Long Tourists Poems
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William Wordsworth if living in 2014
would think oh the waste
that's come to my beloved lakes
the changes seem to be in haste
So many people wrecking the landscape
where I once had stood
in front of Dove Cottage a hotel stands
this is absurdly rude
They are called tourists I'm told
walking over hills and dale
these things on four wheels called cars
go so fast speedsters should be in jail
People so lacking manners
no decorum or finesse at all
they even watch talking pictures at home
oh their minds are really small
No knowledge of the great classics
as they waste their time away
in silly things like PCs and computer games
oh to be back in my own day
No reverence for God almighty
children give parents no respect
so glad I lived in 1800s
now that was the time to connect
AUTHOR NOTES: some thoughts on the great poet William Wordsworth (1770-
1850) of what he would have thought if he lived today.
We traveled together
Under neon skies
Two lost hearts on a map
Of long goodbyes
I'll be your Romeo
In a weathered suit
You'll be my Juliette
In Doc Martin boots
In movies the heroes
Never miss their cues
We kept missing ours
When the night fell through
You were a tourist
At the Tower of London
On the Thames
Watching and wondering
Our glasses are empty
And the table is bare
Every soft forever
Disappeared into despair
Your hand in mine
Felt almost like grace
The last light trembled
Like the smile on your face
That's the way it goes
Who really even knows
Two fools in the rain
While the wind blows
If love is a film
We missed our lines
You were my star
In the fading light
You were a tourist
At the Tower of Pisa
Waiting for the lean
Watching it slowly fall
Spice my gin tonic
With a little zest
Tears in the shaker
Salt across your dress
You lost your top
I lost my jacket
Found both of them
Hidden in your closet
Heroes on the screen
Were never honest
Kept pretending love
Was less than modest
Now the laughter
Won't keep us warm
The truth walked in
Like an rain storm
I hear your name
In the thin night air
Like a song I lost
I will always care
That's the way it goes
Who even really knows
Two fools in the rain
While the wind blows
If love is a film
We missed our lines
You were my star
In the fading light
If we could turn back
The spinning wheel
I'd leave the camera
And let us both heal
Even broken glass
Can catch a flame
I still trace your shadow
When I hear your name
So if this is the end
Let it end in light
Two constellations
Slipping out of sight
That's the way it goes
Who really even knows
Two fools in the rain
While the wind blows
If love is a film
We missed our lines
You were my star
In the fading light
That's the way it goes
Who really even knows
We held on too long
Then we both let go
We were never perfect
Only passing through
Still I keep a room
Reserved just for you
If love was a road
We passed the bend
And left our echoes
Where the river ends
We’re back in Paris because school starts in a few weeks.
I’m told the combination of air quality and heat are similar
to being in a sauna where everyone’s smoking cigarettes,
or barbecuing where you’re the meat on the skewer.
The song ‘Pink Pony Club’ has been stuck, echoing in my empty head,
all morning and this isn’t a complaint.
I love this time of year. Fall is coming, you can feel it,
it’s almost college time and I’m excited to be heading back to class.
And I’m pleased to read that Helicopter parents still co-pilot
their college-age kids and that collage-core students still
aspire to the top schools.
This is a shut-out to impressive students everywhere.
Foot traffic, in Champ de Mars park (our backyard) appears to be down,
perhaps because the sculpted trees in the commons offer little shade -
and they’ve closed the Eiffel Tower top to tourists.
Thank God it’s not global warming - there’s clearly no such thing.
Troubled mortals watch the prophetic heavens
for our days are bruited with hostile heat and
our tributaries drying up with violent speed.
Can nature’s woes be coherently counted?
.
.
Songs for this:
Sing Big by Tessa Violet
Doom Mood by Pearl & The Oysters
Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan
the nights were filled with arguments
new jersey had a new prostitute
spring and true love, drunken moments
soon mutable to the crashing of objects
against the walls, the doors
freedom thru defenestration
how was i supposed to read and write
i would bang on the wall
hey, Quasimodo, pax vobiscum, remember
mans sana in copre sano
this is heaven here on earth
try Occam's razor for god's sake
there would be a knock on the door
Quasi had returned my Beethoven's fifth
earphones, boom box
i loved his courtships
he used to walk, talk
and breathe his next conquest
the ones he could convince
to leave the profession
gifts in tow, he would stop by, well
you're irresistible Quasi
she hasn't a chance
need money, a few lines in Spanish
anything for a fellow kamikaze
it was worth the silence
i could hear him above my own roar
my only wish was to teach him
pick on the tourists, they leave
upon his victorious return, the inevitable
he would pull the bed back
far enough from the wall
to get the banging effect he needed
gave her hell didn't i, he would say
and the inevitable always brought the war
month, sometimes more, and they would
have found a new patron of the bottle art
but new jersey took one seriously
doing his life in Mexico
what is it like to love a woman to death
i don't care to know
what a horrible thought
it is much easier waving goodbye to buses
no jail time, no funeral expenses
Playa Hermosa 92 The Patient Stones
Smell The Season Sunshine
Sunlight sparkles dance a fervent ballet on the lake waking up summer
solitude.
Walk outside and breathe the pine fragrance in,
smell the season sunshine, you really can.
Listen for the good morning call of the loon.
Spear-like feathers,
focused red eyes,
a checkered neck, she ____glides_____.
Can you spot a dragonfly darting?
Watch a splashing duck diving?
Hear the tiny buzzing of a ruby-throated acrobat sipping?
Nearby there are petite, peeking heads poking through pine needles.
They are turtles, turning over leaves, tasting worms for a treat, neat!
Exposed by a ray of sunshine on a little moss carpet, fat, furry cheeks
guard their nutty treasures as though they were jeweled truffles.
A chipmunk is finally full.
I spy a trout breakfast held between the talons of an Osprey. What a find!
Darn, wish it was mine!
Fishing is finishing fast. Oh please, just one more
cast. I wish summer would last.
Anchored boats in the bay once used to bring home fish
'tails' retire on rocks to rest.
The sunset coaches the day to come in signaling a woodland lullaby to
begin.
Fireflies tapping at my window beckoning to come in.
Moonlight melts into a path I wish I could follow,
maybe tomorrow.
Anxious autumn now knocks at summer's door,
impatient to rain chilly color on the forest floor.
Now,
burrows will be built,
caves constructed,
and dens designed ...busy.
Mud homes will be dug by frogs and bugs.
Cider served in pounded copper mugs.
Covered bridge rides.
Pumpkin pies.
Tourists in Vermont. What do they want?
Where to find Granny Smith?
She waits for you in my tree. Bring your camera, you'll see.
Candles,
lanterns,
fairy lights,
sweater nights.
Good morning purple, red, and brown,
enchanting autumn sights and sounds.
Walk outside and breathe the maple fragrance in,
smell the season sunshine, you really can.
Oooih! Oooih!
Listen to the voice of an elephant,
Crying in the wilderness,
Help me, save me, leave me alone,
I need to live and keep my tasks.
Oooih! Oooih!
The rhino is also weeping,
So much in pain,
Help me, save me, leave me alone,
I need to live and keep my horns.
Ladies and gentlemen,
These are some distress calls from the wild,
Who will listen?
Dear listener, God gave us nature,
Sweet and nice to watch, yes I mean sweet,
Gave us animals, forests, rivers to name but a few,
Gave us responsibility and ability over nature,
But why! Why! Why turn against our future?
Nature holds our future, why do we kill it?
The cries from the wild, are really disturbing our ears,
So much is at risk, when we hunt and kill our wildlife,
Fewer tourists, local or foreign, and less to boast about,
Killing our animals, is surely killing our super future,
Skinning our animals, is skinning our super future,
Nature holds our future, why do we kill it?
Skins, tusks, horns belong to our animals,
Teeth, meat and life, all are given by God,
Enjoy their viewing; leave them as they are,
We warn you, touch – them- not,
If you were to touch them, part their backs and go!
Nature holds our future, why do we kill it?
On this peaceful land where we live comfortably
with the neighboring villagers sharing the sun and moon,
stars and clouds, winds and waters, rains and snows;
we sow the seeds on the field, wander in the wilderness
to spot the games to hunt in the changing colors of the flowers
in the time of bloom and fruit and revolving seasons
One day, from the east, crossing over the great sea,
the white feathered gluttonous bird flew into this peaceful land
and took our land by force; the bird cruelly pecked us with his avaricious beak, cold-heartedly tore us with his sharp talons, kept pushing and shoving us eastward, and this vicious cycle drove us into tribal wars and at last, Illini
to extinct.
And this moaning butte throwing its shadow on the water
atop of encircling cliffs is the Starved Rock, the site where
the great tragedy took place, all Illini tribesmen lost their lives.
The water of the Illinois River mixed with the tears of the people
who lost everything in the east via this legion for further west,
now moans to ease the spirit of Illini wandering around
the Staved Rock, which is still hungry, in the evening glow
as a soundless requiem.
The water flows embracing sorrowful Rock where:
the mother jumped into the water holding her beloved child,
the village elders who collapsed while upholding tribal pride
followed by the war cry of the warriors who grabbed tomahawk and fought but, alas, fell to enemy’s hand, now is telling the story of their last day
it becomes whirlpool in the very middle of the water.
When the streams small and large come together the following paths
meet and form a pool on the top of this lonely butte on the other side of the river, and dashes into the basin of the waterfall;
some of them fall rapidly into the steep ravine with heartrending cries
some of them drift like slow moving time in deep sorrow
some of them descend to the rocks of level stratum one by one
singing a funeral dirge.
The spirit of Illini drifting along the river
carrying so many sad stories touches the tourists’
heart; stepping on the site of the tragedy
makes tears stand to casual sightseers;
the grief-stricken stories raise the ripples in the river
and leaves a lingering imagery in the eyes and ears of the travelers
Obviously male, I strut my stuff and make my song of Key Key Key.
I am the captain of this branch in the banks of this bamboo tree.
My relatives are from Costa Rica, and are as aggressive as paprika.
Except the looney ones from Argentina, who dance the Macarena.
Wait! That’s a lie, but we do have cousins in Panama.
They live in proximity of the great white macaw.
We are not petite like a parakeet.
But our rainbow throats simply cannot be beat.
We are medium sized, which sometimes makes tourists surprised.
A diehard necatavore; I eat sugar-rich flowers in meadow next door.
Do not wander far from my mountain gem tribe.
Or my lovely mate, my darling sweet heart bride.
She has laid two white eggs, sitting has made her cross.
Up seven foot high, they are covered by moss.
I am obviously male, I strut my stuff and make my song Key Key Key.
No other fiery throated hummingbird has the confidence of me.
Their lies on the West Coast of Scotland
A Kingdom that's rarely been seen
Where it's beauty radiates through ones eyes
Even closed you can only but dream
Natures gems thrive through seasonal change
Blessing colonies of sea faring birds
To witness the call of it's wilds
So many voices just have to be heard
Cordyline australis grace her lands
They are palm trees to you and me
A native from a land down under
Not Australia, New Zealand is where they be
This area where this Kingdom lies
With it's rugged and beautiful scenes
Freshwater lochs lure many anglers
To catch the fish of their dreams
Many visiting tourists, some in family trace
To discover where their ancestors be
Capturing snaps of their homelands, a past way of life
Filling the blanks of their family tree
Sporadic green forests of pine
With ferns and heathers, carpet the lands
Rugged juts off an earth from the past
Spewed through her juvenile glands
And this land through your eyes that you see
Is the Kingdom that's rarely seen
If you live here we call it Scourie
So beautiful in natures scheme
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland-5.php
Joe works the gas station,
they still do full serve,
tops you off with a big grin,
if you wait your turn.
Chats with all the tourists,
shows them where to go,
that’s why everyone in town
calls him Fill’er-up Joe.
Fill’er-up Joe,
whoa, whoa, whoa,
Fill’er-up Joe,
don’t go slow,
folks need gas,
don’t you know,
they’ll all come back
for another go.
Works the bar for night shifts,
only one in town,
there’s no head when he pours beer
the folks guzzle down.
Chats with all the ladies,
makes the liquor flow,
all his friends, when nighttime comes,
call him Fill’er-up Joe.
Fill’er-up Joe,
whoa, whoa, whoa,
Fill’er-up Joe,
don't go slow,
folks need booze,
don’t you know,
they all come back
for another go.
Sometimes those young ladies
take a shine to him,
the man’s not that bad looking,
they fall for his grin.
The man’s got no money,
but those girls still go,
the next day his buddies smirk,
“Did you fill’er-up Joe?”
Fill’er-up Joe,
oh, oh, OH!
Fill’er-up Joe,
please go slow,
girls need love,
don’t you know,
they all come back
for another go.