With my hands aloft I hail and
greet you all,
woolly slow-traipsing souls of Australia,
the motif in innocent art, holy and treasured,
bleating to the call of soundless dawn.
When my soul feels weary and weak
and I struggle to find the light…
To be in the stone garden is all I seek, traipsing along barefooted in delight.
When my body is bruised and sore
and my fingers worked to the bone,
I close my eyes once more
and I’m in the garden of stone.
When my mind seems to be going mad and my heart feels too tired for more…
I think of all the moments I’ve had
barefoot in the stone garden I adore.
Often I close my eyes and dream
of the stone and moss beneath my feet…
I hear the soft babbling of a stream
And the morning choir begins to tweet.
The flowers of every hue begin to show
as morning breaks on the glory before me,
when I cease to exist, somehow I know, barefoot in the stone garden my soul shall forever be…
06/20/2022
A forlorn figure pines while traipsing down the meadow,
dawn dewdrop wet sprinkles mock her sylvan shadow,
red sky ablaze mere ornate first light wrinkled lull,
hazy whisper from mint gust for maiden that blind pull,
or bright hue’d usher to green moss-strewn meander,
where rainbow trout a wily catch might quell one edgy bystander
After being cooped inside
Because of cold or snow,
A warmer sunny day demands
You get outside and go!
Depending on your lifestyle,
If you leave to get some air,
You choose a place to perk you up
And mosey over there.
One friend of mine adores the beach,
So she will take a drive
And hit the boardwalk for a stroll
To make her feel alive.
Another lives in warmer climes
But when she needs her space,
She hits a nature sanctuary;
That’s her go-to place.
And as for me, when I am drawn
Outside to take a walk,
I’m happiest just traipsing on
The sidewalks of New Yawk.
I am tired and thirst
far from having any erotic feelings,
too hot for a 'nookie,' the last thing on my mind.
Here in the stifling heat surrounding our camp site,
I keep traipsing back and forward to the eskie
to get an ice cold drink, and wet my face cloth.
Passing my husband, I see his hot sweaty face,
I laugh to myself and say
" No hints of an erotically charged afternoon today."
He is also hot, tired and thirsty,
heat has a way of sapping one's energy!
Perhaps? if a cool change arrives
we may change our minds, and
fall into a passionate, erotic embrace.
'I don't think so'
The only erotic thing in my vision is
my husband wrapping his lips around his cigarette,
performing slow drawback's and blowing smoke rings
Or curling his fingers around the radio knob
to change the radio station.
I gaze at his rough, unshaven face, and
think to myself 'Pash Rash' if
caught in erotic twists and turns -
'No thanks.'
When not out clubbing
hey-ho the merry oh
at night with the Inuit
I suspect by intuit
an intrepid Inuk named Nanook
a-hunting walrus he would go
with his trusty harpoon
traipsing 'cross the ice and snow
then when paddling afloat he went
in the harsh Arctic environment
to keep out the bitter cold and damp
in the very bottom of his boat
there was a fiery seal oil lamp
which eventually burned a hole
and without trace into oblivion he sank
with nothing to mark the place
in those deep dark blue depths so dank
even so who can ever forget
this tall tale chilling yet true
as his demise to the pithy proverb gave rise
'You can't have your kayak and heat it too'
Like Harry Potter, the sorting hat (my mom)
has placed me in a bloody, crimson colored school.
It’s disorienting, as I go about, the logos are wack.
Poor little rich girl
no beachside lovers
this interminable, scorching summer.
I’m swept up by scholastic spirit.
Can you hear it? Cause it’s deafening me,
on this cool, dry, Boston orientation day.
As we finished our morning 8k jog,
the sunrise blossomed, painting hot lava clouds
with hues of yellow, orange and pink.
We’re traipsing unfamiliar paths,
It’s not what we’re used to, the roads are uneven
and the architecture’s all boxy and wrong.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
Better After All by Jonatha Brooke
Now At Last by Feist
traipsing down moonlight's path
bamboo sway on errant winds
jasmine perfumes the air ~
scent of wistful memories
“Rash and inexperienced”
frees thoughts within my mind
of traipsing deepest Africa
retrieving melon rinds.
Bi-colored python rock snakes
and wondrous fever trees
delights in my imagining
from phrases such as these…
How is a rudyard kippled?
I’ve often wondered that.
Perhaps Limpopo’s man-of-war
and I could have a chat.
Though pachyderms and heffalumps
can make the mind run wild,
enchantments hang on every page
of Just So Stories, child.
Dream peep of early gold rim halo
August riser gleeful in exalted chant
Yield to dulcet chirp from ornate winger
Sunburst orange red splash of heaven
Taunt and tease ocean blue mist eyes
Amber warm rays dazzle pearl clad beach
Revere the hue-rich magic spectra veil
Designed by glow world spirit apt
Aligning deft nirvana enigmatic
You’ll embrace a stunning touchstone
Strewn amid solid crystal bounty
Traipsing vivid emerald paths ahead
Amazed by wondrous vista woven
Redolent of chalk mark visual rife
Dabble in the morn’s first usher
Archway to vibrant wakener within
Yen for ample stimulus astride
Sensory luxuriance devoid of match
Tangled web surfeit found epic
Aching surge of tinted aspect
Rhythmic ripples on beaded brow
On a whim a black lab waited
where other people do.
At a bus stop man created,
he smoked a cig too.
His paws outstretched ready to pounce
onto the shuttle of spluttering fumes.
He'd ran away and this was his last chance
to leave the humans painless; still humming their tunes.
This bus would take him to fields of squirrels
To an old friend he had played poker with
Where the loquacious woodpecker always trills
He'd have to do all this before his joints got stiff
Staying close to strangers legs,
He lifts one paw on.
The sight of his owners, he begs:
Will you please be gone?
I am dying, you cannot see,
you must not see ever.
You'll forget the posh afternoon tea.
Those traipsing, frolicking memories lost forever.
It's easier if you let me step on this bus,
Wave goodbye.
I'm still not sure what that does
but I know you'll always try.
Ears floppy, mouth drooling; sometimes I wish I'd played ball a bit more.
Eyes gloomy, paws aching; those times were never a bore.
Foureyes is my name.
Seeing everything in the frame,
On the left,
On the right,
Everything is blurry to my sight.
Which is good from my perspective,
Less definition is my objective.
As the vision blurs,
Everything becomes a new object,
Not seen by everyone,
Until I paint it,
Like the sun!
An orange glow,
With range and depth,
Only I know!
Finding things that are undone,
Makes my pictures so much fun.
My mother says," Can't you match colors?
Even your clothes just aren't right"!
My father says," I'll go out with you at night,
Then no one will see,
You're such a sight"!
Until one day,
As I'm traipsing along,
I met a model,
Singing my song!
"You have a most unusual view,
I think we can make money with what you do"!
So now I am on every magazine cover!
And the model I met,
Became my lover!
Foureyes is my name,
I think that is right for me,
As I play this game.
Is love not like the weathered bark
Tightly holding that which it cherishes
A gnarled and wily smile savoring
The beauty of its outstretched arms
Rocking to the tempo of the time
Swaying in a sunset serenade
Bowing to the moon’s mellowness
Cracking its knuckles in the cooling glow
Oh, love, you traipsing vagabond
Trailing your pheromonal tease
Amidst the cloudless shadows
Stirring the sediment of sensuality
Arousing a tingle of latent lust
Sitting on the edge of sunrise
Listening to the songs of spring
The Pacific inky bluish ocean ashore splashed
quite clear
traipsing through surging surf across the sandy beach
soleless
a hot noonday sun pours o'er an early-made sand castle
crumbling
two conch shells lying about is now being held to ears
New Wave
a large beach towel wraps two necking near a car lot
planning
There’s an old canal close by where I live,
and an empty lock made of stones massive,
traipsing around there, the place can amaze
just seeing how the whole of it was made.
There’s no mortar here, between these great stones,
they align perfect, no a gap is shown;
to do this with hand tools and draft oxen,
not just one lock, but again and again…
There are still hollow where great doors did swing,
sealing the lock up to keep water in,
holding it back without concrete of steel,
and no great engines, just pullies and wheels.
The canal itself, so humanely straight,
by spyglass and spring they made it this way,
with but shovel and pick to prove their own worth
they dug a river across the damn Earth!
Two centuries later it still remains,
two hundred years on who would know my name?
Sure, I write poems, but poems are talk,
these men carved themselves in the very rock,
the canal they built now sanctuary
for birds, fishes, turtles swimming lazily,
the towpath they built no a walking trail,
where kids ride their bikes when weather is hale,
seeing what grandfathers built back in time,
what men do with hard work and focus of mind.
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