My heart: poetry of a faded road map.
Abstract fragments,
an out of sync word,
a line full of teardrops,
you can’t read the route.
Shifting between fonts,
abstract aesthetics,
incoherent process,
impossible signage.
Lonely cracked bridges,
resolutions unknown,
barely missing collapse,
a fickle heartbeat plays on.
On the hunt for a dirt road,
fertile soil to put a stamp on,
spirit tickled with wanderlust,
the muse revives a flatline.
A faded road map: my heart’s poetry.
Early gold elevates the Taj Mahal Restaurant.
Sun-rinsed beams bedeck its frontage.
The low strip mall is not yet awake,
yet it basks; it glows golden
through every light-enthroned window,
bejeweled signage floats
above a light laundered concrete
and new-washed litter.
For a few clear moments
the shop-worn facades glittered
in vivid auric rays
I saw it all through a windshield,
I saw a kind of heaven
take a selfie through a once tacky lens.
When I returned later,
the litter was just litter,
shopping carts dripped above cloudy puddles.
The Taj Mahal was open, and already
sinking into a lunch-time special.
In a museum, right there on the wall,
The name of the artwork’s displayed,
Along with the artist and elements used
And the date it was painted or made.
Yet some institutions don’t follow the script
And there are no labels or signs.
Instead, there are folders you pluck from a pile
For the info most signage defines.
It’s annoying to me, extra work, if you will,
Matching outlines and numbers to where
On the wall every gallery work has been hung,
For a plaque would be better off there.
Some museums are known for exhibits so dense
There is not enough room for a card,
But the one I just came from is spacious and spare,
So some signage would not have been hard.
I received a ten dollar off coupon for my birthday
It said I could even use it on a ten- dollar item!
Today I wished I had used it
when I saw the hardware store had gone out of business.
At this time of year there are usually outside plants all around the store.
Nothing was there, the signage was down, the windows showed empty shelves.
I wondered what happened to the cat who used to hide under the outside plants.
A car was parked illegally;
The hydrant wasn’t cleared,
Plus it was by a nursing home
And might have interfered.
I never would have noticed it,
But signage did impart
That a tow truck would be coming
‘Cause the engine wouldn’t start.
Thee note said “Please!” perhaps to cops
Who rarely have the choice
About issuing a ticket to
A reprobate Rolls Royce!
Low Emission zone disinformation..Is a factor on sinage
Thats the situation.' First a magistrate in Bedford flagged
Not fine, these signs that have ruined life for many.' Also
Wasted so much time.' Yesterday Noel Wilcox, Royally won'
At the so named courts in London judgement on veracity I
See it had to come.' So now if you've been hit no matter
Where you are from.' You can obtain a refund, maybe to
Spend on having fun? Like driving to London.' Just to see
The sights.? Oh and I do hope we are soon rid of all that
That extra metal signage.' Thats really an unsightly blight !
Scored, stained, painted, washing, squeezing.
Profound fingers duly pleasing.
A perfect sign is not one’s goal.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Basic colors, silver and gold,
Sprinkles that touch wet paint, behold.
Cathartic stressing’s console.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
A maverick or dependent.
Assured it will be resplendent.
To each his own creed of control.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
The group imparts a tenderness,
Rubbing elbows of cleverness;
And pondering time in fishbowl.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
All eyes on the “perfect” signage.
Does such have a great advantage?
Peculiar go down rabbit hole.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Still, the simplicity of cream;
And chocolate Easter bunny’s dream,
Won’t be held in one’s cubby hole.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Scored, stained, painted, washing, squeezing.
Profound fingers duly pleasing.
A perfect sign is not one’s goal.
Crafting a masterpiece of soul.
Trucks hauling away defunct Malls.
One city has been transported to another,
until superimposed, only the name are different.
Freeways chase endless miles,
looking for more things to shift,
shlep and shoulder.
Ninety per cent of everything movable
is assembled by 100 percent of new renters.
Oil, cattle, and inflammable gaseous toxins,
are handled by cab radios, satellite commands,
and shredding rubber.
The main drags compete to be anonymous,
wear the same masks, many disintegrate
or morph into closed forever signage.
In the concrete encircled,
whittled-down woods,
lovers try to imagine a better place to live,
one that is not yet on the road.
a signage in the park exclaims
pause awhile here for Jesus
two young men chaperone
our aroused curiosity
what do you want for your family
is the question to us they posed
there is no one here, we answer
hoping that they will understand
Never in secluded pools they dwell,
I speak of ornate waterfalls,
they rise and fall majestically,
near docks, wharves and piers,
sparkle, gleam, smooth flow trickle,
eye balm whirl fantastic perk on tap,
stickybeak on podium rapids,
instigator signage when our trek seems dull,
but reflection is a gem warp cataract,
kinetic rebound ocean wave backbeat,
which in fact an upfront blissful target,
hardly ever missing opal bulls-eye,
environmental bubbles that somehow never burst,
indulge outlandish fare Promethean,
spurt on vermillion lanyards pendant sweep,
dream paint sunrise clementine tincture,
daub acrylic spree through pale moon orb,
squeeze tube lambent hue past frail mandala,
eternal sepia a light touch pristine shroud,
that loiters over urban life force ripple,
flaunt your image rich abundant fire
Midnight boom town streets have this allure
imagining an uncanny venture
eavesdrop veil surround but dark as coal
how I love my after hours stroll
Secret worlds unfold their impish plot
mesmerised entanglement a tiered whatnot
black crush velvet sky we must extol
how I love my after hours stroll
Gilt fantasies that float across each lane way
fluorescent gremlin from some ghostly parking bay
gust on salt ice pier might buttonhole
how I love my after hours stroll
Snow clad mall whistler gaffe prone
while wandering the ink hue urban zone
a chapter lift and snatch from begging bowl
how I love my after hours stroll
Traffic signals stellar stoic stance
heartbeat of nocturnal moonlight dance
frozen digit signage reeks of twinkling North Pole
how I love my after hours stroll
These days my wife and I are in Australia for a holiday
We walk down to Coogee beach every other day
A signage screams, ‘racism not welcome’
‘Who’re they addressing’ we hum
Opposite is McDonalds eat out
From within we hear an Aussie shout
‘I don’t like your accent, yellow skinned girl’
In silent rage the hair on my arms begins to curl
Now, Aussies are mostly quite friendly and affable
Yet what we narrate too is fact and not fable
One rotten apple gives all a bad name
But the braggart, he had no shame
Why did McDonalds serve this man
Such idiots get away because they can
It is high time we get together to walk the talk
Punishment should be swift and we should not balk
Peter’s off again to job interview (second round, in Geneva), he was only here two days but something of him remained behind. Oh, fingerprints for sure - but memories too - like scattered Christmas wrappings - or a poem:
Ok, gimme me your best day, take your best shot at perfection.
Our minds take experiences and press them grape-like,
into the intoxicating liquor of memory.
The vivid ones linger - unaltered - like youthful Internet mistakes forever posted.
Someday to beckon us back, teasingly - like bright, neon signage.
To those
who gave up everything
they knew, they lived, they loved,
To give me
my Today
my American day:
Were that small
leaking stinking wooden ship
sailing today
bound for America,
And they be
crowded on the bow
watching in great anticipation
as an unknown skyline
emerges from the mist...
What would they see?
A gate across the waters...?
Signage saying
No Admittance.
No immigrants allowed.
And a statue weeping.
The canal poked like a finger
into the wrinkled abdomen
of the Port. Along its length,
ketches once bruised
wooden wharves unloading wheat
shipped from outports across the gulf.
Pigeons stalked the spill of grain
from hessian bags torn
by wharfies hooks. Port Adelaide’s
pigeons were kept well fed.
I can remember being harnessed
to a pole and taught to swim
in the cold, dark waters of the canal.
I thrashed and kicked but could not float.
I did not have my fathers dolphin grace
whose aquatic triumphs were engraved
on a silver trophy that stood proud
atop a fireplace shelf.
In its final days the canal slowed
to a halt. Wharves were empty
and gave way to rot. In the end,
dump trucks cascaded fill down
embankments until it choked.
A car park now seals its grave
where plastic bags sail endlessly
across an asphalt lake.
A shopping precinct recalls its name
in gaudy signage.
Memory still has me dangling
on the end of a pole, flailing arms
desperately searching for something
solid to hold, suspended
like a lead weight
above a cold abyss.
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