Long Promenades Poems
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It was 5am, a cold, dark, foggy night
As Charles and I headed-out to the right
for the ‘Pont de Bir-Hakeim’ bridge across the Seine.
We weren’t the least discouraged by the rain.
When possible, we stick to the lower quays
the traffic-free promenades that run close to the Seine
The wind was bracing as we established our pace
turning west which put a fine rainy-mist in our face
The trick to running distance is to establish your breathing
I time mine to my steps, 4-steps-in and four-out, decreasing
to two-by-two as we move into our groove.
We’re aggressive runners, this is for fun
Exercising peers, who’ve run together for years
We have plans, and set signals with our hands
we wear LED lights so we’re seen at night
We edge the left bank - imagine the pace - the slow steady rhythms
Guys are stronger and faster but I hang-in there with him.
The Seine cruise ships are dark, moored at their last pier stops
The pizzerias are closed, as are the souvenir shops
After crossing the Saine via the bridge central colonnade,
the path becomes somewhat dense and dangerous,
a twisting forest of staircases and crosswalks sequitous
everything bottles down - competing for space -
bike paths, speeding cars, busses, and trains
On the right bank a Burger King is the first thing we see
Whoppers here feature brioche buns and yummy goat cheese
Once we clear the river area, a pre-dawn quiet claims the streets
scents rising from the bakeries make you want to stop and eat
It’s wet and dark as we wind our way, but we do this every day
five miles later, the gray ‘Pont d’Iéna’ bridge safely coveys
us back to the left bank with it’s tranquil vibe of birds awakening
Close to home now, entering the park, we tear into a sprint,
our own private, morning, mixed olympic track event
His senescence (he’s 55) lulls me into thinking I can beat him
but I never can - why is my defeat so consistent?
.
.
Songs for this:
Band On The Run (2010 Remaster) by Paul McCartney & Wings
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 01/03/26:
Senescence state of being old
My baby has bi-lateral bonbons.
She modulates her rhythm side to side.
She’s a twenty-mule team moving violation,
Her motives pure as borax, her methods bona fide.
She stood naked in a shell at her creation,
Now she promenades down Broad Street like a queen.
She claims her corner armed with guided mistletoe
And decorates her hair in wintergreen.
She’s wearing pearls and sexy Christmas stockings.
She’s stunning as the lights on Boathouse Row.
'Twould be a thrill to occupy her manger,
And nestle ‘neath her starlight’s afterglow.
But her champagne's lost its fizz,
And all her virus leaves me is
Much alpha delta omicron about nothing.
Imagination lends a hand.
Golden cities form out of sand.
Water skyscrapers where fish can talk.
Golden promenades where the immobile can walk.
Your eyes just need to close to see.
A deeper beauty that exists in you and me.
The existence of humanity has to be more than this you see.
So step inside the land you can find in the deeper spaces of your mind.
When this world is not what it seems to be.
Don’t cry, don’t scream at this humanity.
It’s all we’ve got, that’s you and me.
Learn to see the light in the darkest sky.
Learn to fly and fly so high.
Never let your dreams and hopes subside.
Never take for granted the life you find.
All the greatest of our kind.
All the ingenious minds you can find.
They all had something in their minds.
Imagination changed their lives.
Where are those kaleidoscopic rainbows?
Where are those immaculately white clouds?
Have those seraphs who constantly compose
'Glory to God' has been lost in cloud shrouds?
Thrones made of precious stones are seen no more.
Where are those souls washed by the blood of Christ?
Shouldn't each saint sing, dance, praise, and adore?
Isn't there, between heaven and earth, a tryst?
I miss the gold arcades and silver stairs.
Where are the upward-winding promenades?
Finding me standing with eyes full of tears
An angel spoke to me thus from the shades:
"You haven't lost, child, the heavenly mirth.
The heavens have now come down to the earth."
In the city, there are benches
Placed where people might
Relax and take a load off,
Which is everybody’s right.
They’re either made of metal
Or old-fashioned painted wood,
Found in parks and promenades or where
They’d do the utmost good.
Most bus stops with a shelter
Have a bench for those who wait
And in playgrounds, there are benches
Where the nannies congregate.
My apartment building spans a block
On quite an average street,
Without a bus stop or a park;
It’s nice, but not elite.
Yet recently, a metal bench,
Three seats’ worth, with a back,
Was placed to give my home address
What other buildings lack –
A place to sit, but no one knows
Who ordered such a thing.
It sounds real good, but there are several
Problems it could bring –
The detritus of strangers,
Which is quite a common sight
And perhaps some noisy revelers
To party through the night.
My street is pretty quiet
And I hope a monkey wrench
Hasn’t landed on it with the
Sudden placement of this bench.
Four legs quiver
like clumsy cabrioles
striking smooth gray rivers
of zig-zag sidewalk barrios
in rhythm with happy shivers
syncopated on a muffled drum
as we talk and stroll
On our way
hand-in-hand
we persuade and pretend
this day away
taunting and cajoling to demand
laughing “hide and seeking”
chasing and skedaddling
poking and peeking
like cuddly pandas
or canoodling otters
splashing and clambering
We roll and meander
impetuously twiddling all the way
atop gregarious green promenades
we pause in slight delay
as we prattle and prance
as we dance to the Crickets singing
nodding to their fiddling
frolicking with all the jiggling
Serendipitous stalks
of snickering flowers pop
to dazzle and razzle our wits
we glide in stripes of candy bits
of rainbows bright
Purple painted paisley
fragrantly flairs in pairs
of scented lavender sweetness
among black-eyed daisies
dusting the woozy air
in a meadow’s billowing bloom
sunflowers sunbathe in costume
We giddily tarry
as we carry
a feast of fancies and treats
artsy bits of charmed delicacies
filled with a peck of upcoming kisses
enticing fantasies that wink
Snuggling shenanigans lead us astray
as we find our rootie-tootie hideaway
hugs as we shy away
from tomfoolery jesting
to lay down and swoon
looking up at the soon to be stars
lingering for the coming of the moon
Murmurs of Starlings
gaggle their harmonies
of chirps
in cheeks and broadened beaks
thrumming tiny melodies.
Swallows sweep and woo
fixated on this unabashed swain
through songbird strains
announcing a shrilling review
broadening in sweet refrains
“I love you…I love you”
Fingerpainting the Monet sky
puffy white cotton words appear
from clouds passing by
while tiny violins spin in the air
piccolos peep
pigeon-toed Doves coo and weep
their contentedness to appease
trailing off the pleasant breeze
I fall upon my knees
My words explode to strew
like a thousand storms set free
“I love you…I love you…I love you”
Brisk as a breeze
Lunar new year installs;
Festive cheer punctuates
~~~~~~~~~
Smiling faces exchange
Auspicious greetings;
Mandarin oranges
~~~~~~~~~
Red packet gifts
Good fortune and peace;
Happy thoughts
~~~~~~~~~
Chinatown tryst
Colorful promenades;
Spirit of joy
~~~~~~~~~
Dazzling fireworks
Festival spirits sculpt;
Auspicious message
~~~~~~~~~
Wonderful blessings
Extraordinary feasts;
Family celebration
~~~~~~~~~
Lunar year deposits
Goat ushers more;
Contentment mingles
~~~~~~~~~
Ancient calligraphy
Auspicious messages;
Gold words on red paper
~~~~~~~~~
Listen now
Laughter and cheer;
Celebrate new joys
~~~~~~~~~
Another year older
Wiser perhaps;
Sync peace of mind
~~~~~~~~~
Time to reflect
On peace and joy;
Discover good fortune
~~~~~~~~~
Here's to joy
Let peace attend;
Abundance stays
~~~~~~~~~
Yu Sheng feast
Shouts of joy;
Fortune galore
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
23 February 2015
Singapore
neon orange is my go-to reach
I stretch and dance and give her a whirl daily
She promenades throughout my home
If there is not a splash of orange,
you are in the wrong house
I have whimsical surroundings
trolls, faeries, dragons, witches, and gargoyles
not always orange, but usually with a cat or dog
The artist in me has surrounded my home with
castles, unicorns, hippies, love beads and lava lamps
But especially my favorite color – neon orange.
My husband has offered to buy me new colors of paints.
I have a million colors I tell him, I have the ones I want.
But everything is orange, he says.
He is not wrong.
It’s the one I see too.
Even when I am looking at other colors.
I see neon orange, so I can feel joy.
My hair tries to define me
I laugh in her straggly non- curls
Hoping to shame me, she taunts me
About being messy and unkempt
Together we could be a social disgrace
except only she cares, wanting a brushing,
regular combs run through her, etcetera.
She is much more prissy than I am.
Unbothered by her begging and pleading,
I march on kicking the possibility of a well coiffured head
out of my way,
watching her hopes and dreams land in mire and muck.
She glares at me from a mud puddle
with ticks and lice hopping onto her.
I truly do not care.
Her cowlick promenades around
the bugs’ barn dance.
This does not concern me.
I will never define myself by my hair.
My hair tries to define me
Hot the lost lovers rage
Walk within pantheons of gilded brigades
The passions roar as idolized lost sages
Of some immense meaning
In supernatural things
Without rhythms or reasons
Of a fathomless being
Walking destiny’s configured trails
The streaming of consciousness
The breaking deluse, the midnight furor
Of these dreams that spiral
In the palm of his hand
God conspires grander plans
He is robed in the tempest of storms
At his heels Hellborn legions swarm
Liquid steel towers as it rises
I spoke with the lightning as it strikes
as it burns the night
Lighting the blue living white light
Glittering in chroma
Theory of furies mechanical is the beast
Dark winds come from the lost eons east
Turning across the vacant rooms of vast lands
In something now past the seams
It seaks, pondering rage
A love so strong that carries an age
Its spires the engines of hearts carnage
The foundations are wrought
Feel his furies in the aftermath
Cooling in a man’s Crimson bath
Hot with the lost
Pantheons burn
Gilded in chrome rooms
It demands infinite being
Has divinities seen the walking man
Naked and afraid traveling distant lands
A coil of this labyrinthian, parade
Marches to the metronome
Something promenades
In the shadows of methadone
Monolithic in spires shadows
Cast as the time expires
Expiring in the aftermath of yesterdays
As the pantheons burning bright
So to ends this night