Best Peddlers Poems
soak up the side streets of Montmartre,
Paris, Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
class less art combusts then drips
- street beggars & tourists cant
writer Rubbish pastes lace traceries
ala mode decoupaging decay
his cut-paper layers grace anoint
no longer anonymous walls
stencilist C215’s “simply a cat”
defies sourpusses not to smile—see
heaven art yes art with style
the banality of poverty held at bay
pureed souffléd life wolfed-down
colors synced
spray-cannoned Lothario’s like David Walker
entrance Picasso’s on the brink,
Romani-hearted paint peddlers
of the Republique
- street beggars & tourists cant
Thom Thom’s décollage rip-cuts
the billboard scene titillates the unseen
—culture-lovers—can-canned Lautrec’s
bedded with Che Guevara politics
come tilt with the masse
come play your part
in Montmartre
near Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
where wicked pissers defy
cliché
First Published in Clockwise Cat January 2015
Categories:
peddlers, art,
Form:
Free verse
The unsung heroes of the open plains
The outlaw bandits like Jesse James
Cut throat thieves and black jack hustlers
Green horn Cowboys and long horn rustlers
They all stood the Cowboys test
A stetsons man a broncos best
Leather chaps and leather vest
A real man's man a cut above the rest
Blazing saddles and blazing guns
Long trail ride and mountain runs
Chuck wagon chilly and camp fire sites
Hot sweaty days and long cold nights
A Cowboy sits on his faithful steed
Quick draw fingers based on speed
Bandanna mask and whiskey flask
A Cowboys job is'nt an easy task
Tabacco chew and cow beef stew
a Cowboys gang and Cowboys crew
They did work from dusk to dawn
round 'em up and brand 'em all day long
Gee!!! and haw!!! right and left
Yee and haw out of breath
Cowboy slang and Cowboy lingo
even Mexican Cowboys that say Gringo
Greetings y'all and howdy stranger
long lost wranglers and lone rangers
Ruff and rugged with no frills
Ask questions later shoot to kill
Yellow belly buckaroos and snake oil peddlers
wanted dead or alive outlaws and frontier settlers
From the California gold rush of 48
to the 13 colonies of this great state
Cowboys lived and Cowboys died!!!!
Cowboys give for Cowboys pride!!!
Categories:
peddlers, cowboy-western
Form:
Rhyme
Today I will write about stars-
Not the usual
Compressed galactic-gleams,
Not the speckling
In deep sky seen,
Tracked and charted
By singular-minded, bright-eyed teams-
No-I will speak of Real Stars,
Day and night stars-
Eternal Stars
Never growing dim,
Burning brightly
From star-dust within-
Not a glow in cold darkness
Between starlight above
But Mysterious Light
Deeper gazers call Love-
Stars that blink
To illumine the poor,
Have learned by faith
To persist and endure-
Stars who dry
The damp
Blanket the cold,
These warm glows
Surrounding
All of God's Fold-
Never dimming-
(A mission to give)
Preaching less-
Word what they live-
Warring on crime
Disease and despair
Never for profit
Simply to care,
Sacrifices not subject
For peddlers dealing in fame-
But God's Asterisk,
His Radiance,
Lighting each name-
This Light is always there-
When one thinks less of taking
And more, to share-
Same Light that shown
From out the tomb,
Giving earth a choice
Between Light and dark gloom-
Light seen brightly
In a new mother's eyes,
Amazed and surprised
That something so radiant
Could come from within,
Not starlight of sky, but Pure Light,
Where all lights begin
Categories:
peddlers, allegory, beauty, inspiration, light,
Form:
Rhyme
Deceit and duplicity, vengeance and vanity
Exploit our weaknesses and dissipate our souls’ strength
As arrogance cockroaches multiply their insanity
We diminish the strength of our faith
The more we immerse ourselves in new technologies
Stung by advances in artificial intelligence
Deluding our ignorance and bestowing empty eulogies
On partners we loathe despite pangs of conscience
That work harder to retain a semblance of humanity
In souls gone dead and mad with material wealth
Accumulated and concealed from established authority
In the mistaken belief that the theft we perpetuate in our stealth
Shan’t leave a trail auditors will pursue
In our bid to aggrandize an increasingly hollow ego
Gone insensitive and unreceptive to the moral malaise and torture that ensue
As the moral compass hitherto central to our lives we forgo
In preference for catalyzing the rat race that the vulnerable
Crush underfoot
To splurge with disgust as the horrible and the irascible
Thrive in the sight of the sycophants we recruit
As cheerleaders
With unabashed shame
In the midst of death traders and peddlers
On whom we’re not able to pin blame
Cos together we rot
In body and mind
Our consciences bought and caught
Up in webs of ego-tripping that render us morally blind and unkind.
Categories:
peddlers, poems,
Form:
Free verse
Why Poets Write
Why do poets write?,
Why does the moon shine at night?.
Why does water fall with such grace?,
Why is a rainbow such a beautiful sight?
So, why do poets write?
Do they write because the moon shines so bright?
Do they write because water falls with such grace?
Or is it because of the majesty of a hawk, in flight?
Poets write because that’s what we do,
Whether it be a Sonnet, Etheree or Haiku,
We see things through our own prism,
And write about it in our creative point of view.
This is why I write,
I write because I see beauty in the moonlight,
I appreciate the splendor of a waterfall,
And the majesty of a hawk, in flight.
I write because it feeds my soul,
Writing the perfect poem is my ultimate goal,
I write, I do my best,
The rest is out of my control.
The perfect words, in the perfect order,
Follow the rules, no pressure,
Slowly see your creation come alive,
When it works, there’s nothing better.
Poets, generally, don’t write for the glory,
We heal people by proxy,
We are emotion peddlers,
And we do it all for free.
I can’t speak for everyone, nor would I try,
My urge to write is something I’d best not deny,
Or things go drastically wrong,
Like ice, in the middle of July.
So, regardless of why you write,
Keep your vision in sight,
Take criticism with a grain of salt,
Never get discouraged, never get uptight.
© 2011
Categories:
peddlers, inspirational, introspection, urdu, write,
Form:
Rubaiyat
Crumble
brothels sprout
flesh peddlers collect their fees
selling daughters
in twos and threes
Lopez or Diaz
lazy or defiant
escaped
in polluted lagoons
the virus spreads
Dancing with the dead
priests absolve the devils
in their mist
Pilar sold her virginity
for a few bars of gold
wrapped in an old ladies hatred
she murdered her vows
Mexico is a land of smiles
the knife only glints
in the Aztec sun
as they bury you
after eating your heart
Categories:
peddlers, art, betrayal, bible, corruption,
Form:
Free verse
I failed to comment
on wonderful poems,
but they deserved a response
from me with many wishes sent!
I apologize with a sorry heart
for the hesitation and delay on my part,
nothing pleases me more than reading a fine poem
that can inspire, comfort and cheer up someone in a cold home!
I will make this solemn promise:
to review and comment on all, if time allowed; and if others
took their valuable time to review mine, I would review theirs, too...
to make our bond stronger: to understand each other as friends do!
I'm starting today as the Christmas' Spirit kicks in and the peddlers croon a lot;
I'll respond even after a hard day's work wearing these reading glasses fogging up
when heat arises to make them worse than theye are...so be confident that you'll hear
from me soon, and please accept my apologies for my tardiness with a loud Holiday cheer!
Categories:
peddlers, friendship, inspirational, people, sympathy,
Form:
Rhyme
My ancestors had years of struggle
Trying to blend into their masters ideas
And to secure a slot in masters good books
They fought hard to disown who they are
Just to prove themselves worthy
Of their masters colonizing philosophy
I, at the receiving end
I’m battling to reconcile
My ancestor’s conformity
Because I have nothing I can call it my own
They gave it all away in exchange for civilization
Or the master took everything using the same context
My master preached civilization
As a tool to liberate a black child
Our ancestors bought into their ideas
Unknowingly they sold our souls
Like the word peddlers of old
Who come to people wearing sheep skins
Yet they are dangerous wolves
They preached cultural exchange
Yet they did nothing to learn our culture
After all the years I’ve been with my master
He still can’t pronounce my name
Pity for him
I don’t have a religious names
I’ve seen people die because of their lingo
Others perish because of how they look
Many vanished in experiments executed by the master
Skulls are still held captive in our master’s castle
Far away from motherland
Namibians I feel your pain
Hundred years passed since the First World War
We still suffer at the hands of the master
My speech
My food
My tradeoff abilities
All is measured against my master’s way of life
I will never raise above my master
He’s a custodian of western life
The work I do is nothing
If the master does not approve
Even if multitude node with approval
My talent may be up there
Amongst the best in the world
But all that is futile
If the master turns a blind eye
As if my life don’t matter
Sarina give thanks to the all mighty
For you kept on shining till this day
The texture of my skin does not disqualify
The fact that I’m a human being too
I want to believe I’m free
But I still feel, I am a slave
Categories:
peddlers, abuse, betrayal, conflict, cousin,
Form:
Free verse
Darkest night and longest hours:
Hours to labor and
Hours to trip in the primitive ooze of repetition
Hours to catch up or trade for spare minutes,
Hours with eyes only half aware
Of life and its warnings,
Lifeless and blissless hours of emptiness,
Hours that never end,
Hours of yawning and stale coffee,
Hours measured in radio songs and cigarettes.
Darkest light before the day,
With shades of grey and
Unidentifiable lumps of black.
Humped, dark masses of human
Trudge through the hours
With brooms and coffee and sleeplessness
And floor buffing machines
Humming angelic tunes like flagellant dirges.
Shapeless figures with no place to go
For hours, no home to fine
For hours, no peace of mind
For listless hours.
Moonless hours for the streetlamps
And for the peddlers of lawlessness.
They count their hours in dimes
And nickles and quarters,
But never pennies or half dollars,
And never by retracing foot steps,
If they can help it.
Hours for the fools that sleep.
Hours for the watchman on his beat.
Hours for the black blood
Puddled and undiscovered on the blackest streets.
Still to come is the hour of discovery.
Hours spent despairingly counting
The slow progression of passing hours.
A second hand that drips like cold molasses.
A minute hand that tortures
A set of wide and soulless eyes.
An hour hand that doesn't move at all.
Rituals and rites mark the odorous plumes of hours unseen.
An echoing scream amplifies the darkness.
The howl of sirens follow in the distance.
Hours of violence or depravity or sin or pleasure.
These are the hours set aside
For the ageless telling of tales
And the insomnia of music makers.
All the misery of graveyard hours
If for no other reason
Than the gravity of their six foot title.
Categories:
peddlers, fear, mystery, on work
Form:
Free verse
Blind and numb like death
dispenser of cudinatis, enemy of
the masses of mascara!
Made possible by holy
wizardry not in white Man's land
but within the enclave of black sentiment!
golden fleece released by mental ingenuity
I fear science! Technology awes me
in bewildered extremism!
But alas, my magic card is stolen
by the nemesis of unfortunate
altruism. Two ignoble gentlemen
joined in mischief stole my magic card!
Peddlers of ungodly trade
prodded this ugly cudgel at
my brow! oh! lola, noblest of
mankind! my miffed lips hardly
could utter a word to its detriment!
Oh! thanks, heavens! the card
lacked hole for unholy propitiation
they shall maneuver but the head
lies in the birth of the owner
except death and forceful recovery
can take away the secret number.
Alas naija! Alas my brother!
The trade mark identity has
been stolen. Whence shall I
go for reimbursement of the
stolen naira or who shall replace
the golden wallet? I do not
know! This act does not
surprise the city of Lagos, the
capital of moral impropriety.
At the end of this three moons,
my loads I shall pack and run
to safety where sanctity and truth
reign. in the north, similar
episode outplayed and the result
unexpected. But in this Lagos, theft
and perjury escalate.
Alas! Alas! My magic card thy
holy comfort I shall deeply miss
adieu! Sweat rainfall, adieu
Categories:
peddlers, depression, nostalgia, death, death,
Form:
Elegy
On Hollywood Boulevard
Grohman’s Chinese theater, The Walk Of Fame
Awestruck, frantic crowds tromp down the street
A swirl of accents divulge from whence they came
Myth and stark truth clash but rarely meet
A boulevard of tinsel, tourist mecca anointed
Foreign visitors now the sole true attraction
All a hyped-up charade, but no disappointment
Quiet on the set, lights cameras, action!
Remove tourists, hustlers, the Marilyn Museum
Costumed crusaders and peddlers of kitsch
And Hollywood is now just a mausoleum
To a cinematic history dynamic and rich
Just one district out of L.A.’s forty-two
Multi-ethnic, working class, urban blight
Yet in the hearts of dreamers passing through
It remains the movie land of sheer delight
8/1/22
6th Place
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest
Categories:
peddlers, city, urban,
Form:
Quatern
RHYTHM OF LIFE
Good day to all the head in casket,
Goodnight to the soul in silent,
Hi,to my sometime to come friend.
How I wish, we all can change our fate,
But death will have no meaning
But a sticky spade shade.
Life, what a race,
By sight we face,
By height we attain,
By age I different stage,
Creating a leverage that we may not attain
Before we are aged,
Ending up our vision,
Our mission in the ground cage.
Nobody ever love to stop by,
We all love to live forever,
But death will never,
Limited time is we the beholder.
What do we call destiny and our fate?
We all are in the world of common fate.
One day,the writer and the reader,
The beauty and the ugly,
The leader and the follower,
The right and wrong,
The poor and the rich,
The good and the bad,
The cheap and the best,
The gate man and the boss,
The peddlers and the buyers,
All will visit the yard for the cool headed,
And never come back to share our experience.
Life is our definition,
Death is every ones meaning.
Let us all dance, but dance for a while,
The ground can’t wait,
We are only living by chance,
One day our time will expire.
Life and death,
Beginning and end.
Please tell the Mr. and Mrs. position,
Mr. and Mrs. power,
Mr. and Mrs. decision,
Mr. and Mrs. intention
That nobody will live and will not leave,
That he or she will no longer be referred to as IS,
But by the word WAS.
As we rest a man in peace,
We also will be rest in peace,
Sometimes by those we think we will rest in peace.
Nobody is too young and small to live,
Nobody is too small and too old to die.
Death, the only prize for our deal,
Life a race, death the fate.
Categories:
peddlers, death, depression, funeral, life,
Form:
Hasidim, Chinese, Spanish
Many residents of the area
fall into these categories
The streets are alive with memories
of pushcarts, peddlers, politics
The people of the Lower East Side today
revel in their history
You can get a great bialy, great egrolls, or
"arroz con pollo" in the area
Men sit out on benches playing dominoes
Children run happily under fountains
Scholars study in the House of Sages
When darkness covers the area,
lovers kiss under the streetlamps
As I head to my home on the Lower East Side
I feel touched by the magic
that has made this area famous
Categories:
peddlers, history, urban,
Form:
Blank verse
A step in time I took one day
On specters mist who led the way
Down cobblestones and garden paths
Armless statues guarding baths
Armored beasts reflect the sun
Gallant knights are all for one
Hedge puzzles line the gardens fair
Hide and Seek for those that dare
Ladies clad in whale bone stays
Surreys pulled by chestnut bays
Sticky buns and honeyed mead
Cards and races slate the greed
Then on he led to shanty town
Down rows of tenements falling down
Sewage stench accosts the street
Where doxies in the alleys meet
Walking peddlers hawk their wares
And homeless children, no one cares
Disease spreads rampant through the town
Renaissance Art, the churches frown
Then through the mist he leads again
Back to my time; my heart to pen.
Categories:
peddlers, history, imagination, life, nostalgia,
Form:
Couplet
The wind may blow from east to west.
A tattered vest across your chest.
His legs do carry him as far as they may go.
The clouds a vision of objects; Reflecting in your mind.
The days are long and weary, But your life is pressed for time.
Travel on frail peddler; As far as your legs may go.
Dare to live your hopes, your dreams, to fill your heart and soul.
Categories:
peddlers, life, people, travelmay,
Form:
Rhyme