Partners in poetic perambulation
in peregrination’s peaceful imagination
Without prestidigitation
serendipitous poesy will do
Each of us inspiring the others
creating community ~ sisters and brothers
THE CANDY-DATE KID-NAP
Young chap, Baby on knee.
hardly old enough to vote. Settle to nap,
Just out of mother's lap, and form dreaming.
knowledge of government still remote. Blasted! Jet fly, he up.
Must take the plunge sometime, though, Maybe now he
now is as good a time as any startle poo' chap.
to walk the straight and narrow, Cause warm feeling.
stand on one's own and be free. Bastard! Wet on my lap!
Here we go:
(moment's hesitation)
right before left.
Got it, good show!
……PERAMBULATION.
In downtown Denver, people
Zip around without a care
On the scooters that the city
Lets them access everywhere.
They are ridden on the sidewalks
So whoever gets the urge
Locates one that's sitting idly
With a battery's full surge.
They're not found in New York City,
Where shared bikes are what folks use
But if they make an appearance,
I think Citibikes would lose.
It's a vision of the future.
Walking, one day, won't exist
And perambulation, possibly,
Won't even be much missed.
You cannot leave the house unless
You have a destination,
‘Cause once you’ve crossed the threshold
There must be perambulation.
It might be to your car or yard
Or mailbox or the store,
But even just out for a walk,
Once you have closed the door…
You have to move; you cannot stand
Stock still or you’ll be stuck,
With no one nearby waiting
To help free you from the muck.
Perhaps the secret key to life
Is thinking through and knowing
Exactly where you plan to be
When you begin your going.
Emerging from home to the bus stop outside,
where women are heading for work,
my perambulation as past them I slide
pulls their heads from their phones with a jerk.
My buttocks are both thrusting forwards and back
and my hips swivel round like a snake,
my backside moves just like two cats in a sack
too much for the ladies to take.
I see from their faces their shock and their horror
that they are directing at me
will certainly not be around here tomorrow
because you can take it from me
that the joy of this morning from when day was dawning
and I don't care what those women thought
is me getting to treasure a man's simple pleasure
of wearing freshly ironed boxer shorts.
The purple and white
Flower hangs as a creeper
Along the fences
Displaying a winsome sight
In the perambulation
1-26-2016
I heard a call from the orchard deep,
On an evening perambulation.
In keeping with the air of autumn sleep
It pulled taut my imagination.
It came to me through barren trees
And was so soft I doubted my hearing.
I walked on remains of this year’s leaves
Never having an accurate bearing.
When I came to where I had last heard it
I am sure I was where I should have been,
But standing alone as though I deserved it,
The call never came back to me again.
Early morning stroll -
the scent of rain permeates.
Earthy, delightful.
God, Your beautiful
and I hurt so bad, it's brutal
The way your hair flairs
like a flame in open air
even as you sit in your chair
at the front of the class
And when you move, I lose concentration
and despite my consternation,
your perambulation draws my gaze,
and casts a haze that clouds my mind
Your body, perfect, imprinted in my memory
Its shape, its smell
but, I have to tell, on it alone, I do not dwell
Your voice, leaves me no choice
When you speak,
I am weak to do anything but listen
and when you sing, its as the sound of spring
and with it, I am simple as melting snow, running into a flowing creek
But these are only the surface
They are warm, pleasant waters, shallow and beautiful
Yet there is much more
Past these is you
the deep blue of the depth of your mind
in here are the true mysteries that keep me here
in truth, this is the core
the thing that keeps mere me
frozen in fear of pushing you away
I want to explore,
to dive deep
to just be near
to really know you
and to know all of you
A welter of anxious faces gawks curiously at him,
But by now he is immune to the consternation.
His effervescent expression glows,
As he swigs down their viscous repulsion.
He knows that they will desecrate his graveyard,
Punishing him for his denial to be superfluous,
For his denial to permit flexibility in himself.
But will they incarcerate him in the walls of his mind?
His guilt has been proved in the lifelong adjudication,
Yet he never mocks their paradoxical thoughts.
The site is given a last perambulation,
And then spasmodic gun fire ends The Tale.
Some race through life unaffected by the phases of the moon,
or the way gentle sunlight catches dew on a flower’s bloom.
There is something quite distinctive in a poet’s easy gait;
stopping to savor the ambiance of all things small and great.
On a path of wistful detours the poet will find his way,
relishing peaceful solitude he devours life’s vast array.
Slow, his pace may be mistaken for a lack of ambition;
more significant is the journey than the destination.
Compelling forces within, that bring about haste in others,
spawn the poet’s perambulation toward his own desires.
Inspired by emotions stirred during discontent and blithe,
a poet strolls ever composing his symphony of life.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.