Long Thoroughfares Poems
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In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
Information superhighway bumper to binary bumper.
Stark contrast versus deserted macadam thoroughfares.
Magnification rendered visualization coronavirus
alias covid 19 courtesy electron microscopy plus
sundry computer technology yours truly (popeye
Olive Garden variety generic layman) breathtakingly
held spellbound, née utterly transfixed vibrant
spectacular design regarding inexplicable dynamic
forces wrought creation (albeit - alluringly beautifully
charming, deceptively eminently fascinating, and
globularly highly intriguing biochemical cellular
denizens - indubitably jackknifing kindred livingsocial
man/womankind now outstripping Buffy the vampire
(weakened immunity system of the down) slayer
kickstarting pandemic induces *****sapiens to
experience extravagant fancy feast humble pie
(just desserts) necessitate quarantine to minimize
transmission, whereby (Gogol Ling) dead souls
agonizingly writhe within purgatory tests mine
Unitarian/nonestablishmentarian credo, never with
me wildest imagination intimating detrimental fatal
impact avast swath terra firmae, aye attest dominant
primate species, not necessarily lost cause, nor
civilization and discontents forsaken, but buzz
feeding foretaste (think while leg propped atop desk -
armageddon), of end times nonetheless triggering
linkedin helter skelter, wrenching economy (globally
webbed) doleful Lake Woebegone citizens haphazardly
remaining approximately six feet between another
human beings scrabbling, scrambling, scrimping, saving
international decree obligating painstaking handwashing
absolute zero socialization (comprising no more than ten
people), said groupon crowdsource commingling verboten,
yes tis moost ideal for solitary fellow (me barely a Yogi)
yabba dabbling playing online solitaire, chess, listening
to deep sleep music, meditating, reading, and/or writing.
The lights of the city reflecting from the aqueous pitch, pavements in a kaleidoscope of colours create a melancholy ambience for the few who venture within. The city is transformed as the animated bustle of people, seemingly with purpose, abandon the streets to their suburban abodes, leaving a nugatory melting pot of the "Ill at ease" to pursue or solicit rudimentary shelter to respite their weary frames.
The man is homeless.......
To the city streets he is confined, incarcerated by their invisible partition that circumscribe his ability to breach the tenticaled alleys and lanes. For buzzing in his mind, "I'm not aloud" echoes through his sub conscience cerebrations. Involuntarily his legs move his ageless body, one foot in front of the other in timeless motion like a driverless carriage aimlessly meandering through the city thoroughfares.
He sits to repose on a lichen encrusted slab that has entreated a myriad of his ilk for generations past and assuredly for many more to traverse. For the briefest moment the fog that clouds his mind is pushed aside by a gentle puff of memory as he is transported to a place where children's laughter fills the room and a woman sitting at a dining table, her auburn hair comfortably resting on her slender shoulders as she gazes admiringly at... Then thunderclouds rush over him like a tidal wave to the sound of, "Move you filthy wino", he scurries off as the fog settles back into its occupation.
Lost within the multitude of human quiddity, like the leaves of a plane tree aquiescing to the winds dominating gusts. He is swept along the tide of life, existing but never living, obedient to every buckle and wrench, never adapting to the changing seasons, accepting feeling of cold and heat with equal passiveness. The drum of life ever beating, yet his march is incessantly out of step.
Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.
'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.
There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!
An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!
Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Twenty-Three
Is it true the sun dared cock its eye over the hillocks
Nor did it with affront sink into raging Atlantic docks
Such the glare of armoured headlights singeing the mist-crowned mosque
Though the assembled hosts ogled the Furies with hidden locks
The Faithful knelt with heads humbled down facing best the mihrab
Be it on sidewalks thoroughfares parking lots or slab
Calling out in strength: “Allah! Le Clément et Le Miséricordieux!”
Hundreds of thousands of hungry voices rose in one gift of gab
Faced down by Darling Dears Robo-Cops looked lively about them
When outstepped prayer-full worshippers in composed phlegm –
From out the Chief’s official car rushed the dazed Commandant:
“Tarry yet, Gentle Folk, bid His Holiness to our errand come!”
The Senior Mosque Administrator decked in robes and headgear
Spake out in measured tones grave and strict amid silence dear:
“The Prophet’s Servant hath just now gained his hard-earned quarters
Whence at this very hour breaks the fast with sacred bread pure!”
Bison Futé traffic reporters echoed “panic stations” in tears
Safe for one route leading from Pyrenées to tell-tale Poitiers
Retreat was no longer feasible: bylanes to broadways
Lay clogged with shiny metal and armour-plated zigzag gears.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Crossroads
Five corners
Converge in
Crossroads of
What if maybe
Turning points - to ride on indecision’s wings
CobbLed stone paths, smooth byways beckon
Dusty avenues vIewed - indolent parking lots
Thoroughfares Flow in turnpikes hasty choicE
Compromises
Adjudications
Reconciliation
Or fabrication
Either Or calls
To ambivalent
Consummation
Of white fires
9-21-21
Contest: Crossroads
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Freedom to display one’s unwashed teeth
Exhibiting the whole thirty-two,
Even as others with anger seethe
And the keenest insults on one rain, too.
Voice to broadcast one’s HIV-Status
Before it’s public discovery
Or befriending some consoling circus
And waiting for dramatic recovery!
Venturous feet taking to the streets,
Copiously eating your choicest sweets
Or choosing not to thoroughfares roam,
Sitting back at a boring home.
A sticking to throat-scalding whiskies,
Determinedly shunning friendlier juices
Or willing that one’s tobacco shall be Menthol
In the surprised faces of The Non-Menthol.
The Freedom to quickly become Married
Or just believe that matters are being hurried:
A querying of why one must,
Eternally ajar leaving the door of lust!
Readily burying the remains of a loved one
Or simply staring at it like a challenger, won…
The right to keep amassing works of Literature
Or against them turn with a new burning culture…
Continue to deposit your money in a bank
Or it be handing over to a girlfriend of high rank;
Keep telling men of God an unwished story
Or join their battles against local gods in glory.
The right to write
Asking for one more right.
We got really dumped on yesterday
Was hoping we would miss out on this one
But must remember, this is Canada!
The land of ice and snow and parkas and snow shoes
At least that's the general perception
We have electricity and runny water and even indoor toilets
And not only that, we have radio
However, the powers that be are promising TV before 2020
Okay okay, I'm exaggerating a wee bit
We just recently got indoor plumbing
Hmmm, strangely my tongue seems to be stuck firmly in my cheek
But we are a hearty bunch
On January 1st every year, some of our real hearty dudes
Take a dip in the Ottawa River
They're called the “Polar Bear Club”
I have a different name for them!!!!!
I call them the “Those That Have A Screw Loose Club”
They urgently need to seek psychiatric help
As backward as we are, we DO have medicare... yee haw!
So we can take all kinds of risks we wouldn't normally take
Like clomping down the middle of our major thoroughfares
Making sure we watch out for the occasional snowmobile
And wearing our stylish snowshoes and parkas
A hearty bunch we are!!!
© Jack Ellison 2014
The event of tragedy blossomed,
That carnivorous wave of terror,
Caromed through the capital,
Down subways and thoroughfares,
Horrified the gaping senses
And surged through the echoing chasms,
The divides of the unholy,
And the gulfs of the unjust.
In a bleak ricocheted wake,
Left no blank resignation,
Or mere shrugging of shoulders
As if cold blooded and detached;
Evolved a unified populace
Grieving resolute and defiant,
As they arched down in reverence
In that two minute silence.
Swelled the dream iconography
Of human souls in mortal battle,
And the blood-stirring prose
Of the old past master speeches;
Fell a faint dust of resonance
Blown from reminisced prophecies,
Foretelling times when the streets
Run with rivers of blood.
Therein the wake of tragedy stung
In the mourning lungs of the living,
Feeling thorny and vibrant,
Tasting earthy and tart;
Instead of cancer and wasteland
The first blackberry roses bloomed,
In the gardens of futures
Landscaped by the past.
Limerick : Once a President of Bolivia
Once a President of Bolivia
Frothed oblanceolate green saliva
Must dream was Ashoka*
On Andes throne Inca
That’s how COCA-cola drug India.
*ASHOKA, b. circa 304 BCE (reigned: 273-232 BCE): King of Magadha,
was the first great commoner Buddhist Emperor
of India which, then, extended from Afghanistan
to Bengal, and from Nepal to Southern Deccan.
Among his recorded edicts : concern for the peoples’
welfare ; medical attention for the needy ; arboured
thoroughfares ; nomination of officers to oversee
morality and magistrates ; forbade the slaughter of
animals for food or for religious purposes ; required
the reconciliation of all religious tendencies ; wanted
everyone to practice compassion and charity towards
one another and to follow the laws of the Dharma or
Righteousness ; and drew attention to the vanity of
glory and emphasised the supreme aim of Life itself.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013