JOURNEYS - Friday Challenge Poems

Created May 3, 2006 | Updated May 8, 2006

Travelling With The Past

I travelled by rail

Reading as we do

Hot coffee spilling

Onto grubby paperback

When I looked out to the country

And saw her stood by a track

How could she be there?

I thought aloud

She'd need to know the train times

She'd need to know my mind

To know I'd look out at that moment

I saw her then under a tree

She was waving to me

As we went sailing by

She was there again

Crouched low by a ditch

And then once more at 9

I saw her a hundred times

Cold coffee now

As we arrive

Leaving her in the countryside

Chris MAY 17th Mac

Four women in a boat

Four brave women went out on a spree,

across a big ocean and a choppy cold sea,

One had a camera, one had a drink,

two took some sedatives,

in case they should sink.

One was American the others were Brits,

all but one had all of their wits.

One of the women had lost part of her brain,

as for the others, were they insane?

They travelled as far as from Cork to west Kerry,

for most of the time they were a little bit merry.

They dined on Guiness and rich Irish stew,

being too old for men what else could they do?

They're safely back home now with their families

and nippers,

toasting their toes in their new Irish slippers.

(c) carol ward 2004

(wilddazzlinglucinda)

Parallel Journeys

Parallel journeys, living side by side;

The distance between them far too wide:

Once so close that lives entwined

And grew, new lives following kind:

Busy, happy, working, sleeping,

Like a dance in step, but fleeting

Until the balloon burst apart,

And scattered pieces of its heart

Crash landed, with no going back:

The magnetic past laying down a track

For each to follow, the daily ride;

Parallel journeys, living side by side.

The Eagle

Voyage of The Orion

The Log And True Account. (1783)

1.Anchors

Twentieth day of our accord.Praise be the lord

for keeping us bouyed on this the fourth of May morning.

Late last night when weighing lead shot into loaded musket powders,

the ropes frayed, then tore,lurching us among a foaming swell.

At the heart of the crows nest, luxuriant petted rooks strut before the sail.

They lay down locusts, plucked from the flesh of humpback whales.

In the absense of leaves and branches,they snatch spar splints between serried beaks,

Each one blanching dry, as crumbling timber leaked into the days unfolding heat.

Through gathering Spring near small islands the anchor chain slacked.

A miracle of the tropics flowered ,blossoming on the Captains tac.

Severely hampered at our mooring, by native spears,

we viewed horizons through heavy rain with clear sunlight between.

Gathering gloom brought high seas,darkness impeding the blacksmiths strike.

His glowing bellows illuminate loose fittings, strewn across the night.

2.Cargo

Writing desk,solid oak,thirty bushels of wheat,

less two sold on deck before anchors release.

Salted meat,maize, exotic tea,sixty sacks of corn,

ten casks of gin,steel needles,pins. Drum, trumpet,

price raised, timpani bells,

one hundred weight of stolen Cumbrian Cheese.

On the lee side,fifteen hundred porcelain plates,

striped wooden monkeys, each moves upon a stick,

to strike his mate.While sunk in the aft, pickles, preserves,

three dozen bottles of Ranson's Elixier reserved.

Tobacco mixtures for the pipe,exchanged in Madeira

for duty free wine.Camwood,ivory,hemp and paddles.

Train oil from cod and whale,pigs tails drowned in brine.

Sticks of pepper, muslin lengths soaked in lime.

Molasses and eggs of tench,indigo powders,yellow dyes.

Tied on deck beneath flailing clouds,impaled upon a boundless sky.

Max Shallow

Harley Davidson

Through the wind, the rain, the snow and the hail,

When pocket rockets would surely quail,

Rides on my beloved Harley,

Blasting out the tunes of Bob Marley.

Through the valleys and rugged country we ride,

With cliffs, drops and rivers either side.

Through the high valleys, I can hear the engine rumble,

And the colossal mountains crumble.

Where we are going, I can’t tell,

But I have the feeling we will end up somewhere in hell.

But before we burn in eternal hellfire,

This motorcycle will never tire.

The open road is our kingdom, let us ride,

Know that there are no laws by which we should abide.

No, we shall not fly, swim or hike,

We shall take this majestic, massively powerful motorbike.

The Harley Davidson, for no other will do.

mercifullove

As Journeys Go

It's not the going, it's the coming back.

As journeys go, there's a distinct lack,

When the homeward trail is the sweetest view,

Because the road is straight and leads to you.

What have I learnt, so far away,

When all I yearn for is the day

My weary feet reach your garden path?

Put the kettle on, love and run me a bath.

Such small comforts come with a price:

They mean I've settled for things being 'nice'.

Why have adventures, travel the world,

When I fly further when I am curled

Up in bed, playing at spoons?

I soon forget those bleak hotel rooms;

Teasmaid and trouser press, pay per view porn;

When I wake up to a suburban dawn

Lighting the landscape of your eiderdown.

No snow capped mountains overlooking this town,

But your pillows loom larger and smell of your hair.

What good is the world if you are not there

To kiss it all better and make it make sense?

Though I may call you ignorant and your innocence

Soon drives me away again, looking for more;

You know I'll return to knock at your door.

Jon-Kopek

A Journey We All Take

A journey we all take,

As a weary travller who walks their way,

To the end which could be miles ahead,

Yet, we walk on.

****

We look forward to what lies onward,

But still we look back to see what we left behind,

And sometimes, we pause as if waiting for time,

Waiting for it to start again.

****

We try to walk the road,

Simply hoping,

We may stumble and scrape our knees,

But we carry on the journey with fainting hearts.

Katiedid

We're Going Down To The Sea

I'm going on a journey, going down to the sea

To wander the darker depths of the mind,are you sure you really want to come with me?

I'll travel by car, if you travel by bus

Don't take anything with you, for you'll find nothing but wasteland if you get there first,

Now you can realize that life has stopped mattering forevermore,

Today will be the first time you fail, the first time you fall, the first time you'll see that nobody's knocking at your front door

So, let loose and live life like a dream, for there is no such thing as real life,

But don't come crying to me when you find out nobody cares for you anymore, jst let me stick in the knife,

I'm going on a journey, going down to the sea

I'm going on a journey, I'll drag you down with me.

Stuart Warren- thealbionian

The Journey Back

I had to go back:

there were ghosts to kill.

Only Johnny and I made the trip.

Strange really: the oldest and youngest.

Didn’t seem to mean anything to the others.

Just me, with all of the memory fully intact

and Johnny, with no recall of those times.

I remembered the main street,

the bleak council housing

and downbeat people

in that dirty town.

Almost killed

on that road:

siblings in tow,

hurrying as usual,

late for school again,

crossing without looking -

Landrover screeching to a halt.

That irate, red-faced man shouting;

me rushing away with my ragged flock.

‘Get stuffed, you miserable baskit!’ I yelled.

Everybody shouted and swore, back in those days.

I saw the pub where my Father fought Mr. Robinson:

two very big men knocking the hell out of each other.

No one else would dare to interfere in that epic scrap.

I was so proud when he beat old Robinson to a pulp.

I can’t remember another time when I was proud:

he left us again, soon after that and I hated him.

Johnny and I walked to the house of our birth

in the middle of a rundown, terraced row;

same building, except for the paint.

Seven kids in two bedrooms -

how was it all possible?

Bittersweet memory:

summer days,

laughings,

beatings,

hunger,

cold,

joy,

tears,

grime,

sorrow…

Nan’s death.

Always smelling,

always ashamed I smelled,

always avoiding the Carter boys -

the times when they finally caught me,

when they beat me for being a ‘smelly belly’.

No one would ever be friends with a ‘smelly belly’

except Smudger of course and he stank the way I did,

but he couldn’t back me up, like I could fight for him,

not with spindly, deformed legs: the way his were.

I hope it ended OK for you, Smudger my friend.

It went well for me, when I stopped smelling.

Johnny and I walked to the waterway:

the decrepit, rubbish-strewn canal.

The place that I escaped to,

to avoid the Carter boys,

to escape my Father.

I sailed with pirates,

defeated aliens,

slew dragons,

rescued maidens,

fought the invaders;

ran for the hell of it all.

I was a Masai, stalking a lion -

I was Bannister, the super athlete -

I was the first to land on the moon -

I scored the winning goal for England -

I was Scott against the Antarctic winter -

I ran with Buck, to answer the call of the wild -

I was just a smelly boy with his smelly thoughts.

A different time and a different set of circumstances.

A place where a silly child dreamed of escaping the dirt.

Johnny laughed when he saw that I had a tear in my eye.

I laughed when I realised I was crying at the memories.

We walked back slowly through that depressing town.

We still had relatives that we hadn’t seen for years:

a different bloodline, which excluded kids like us,

which was too good for ragged-assed children;

probably still too good, for Johnny and I.

We decided, best to give them a miss:

we thought they’d smell too much

like they thought we smelled.

We left them behind again,

left the town behind;

didn’t need them,

didn’t need it:

we weren’t

smelly

now.

shackleton

journey

round and round i go

will i ever stop this merry-go-round

i want it to stop

i want to get off

i want to go straight

but still i keep on going

where? where am i going

my head hurts

my heart hurts

my soul hurts

its relentless in its mission

this journey that im on

where am i going

why am i going

how am i going

questions questions questions

there there in my head

they wont stop

they cant stop

they shant stop

im getting dizzy

as the world spins round

but it goes on

and i go on

and you go on

mazann

Whisper

I whisper ‘love, stay with me always’

You smile, and hold me close to you

Let love light all our days

The sun and sky beam their rays

Time is not borrowed or held in lieu

I whisper ‘love, stay with me always’

We wrote the words of a million plays

Travelling on paths, old and new

Let love light all our days

I see the stars shine from your gaze

We are rich, though our possessions few

I whisper ‘love, stay with me always’

Through cornfields we walk in summers haze

Regrets, perhaps, but these days we will not rue

Let love light all our days

We’ve seen sunsets, as our children grew

And we have no need of vows to renew

I whisper ‘love, stay with me always’

Let love light all our days

©EMG
(Mercedes)

Dark Paths

I lost the path,

In darkness i now tread.

Unable to escape,

In a maze without a thread.

No destination set,

Yet here i am not meant to be.

Strayed from the light,

I blame the fool who made me free.

All hope is not yet lost,

For the journey has not reached its end.

The future will be brighter,

And from this gloomy pit, a new man shall ascend.

Edestiny

I find Keats in Rome

I did not expect to find you here

In a corner room, overlooking the Spanish Steps.

Your journey ended there,

A battle fought with a known enemy.

Too young to die, and having already come so far.

Death introduced itself to you,

Left you parentless and accompanied you along your way.

You lost Tom, to that same fate that claimed your body,

Without claiming your soul.

For you are here, and everywhere

Where like minded spirits read your words.

I wander about this room, wonder about the man,

Moved by the sense of life that lingers on.

A fireplace whereon you toasted bread

Sometimes too weak too eat, or even to raise your head.

Room for a bed, not much more, a desk by the window

Where Roman light and the sounds of the day entered.

Where Joseph Severn brought you up to date with

The goings on , that were passing you by.

He painted you , not once, but seven times, each

More lovingly than before.

I tremble at the love that Fanny showed for you.

As brief as your earthly love was together

She grieved seven years

I, having never known the man, feel I know why.

Your soul permeates Time, as once your love moved her.

You haunt me, a wandering tourist

Overlooking excavated ruins in the Forum.

I am baffled by Times’ curious tricks;

The Rome that uncovers itself now

Is not the Rome once revealed to you,

Though it had stood centuries before either of we two.

Rome embraced you, remembers you, pays homage

You never really went away from here.

anipani

The Path we chose

Together forever, through the journey of life,

You as my husband, me as your wife

It's a bumpy old road with highs and lows,

For better or worse let's see how it goes

We've seen many places and done many things,

Experienced the joy that child rearing brings

We've guided their steps, shown them what to do,

When a heart got broken, daddy fixed it with glue

Now they're older and wiser we gave them a map,

a compass, an atlas and a tour guiders cap!

Lets watch with pride which road they will take,

We gave them a choice, may the best one they make

mammynetty

Buy One or Stop Me

The ice cream man journeys round town,

Like a rocket propelled minstrel, wandering

With sounds and ice cold wit.

This foreign man forges frozen food

With tangy jingles, caustically tingling,

Like rooftop baiting of "Vote Labour, vote old twit."

Some kids prick their knees as they trip,

Leaving strawberry sauce stains and hundreds

And thousands of dust and bits, to whit Mummy licks her lips.

Some kids kiss goodbye to the ice cream man

From balconys, because they're not allowed,

To whit, one young boy failed to parachute down.

The ice cream man never waves goodbye,

Or smiles, but this perennial pied piper

Never loses sleep, for ice creams don't come cheap.

©2006 Graham

Australia Bound

The smack of the bow sent spray to my face.

As the billowing sails set my pulses a’ race,

She slipped off her mooring, like a swan of great grace,

And sped like the wind, at a sparkling pace.

Bound for Australia, a far distant land,

Where coral reefs bask by beaches of sand,

New missions await, I must venture my hand,

With dreams of living a life very grand.

I never may see my own folk again,

Who stay back in Wales, in the fog and the rain.

But, as top’sle takes hold and sailors take strain,

The journey before me is worth all that pain.

Across the equator the weather turns hot;

She rolls and she pitches, I care not a jot,

I’m young and I’m free and pleased with life’s lot

And I’m counting the blessings for all I have got.

I watch as the wildlife gets strange and exotic,

And my fellow companions turn slightly neurotic.

Past lands we sail, with rulers despotic,

Where girls in veils dance, nude and erotic.

As birds screech around, the end is in sight

I cannot return, my future’s too bright.

I’ll find me a wife, have bairns to delight

And home to my parents, often I’ll write.

Ann B

School Visit

Day dawned on suburban Britain,

birds sang, sun streamed, traffic

sounded reassuring in the distance,

so it was early still.

In London, bells rang, St Clements,

as purveyors of oranges and lemons

set out their stalls.

Suburban girls were groomed,

bows tied, laces knotted, hats

fixed, handkerchiefs checked.

Eight a.m train left Lime Street Station,

girls ate their filled rolls

and sat on their straw boaters.

Approaching the capital, they listened

for faraway bells – maybe St. Martin's,

'I owe you five farthings'

An excited blue and grey crocodile

wound through Euston, until safely

contained within its bus.

Gentle, genteel northern girls visited

The Tower of London. Susan Borthwick

dropped her Instamatic down a well.

A Beefeater fished it out.

On to Westminster Abbey,

several signed the Visitors' Book,

July 6th, 1969.

St Paul's Cathedral, 'designed,

not built by Sir Christopher Wren'

pronounced Miss Arnold, as we ate

glistening, fat sausages and chips

in a café near Waterloo Bridge,

not all that far from the peels

of the bells of Shoreditch.

Many recalled 'Waterloo Sunset'

by The Kinks as another summer day

in London reached its close. Suburban

schoolgirls vowed to return one day.

'When will that be?' asked the bells

of Stepney; and as with all

that lies ahead, uncharted and uncertain,

came the answer, 'I do not know'

from the Great Bell of Bow.

holtsusanna

Journeys

I never thought much about going anywhere,

except out, to the same old rooms where i first got served

I never thought i would ever want to be anywhere

But here. In a town that holds my deams and quiet lies, and binds them up tight

I used to love way this place lifted as the fuzzy sun came around,

and skirts got shorter and squinting eyes wandered.

I especially loved daytime drinking with old friends

Reciting the same familiar jokes and stories that locked us together

And then something changed, or snapped, or I just ran out of tape

The brisk, usual walk past the station and into town,

underdressed and tingling with cold and anticipation

Well it seemed to lose something as the nights started to sting

But no journeys strech out in front of you when you're past it,

when too many sticky blue drinks have rotted your your teeth and your head

when too many drunken fumbles have fizzled out with the morning

and left you on your own, two streets from where you lived as a kid

rainstreet

Vague stab at the challenge

A208 mate

Friday night sundown, sewing seeds of comedown

A long slow parade, think you got it made

He's got dreadlocks, she's got bling rocks

You've got the takeaway, I'm going to breakaway

We're on a stagger, you're such a blagger

They're in their soft top, music blare is be-bop

tandoori's glory

beer belly's pub tellie

Limousine o'teens

boobies and the dubries

hanging out the window, don't call her a bimbo

gateway to London where they get their fun done

A208 mate.

didyouever

Andrew Battenbow’s Sister

How could I forget her ? She

saved me from certain death -

mopped my brow if I was wounded

pinned tinfoil medals to my chest.

Andrew Battenbow’s sister, I

fell in love with her Bambi eyes

and rescued her from injuns, the

gallant hero - piggyback style.

We swore that we would marry,

on the Range we’d make a home

I’d protect her from the savages

wear a shirt that she had sewn.

With nine I was a Sheriff and at

ten she was my school Ma’am -

Andy Battenbow’s big sister

do you remember who I am ?

©lb06
(little_bill)

The Corsican Wife

Mountains coax a thin white moon

into their heavy breasts.

A clear sky exposes its secret stars,

she christens them with dead friends’ names.

a weathered old Peugeot rusts,

falling apart on a hard shoulder.

I sit on the Punta di Urghiavari,

watching large, spiny lizards,

my cap drying on a wooden cross.

Breathy hikers rumble in weighing

today’s collected rocks and blisters;

she bustles over dinner,

jemmying open bottles of fragrant beer.

Herbs of the hills shake themselves off

onto her bar-room floor to be gathered

with an old soft brush and thrown

into wild boar stew.

Her cottage yawns in the dusk,

hewn from surrounding pine.

An old man of the village shakes

chestnuts trawled that day,

toasting them on her beech-wood fire,

starters for the guests, washed down

with wine from young grapes.

A beck rushes beyond a little private

sewage works that feeds the stream,

frightens off the night fishes.

I watch her timid bravery,

glass cracks unfixed in the frosty porch,

Capricorn worm nibbles the roof away.

Her father loans the money so he can extract

a pound of desperate loyalty,

husband and lover circle each other

like dragonflies fighting for a leaf on a pond,

her children cry in the darkness of her dream,

refusing to switch on the lights.

CCVulture

This Time

If I could turn back the clock

I would move the hands just once

To face once again

The day that you died

Because this time I would be ready

I would know what to do

To save your life

This time

And I would do it

I would be a hero

And then it would not be anymore

The day that you died

And I would not have to be anymore

A hero every day

Facing all the days

After the day that you died

angelicwinnie

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