Best Tourists Poems
Tourists
Talked to a girl in Egypt today
last thing in the world she would
do with time off, is look at pyramids.
Talked to a man in Paris, Eiffel tower
not worth his hour. Talked to an old
New Yorker, has not been up to the
top of The Empire State, not his idea
of a date -- seeming that, many travel
far to see where locals hold no immediate
priority -- a muted sense of eternity?
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To Be
Why on earth mars?!
Far-out local bars
Sun good enough for me
When it comes to stars;
And if the subject is eternity
Then every day is Free!
And Shakespeare was wrong --
One could never not be....
Peek, if you dare…inside my Palace of CREATIVITY
Observe my drafty walls, and rhyming dungeons ^^
Enter, my friends, with no delusions! ^^
There are marbled halls of mass confusion…
Regarding your ILLUSION, of metaphoric INFUSIONs,…
Your opinions may falter, upon the alter, compared to other verses ^^
^^
Poetic attempts, and past regrets, are ghostly curses
And with INEVITABLE blunders, they rattle off meter, the echos could haunt you!
Lest you dare, just beware, dear readers…. WATCH YOUR STEP! ^^
As your guide, I’ll confide….people have died!
'Cause this Poetry Palace, has bats in the belfry! (As everyone knows)…
EVENTUALLY, this palace place should be foreclosed!
For Linda Marie’s Contest “Poetry Palace”
By Carrie Richards
The heat was a change from our normal abode
a wonderful way to reside,
but when it is high at the noon of the day
it would be nice to stay cool inside.
A country so hot was a good place to be
where from routine and work we were free,
where the sunshine and sand of our holiday land
let us play all day long in the sea.
But next time we go we will fly on a plane
and find nice cool rooms to stay in,
the sun heated our caravan too hot by far
so we roasted like nuts in a tin.
Good luck to our friends they can drive on their own
to the land where they're toasted right through
for we'll only go where there's places to stay
with air-con and plenty to do.
We got bored in this land where there's nothing but sand,
though the natives were friendly, that's true,
but just sitting all day on beaches that way
is not what we’d normally do.
We had travelled so far with our caravan and car
with our friends that are really quite sweet
but in two thousand and four we learned a bit more
about things that we'll never repeat!
Ivor G Davies
Bloody streuth look out mate here they come
The Tourists Downunder to have some fun
Clickin’ their cameras, looking goggle eyed
While out in the hot sun getting deep fried
Askin’ for service and getting in our hair
Makes you wonder if there really all there
Thinkin’ it Spring in the middle of May
Speakin’ foreign lingo, as they say G’Day
Forget we’re multi-cultural and highly urbanized
Give em the Aussie salute that the ads advertise
Imports are out, the Aussie image wins
Now here’s were your work it really begins
Wear Moleskins, an Akubra, Drizabone
Hide the credit cards and Bluetooth phone
Cover the microwave, throw out Sarah Lee
From now on its damper, pavolvas and billy tea
Yack about the outback and the old pioneers
Have a bush Barbie and down a few beers
Quote a couple of verses from old Banjo
Hobnob round the fire, put on a dinkum show
Get out the four wheel and take em for a drive
Never mention our crooks can eat you alive
Ignore all the snakes, sharks, mozzies and the flies
Crows flying backwards, and them peckin’ magpies
Explain that kangaroos don’t hop down our streets
Nor for breakfast do we bush tucker eats
Throw a boomerang, take em to a corroboree
Tell em the tour guides take care of the fee
Bush dances are popular, and so is Uluru
Dingoes, frilled lizards and wallaby stew
Show em the Australia that we’ve never seen
Mate tourists on nature are so bloody keen
Let em hug a koala, they’re as cute as can be
Just watch the bloody bastards don’t on em pee
Before they go home, help them spend all their loot
Then add departure tax, so they’re real destitute.
Sing “Waltzing Matilda”, “Advance Australia Fair”
In those tourist dollars, we all want to share
This Aussie image to some may seem passé
Mate you watch em flock here, what more can I say!
Armed with abundance, infinity dictates
Charmed by assurance of blossoming supply
Fruitful hands encircle orchard's offering
Boughs bestow nourishment ripe flesh provides
Harrowing hunt, road collides with horizon
Narrowing options ominously herald hardship
Frantic hands grab due to doomsday prediction
Equity halted by maneuvers of manic narcisists
Swarmed in hysteria, sugarladen bounty dissolves
Adorned in disproportionate, diplomacy plunges
Acres of empty hurl dust in despondent swirls
Haze of delerium hides awareness of repugnant
Wallowing tune laments removal of drumbeat reliance
Violin's climbing petition infultrates silent confinement
Fist clenched hands maintain mantra of social distance
Banned comrade closeness hardens as poured cement
Contagion inflicts during quarantined two weeks
Sensation sells subscription to scare's scripture
Relegated ill recovery seldom quoted in statistics
Proclaimed isolation presents a lopsided picture
Miniscule channels travel disease, tattered moth
Musical tempo tangible greets society post virus
Makers of policy release kite string gradually
Infliction's ticket is onward immunity acquired
Strategy of sequential exposure fraught yet nessesary
Accurately extracted cure promptly recognised
Flourish of hands amassed tune an instrument of trust
Resuming rhythem surges communion revitalised
refuge
I spot two ducks
and using my fancy
I picture them in nesting mode
more ducks
meadow
mankind’s playground
humans on a picnic
strangely frightened, left in a rush.
litter
mid-stream
kids formed a dam
in the years past and gone
a safe place for spawning catfish
shelter
forest
tall evergreens,
fragrant pine-needle floor
has become wild creatures’ heartland
haven
white clouds
no sign of rain
people no longer come
what may be hiding in the woods?
wonder
refuge
mankind’s playground
in the years past and gone
has become wild creatures’ heartland
wonder
April 6, 2023
Sponsor Constance La France
Contest Name Writing Challenge - 'R' Words
this is a garland cinquain
Bad blood.
Yes, that's the substance
That appears to be touring amongst us
Stains of a silent vendetta
Howling against my cranium
Classically, such a rhythm dances
With a carelessly, continuous tune
Am I but an indefinite design
In this fearsome game?
The tall coconut trees
Resemble pillars
Erected like lamp poles
Spred like umbrellas
Stand in a row
Towering above the equatorial sea shore
Welcoming tourists
Applauding the coming back of the fishermen
Dancing in the dusk and moonlight
Amidst the disco music of the sea
Have long forgotten the strike of Tsunami
The chirping evokes
the poetry of Princess
Shikishi, who logged
deatails in tanka of the
world and its soul as
Enola Gay logged shadows
on walls in Hiroshima
Stand on longlegs,,
cool shallow water.
Colors are pinks not reds.,
Tourists taking pictures,
as we look away.
Today no eggs.,
when the tourists go home
someone special sleeps in the hall
most of the time he smells like wet grass
once so full of life, he licked my face
but now, he has become just an old friend
winding my heart around his long pink tongue
he used to hang out at the firehouse with dad
now dad says, Free, he’s not much use to anyone,
or so dad says
but dad is now lost in the war
the war of words
between mom and dad
where lawyers are shadows and salacious lies hide
tucked in tight
between the lines
of a separation
but even lawyers can’t separate memories
the smiles seem so strange these days
in yellowed pictures under plastic sleeves
once, they were new
and we were all happy
before mom took her
and dad took me
and the bank took the rest
the rest is rusted as an old spoke wheel
junkyard fancy
fancy words on long law paper
jails, and courtroom wrecks
ships crash on childhood rocks
inside our burning house
and broken chains
rotting in the rain
where the old play set sits
abandoned and ugly
as harsh words
explode in the courtroom
while thick smoke fires
in my parent's eyes
burn bright red
and ink stains the document
turning us to drift free
like broken boats
crashing on a hostile shore
my parents chased love away one night
when blood flowed
on the kitchen floor
and the cops came
splitting mom and dad
and us up in separate
corners of town
closing the door
on family
and fury
Taxes make you real blue,
nothing old, nothing new;
they bother and worry you
like a pebble in your shoe;
that's government's share, they say,
upright citizens must pay
for congressmen's holiday,
Boracay, Bali, yeheeeeyyy !
It’s fun to watch the tourists
As they stroll around and gawk,
Their maps clutched in their fingers
For their first time in New Yawk.
They navigate the streets to get
To where the guide books say,
Pausing just to snap their photos,
Then they’re up and on their way.
I don’t offer any help unless
They come to me and ask,
For to butt in someone’s business
Shouldn’t be a native’s task.
But if they require assistance
To their chosen destination,
I’ll do what I can to counter
A New Yorker’s reputation.
For at times, I am the tourist
In a city I don’t know.
I appreciate the locals
Who direct me where to go.
Since the world is full of strangers
From an unfamiliar place,
We can welcome their arrival
With a smiling, friendly face.
Resuming bulk from those which almost don't exist
Stoic in my unique role, careful timber tiger crafter
Tiny depicted tigers roll on wheels, pulled by strings
Lasting remnants of an animal disappearing faster
Eager tourists, affluent enough to pay admission
Flock to witness the final marsupial's mystique
Many striped predecessors, hunted to extinction
Troops are scouring habitat, a specimen they seek
Partnerless canid cage pacing future seems bleak
History's camouflage hails a shameful critique
Rucksack bumpy with fifty wooden replicas
A long week's worth of care, painted precision
I trek a mile of of dense hill bush hike arduous
To give Last Tiger shop their hot cake provisions
Tabled display draws awe stuck children, ironic
Their admiration for wooden scuptures intense
Crazed praise for rare cat, manic sprung from it
Taking my pay, ready to repeat, my heart laments
For the futlie pursuit of proud viewers' affluence
Satisfaction part macabre holds their suspense
Hessian emptiness nestled beneath my armpit
Familiar meander to log stumped hut, return to task
Seeing striped stirring, captures, breath insufficient
Thylacine's elusive emergence, most likely the last
He growls, scared departure means an outcome grim
Finding my voice, I tell him I need him to maintain
My craft, - his image inspires it, - I'll never exploit him
After fragile minutes, his wavered trust, incredibly gained
Following yellow bush thigh high survivor anointed
With thylacine compassion, - he is home,- reunited
8th August 2020
MUST WE SEE IT ALL WHILE WE ARE HERE
DO WE EVER KNOW WHEN WE WILL BE THIS WAY AGAIN
IF WE MISS SOMETHING
COULD WE HAVE SEEN IT ALL
HOWEVER, IF WE DO SEE IT ALL
HOW DO WILL WE FIT IT ALL
ON OUR TOMBSTONE(S)
SO MUCH PRESSURE
SO LITTLE STONE