Some go to canberra to look at the sights.'
Some went in 22, to complain on its blights.'
Its a strange old place canberra.' A shop window of sorts.' A (w e f) example of just
What has been bought.' Gee thery are a strange mob in 'that place' but the best place
TWOT'S; to see..And in great numbers; just take it from me, maybe that could become
Passtime.? We'll have to wait and see.'Go up there and (count the TWOTS?) Well you'll get a whole lot.' All in
One place they be .' ( its almost a humanistic zoo) My proverbial God.' Its
TWOT town Australia..' but you need to be in a good
Numbered crew, cause they can be quite savage, wow I'm tellin you.' They
Have been known to be agressive.' To spectators when up close.' I saw a TWOT once
Ram a convoy..Screaming expletives mouthing hatefull boasts..But go on up by all means.!
Just stay protected from ( their cookers ) and
Don't let them know you're counting..Thats a
' thing i'm told; best never done in front of hookers'
reflection
in a shop window -
suck in my stomach
that face in the mirror -
always much older
than I am
slowly
swallowing itself -
setting sun
Most so called world leaders have been abused.' Than eases the task of making
Them of use.' War is always the main ploy
The shop window , that can be employed.'
The display arranged, to entice.' Never a light
On the backdrop of velvety vice.' Its mostly
About (freedom and choice) from the medium,
With strident voice.' With the marrow of humanity's senses under-mined and some
Mantra ( that all will be fine') we are embarked
On another foray.. Three cheers for sound
Reason, now..we are off with a Hip..pip..pip and Hooray...'
You won’t see these words
in a shop window
printed across a smiling face,
or scribbled upon a wall -
they will probably never be daubed
on toilet stall doors either.
Deep and meaningless words
are generally reserved
for deep and meaningless poetry.
Works of literary art
that paint pretty word-pictures.
They are often well crafted,
but in the end
the reader is left hollow
wondering
why depth is so often presented
in such a shallow way.
I took it in my palm
A stray that looked familiar
Confused, lost, beaten
It was my silhouette
It had left me a decade by
We had a difference of opinion
And we walked a separate road
I'd often think of him
In passing
In a shop window reflection
In a quiet winter morn
When I was alone
We had been close once
Fought battles in playgrounds
Lay beside me in darker times
When hormones grew
And life was confusing
He held my hand
Whispered the right words
That brought comfort
I missed him
It made me sad
That I could be alone in a crowded room
My wingman somewhere, lost too?
Missing me, maybe, maybe not!
Today though unexpected he returned
Bedraggled, worn at the seams
Just like me, I suppose
That mattered not
Just that he was here
My true friend home
Together once more
We sat for a while
Hugged, traded times
Then drifted, to sleep
And dreamt of tomorrow.
If she arrives soon
it will be too late.
The one who makes you weep
like sparkling rain,
happy to be her joy; her pain
she will always be further away
the more you hurry to draw near.
You have been delayed
by too many yesterdays.
should she ever return,
you will have already taken
tomorrow as your bride.
Unknowingly, she waited
until you found another,
should she reappear this day
she would only be a glance
in a shop window.
You change your mind and heart
seek out, seek in,
yet she will always remain beyond
the next streetlight
in a foreign city,
one you now will never visit.
Sometimes this creature looks at you.
Those eyes can be so piercing.
Or are they kind, sympathetic?
He or she is fur – and even that
is artificial stuff. But with eyes.
What were you thinking when
you gazed at him - or her -
in a shop window?
Whose eyeballs were created
with coloured plastic, glass or affection?
(20 Jan 2024)
A mind realized that it had become
itself, a self
that had been molded by fractured hands
yet somehow
by the grace of time
had now become itself.
This self was both a shop-window and a mannikin,
yet even though it was a cut-out
of certain carefully crafted characteristics of an imaged reality,
it knew it was,
and
that is the difference
between one who sleep-walks an existence
and one who is fully-charged
and ready to be a light
unto itself.
Price for respectability
never means to spend money like water
While the wife of a poor country’s president
was outside at a shop that sells luxury items,
the shop window broke and cut her purse
and tons of bloody dollars slide out like a rocket
The Last Time I saw Father
David J Walker
There he was
His face aglow behind the
Coffee shop window
Sitting
stirring a chrome-plated spoon
In the dark sheen of
Coffee sugar and cream
He looked up
Saw me
And became the moon as full
As the last days that October
could display
There he was
Taking a long last drag from his
Unfiltered cigarette
Crushing it out and
Disappearing in the
Gray smoke
His ghost-like figure
Starting the DeSoto parked
On the curb and
Driving away
Without a word
There he goes
A cloud afloat
in a puff
Of smoke
Toward a November sky
A tumor bloomed in my muted throat,
I had to duct tape my mind to the wordless,
had to be a spy in a watchers eye.
I'm looking at a lion staring into a camera;
under its heavy paw a gazelle
also peering into a lens
as if both were waiting, paused,
wanting to be witnessed.
Every day needs a death dance
to keep us wanting to survive
for the people,
the people watching.
I'm looking through a shop window
at televisions revealing all this,
plus my in-looking gaze.
It’s important to look good
as time drains away
in its usual hap-hazard way.
Shocking and disgusting the old ladies said
Enough to turn the meek a delicate shade of red
What would I wonder a man of the cloth say
Would he tut tut and complain and look away
The old men probably laugh as they walk on by
The young ladies probably embarrassed and shy
Teenagers shrug and really don't really care
Men in their twenties double take and stare
So what you ask is the cause of this commotion
It is certainly not a drug and definitely no potion
I saw them the other day with my own two eyes
Corsets in a shop window is definitely a surprise
You won’t see these word
in a shop window
printed across a smiling face,
or embossed, engraved, or scribbled;
probably not daubed
on toilet stall walls yet.
They belong to the Net,
a pliable device
that floats to the top
of a running river of white water.
If you have the skill to spear fish
you might catch one or two,
but I am afraid they will not be
of much use to you
in your life plan,
for your nest egg,
your spiritual growth
or for any healing purposes
whatsoever.
You may try rubbing your libido
with the sounds they make,
I do, but of course
they, being only words,
offer little relief.
If you drink strong alcohol
(nothing sweet with fruit in it),
then you might
add them like ice into your glass;
for a while they will rattle around
your teeth
almost pleasantly.
Everyone's seen the morning sun
the light slants and the blood-splattered sky
the full moon's sliced off to night's dark face
on to the TV screen, Facebook or Whatsup
seasons arrive and go, to return once more
the summer heat takes off your shirt
the hat tilts to shade
in the rainy months, the umbrella's out
to serve as a walking stick as well
nothing new about it, to write about
the mannequins at the shop window
the phenomenon not in it's field of vision
intricately woven with our lives
and yet we don't give a damn about it
at our work, play, courtship or party-hop
working against it, at every step
the paper to read and write on
the houses we live in; and roads
by undermining mountains for rocks
ballast for the railway tracks
automobiles burn the air
shortage of oxygen to breathe
impure air impair lives...
Yes, I have seen them live
in Sevagram a village in India
followers of Mahatma Gandhi
survive in an ashram
in houses made of mud and wood
just can hold a bed, table and chair
no electricity but lanterns
no tap water but from underground
to live in sync with nature
that's their motto and life's purpose
out on the streets a beggar man,
my tainted hat stretched out for alms,
flowing past me, the city crowds,
they rush away, show empty palms!
people lost in their rainbow dreams,
one by one, go their hurried way,
a human want is just ignored,
my pleads and requests hold no sway.
see silver flakes of Christmas snow,
lights and colours on shop window,
busy day in suburban town,
spot a lady with girl on tow.
little girl looks at me and smiles,
her innocent love makes my day,
her mother yields five dollar bill,
hope in land of moral decay!
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