The Poetry Marathon

Stick it out here

Look kid,

What I said about the freedom of the road,

I sorta made it  sound good so you wouldn’t worry.

it’s tough and it’s lonely and you don’t eat every day.

You wind up doing stuff you never expected just to keep going.

I know it’s tough here, but it’s tougher there.

If you could survive there, you can work it out here easier.

Yeh.  I know.

I said I’d take you with me, but I lied.

i lie a lot.

Besides, I can’t be looking after you.

I gotta travel fast and light and you would slow me down.

I don’t CARE what i promised.

This is what is happening,

So get over it.  I have.

 

 

 

 

Vagabond

When feet long to wander
the only choice is surrender.
Slipping home into my pocket
I take to the road,
gypsy dreams
my map and guide.
Stopping only when fancy
strikes, sustenance comes
in the gifts of nature and man,
comfort in a fleeting kindness.
Perhaps, when I’m old,
I’ll sleep under cover, warm
by fire, and love in safety.
Until then, the wind says,
“Move on.”

Tristan

My precious little tyke woke me up before first light

voice like the flocks of parakeets in the trees at the

transit center, a wall of noise of voluminous magnitude

makes me smile as I cringe into my pillow.

it’s too early, but never too early to see

his smile, his eyes lit up like picture screens

full of action and love and music and he’s

singing, serenading my weary body as I

switch on the kettle. he knows all the words,

trust me, he’ll say them all before 10 am and he

hugs me and his hugs smell like sunshine of course,

they dance together, in and out, sparkling

all day long. he is the song, the ear-worm

in my head that I’ll never stop singing along to.

Hour 11–Artie

S’all I need

this tank here

hollowed out

good sleeping place

Kevin lets me use it for cheap

works good for both of us

I don’t need more

just a place to sleep

just like it was made for it

this old water heater

under the house

hell, the house is more ramshackle than my tank

far cry where I came from

done cry’n’ ’bout it

nice and dry

chickens for company

under the house

they get them bugs

sell ya my life story

ya want

 

 

No Rest for the Weary

Sleep deprivation

comes easy

when you

sleep on a concrete mattress

and pillows made of dirt and grass

Comfort levels tend to hide

when the streets become your bed

privacy has no space

when you forget the last place

you laid to rest.

~ism

#11 Drifter

Tangled curls, a mop
Dirty clothes the same as yesterday
Nothing kept, only left
Into classroom go
Teased again, what fault have I
Only parents drifting from place to place
Tethered I too am drifting

No home

The sun on my back
The wind in my hair
Some people may say that Im poor
My life i wont trade
For their masquerade
To me its their life thats a bore

A suit for a backpack
High heels for boots
City lights for the stars in the night
Skyscrapers for trees
Dirt on my knees
Nothing but mountains in sight

No hustle or bustle
Just me and the land
A knife and a poles all i need
Just give me this life
No worries no strife
Free from the rat race and greed

No Home

Home was a person with two sets of brown eyes

and a wrinkled face. She was

My heart, my rock, my caretaker, my everything…

Fuck you, Death! You took my home away!

She was my mother, my father, my grandmother, and grandfather.

She filled the role of three extra people

Who were either too sick to help themselves or too cowardly to care.

 

Without her..I have no home.

My grandmother, is my Home. And

No place, no person, will ever replace her.

Wishes 

Camping at the Edge of Town

I have lived here for 20 years
in a wooded ravine outside of town.
My campsite is well hidden but
I get break ins from time to time.

I have stopped speaking,
so I am writing these notes to you.
I am happier this way
and avoid much trouble.

Don’t get me started on the government.
I will not sign anything,
as it is too risky for me.
I can barely stay in the waiting room.

Can you spare some money?