Night roads widen,
dream paths spread their branches.
The Sandman is hobbled
and can only watch.
A tethered mind has spread
fledgling wings.
What appears to happen
behind sleepwalking eyes
is viewed from a fish-eyed drone -
a stretched panoramic overview.
Am I travelling or unrolling
a future map?
Major arteries become sea-lanes
a melting landscape
for the soul of the soul of the soul.
In a distant radio speaker
a voice recites the Koran
in perfect Yiddish.
I may have to awaken
as a more concrete curbside
if these night journeys
keep mushrooming,
enlarging these itinerate routes of reality.
Categories:
itinerate, poetry,
Form: Free verse
I'm itinerate coyote who's mostly alone,
One more 'Steppenwolf' feeling no need to atone
For the life that I've lived (where I've worked to live free
Of the chains others cherish.) I like to be me!
Hard to circumvent world, for it gets in the way,
Though with jets it is easy to leapfrog today,
For by flying straight East, the hours lost, hardly missed,
Up so high in the air, your ass never is kissed.
Though I sometimes move fast, there's no movement at all
In life built on relationships, eye's off the ball
Of my relative life, I've no chance for a wife,
He who slows down one second soon weds the world's strife.
Love to howl at the moon for it helps night to clear,
'Sun to come' may be hiding, but I have no fear,
For I see a new dawn, as I drink what moons bring,
Should a wolf call surround you? Shh! Hear my heart sing!
Brian Johnston
May 30th, 2018
PoemHunter.com and PoetrySoup.com
Poet's Note:
I had no idea this poem was going to be a love song until I wrote the last line! Were you surprised too?
Categories:
itinerate, 2nd grade, life, love,
Form: Rhyme
Trite query from pen so weary
My muse has blown a fuse
The light that once shined has declined
My fleeting hope hangs from a rope
A vagabond whose muse did abscond
With illuminating spark leaving him in the dark
Out on a lark; my scuttled engine in park
Night and day I recon the lexicon
But the literary discourse is no recourse
To a stray itinerate who has lost his way
The sty in my eye has begun to cry
The pus is no fuss; my page is dry
A rhyme for a dime would be sublime
Perhaps, a bartered verse in my purse
Will break the curse, or still worse
Might stain with shame my languishing pain
Incarcerating my fraudulent pen in the critic's den
Oh, if words would rain then my brain drain
Would filter inspiration to my perspiration
The fertile strain if only but a grain
Would fertile sprouts shoot extinguishing my doubts
Categories:
itinerate, on writing and words,
Form: Rhyme