There ought to be a law against it,
Definitely not a good fit,
To pass a law without a way to enforce it.
There ought to be a law against it,
Allowing some brainless twit,
To think of it,
There ought to be law against it,
Passing a law without local input,
To make nonsense of it.
There ought to be a law against it,
When a law change allows only lawyers to profit,
And productivity stalls because of it.
There ought to be a law against it,
Law changes to make crime legit,
With police on sick leave because of it.
There ought to be a law against it,
A law to tell us when to sit,
With there are not enough chairs to allow for it.
weekly market
stalls
on both sides
a narrow road
in between
a crowd
of people
bargaining
shopping
bags
getting full
wallets
getting empty
and then, suddenly,
stopping
for a little while
chatting
laughing
catching up
gossiping
about this and that
market day story
The Panic Tide
The pulse begins its frantic drum,
A breathless rising of the tide,
As all the silent terrors come
To strip the peace away inside.
The palms grow wet, the cold sweat breaks,
The color floods a flushing face,
And every tethered muscle aches
Locked deep within this sudden space.
A jaw is clenched, a lip is torn,
The desperate teeth bite down on nails,
As from the throat a gasp is born,
Where every steady sentence fails.
The fingers curl to tight-bound fists,
The hands fling upward from the fright,
While trembling through the limbs persists,
And knees will jerk against the night.
The breath comes shallow, hard, and fast,
A heavy gagging stalls the air,
The body tenses to the last,
And screams aloud in its despair.
In reaching through the blinding storm,
The frantic fingers stretch to find
The safety of another form,
To anchor what is left behind.
I have crossed enough borders
to know that countries are only arguments
between one horizon and another,
and passports are maps of suspicion.
I have slept beneath unfamiliar ceilings,
learned the manners of borrowed cities,
drunk coffee whose names I could pronounce
but never quite understood.
Everywhere, civilisation offered me a chair—
provided I knew which fork to use,
when to applaud, when to remain silent,
and how convincingly to pretend I belonged.
But somewhere between the opera houses
and the roadside stalls, between philosophy
and the cheap wisdom of tired men,
I began to suspect the traveller was the destination.
So I returned carrying no souvenirs,
only the uncomfortable knowledge
that home had been following me all along—
and I had mistaken its footsteps for mine.
Middle of nowhere as the road continues
A hotel sign welcomes my urgent needs
Panic, chaos, as I search for a restroom sign
I burst though the door like a gun slinger in a saloon
Relief
In the wild maze of stalls and panic
I never checked my surroundings for supplies
The roll has gone from white to brown.
No more TP!
Next to me I can see feet.
I am frozen.
I do not make a sound
I feel like I am being hunted by embarrassment
I do not know who is next to me
I make assumptions of their life by the appearance of their shoes
Kind of scuffed and not well maintained
"Spare a square" I would never dare
I wait uncomfortably until they are gone
I shuffle to another stall and again I am whole.
The heat is given during this time
People grabbing ice like a crime
Venturing into places like Malls
Some go to man made food stalls
The air becomes so dry with frizzy Hair
The moments that men don't really care
Woman love to take pictures to share
Sometimes revealing things to beware
The evening becomes humid and relax
More so now when you go out you look at tax
The more we eat out reveals money cracks
We can surround the table like a wolf pack
The memories of beautiful set up of food
The Colors that show how much is good
The captured image of gourmet stood
Then as hungry wolf pack ate all we could
The Vacation was so much events
We have not explored or made a dents
Many things we see time could not be bent
So we take image into clouds can be sent
Someone can ruin your life like thick, chewed gum.
The snaps and stalls started.
Until the people around me just, blundered against me.
Not once but all around me like speakers placed strategically.
Call me.
I’m caffeine.
I’m lunch at 10:30 am.
The thick, chewed gum lingers.
Exasperated.
As the car headlights seem to cry too.
Someone can ruin your life with patterns, gum, and railroad crossings too.
Engaging The Senses - Sight, Sound, Smell, Touch, Taste
Sound
I walk with white a cane where valley life is breathing,
The water showers near the shop, soft, soothing,
Children’s laughter drifts from far, sweet and teasing,
While rickshaw horns crash loud like a storm seizing.
Smell
BBQ smoke and chai rise warm from stalls nearby,
Rain wakes the earth, and tea steam meets the sky,
Lily and jasmine bloom where flowers softly lie,
Their scent recalls her name I cannot let die.
Touch
My fingers read the world that eyes cannot see,
Silk on my palm moves slow as worms on a tree,
I shape the clay and feel each curve carefully,
So every hidden detail speaks to me.
Taste
I sit where coffee dreams were broken long ago,
Naan khatai with tea tastes like clouds in rain’s flow,
Cold tea has lost its warmth, like past tastes I know,
Yet this bazaar keeps all the days I won’t let go.
Sight
At my craft desk I build her face from touch and breath,
My inner sight sees clear beyond the night of death,
I mold the love I lost, defying silent death,
And hope one day she’ll see what my hands bequeath.
Saying good bye.
Still makes me cry.
A tear drop falls from my eye.
Looking back to see.
Where you might be.
Still missing you.
Thoughts turn blue.
Thankfully for the time we had.
Can't help but feel sad.
The memory hurts me to the bone.
I feel alone.
Time does not heal.
I feel.
Still.
Still missing you.
Been gone all these years.
Tears.
My first born.
From us, you were torn.
Nothing was ever the same.
No one to blame.
Life happens that way.
........So they say......
Lost so much.
I fell out of touch.
Drifted my life away.
When you cross my mind.
Time gets left behind.
A little something to remind.
A tear drop falls
Life momentarily stalls.
Then I feel your love wrap around me.
This is not how you want me to be.
My feeling so bad.
Makes you so sad.
Putting peace back into my heart.
A new start
But this will forever be true.
I'll always be missing you.
RESPONSE ANYDAY
IRAN STALLS UNTIL SUNDAY
AND WHAT WILL IT SAY
The Predator's Stage
She planned it well, to vanish and to fade away
So, everyone would forget
A clever trap within the mess she made.
She left her things in an arranged design,
To pull at heart strings and keep us all in line.
You wouldn’t believe how many felt the blow,
Even had me feeling guilty
And shed a tear for one they didn’t know.
Behind closed doors she’s someone different
She is vile, a creature dark and cold, a psychopathic heart
A deceiving woman, a child beater through and through,
Not even lovable, though she tried to fool you.
To plan a ritualistic return.
She’s hiding now, preparing for the stage,
Because she failed in her new life
To come back grand and flip another page.
But I have watched the "grandeur" she has planned,
And spread the word across this weary land.
I called her out, the "crook on the loose" is known,
And now her seeds of spite will not be grown.
I’ve spoiled the plan, I’ve broken every seal,
The more who know, the more we make it real.
Her comeback stalls, her ritual is dead,
Because the truth is what we speak instead.
“Tell me” Would we want her back?
It's Friday, yay! The final weekday of my academic immurement.
On Friday nights we go out - we’re up late - so late that it’s early,
but it’s ok, we’re young and dumb.
But if you think you’ll find me sleeping in on a Saturday morning - you’d be wrong.
On the weekends, the richest part of Paris mornings involve neighborhood street-life - which are invitations to sensory abundance - and it all happens before lunchtime.
The sensorial joys of the “sun-south” flower market stalls, overflowing with fresh lavender, peonies and powdery-sweet Violet blooms - tulips from Holland and roses from Kenya - that cool the air with fresh fragrances compete and mingle with savory baking aromas from local boulangeries (bakeries).
The dueling scents define mornings in the Marais (ivy-clad streets) or along the Seine.
Hit the snooze button and you can miss it (and trust me, napping later can be fun).
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
under the milky way by the church
autumn stalls, a spent leaf falls
spirit yet graced by bliss squalls
rust red hues adorning earth
womb of life, wherefrom God calls
A fire engine red square in a blue circle,
that’s the very definition of monachopsis.
I am blanketed languishing in all of this,
it’s tiresome living life like it’s on critical.
Fluctuating between stability and gone,
so many memories attached to four walls.
Walking that fine line I slip and it all stalls,
thrown down persuaded I’m the only one.
Battering hard every bit of my equilibrium
is a vision of how everything was before.
Each person that has danced on this floor
hit a beat now attached to my desiderium.
The last moments of this legendary venue
tears spring to my eyes as I see the lights.
This stage where I spent so many nights
will never give another band their debut.
We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
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