Best Tourist Poems
this nonconformist city
breathes a calm but edgy air
through gaps in the graffiti
and the street art everywhere
its face is sometimes brutal
but its heart and soul seem not
and it walks a sexy diverse walk
that’s cold yet somehow hot
(but I know I’m getting older
when those fun thoughts in my head
reject the swinging KitKatClub
for KitKat bars instead)
and all those wearing AirPods
sipping hot drinks on the go
pass tourists taking boat trips
slowly going with the flow
while the 'high tea' of a bratwurst
served from food trucks on the street
is eaten at tall tables
en plein air without a seat
and just like high end stores at home
the windows dress up nice
displaying priceless dresses
that are shown without their price
note too that no one jaywalks here
by crossing roads at will
not even during rush hour
when the traffic’s standing still
and when it comes to bridges
here’s a fact that crossed my mind:
there are more here than in Venice
and in Amsterdam combined
and by saving time by taking trams
that move berlin about
we spent time taking time in parks
where locals take time out
while the aiming and the shooting
by the wall towards the west
was just us aiming cell phones
shooting selfies with the rest.
but the death camp films and clothes we saw
of the many that were killed
brought tears that drowned a silence there
for the blood that humans spilled
and I cannot start to comprehend
the minds of those who kill
and just because I went there
- and just because I stood there
- and just because I wrote this
doesn’t mean I ever will.
Have I been one among the chain
of those who come to gawk, then strain
to point a finger, poke my nose
into places I don't own?
To claim I understand the pain
that's covered by the winds and rain?
One who awes and talks in rhymes,
without a glance between the lines
A stranger to a sacred shrine
ignoring reverence and the trace
of those who toiled, laid the stones,
to make this place a home?
Am I the one who stakes a claim
Who borrows someone's history?
Travels here in tourist clothes,
as if this spot were mine to own...?
Who stirs the dust and tramps the grounds,
hearing nothing, but the sound
of my own ego echoing...
Simply here to frame a spot, quickly take a selfie shot,
to prove to someone back at home
what matters not to them at all
Text someone far, who doesn't care,
that I've been here or there...?
Have I been one? So far, so near?
Never conscious while I'm here,
of those who struggled long before
The grief, the loss, long overgrown
where someone lived and made a home?
Who leads me to a crooked tree
once planted by a family
to mark a grave. Perhaps a child,
perhaps a spouse, and all the while
I smile, then carry on my day
Compelled to come....yet,
I did not own the years that tell
Nor did I own the tears that fell, ...
two hundred years ago?
Tourist or Terrorist
Is your flight for fight or sight?
Naughty at night… lovely in light
Some thread to tend and some to twist!
Tourist or terrorists
Have you come to cleave or cage?
Are you here to enroll or enrage?
People like priests… I fear your fist.
Plan for the whole weekend if you go to visit
It's big enough to wonder, where again is it?
There are plenty of sights to liven any senses
Something about its uniqueness always enhances
An immensity whose streets will never sleep
Immersing all alike with its heart and beat
The sounds of day-to-day soak into your ear
While its trends change throughout the year
Lives beyond cultures and vines growing wild
Blocks with rich heritage and diverse styles
Its traffic will have you turning in circles
How it works remains more than just miracles
The city is a treat if you know where to look
Serving up destinations that leave you hooked
The hustle of its lifestyle, today and rewind
With too many one-ways flogging any sane mind
Watched the tourist families
As they strolled and shopped and sipped.
Without their masks, you might have thought
That Covid had been whipped.
They skated on the ice and bought
Hot chocolate and raclettes.
If germs were floating in the air
They didn’t feel their threats.
Yet all of my anxiety
Of Omicron infection,
Despite my jabs and distancing
And masks for my protection
Was not apparent, outwardly,
On anyone I saw.
I wish, like them, I could command
My worry to withdraw.
Near to Balmer, MD, not far from WaRshington
(that's DC to you and me)
is the capuhtal, Naplis.
It's a beautiful spot, right on the Chespeeke Bay.
Or if you like hunning, a trip to the forests
North of DC will satisfy yer yen.
After that, we'll come back home to Balmer
and Ah'll buy you all a soda and cigrettes.
Then I ken give ya duhrections to
the historic Fahr Hause where the fahrman stay,
and after that we ken go to the theAter.
So whaddya think? Anywhere else ya wanna go at?
The laundrymat? Okey dokey.
I ken see yer cloze are in need of warshing.
Ah'll go with ya and we'll play games
and drink a beur or two--make a night of it.
Go grab yer laundry.
Let's get thar before peepul take all the warshers.
Whaddya mean I have a accent?
That's ridiculous.
You're the one with the accent.
Sheesh!
Mary, July 11, 2015
Friday Night Check-ins
The days have been calm and collected.
The guests have been happy, content.
The weekday staff scurry out from the hotel
To avoid the upcoming event.
Weekend receptionists tremble
As the Friday night check-ins approach,
Fearing the tsunami of wrinklies
On their three-day excursions-by-coach.
The first vehicle’s brakes squeal their warning
As its door opens up with a sigh.
The girl at the desk and her male teammate
Watch the porchway with dread in their eyes.
The first wrinkly disembarks backwards,
Reaching up to be handed her Zimmer.
The scowl on her face giving more than a hint
Of the litany of protests within her.
Slowly the vehicle disgorges
Its fifty malcontent arrivals.
The front desk staff offer a brief heartfelt prayer
For their sanity, composure, survival.
Like an unerring wave of displeasure
The wrinklies shuffle in through the door,
Shoving aside anyone heading out –
They’ve made this manoeuvre before.
The party’s predominantly female,
Determined and far from benign.
Apart from one chap, in windcheater and cap
Looking hen-pecked and toeing the line.
They descend on reception like locusts,
Complaining, demanding and cackling.
The staff at the desk have nowhere to hide
From the surge of objections they’re tackling.
Ground floor room! No steps! Wheelchair access!
Why no lift? Single occupant! Porter!
The tottery old girl with the big Zimmer frame
Demands a young man to escort her.
The onslaught is tough and relentless
As the wrinklies press home their attack.
Then, deftly dealt-with, the tidal wave thins
As they head to their rooms to unpack.
Pleased with the way things were handled,
The reception-staff think they’ve survived.
But outside the lobby, brakes hissing with glee,
Another full coach has arrived…
During a tour in this island nation,
a Maori guide was seeking a nomination.
Among our tour he sought out a spokesman,
to respond to the chief's words, as a small token.
"Sir, will you represent your touring tribe?"
"Yes," I responded, "for a very large bribe!"
I wanted to know what was required.
Giving a speech was nothing I desired.
"No. There's nothing to it at all.
Just go up there and stand up tall."
As we closed in on the Maori stage,
changes to instructions began to be made.
"Say some words when the chief's talk is done.
It's just a matter of having some fun."
"You must always show a serious face.
Or the chief will put you in your place."
"In your speech, you must show respect.
Or the gravest insult, the chief will suspect."
I was as nervous as one could be.
I seriously considered an option to flee.
"Don't worry too much," the Maori man said.
"I'll give you some cues to ease your dread."
The chief rambled on with his lengthy speech.
Then it was my turn, into the breach.
Nervously, I told the chief about my tribe.
"We're from a cruise ship, traveling far and wide."
I could think of nothing else, just wanted to be gone.
The guide then whispered, "Sing the chief a song."
Again, the Maori guide bent my ear,
"Have your tribe do a song near and dear."
'Take Me Out to the Ball Game' invaded my mind.
Could I get away with that this time?
I asked my tribe to all pitch in.
And we all sang loudly that sporting hymn.
Congratulations were given, a job well done.
Everyone cheered as they had much fun.
I was so glad that things worked out.
Would I do it again? Without a doubt!
With my usual paucity of luck I was assigned to seat 34B.
I wanted to be left in peace but as you see, 'twas not to be.
The urchin sittin' behind me pitched a screamin' fit!
He kicked the back of my seat and his mom cared not a whit!
I got so angry that I could have thrown rocks at a hearse,
But as time flew on (so to speak) things got even worse.
The little old lady on my left babbled about her back operation.
The sot on my right snored in my ear without cessation.
He had bladder problems that caused him to climb over me,
To relieve himself of used beer in the restroom constantly!
The guy in front of me adjusted his seat creatin' a very small gap,
And in doin' so spilled my coffee from the tray all over my lap!
Sporadically, an inconsiderate, ill-bred jerk released odious gas.
I think next time I'll spend a few more bucks and travel first-class!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
As you chameleoned in this red restaurant
I passed by you nonchalant
You came near hoping I’d notice
Little you know, Already I have sensed you in abyss
We strolled over chaos and headlights
We talked over fermented duck eggs and silly insights!
I took you to an awkward place
You held on to my smiling face
We landed with sugar skulls and a mojito on hand
The fondness we had, the giggles we jammed
I retreated tipsy, the weather flu got you drowsy
Nonetheless, we parted the night in a starry ecstasy
We seconded with coffee
Our conversation, though barred by ethnicity was flowy
That sunny humid afternoon was supposed to be your flight
You chose to miss it to spend us one more night
The night you desired to remain became my renewed adventure
I took you to places that gave both our hearts the seizure
We were sitting, popping a bottle of beer on top of the city.
Blinded by the vast aerial urban lights, we were cozy.
By daybreak, we had to wake the reality
To face the hour where we separate from our shared gravity
Miles do separate us anatomically
But from the distant galaxy, we belong in one entity
Until we meet again, let us nod over an interim use of fiber optics
Let’s be ambidextrous until we can find better tactics
All that is cyber for now we’ll have to see for later
I may see you soon, I may see you never
Will there ever be a sequel to this chapter?
All that I know is the cold July you snuggled with Ember
All memories of you remains calm and light
That moment… I’ll forever hold…
Until your next flight…
I am just waiting on the other side
Tourist traps
Can a plonker should a plonker,
love a San-Goanna stonker,
not unless he’s bloody bonkers
coming is de crazy cats in white,
see crazy San-Goannas running,
sucking birds eggs, an out a hunting ,
Kookaburra eating snakes humming,
Ha, ha. ha, ha, sweet delight…
Mr tourist, watchem watchem,
Keep the eyeball sharp insight,
Funnel web, dodge and sidestep,
Death is coming with his bite
Watchem mr death by adder,
Step on him will fang ya badder,
Piddle from the bloody bladder,
Hysterectomy of fright,
Mr Death do say goodnight…
Don Johnson
no bities are getting ironed out by Aussies, some are protected like brown snakes, Brisbane still has Brown snakes and Kangaroos, though they are rare here...Funnell web spider is found in the Toowoomba mountain area and in Sydney suburbs sometimes....watch out for trapdoor web over an inch or bigger hole in ground....
Ghost
Gothic
Eidolon,
Sovereign king
Tears begin flowing.
Byzantine abandoned.
The cloaked statue sits and waits.
The tourist lifts her head and sighs.
Phantom’s pain she feels his suffering.
Hand on her forehead nods from side to side.
Labyrinthine journey stirs stark madness.
Intruders’ rash and reckless taunting
Grey-sky midst morning mystifies.
Glowing - white - apparition
Clicks, flashes, from tourists.
Take focus of the
Timeless undead
Cloaked statue
Haunting
Ghost
It is time for them to run
In the Jersey Shore tourist sun
Continuing their three-year-old campaign
Feeling the warmth of youthful fame
Before being sent out to be studs
And replaced by next year’s Kentucky rose buds
Haskell Day is here
Patrons arrive looking for some hugging and cheer
Complimentary hats, losing tickets and a tear
From Sinatra to Springsteen
Thoroughbred adolescents with a celebrity dream
Four legged athletes maturing fast
Experience a tradition steeped in the twin river community past
Historically owners once took on the NFL with an AFL fight
Wearing track colors green and white
Phil, Sonny and sparkly clean Leon pumping gas named Hess
They played Orange Super Bowl chess
Making the Colts confess
Then welcomed Baltimore
Saying ‘let the Giant Washington team show you the door’
When the leagues got married
Suddenly networks wanted games to carry
Donnie Mc Beth, Craig Peret and Julie Krone
Someone may want to get the press and ledger on the phone
This is going to be some race
Media may want to give the finish line photo some space
Distanced at a mile and eight
Curved turns and stretches where they run straight
In the end
Winners and losers head over to reporters to defend
Applause rings out
Congratulations are shout
Exceptionally large ponies get sponge baths
Picture taken with smiles and laughs
Soon night life will arrive
Crowds leave dining options they do cry
Prime rib featured inside the Squire’s Pub
Or a boardwalk hot dog grilled by Mrs. Max’s counter hub
No racing tomorrow
Is no horror
Since it is sun day
Ocean beach time is what they say
Surf Rider or Ship Ahoy
Trade wind clubbing a Garden State joy
Direction's do state across the street from the Sea Bright Rum Runner
And perfect together during a Monmouth Park seasonal summer
Camera hangs around his neck.
He trusts his map to visit sites.
Intends doing full tourist thing.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
RIVER LINE TOURIST
National Geographic frame:
pleasure of plum water lilies,
under potent panama sky.
A dugout canoe rows us through.
Embera with beaded skirt, our rudder.
Caiman perched on edge of Chagris River.
2/25/2017
River Line 8/8/8/8 10/10 Unrhymed