Lewisburg Landmarks
The Marshall County
Courthouse keeps safeguards
While Main street trades it daily ideology.
Rock Creek moves slow,
Steady as folks heading in and out
Of Kroger 's.
And the Walking Horse Museum stands
Quiet,
Holding history like reins in it's hands.
Lewisburg ain't enormous grassland
It'll test your balance the same stay standing,
And you've earned your boots in this town.
Poetic breadcrumbs
Tossed into the air
Blown about by errant winds
Pecked at by bloated pigeons
Debated by chattering squirrels
And yet I sit with crumpled bag
Knowing I will return again
Replenishing the hope
That what little I offer
Is a gift for us all
The words are arguing
A mock debate
No rebuttal
A juxtapositional comparison
Of mirrored images
Seeking definition
The days weigh on me
An aged rudder struggles
To maintain a fading course
Yellowed sails doubting the breeze
Tremble as the shallows near
The landmarks seem more distant
The destination less definite
Joy remains
Yawning in the shadows
Sighing as it listens
To the chatter of life
Dancing in its memories
Ley lines
Straight out of a creative brain
Given to us by Alfred Watkins
A young imaginative archeologist
Ley lines
Invisible alignments between landmarks
He created the idea
Felt they had a mystical agenda
Ley lines
Popular idea in Europe
Where they have ancient monoliths
Connecting them
insinuating alien communication
Some landmarks are bugging me.
I zigzag.
Centered in this car is an air freshener.
Which I almost listen to as well.
Some landmarks are road signs, or traffic lights.
I’m creative.
The GPS reminds me of turns.
The struggle to make a visual map.
Makes me so embarrassed that I would rather burrow an underground tunnel to get places.
Some landmarks are rotted away for the time being.
That rock with spray paint.
I’m bad with directions.
I’m standoffish as a GPS.
I watch for the clock tower.
Calls in all directions.
Tells me it’s 1:00 pm.
I could climb that tower to look down.
And still not understand the way home.
Life morphs speed to skill,
chasing illusive mirage
toward amorphous landmarks.
World won’t grind to halt
if clocks lose their frantic ticks.
Don’t rush to reach last milepost.
She is more than a tourguide
but a warrior within her soul
who is a champion of Bahamian hospitality ambassador of the natural environment
and a pioneer with a spirit
for creativity and innovation
quenching the thirst
of her progressive mindset
where curiosity is her superpower
She is a teacher and a storyteller
who set the standard for visitors
and how to become a true, true Bahamian
through historical landmarks, folktales, cuisine
Rake and Scrape, bush medicine
blueholes and endemic birds
to create an atmosphere
where everyone would recieve
the Bahamian VIP experience
whether they are from Miami,
Puerto Rico, China, or The Netherlands
She is a visionary and servant leader
behind the warrior found within her
ahead of her time
who is very selfless and approachable
always willing to put the necesities
of her team ahead of her own accolades
like a tree feeding Pigeon Plums and Seagrapes
to the White Crowned Pigeons
instilling inspiration in their hearts
to become more than only tourguides
but to become the guardians and stewards
of the authentic Bahamian adventure
for generations to come
Silence falls so deep
even clocks forget their ticks—
breaths cup the moment
between one thought and the next
time slips and loosens its grip.
In complete darkness—
no landmarks are left to trace
how moments should pass.
In the blind stillness of night
time wanders off aimlessly.
When laughter erupts—
time scatters like startled birds
joy suspends the hours
ticks 'n tocks flock mute in clocks
time loses count of itself.
Time loses its sway
in darkness, silence, laughter
it has no context—
no marker to start or end
it's left hanging at wits end.
October motif errand runs toward the end
A winter morn on Orchard street, New York, wandering here and there
Seemingly a gift shop is surrealism, the shop owner sprung from Walt disney
a strange double, so to speak. Adored me with a humble simper
as a blue blazer was my attire with graceful ease and altruism
The blazer and the chest a motif of deep green forest, evergreen blossomed
from a cadence , by the lake. floating afar.
(to be completed)
Orchard Street is a historic eight-block street in New York City's Lower East Side known for
its mix of immigrant history and modern boutiques. It was once a commercial hub for
immigrant communities and is now famous for its trendy shops, diverse restaurants, and
landmarks like the Lower East Side Tenement Museum at 97 Orchard Street. Visitors can
find a variety of businesses, from classic eyeglass shops like Moscot to modern home decor
stores and art galleries.
Typewrite
Pacing back and forth these keys,
Like footfalls echoing on worn-out tracks—
The sights and landmarks in languid grey,
Burning with the sting of nostalgic pain,
Faces, voices, shadows etched in memory,
Untold stories thump against my brain
Like a retroactive typewriter,
Reminding me—
With every thud of the type slug,
Voices in these walls
Strike the ribbons of regret.
Scars printed in blue,
Hurts inked in red,
Fleeting across faces and lives,
The ribbons take the beat
Of my swag and gait—
That staccato rhythm
Of a past that won’t forget.
Thud tap, thud tap, ding!
And back again—
Like my aging heartbeat
On this old typewriter in motion,
The carriage bell,
Signaling the end of a line—
A moment of reckoning,
Yet back again: the carriage return,
Resetting for the next confession,
The next scar,
Thud, thud—
Like the drumming in my head,
Tom toms telling the wind:
My past always catches up.
But now— it’s time to abandon conformity,
Transformed by verity.
I should have a screen and keyboard,
Control-a, hit delete,
Roam the freedom of a white page
With a renewed mind.
Keeto the apple of my eye,
Centre of attraction, smart yet shy,
The little diamond - handsome and naughty,
A new milestone- my baby prince turns 40!
Creeping into mom and my heart,
Always loved and admired though far apart,
Champion in golf, colorful in art,
Keeto! My little star is class apart!!
Full of empathy and very humble,
Smart and stunning, yet so simple,
With soft blue eyes that always sparkle,
With a cute smile he flashes those dimples!
Exemplary and radiant like the sun,
Keeto my precious gem is second to none,
Versatile and talented rolled into one,
Admired, cherished, adored & envied by everyone.
Born from my heart, to my mum he is a son,
Shining bright like the midnight sun ,
He is a superstar, pumpkin photo award he won,
He is extra ordinary , my scottish little one..
Reaching a new milestone, on a new journey he embarks,
Leaving his footprints on different landmarks,
With exuberance he defines benchmarks,
Well aware ,CEO position for him is earmarked
On his Ruby Jubilee today,
Mom and Rima from far away,
From our hearts where he stays,
We shout loud Keeto Happy Birthday!!!
The map unrolls, a skin of dust
where landmarks shift like whispers lost to a gust.
I trace a fracture, jagged, unfamiliar...
place where my phantom feet wandered, chillier
than memory allows. A tongue they spoke is lost...
A melody unheard of, at dearly paid cost
within the crumbling walls of an infernal keep...
A cracked, blackened mirror shows a face
though the eyes hold echoes of a storm!
The history etched strangely warm
borrowed grief, a second skin I wear
conceals scars, wounds I cannot bear.
A raven calls from a bleached white tree
a language older than time, the bones of me.
Its shadow stretches, long n out of place
across a sun-blackened, desolate place.
In this dreamscape, my essence fled.
A testament of words better unsaid, unread!
Foreign soil clings, stubborn, dark embrace
reflecting back lost a vacant face.
In stillness, a faint whisper sighs
you search mirrored eyes
meaning n memories...
A land you left behind
names you can't recall or hide...
A journey destined to fall...further inward
strangest sights reside as I…
Dissolve upon the burning tide.
Every struggle and evil that you overcome
There's special blessing awaits from God
Whatever weapons and form of weakness came from
Never lost hope and courage in going life forward.
Somewhere in life you may lost your way
Just pray in contact the radar of God
Activate your compass and review road signs
Keep in mind traps and pitfalls are wayward things.
Never forget good acquiantances in life
They are important landmarks on your success journey
They may not tell you to come back and thank them
They are reminders somehow that you will help others also.
The world is full of temptation that you might forget your goals
These so called "gold offerings" that you might worship them
So many beautiful stops that cheat the human eyes
One thing in mind is what's your great purpose in life here.
For 30 years I drove to work,
On highways that I knew.
The early morning traffic
Was so light I almost flew.
I recognized the landmarks
That I passed each time I went,
A smooth commute to where I taught
My singular intent.
In the years since I retired,
I’d no need to take that route
‘Til today, when GPS said
That’s the way to go, no doubt.
So, to meet some friends we traveled
On the roads we were assigned,
Which were different from the old familiar
Ones I had in mind.
Change is bound to be expected;
Nothing simple gets to last.
Even roads and their surroundings
Differ from those in the past.
He’s late-stage Charles Bukowski,
Hunching gnome-like over the bar,
With weary eyes, and scruffy stubble.
It’s sure he must have seen some trouble.
But he’s got plenty of cash in his pockets,
Along with the keys to a stolen car.
He smells of sea air, wet cement, and whiskey.
His tattoos could be urban graffiti,
Just random tags on ghetto limbs,
An ancient, coded treasure map
Charting landmarks through the route of his career.
He eyes a buxom tavern wench,
Who looks wholesome as a menthol cigarette,
And orders up another round for them all.
The Buccaneers’ Union provides him a generous pension.
He’s living his best life ever on a bounty of plundered loot.
Avast ye! Let’s drink to the golden years.
Waiting at the bus stop,
it started with a glance,
but somehow, they got talking,
pretty much by chance,
when the 501 arrived,
they both went up the stairs,
where luckily there was,
a front seat they could share,
Jess said how she liked,
to sit and watch the view,
Sam pointed out the mast,
and other landmarks too,
the bus meandered onwards,
through worlds of brick and stone,
they talked of life beyond college,
and all the things they’d known,
Jess was half expecting,
for Sam to ask her out,
with the town hall clock in sight,
she couldn’t hang about,
soon they would both disembark,
to go their separate ways,
she felt now was the moment,
for her to seize the day,
Jess told him her tutorial,
was due to end at four,
Sam said he’d be waiting,
by the refectory door...
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