Best Thoroughfares Poems
Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.
'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.
There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!
An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!
Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
We got really dumped on yesterday
Was hoping we would miss out on this one
But must remember, this is Canada!
The land of ice and snow and parkas and snow shoes
At least that's the general perception
We have electricity and runny water and even indoor toilets
And not only that, we have radio
However, the powers that be are promising TV before 2020
Okay okay, I'm exaggerating a wee bit
We just recently got indoor plumbing
Hmmm, strangely my tongue seems to be stuck firmly in my cheek
But we are a hearty bunch
On January 1st every year, some of our real hearty dudes
Take a dip in the Ottawa River
They're called the “Polar Bear Club”
I have a different name for them!!!!!
I call them the “Those That Have A Screw Loose Club”
They urgently need to seek psychiatric help
As backward as we are, we DO have medicare... yee haw!
So we can take all kinds of risks we wouldn't normally take
Like clomping down the middle of our major thoroughfares
Making sure we watch out for the occasional snowmobile
And wearing our stylish snowshoes and parkas
A hearty bunch we are!!!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Limerick : Once a President of Bolivia
Once a President of Bolivia
Frothed oblanceolate green saliva
Must dream was Ashoka*
On Andes throne Inca
That’s how COCA-cola drug India.
*ASHOKA, b. circa 304 BCE (reigned: 273-232 BCE): King of Magadha,
was the first great commoner Buddhist Emperor
of India which, then, extended from Afghanistan
to Bengal, and from Nepal to Southern Deccan.
Among his recorded edicts : concern for the peoples’
welfare ; medical attention for the needy ; arboured
thoroughfares ; nomination of officers to oversee
morality and magistrates ; forbade the slaughter of
animals for food or for religious purposes ; required
the reconciliation of all religious tendencies ; wanted
everyone to practice compassion and charity towards
one another and to follow the laws of the Dharma or
Righteousness ; and drew attention to the vanity of
glory and emphasised the supreme aim of Life itself.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Heavens wintry dew
Leaves thoroughfares icier
Forcing school closings.
This is a tropical paradise where many tourists meet.
However, you will still see homeless people living in the street.
These folks struggle to receive a handout.
Each day is living with some considerable doubt.
Survival means putting up a daily fight.
However, it is warm enough so they don't freeze at night.
Along the thoroughfares just north of Waikiki Beach,
the homeless wander well within reach.
Just like the cities located in the continental forty-eight,
Honolulu has some citizens who have arrived at a bad fate.
Robin of the Hoodie
Alas, resides in Sherwood Forest,
one Robin of the Hoodie. He’s lost
amid the greenery, weeping
as sunset nears for underneath
the Hood he hides his deep
and lonely fears. The Hoodie
no protection here amid the
bug filled darkness, nor can
it quell the eerie sounds of
hoodless creature calls,
his secret handshake useless
among the clawed and taloned.
He drifts to sleep with visions
of “Air Jordans” that can fly,
carry him to safety, the
streetlit yellow streaks
of alleyways and thoroughfares
the Hoodie creatures know.
Summoning his courage
he storms the distant hut
enters into murky stink,
old wooden planks,
and curses those who left him
on his own, abandoned him
to Hoodie misery.
Fools who took
a city kid out camping,
fed him beans and franks
and stories until
“HE HAD TO GO”.
2/16/2016
submitted to – A twisted poem about Robin Hood – Poetry Contest
sponsor – C. T.
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
The lights of the city reflecting from the aqueous pitch, pavements in a kaleidoscope of colours create a melancholy ambience for the few who venture within. The city is transformed as the animated bustle of people, seemingly with purpose, abandon the streets to their suburban abodes, leaving a nugatory melting pot of the "Ill at ease" to pursue or solicit rudimentary shelter to respite their weary frames.
The man is homeless.......
To the city streets he is confined, incarcerated by their invisible partition that circumscribe his ability to breach the tenticaled alleys and lanes. For buzzing in his mind, "I'm not aloud" echoes through his sub conscience cerebrations. Involuntarily his legs move his ageless body, one foot in front of the other in timeless motion like a driverless carriage aimlessly meandering through the city thoroughfares.
He sits to repose on a lichen encrusted slab that has entreated a myriad of his ilk for generations past and assuredly for many more to traverse. For the briefest moment the fog that clouds his mind is pushed aside by a gentle puff of memory as he is transported to a place where children's laughter fills the room and a woman sitting at a dining table, her auburn hair comfortably resting on her slender shoulders as she gazes admiringly at... Then thunderclouds rush over him like a tidal wave to the sound of, "Move you filthy wino", he scurries off as the fog settles back into its occupation.
Lost within the multitude of human quiddity, like the leaves of a plane tree aquiescing to the winds dominating gusts. He is swept along the tide of life, existing but never living, obedient to every buckle and wrench, never adapting to the changing seasons, accepting feeling of cold and heat with equal passiveness. The drum of life ever beating, yet his march is incessantly out of step.
Nature's love ways are sometimes cruel but fair;
Balanced charters set with no inspection;
A lover's passage laid for those who dare;
Full hearts so often blind to reflection.
Seek not a path set straight as science rule;
Or luscious greenery bathed in brilliance;
Fake thoroughfares may deviate to fool;
And there be Jesters with their dalliance.
Should choices prove this match to be quite true;
Bounties offered up for tough courses stayed;
That cherished patch takes on a purple hue;
And ushers in a time for accolades.
With each desirous step nirvana nears;
And obstacles once troubling set to side;
So knowing this and setting by all fears;
Will you match me then my darling stride for stride.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Twenty-Three
Is it true the sun dared cock its eye over the hillocks
Nor did it with affront sink into raging Atlantic docks
Such the glare of armoured headlights singeing the mist-crowned mosque
Though the assembled hosts ogled the Furies with hidden locks
The Faithful knelt with heads humbled down facing best the mihrab
Be it on sidewalks thoroughfares parking lots or slab
Calling out in strength: “Allah! Le Clément et Le Miséricordieux!”
Hundreds of thousands of hungry voices rose in one gift of gab
Faced down by Darling Dears Robo-Cops looked lively about them
When outstepped prayer-full worshippers in composed phlegm –
From out the Chief’s official car rushed the dazed Commandant:
“Tarry yet, Gentle Folk, bid His Holiness to our errand come!”
The Senior Mosque Administrator decked in robes and headgear
Spake out in measured tones grave and strict amid silence dear:
“The Prophet’s Servant hath just now gained his hard-earned quarters
Whence at this very hour breaks the fast with sacred bread pure!”
Bison Futé traffic reporters echoed “panic stations” in tears
Safe for one route leading from Pyrenées to tell-tale Poitiers
Retreat was no longer feasible: bylanes to broadways
Lay clogged with shiny metal and armour-plated zigzag gears.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
I know the aching heart
Knows that longings
Can never be fully apart
And satisfied anymore
Through bodily meetings.
I know I can never share
Stories of childhood tears
And fears bravely conquered there
Through silence and struggles
To step into hazy future thoroughfares.
Land and ocean be your friends
For nights and days sometimes
With destitute, but never losing ends
To preserve dignity and attitude
Of kindhearted simple primes.
Now, I truly know that longings
Will find their own ways to you
Telling me that true yearnings
Are always beautiful in sweet memories
Separation can never separate me from you.
(26-02-2022, a day after you go)
The scientist spills her confection,
It was all yellow; her provisions,
Don't panic, whispered his green eyes,
Everything's not lost under these broken lights;
And broken clocks that hang low in space.
Come, pampered princess sit in my place,
Tonight I will fix you first instead,
Don't be in such a rush & quietly wait
For a message I only dreamt to sing,
On the chilly thoroughfares of Amsterdam,
Where we sat on the strawberry swing,
Now I can only say be careful where you stand;
Lost amongst death and all his friends.
Now your heart's beating at th' speed of sound,
Your royal violet hill swallow'd in the sea,
Living your crazy life you had had thy crown,
Now thy love resides in London's cemeteries.
I will see you soon back in our palace,
When God puts a smile upon your face.
[This is just a simple poem written with many of their song titles(how many can you spot?)]
The event of tragedy blossomed,
That carnivorous wave of terror,
Caromed through the capital,
Down subways and thoroughfares,
Horrified the gaping senses
And surged through the echoing chasms,
The divides of the unholy,
And the gulfs of the unjust.
In a bleak ricocheted wake,
Left no blank resignation,
Or mere shrugging of shoulders
As if cold blooded and detached;
Evolved a unified populace
Grieving resolute and defiant,
As they arched down in reverence
In that two minute silence.
Swelled the dream iconography
Of human souls in mortal battle,
And the blood-stirring prose
Of the old past master speeches;
Fell a faint dust of resonance
Blown from reminisced prophecies,
Foretelling times when the streets
Run with rivers of blood.
Therein the wake of tragedy stung
In the mourning lungs of the living,
Feeling thorny and vibrant,
Tasting earthy and tart;
Instead of cancer and wasteland
The first blackberry roses bloomed,
In the gardens of futures
Landscaped by the past.
A poet soul is ubiquitous
Wandering far and wide unceasingly
In search of covert destination which is serendipitous
Numerous thoroughfares travelled tirelessly
Yet the poet's soul do not outcry
Untold remembrances collects from antique times
Poet's soul is older than the time can ever descry
Fetching notes from the archives of universe oftentimes
Poet is witness to many yarns
Travelling through segment and amplitude
Touching lines of multitude and barns
Poet shall survive within the poetry aptitude
Imparting the magic and privy of cosmos
Poet is ubiquitous with distinct ethnos
And yes,poetry shall surrounds total entity.
Copyright © Dawa Zangpo |
Weep The Willow She
Bark and Willow
Weeps she to raining
Poses curtained shadows
Behind the water fall of slim leaven branchings
Underneath recumbent grass
Damp on cold spatters
Spreading stains water logged
An unremitting drop of rain
Shaken to drips from the overhang
Her shoulders code the tears
Fall
Leafy roof sweeping down
Bending low and bending thoughts
Weeping to the sky
Bending low and bending thoughts
Dark shafts lighted thoroughfares dappling
Where once the night and shade
May have squabbled
Over these ink-ed pools
Of sorrow she
Slipping from embassies of luminosity
Lent themselves between the bows
Bent between her thoughts
Weeping to the sky