Best Wayside Poems
Over the years
some were carefully carried
tied up in tiny bundles
held tight against the heart
While the other
more awkward ones
were pulled behind in a cart
like so many precious parcels
taken along for the ride
But a few fell
and rolled astray
off by the wayside
along the way
Some were missed
right away
with heartaches and tears
While others were
eventually missed
after some years
And some not noticed at all
I see people now and then
rummaging around
by the wayside
for what they've lost-
Some with long, sharp sticks
poking, prodding absentmindedly
collecting debris
Some on hands and knees
with brush and trowel
excavating so carefully... but-
Most of the time
the wayside is no place
for happy reunions
Often what was lost
if it was, indeed, of value at all
will not still be there
after some years
but snatched up and carried away
with care, by another who
saw its worth
Or degraded past
the point of repair
until what was lost
can never be recaptured
or replaced
Or sometimes what was 'lost'
simply wasn't worth keeping
in the first place
but purposefully discarded
cast off like old garments
too uncomfortable to wear
Relationships too heavy to bear
tainted by disrespect
dishonesty, neglect
subtle streams of unkindness
ever-so-slightly visible envy
marking their faces
like red flags
But the idea of
something having been lost
is powerful, and nags
at our hearts 'til we forget-
these things and their cost
yes, we forget-
Most of the time
the wayside is no place
for happy reunions
He found a poetry lines written by the wayside
They were lyrical pieces of elemental sweet ride
So he hurriedly did post them
To the holy city of Bethlehem
Before he walked away full of pride
That wayside beatific nook,
With a crimson seraphic look;
Silhouetted against a dying sun,
Like dying embers of a satiny run;
Every twig lunging an officious bow,
For a kiss of the pasture lain below;
Hark, the trill of the melodious lark!
Clung to the bevel of the bare bark;
A raised horizon owing to an incumbent brow,
Dwelled by the shades in a nascent grow;
That divulge the affair of that distant west,
Of the sun avid for a nightlong rest;
And sink to the deepest of the longing horizon,
Unmet, tho’ for an evanescent crest!
Ocean gales and tidal shift
Pounding
Basalt and sandstone mountains
Boulders
Rocks tumble into pebbles
Mighty trees
Uproot and splinter in Neptune's fury
Under my feet,
Crumbled remains of life
Ground to dust by the unrelenting ocean
Walking barefoot on tiny shards of glass
the wayside flowers I see when passing through
never fail to touch my soul
God's offering to me
--------------------------
3/17/2015
Featured poem of the week commencing 12/11/2016
Remember third grade,
When the raciest book the teacher
read out loud
Was Wayside School Stories?
Maybe because my mom was all for
wholesome stories,
But hearing those books was a
weird guilty pleasure.
It was my first introduction to the
bizarre:
The Gothic novel of children's
stories.
Sometimes people disappeared into
alternate dimensions,
But more importantly, Bebe Gunn
was having troubles with her
brother Ray.
Today, I remembered the ice
cream.
The teacher at Wayside made ice
cream flavored like each student,
To teach the importance of diversity
and individuality.
And I remembered this today
because I found your shirt,
Kicked under the stage, and I
picked it up.
As I shook off leaves and other
debris of neglect,
Your shirt let forth your essence to
tease my nose.
And later I thought about how over
time,
I would have probably grown
immune to that smell.
I thought about how this must be a
computing error in the universe,
If you truly don't notice that primal
connection,
Like you don't seem to notice your
agonizing attraction.
But at that moment, I had to walk
away
Before my tear ducts could become
inundated with particles of scent,
Because the craving I got was more
than a chocolate-coated addiction.
I am suprisingly literal here, but
You would be my favorite flavor of
ice cream.
Only then you would still be here to
comfort me.
The Wind to the Wayside
There’s an old man sleeping on the bank of a river, and he’s flying his dreams in an indigo sky. If you listen so softly, there’s a chance you’ll remember his words of magic to the old and the wise.
There’s a candle in the window of the widow on the corner, its flame is what’s left of the light in her eyes. If you listen so closely, she sings a sad song of all she has lost in the tears that she cries.
Mist in the hollows and shadows at night, wisps on the water and smoke in the sky. Voices of sirens whisper to the light, and I’m flying on the wind to the Wayside.
There’s a child laughing in hills filled with heather, and she’s calling the names of the stars near the moon. If you watch oh so wisely, you might see her tiptoe into the slipstream and drift away home.
There’s a cobbler mending soles by a hearth, and he’s whistling a tune to the ostler’s wife. If you listen so meekly, you’ll find he’s completely lost in a place for the ostler alone.
Mist in the hollows and shadows at night, wisps on the water and sparks in the sky. Voices of sirens call to the light, and I’m flying on the wind to the Wayside.
I’m dreaming. I’m not. Its real and I’m falling. These hands can’t hold onto shadow and smoke. I’m screaming. Silence. Scions are calling. These memories bow down to a night time of ghosts.
There’s a reaper tending to fields grown fallow, his face etched with sorrow from the sweat of his brow. If you listen so sadly, you’ll hear the earth weeping for the sallow soil at the blade of his plow.
There’s a vendor peddling on streets long gone silent, he doesn’t remember that sleep is about. If you listen so simply you’ll hear the faint flicker of the lamp on the cobbles as his last light goes out.
Mist in the hollows and shadows at night, wisps on the water and fire in the sky. Voices of sirens plea to the light, and I’m flying on the wind to the Wayside.
I’m dying. I’m not. Its real and I’m fleeting. These eyes can’t see through the shroud and the cloak. I’m drifting. Silence. Scions are calling. These memories bow down to a lifetime of ghosts.
Who lies now by the wayside stricken,
sick of body, sick of soul?
His eyes are closed, his ears are deaf
to the somber bells that toll.
I knew this man now sadly stricken
in happier days when blessed by wealth,
famed for both his strength and valor,
his soul and body in best health.
He saved my kindred, then the stricken
by persecutions, death and war.
He bound our wounds and brought good fortune.
Why lies he now at sorrow's door?
Shall we pass by the mighty stricken?
Ingratitude, this world's poor loan?
Those once helped must now be helpers.
No man or woman stands alone.
Near the garbage, I did see
A sad, discarded Christmas tree
Wrapped up in a plastic bag,
A sight to make the spirits sag.
With Christmas looming, it seems rash
To toss a tree out with the trash.
I wondered 'bout the reasons why
That tree was ditched, with no goodbye.
Perhaps it brought some bugs inside
Or else the owner up and died.
It's possible, with needles falling,
A fake version found its calling.
Maybe two folks bought a tree
Where one could serve the family
Or someone, in a Scrooge-like snit
Just chucked it, saying "This is it!"
Though this is not my holiday,
It saddened me in some small way,
But not enough to take it home;
Instead, it did inspire this poem.
D-on't fall by the wayside,
I-n spite of the rugged wind;
A-im to reach your goal,
N-ever let your ardor
E-nd.
F-all not by the wayside,
L-et not your fervor fail;
O-n the twenty-sixth of August,
R-ow your boat and sail.
E-ven though it's isn't easy to go against the tide;
S-tay focused to emerge winner, don't fall by the wayside.
I’ve often mentioned Hilly in the poems that I have written,
and I’ve often said that Hilly with a brewer’s surely smitten,
so you’re libel now to see him in the state that I call ‘blotto’
but today he can afford it because he recently won lotto.
But Hilly’s really not that stupid that he wasted all on beer.
He bought himself some acres in the bush where at the rear,
Hilly dug a gaping hole to make some recreation space,
meant to be a quiet retreat with nature all around the place.
Hilly told me looking over water seems to calm more than the land,
especially sitting in a deck chair with a beer stuck in your hand.
But of course this time is wasted so to get an extra prod,
you have to add another interest, and that becomes a fishing rod.
We planted gums out in the paddock, and on the bank some creepers grew.
Filled up the hole with water and then we built a cabin too.
Then from the Bunyip and the Rysons little blackfish bless their soul,
were travelling in esky’s and ending up in Hilly’s water hole.
We’d often go there camping and improve the dam surround,
by making sure the under-story’s not a snake infested ground.
And at times we’d throw the rods in just to see the fish progress,
but we’re catching carp and eels of which we couldn’t care a less.
How they ever got into the dam became a mystery to us pair.
Perhaps someone playing tricks had put the flamin’ carp in there.
And then one summer evening there’s a hint we may be right,
for we heard some human voices who were shouting with delight.
Hilly first walked on the bank and I followed him soon after,
but the sight of us had soon destroyed the gleeful happy laughter,
for six young women in the dam, who some might say are rude;
with their clothes up on the bank and them swimming in the nude.
Of course the show that they put on didn’t last for very long.
They were screaming out “You perverts!” But we’d done nothing wrong.
So we stood and watched them panic where it’s not hard to believe
them saying ‘they’ll stay in the water ‘til the pair of us did leave’.
I sort of felt embarrassed with their company at the dam,
where Hilly took advantage of the ladies in their naked jam.
He said “You can swim there all day long” then gave his cheeky smile,
“You see the only reason we are here - is to feed the crocodile!”
By this wayside
Here on the verge
See humble pride
Floral calm merge
I walk pass here
Sense stillness clear
Beauty dots near
As silence steers
Watch beauty grace
Such common things
Truth wears a face
Feel peace now sing
Green grassy patch
Contours to match
Joy waits to catch
A profound batch
Glimpse of odd cheer
By wayside verge
Nature speaks clear
Watch joy emerge
Leon Enriquez
14 January 2017
Singapore
Like a bombshell it's killing you
The day she said her love was through
It's time for her to hit the road
With bags in hand she's out the door
You're left alone just like before
So what will help to ease the load
Nothing hurts like a broken heart
The pain remains the day you start
To dwell only on the past
Each day is filled with fear and doubt
But that will change when you find out
That broken hearts don't always last
All the tears you try to hide
The bitterness you keep inside
But that won't help just how you feel
You drown your pain and all your scars
In cheap hotels and local bars
Sometimes it takes more time to heal
Your endless days of misery
And still your weary eyes can't see
Life turning out another way
But then when midnight comes to call
Those bad times then begin to fall
To the wayside of another day