
innate
southern ways
calls me
northern boy
in a
true voice,
raconteuring,
quick retorting
always in the midst of
d r a wling stories,
about all crazy frogs
of Columbia County,
jumping multiple courses
all about
she-poets navigating
life erratic,
half ecstatic
yet singularity colored,
characteristic of a
ninety percent southern
Tennessee whiskey blues
hear clear
she-poets
welcoming swirling
undertow undertones
lying just above the calmest
morning water surface glistening
words betraying nothing,
yet saying
all in
between, in
pauses of
speckling sun drops spectacular
she-poet
has her places
in woods, knolls and
rarely visited mountains
where cold brooks and cold beers
southern sooth
in ways
I will likely,
wanting but unable,
never learn
to hear clear
the southern way
is never flex,
nerve never
never bend, smile,
still fighting
the prior lost cause
ignore the
cracks coverup
until and when
the afternoon sun
ceases to warm
the orchard porch
daylighting no longer
when no one is around
she-poet
weeps out loud alone
in the
southern way
and I,
northern boy,
student witness,
having obtained
a learner's permit
for her teachings
re
the southern wayfaring ways
of living life
weep along side
in my unsatisfactory
northern way,
learning that,
who knew,
tears are also
glue
anywhere
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
O, Lord Death
Whose skeletal wings unfurl towards the void
Protecting the balance of existence
The universal dichotomy
O, Wise Reaper
Who does not discriminate nor distinguish
And with unwavering certainty
Decides the fate of all
O, Dark Master
Whose hallowed name is the purest form of music
And surely the most haunting
Resonating in my dreams
O, Fallen King
Whose touch unbinds me from man's ignorance
If only they could understand
Your gift is that of freedom
O, Soul Shepherd
Your paradise was not lost but merely misplaced
Yet fear not, wayfaring lord
For I have discovered its truth
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Down between the walls of shadow
Where the iron laws insist,
The hunger voices mock.
The worn wayfaring men
With the hunched and humble shoulders,
Throw their laughter into toil.
1.6k
Sweet dimness of her loosened hair’s downfall
About thy face; her sweet hands round thy head
In gracious fostering union garlanded,
Her tremulous smiles, her glances’ sweet recall
Of love; her murmuring sighs memorial;
Her mouth’s culled sweetness by thy kisses shed
On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led
Back to her mouth which answers there for all:—
What sweeter than these things, except the thing
In lacking which all these would lose their sweet:—
The confident heart’s still fervour: the swift beat
And soft subsidence of the spirit’s wing,
Then when it feels, in cloud—girt wayfaring,
The breath of kindred plumes against its feet?
1.6k
**We are like two different thoughts synced with our heartbeats,
We are like the wayfaring bodies traveling on the same streets,
We are like the moon and the sun, loving each other afar,
With galaxies around me, yet wishing for a shooting star.
We are like the coffee and the tea, gulped during a winter breeze,
We are like the pheromones generated by a gentle squeeze,
We are like two steady boats flowing in tranquility,
With innumerable happy faces around me, yet i find yours very pretty**
*Your face is prettier than me.
Beautiful than the blue oceans
and skies. Calming like the waves
in the shallow rivers. Calming
like the way morning dew falls
down on rose petals. We are
like kings and queens living in
royalty. The way you look at me
and the way i bow down to you
when you call me your majesty
makes me feel like living the life
of luxury. We're like
peanut butter and jelly and how
they get mixed up together while
they make their way down to
one's belly. We are like coffee
and cream because of the way we
both go together. Most of all we
have a love that's not mainstream.
Not like those couples we see constantly
on TV. You make my
every day seem like a valentines
to me. Just by bringing me treats and
kissing me under the sheets
while we sit together. Every day i pray
that this is how we'll stay for
an eternity. I pray that we'll be husband
and wife for an infinity* ~
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
***No one passes through here ever stays for long
i can't even seem to catch sight of my own road home
The body hanging at the end of my own line i don't recognize
waiting for a change ― that never comes around
Fleeting through the primrose path crossroads in a blur,...
right now i'm standin' here like a brainless scarecrow all alone
Just another familiar frost heave pothole barely shunt
swerved around like an unmarked bump
on this frozen lonesome road
i let you see it and you told me what it was ,..
but the rear-view mirror only reflects the tracks left behind
Looking for the Black Box to unearth the cause of the crash
somewhere underneath a black and white rainbow i can't find
If you see a wayfaring stranger that abides undone
don't even stop to feel the ache that trickles down
Just hit the gas and hold sway the wheels go round,
look off---- the dead raccoon lay sullied at the side of the road
No one passes through here ever stays for long
i can't even seem to catch sight of my own road home
The body hanging at the end of my own line i don't recognize
waiting for a change ― that never comes***
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
I offer a few quiet
words under my breath. (1)
“I wish you a tongue
scalded by tea.”(2)
“I was born
of the fist. The hot Irish
Temper.”(3) “I am a master of Escape. Show me a body,
I’ll show you an exit ramp.”(4)
(For,) I want everything
to call me night.(5)
This is the dream where I play
God. And the front door opens(6)
In lakes, floating
logs ignite, burn. All the
fury is finally here:(7)
Once wayfaring strangers(8) as tall as steal as the New York Times(9)
that once they sang from our dark street (10), the song goes: Heart.
Ribcage. Envelope.(11)
____________________
(1) Adam Falkner, Poem for the Lovers at Pickerel Lake, http://friggmagazine.com/issuethirtysix/poetry/falkner/pickerel.htm
(2) Jeanann Verlee, Guilt, Not Grief, http://www.wordriot.org/archives/4780
(3) Jeanann Verlee, The Brawler, http://www.radiuslit.org/2011/04/09/radius-roger-bonair-agard-jeanann-verlee-adam-falkner/
(4) Joanna Hoffman, On Learning to Open My Eyes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/three-poems-37/
(5) Kallie Falandays, If Morning Never Comes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-75/
(6) Benjamin Sutton, Notes from the Daydreaming, http://anti-poetry.com/anti/suttonbe/
(7) Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Treasure In Timber, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-74/
(8) Lauren Yates, The World According to My Heart, http://usedfurniturereview.com/2013/03/20/the-world-according-to-my-heart-by-lauren-yates/
(9) Robert Gibbons, These Mean Streets, http://www.poembeat.com/fall2011/RobertGibbons.html
(10) Michael Lauchlan, Unseen Larks and Immeasurable Intervals, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-michael-lauchlan.html
(11) Leigh Philips, Dear New York City, Learn Gentle, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-leigh-phillips.html
(*) Jeanann Verlee, Good Girl, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/january-2013-jeanann-verlee.html
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
"Every survivor of ****** assault deserves to be heard, believed, and supported."
Rainwater of
the Elysian fields,
you assuredly do
like to drown your winged heroines?
You write them as strange
bitter narratives,
spurious to the calling
or as a bit of
bloodletting go.
The history formed around either
her breaking at the seams
upon the witching hour,
and her own home village
pillaging her claims
in the bonfire;
Or the arcane notion
no woman shall give testimony
against a neighbor
on the occasion he's a man.
Yes, she cried 'no' at the temple gate
Yes, she repeated such entreaties
But she'd also been into the ale
and wore an overtly
fetching carousal dress
you incensed.
Let her dam break
Let her try and flood us over
you mocked.
She was only a wayfaring angel
one reckless bird of passage
What type of wounds
could she inflict?
How easily you lost sight
of her will & halo
becoming stronger than fright.
Down she poured in antipathy,
until covering your gaping mouth!
It wasn't rain that killed you,
for you were the rain,
it was her blood calling out
that finally did you in...
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 8:09 PM UTC
The Young Asian Wife Prays
You pray to your God he is safe
My, how you picture him with ****** ******* his **** and the eyes of a yellow demon in his pupils as a shadow pours his cup full of some French wine.
Teeth show through the closed mouth as the buzz saw edges pull back in the purple gums.
*********** strolled around a dirt floor in between the piles of monkey **** Flies buzz around his head as the maggots crawl from the shadows feet.
A light shines from her silhouette
As she recites the prayer of forgiveness for his soul.
The eyes of this wayfaring man twitch as if the ***** on them has been shifted by some natural force. Yellow demons scream high pitched squeals
The shadow moves quickly away from the light slowly creeping over the threshold.
****** turn to snakes and slither up behind the shadow as they make there way to a lightless room. Crawling up the side of the toilet only to peek their heads just above the seat.
Watching in wait and with great fear for what is inevitably there end.
Light meets this mans legs as the roaches flee from his crotch
Within his eyes yellow dissipates into red then white. The scabs on the hands gleam with moisture and slowly disappear. Groans in the stomach growl as flies rush from his opened mouth. Light climbs up his neck into his eyes.
The beautiful young Asian wife prays without ceasing as Christ lays comfort on the heart of these old lovers who married under the purest morning light anyone has ever seen.
BL
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Vanguard snows blanket
Cougar Mountain sublimity
In the ashen distance between
contrasts of white on white ,
just above the disappearing
Majestic alpine timberline
Painterly allusions cast
a weary and elusive amity,
distinctive premonitions adrift
driven before the wind
The wayfaring wolf looks back,
wind broken , beset
a cold and lonely peace
***Swarthy paw prints
sink deeply
into the will to be***
fiercely stirring purpose
feral awareness keen
existence steadfast
perseverance unwavering
Driven by the power of love
wild is the wind
giving thanks
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
summer of sweating, again
on felted couch from curb
side. no longer living from,
but now found (seen in)
comfort and time to brake.
running is stature set, now
for-to no longer from-to.
reticence in lingering good-
ness of lustless vessel. lust-
ful psyche. lustful soul, and
all know that exists of the
brain. epicenter, and natal
first-formed. far from first
sitting in some whispering
abyss. in absence of a whole-
some feeling, in preparation
of returning unity thru dis-
tanced words. questioning,
ever questioning the thoughts
wayfaring through the soul
in vehemence. teachers with
a breath never in speech, but
ages' ink pressed in repetition,
trouncing some threshold.
breaking imagined barriers, and
Harry Morgan's creator might
scoff at this ink of lacking age.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
A song and I'm wayfaring
Me small things tall
No questions I'm guided
Acoustic Travis
Drifting under bridges
Moving with the flow
Nothing degrading
What is a worry
Picked up and taken places
In others arms and eyes
They talk for me
I watch things and play on stuff
This compilation is leading me astray
But I just want to stay
Haven't heard in years
Where have I gone these years
Who have I been
Oh the thoughts are warm
My heart is poached
Sunny side up
I recall
Letters spoke to conceal a word
Tree sap sticky
I climbed not that tall
Idle with my fun plans
Loll to a place holding a safe hand
Stroll through this gate
I'm seeing good people today
Sit down to play
Hard skates won't fit my feet hurt my toes
Old toy car won't turn corners
Make do wear my jelly blue shoes
What's a schedule what is time
I don't think ahead
Explain it to me in a nursery rhyme
Kiss goodbye can't stay
Red sky at night shepherds delight
Blue sky and baby faced sun tomorrow
Going home sleeping tight
Won't let the bed bugs bite
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
summer incisions on a crystalline day
(it sorrows me to end a poem this way)
every leaf, every tree,
edged silhouetted sharp
against the pale blue cadet uniform color of a
portrait background framing sky,
this museum piece painting,
unsigned, unguarded, uninsured,
yet, surely the worlds most valuable
the sun's early morn golden glint reflection,
somehow pools in the palm of the each chlorophyll green flat goblet,
this necklace of carat gold cavatine melodies
gets me happy drunk on an aurora of
the green n' blue seasonal summer's glories,
upon the skin-stamped a caramel hallmark,
what we wait for all year long,
all the earth's colors crystalline pure,
my senses say it's as it was
on the first day of creation
this is not the first day of summer 2014,
yet, it should be so remarked,
for summer visions so perfect crystalline
are summer incisions,
allowing entry of interferon hopes of we irregular,
imperfected assorted human shapes,
the marvel of a free-for-all serenity,
nature's sweet permanent kindness to
wayfaring temporal humans
corporeal that I am, my being flooded
by all of this and a grateful satisfaction,
but my mind knows that as real as all this,
is as well, the not well, the ashen pallor inside,
the burnt tongue words that circulate
in my bloodstream, the status of my
reality, where my job, survival, is a
Monday day to one day thing, and where the luxury of being
summer incised
is a sometime thing
*and it sorrows me to end this poem this way
but I come from another place this day*
and the computer asks
save this poem?
and I answer,
no, save me, save my family,
even if it must rain every day for the rest of my
sunsetting life
*and it sorrows me to end this poem this way
but I come from another place this day*
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
But I always forget to tell her
and I tell her that too
and she asks why I forget
reply comes easy
it just a wayfaring, stepping stone
on the way to my
kissing your neck,
and thus overlooked,
but always the first thing I see...
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
Deep in the heart of trying times;
weighty presence of the end announced
comfort and confusion begging guidance
carried out only in subtle progressions of ideas; the formation of new worlds
wayfaring watchmen of all tomorrows!
bring me to the security of nascent breath!
render me helpless before, finally, I rest and invite nothing further!
that which might delay subconscious affirmation
-of deeply hewn desire
to accept in burning glory the self-searching odyssey within
parallel returns to unmanifest self
in this world of sight and senses
I have seen it too!
-as if to climb the pyramids like slow-growing ivy
choking sunlight
and in it's figure
obscuring all beyond it
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
“You’re perfect.”
“You’re worthless.”
“You’re able.”
“You will fail.” “You’re empowered.”
“You’re weak.”
“Be you.”
“Let us fix you.”
This is just the start to the plethora of lies that constantly contradict themselves through lustful eyes that objectify and ads that give the “flawless formula” that may just grant you one glance from that wayfaring guy.
One second it’s edification and the next it’s an abundance of filthily crippling lies; most have ceased to even recognize the truth among these fables. I’ve noticed that the paradox of perfection that we are feeding this generation has poisoned them.
They’ve lost their direction because the messages endlessly alter and they are now left with the enchantingly eerie tune of rejection. The consistency they long for is constantly being drowned in the depth of the repudiation brought on by this culture and its lies.
It’s reached the ****** at which they no longer know what it is they should despise.
So they despise themselves.
Heartbreakingly unaware that they are loved,
Wanted,
And free.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
There were two men in one city; the one rich, the other poor.
The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds,
but the poor man had nothing save one little ewe lamb which he had bought and nourished up, and
it grew up together with him and with his children; it did eat of his own meat and drank of his own cup, and lay in his ***** and was unto him as a daughter.
And there came a traveller unto the rich man and he spared to take of his own flock, and of his own herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was come unto him, but took the poor man's lamb and dressed it for the man that was come to him.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
I try to show her the universe without a telescope
I take one of her hands-
This bracelet opened up is the Milky Way galaxy; these spheres of lace
woven so intricately
And the knitting needles are the star beams
The fabric of space is seamless;
Look, inside your eye is a wayfaring nebula
Far from it's home constellation
Our heartbeats are woven from the dark spaces
Between the conjugated matter,
Frozen into time and dimensions
Love is the singularity;
Home is where the heart is beating,
And light is the substance that sings
The background song of creation
And how we are covered with it, inside and out-
Take a breath, and then see
That you are moving only light-
I stop and kiss her hand
And her eyes light up with understanding.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
come and find me,
wayfaring soul
chase the heat of my smoldering coal.
the embers of an eternal fire
spread wild as dogs, mad with desire
and i will walk upon a sea
the tides forever carry me
as flames gently lick at my feet;
i will not bleed, my heart will never cease.
the dream from which all life is taught
the realm from which all love is sought
i walk that line, the rope is taut.
there are beings in the wind
they whisper to me to pretend that i am one of them
a fluent river in my head,
a flowing coordinated thoroughfare of dead
these spirits cary me away
carry me to the grave
to awaken them.
and so they sing with me,
they breathe with me,
they live with me.
inside of me there is a seed;
the roots of every tree
intertwining with my dreams.
shaping reality
i am the awakening.
they live in my breath
they allow me to see
the realm of passing death
softly brushing the reeds.
finally free
eternally
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC