Rain falls soft on Georgia,
up north there's falling snow;
Gazing out the window
I've got nowhere to go.
Been lost in the desert,
been carried by the wind;
Dreamt about yesterdays
I'd not relive again.
I've watched the trains roll by,
saw hobos on the run;
Thought of time and distance
since their travels begun.
Wonder where I'll be
when one tomorrow comes,
Will I be marching true
to the eternal drums?
Futures remain hidden
far from the naked eye,
They grow stronger in truth
as the years pass us by.
One step, then another,
would take me down the road,
Yet there's no direction
in the stories left untold.
Rains drift over Georgia,
up north the snows still fall;
Outside this old window
a myst'ry seems to call.
Yesterdays fade from view
like rivers 'round the bend,
I think I will move on
when, at last, this day ends.
Suitors lined up, hoping to court me
Promising plethoras of pleasure
Tantalizing, teasing hints of treasure
To move my reticent, reluctant lips to say ‘Oui’
To obsequious bow to my innumerable charms,
While in a mirror of pomp, I primp and pose
When spot a man – mustachioed, mysterious – undisposed
To flatter my golden hair, narrow waist or delicate arms
An unlikely king or composer of Psalms
Ill-at-ease with strongmen and heroes
Counselor to hobos, weirdos and zeroes
And I, drawn to his visage with increasing alarm
Entry in "When You are Old" contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Date: Jan. 14, 2025
Halloween is a scream dressed in orange and black
A night of sneaky creeps that rattle and clack
Vampires conspire to send midnight bat attacks
Witches stirring cauldrons of potent purple snacks
Moonlit foggy streets filling with ghoulish packs
Of superheroes, princesses and lumberjacks
Cowboys with space toys and candy laden sacks
Evil clowns with smiles painted on out-of-whack
Hobos and gypsies from the wrong sides of the tracks
Mad hatters and kooky-eyed conspiracy quacks
Unlucky thirteens losing their crackerjacks
Curses from broken mirrors and stepped-on sidewalk cracks
Better give up the goodies if you don't want payback!
10/25/21
a bag of memories on a stick
time...just passing through
winks, bargains for a meal,
a bit of work, a song, a dance
a story - mostly fiction -
fashioned from fading sunsets
nostalgia's hobos
around a cold campfire
whispering tales
of long rusted rails
holding tightly
a crumpled ticket
awaiting
time's ======= caboose
John G. Lawless
7/6/2020
I chanced upon a vagrant word
beside an idle railroad track
its campfire fueled by burning books
it asked:"Is poetry coming back?"
I shrugged, acknowledging my doubt
unable to assuage its fear
we listened in the setting sun
for that distant train not coming near.
Curling in their darkened dream
cindered pages slow took flight
ripped from bindings memory
of humming rails and fevered write.
Two hobos now, a word and pen
inhale the scent of mystery
sing off key a one string tune
of a vagrant words lost history.
John G. Lawless
5/25/2020
These tracks are placed side by side
Yet run in the same direction
Never touching except by railroad ties
Click, click, tap, tap is the sound the engineer hears
A hobo I see has placed his sack upon these tracks
With beans Ala cart with a quarter and a dime
Inside his sack
With tons of power clicking down the track
It hits this Hobos sack leaving
A dime the size of a quarter and beans all over the track
Skidding to a stop 2 miles away
This hobo devastated left with only eight words to say
Crap, I left my sack on the track
Long prior - I took to the wheel
On a day, fairly, surreal
Amid one of my visits back home
I went to see, tailgating, all alone
My boyhood city. A city on its knees
I began patrolling, unemotionally
Among, the hollowed, disintegrated, arteries
I've gone into a run-down, stepping ground
Of relinquished houses, torched down
Cess-pool of spoiled industries, shook
Dismal, diminishing, to tears look
A catastrophe of block, smoke, and gook
Miles and miles of wrongdoing, invaded places
The most exceedingly awful, that humankind embraces
Free, with the blazing fury
Of youthful, spontaneity
I started to take pictures, ardently
Of drifters, hobos, winos, and the beggarly
Wearing, worn out, robe of strands
And vagrants with solidified hands
Crouched around, enormous, hot drum cans
Without modesty, I eagle-eyed
The crestfallen, with nowhere to hide
That permeates, everywhere, I spied
Offering itself for examination
A photo of urban immolation
I was alone in a no man's homey
And in a no man's city
How can it be
That you don’t love me?
And where do the hobos pee?
Why can’t you see
I’m sitting in a tree
Wond’r’n where the hobos pee.
You’ve got a rep
For plenty of pep
But where do the hobos pee?
Do I love you? Yep!
But careful where you step
Cuz look where the hobos pee.
gale to bluster, sleet to bluster, worst whacked are hobos around huts cluster.
nowhere to doss, tempest to toss, yet another sucker punch sweeps across.
with big boot to field, with big stick to wield, arrogative hosts of imperial capital always have big deal to yield,
so august the majestic center, so wretched the lowborn hobos, ouster order seems to get it best addressed,
with wish we roil, for wish we toil, how come repayment of repellence proves us a foil to the soil sordidly steeled?
humanity they tread, hostility they breed, how bleak it is to plead for the creed they've professed!
empty as the firmament is, vast as the earth, no habitat for us o'er the horizon strides caste chasm.
much as we wail, much as public opinion vociferates, the sacrament highest held hails from their behest.
astray our kith and kin adrift our kismet, ashtray accommodates our enthusiasm, echoes with their gleeful spasm.
ouster order, peremptory, outrageous, sledgehammer; its wide-ranging aftermath ne'er to be redressed.
Vagabonds – the lost Avatars
Virtual Vagabonds, avatars
lost amid the teeming Ethernet,
signal searchers illuminated
in the blue light of emptiness
Hobos of a cordless conga line
falling in and out of “bars”
fevered followers worshiping
at the altars of the asinine
Homeless thoughts adrift
in an itinerant infinity
collide with freelance feelings
weeping in crowded solitude
“Screenbound” globetrotters
hiking the world’s keyboards
wayfarers without wires
confined to their seats
“Life”, led by a scrolling finger
followed by two hundred “friends”
seeking validation of its meaning
in the contortions of “emojic” grins.
©9/24/2017
submitted to – Verse Me A Poem – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Broken Wings
The Joburg city sounds go crescendo
As I slowly ascend, from beneath the subway tunnel.
I am Inducted to the rush hash pace of pedestrians
And the hooted frustrations of motorists on the crowed roads,
This often happens, Itineraries synchronizing
As everybody makes their back home.
Once emerged, on to the foot traffic I go, I inherit the pace
And find myself mindlessly whooshing on the road side pavement.
As I penetrate deeper in route, the city odor gets rather unsavory
And my focus is drawn to avoiding hawkers and hobos
As I’ve learnt that conversation Invites tragedy,
I abstain to keep my valuables and most probably my life.
I take a right on Bree, opposing the traffic flow.
Imminently I’m greeted by the amalgamated Jozi reverberations,
Like a lullaby the city sings as it surrenders to the night
And its occupants numb an¬d calmed to its cannabis effects
As yet another day is promised to them,
Another day the it sheds it’s gold to them,
For a good day’s hustle.
I went where the wind blows,
Cool sod my last bed
Sweet blowin’ winds then laid down in the prairie-grass and the wide orange sky tucks me in.
Not far away a trains-a-howlin’
Singin’ me a last lullaby
Accompanied by the souls of 1,000 rail-road hobos
Crooning their dusty blues.
Feeding my soul,
I look at barns
and want inside
Feeding my soul,
I smile at children
and touch their hands
Feeding my soul,
I talk to truckers
and watch them cry
Feeding my soul,
I tip the hobos
and hear the truth
Feeding my soul,
I count the geese
in southern flight
Feeding my soul,
I love my family
wife, and friends
Feeding my soul,
I wander in the sea air
and smell the morning
Feeding my soul,
I catch the devil
in disguise
Feeding my soul,
I trade redemption
for the promise of another wish
Feeding my soul,
I write these words,
—feeding my soul
(69th St. Philadelphia: August, 1977)
As I was peeling this orange it whispered an epiphany
"You must first be taken apart to gain strength..
seek out the purist of storms
dive into the cyclone,
be cleansed be reborn."
I followed the advice of the newly flayed orb
and got what I asked for,
Tracked down that cleansing wind,
In its billion unrecognizable forms
Chased a shattered constellation.
On the edge of starry town.
Cracked thoughts stretching out.
Nibbling wildflower- gathering strength.
Weaving a metal skin made of sun.
Devouring the sweet winter rain...
Life then began with to hum, then a roar.
Soul ignited by spectacular -undefined things.
Star dust of the mind, gathering clarity
Now the bright fields of life flash eternally
It's time to leave the old snakeskin to the weeds.
A new constellation rising into the night sky,
Broken hobos and coyotes dancing in delight.
laughing, cascading so rich in their dreams.
What name shall be given to this infant skin.
This gathering of pristine baby stars?
How to Find Your Way Home
Wear your tweed coat and checked hat.
The bus stops at the edge of the bridge.
It is a drawbridge and the ships are passing.
An old peddler pushes his cart along the
edge and sings his fruits. There are stars
in the water. Newsboys will shout their
headlines. “Red skies bleed to yellow.”
Ignore them and count your change because it
is a green day and the colors always change
at dusk. This is the way the street opens, but
the cobblestones defy interpretations. Treasonous
taxis sit back under street lamps, doors slightly
ajar. The young women are dancing with
reflections, their heads ringed with beads. The
men are no longer interested in dreams. The
restaurants will be almost empty. No one orders
in English. Pinpricks of light will appear in the
north sky. Hobos will stand with their hats in
their hands, waiting for Venus to appear in the sky.
You will know you are there when the last ship passes.
Do not look back. The bridge is a clock.
Mark Conte Copyright, Yankee magazine, 1982
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