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poetry

Daytona Beach day 3: The Feet of Fleeting Birds poem

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It’s day of an enjoyable short vacation. Claire and I make the most of the beach, she taking 2 hour walks, me running an hour and a half. Yesterday we both walked together, though I did some sprints while we walked. Some pictures below…

I wrote a poem to capture some of my running experience today:

The Feet of Fleeting Birds

I run early while the morning tides

massage sand bubbles along the shoreline

I step upon them and there is hollowness,

like empty milk cartoons made of sand

filled with pockets of air

the castle is silent, the King is still asleep

all is quiet along the Ocean Walk boardwalk

Joe’s Crab Shack glows in neon lights

as it sits on a pier breaching towards

the Atlantic Ocean

forty minutes of open shoreline

wetted by the lapping waves

there are silhouettes, shadows of people

I pass by strolling along the beach

some slightly acknowledge me with a nod

others are like the monoliths of Easter Island

mysterious stone facades

wandering in the twilight of an early sunrise

yesterday was today

Will I touch the soles of fleeting seagulls

dispersing and gathering again before me?

Such a whimsical aspiration—

to touch the foot of a fleeing bird.

They lift all at once, like an umbrella

and then settle down yards away

like a sheet upon a bed

I trained for this today, to reach the citadel,

a cylindrical shaped building,

my turnaround point

the ocean has a rhythm and I tune my body

to feel its cadence

the waves crash and then silence

my foot lands and then I exhale

become one with the ocean

as the miles slip beneath my feet

ignore discomfort, ignore pain

just become the machine

at the citadel I turn around

and welcome the breeze across my brow

it dries my tears of sweat

I drink it in, all of it, its oxygen

my body consumes it as fuel for the running

machine

in the distance I perceive Joe’s pier,

but it’s a mirage in the oasis of the ocean

the ocean speaks to me in ancient

timeless words

as it has spoken to countless strangers

now dead and buried eons ago

there is an enigmatic wisdom

in the rhythmic crashing of its waves,

timeless words,

if you listen you will seize the moment

and the waves will applaud you

Never have I touched the foot of a fleeing bird,

but I’ve captured the spirit of its wings in my hands.

poetry

Jog on Daytona Beach

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Vacationing at Ocean Walk resort for a few days. My first morning, I wake up and jog/ run 1 hour and 20 minutes. No account of how many miles, just running and running chasing the seagulls as they gather together in flocks on the shoreline and then abruptly take off again each time I approach. I try not to take it personally (as if I’m going to attack them or something) as they are just birds following their natural instincts to have a wariness of man. There’re the little buggers on the beach down below…

poetry

Your Garden

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It’s been a minute since I grazed here
my blog beneath the chalky white pastel moon
so long since I last grazed here
my muse reenters this blog…

This poem above… I call it a koan haiku because like a koan each “huatou” or line is a paradoxical anecdote or riddle, which provokes enlightenment and invites one to ponder deeper and even varied meanings. In this sense, each line can be looked at as an enigma, not necessarily pointing towards “the answer” to a riddle.

This poem, each line, is posted along a path at intervals in my backyard. The path I travel is a circle, the perimeter of my backyard. And each line is engraved upon a small block of wood… see below:

Above is the literal start and the end of the circular path in my backyard. As I take my daily walk, I ponder the meaning of each huatou in turn. And each day the meaning of that huatou may change depending upon my perspective or state of mind for that day. The cumulative effect is truly transformative. For example, one walk resulted in me totally transforming my website. Take a look: http://www.homeincomebuddies.com

Note: you may have noticed one line is 6 syllables, “yesterday is today.” In the posts around my yard this line reads, “ye te jodi a,” 5 syllables, which is the same expression in Haitian Creole language. The seventh sign, “Felicitas in horto tuo est,” means happiness is in your garden and actually is the entrance sign to a literal pergola garden!

fantasy, poems, poetry

Papo’s Toy Figurine Fantasy

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Once upon a twilit soliloquy
I pondered thoughts between pounds of ocean tides
Tchaikovsky overture in Phillip Glass hues
sandpiper played notes with patter feet strides

I ride upon the Asian Unicorn
in saola herds of Laos and Vietnam
through wild forests of Khoun Xe Nongma
just me alone a solitary man

Seminole Injuns in Everglade grass
in solitude a wild panther roar
his pineland growls aside suburban sprawl
some countryside vittles, trolly cart tours

All the world’s parklands a menagerie
of plastic toy animal figurines
appear to move with fur, to chirp and bark
two giraffes with long necks chew leaves and glean

The purple aura moon in silhouette
upon the mountain trail unicorn
it’s yesterday’s glass dew now morning haze
the last is bones and flesh like Capricorn

Twisting brown paths of dust dissolved tombs
of tigers, lions, purple elephants
one dreams of Kwanzan pink cherry blossoms
soft chaise longue grass, sun-soaked relevance

Regard the floating plastic figurines
in ribbons aurora borealis
sky dragons in paper lantern auras
like Injun smoke clouds of the realist

I am awake in vistas castle moors
relieved, yet drenched in pools of darkly sweat
all puffs of Cerberus breath vaporous dreams
my knightly rounds along the parapet

poems, poetry

Something About the Massanutten mountains

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By Lewis Jackson aka Papo– Poet of Ksanakai

The starry nebulae in mountain sky
a spotted fawn beside her mother’s side
stands motionless in golden morning sun
till indigo buntings set hooves to stride

Melodies whistle top the early morn’
atop the dew wet roof top sings the song
of fidgeting wings and dream’s desire
to run midst shady trees ‘pon ribbons long

I harken to the bluejay ‘pon the roof,
which casts its eyes along the mountain ridge
the anxious groundhog scurries ‘neath the house
shivers slightly yet narley moves a smidge

Tis not a snake this long black ribbon road
still whispers to my feet this darkened path,
which undulates as waves upon the sea,
“lick licorice, but heed the aftermath.”

And swallow down the taste for marigold
in farmer’s fields, purple spiderwort
as berceuses to soothe the bleary mind
a respite from this journey’s battle fought

The road ascends and seems to dissipate
at crest, a vacuous blank horizon
portends the road has drifted into space
yet closer, a butterfly arisin

Erasing doubts like powder on its wings
it seems to trace a path to follow home,
a patch of sweet blackberries on the vine
sublime as honey makes my buds to foam

My spirit roams, like Roman architects
these mountain mists in bluish clouds
echoes, Massanutten Indian tribes
smoke signals, silhouettes of ancient shrouds

Which tribes beneath the forest canopy?
what stories hide in fallen tree debris?
the black road blankets Indian trails…
just whispers linger as bird songs in breeze

The doleful gaze of gentle pasture cows
cavernous marble eyes, entwined in whole
I’m sullen by the thought of their demise
with ear tags marked unlike the blissful foal

I wish to emulate the waterfalls
that shimmer through prisms, glassy brilliance
an ageless hourglass, flowing chandelier
sunlit pearls of formless resilience

My feet roll under me in oiled joy
wheels, frictionless, mechanical calm
in thumping pulses, waterfalls of sweat,
like smooth ball bearings, timeless sultry balm

poems, poetry

Love’s Waterwheel Dancing Orchard Fields

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A rocky mountain moved by faithful rains
which trickle underneath in rivulets
without such love could flow the smallest grain

Sew charity of golden amulets

as leaflets fall from trees my palms in want
my body laid to waste upon a stage
in failing love a quil with fading font
papyrus reeds like shadows on the page

The hands of love loom steady in the storm
as gentle as a dove in plumage clothed
embracing crumbs despite a tepid warm
a modest sheep amongst the flock betrothed

Thus fleeced in wool as pearly as the snow
a wooden nickel ever bends the bow

It’s hooves upon the hearth and fireplace
to scrape a singe of orange crackling flame
as blind before a shearer gives its face
yet never holds a mirror up to blame

Love’s feet skip light in meadows minted sage
in crystal glass of purple dappled hues
its blossoms cleanse and never seem to age
another sunset, another morning dew

Despite the wintry weather and the chills
a seedling threads the weeds to brush the sky
from palate to the canvas daffodils
the buttercup attracts the butterfly

With just a drop the waterwheel flows
and through the soil dancing orchards grow

poetry

Push-ups for performance day five

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This morning, Friday December 24th, I awake at 3:45 am to catch a flight ✈ from LA Guardia, NY back to my second home Florida, where I now live.

I’ve no time for push-ups as my brother, Jim, is arriving momentarily to drive me to the airport. I feel fine physically, no soreness or anything from prior days push-ups. My body is being conditioned to the hundred a day.

The thought passes my mind to do push-ups at the airport… whatever, I can imagine the reaction– fanatic or Terrorist alert ⚠️ Sanity prevails, but the thought lingers on as I’m spending practically all day waiting for my connecting at Reagan Airport, Washington. Finally, arrive in Florida and my beautiful 😍 wife, Princess Claire, drives me home.

I really hate to break the hundred a day streak and really, didn’t I earn a day off. Plus there’s the possibility 😏 of injury because you should get adequate rest between workouts. But you know what? I do them anyway.

And it’s amazing how you can underestimate your ability to achieve more, if you only go past that precipice. I did the in pairs of 5. That is 5 push-ups short pause and 5 more for a set of ten and then a few minutes break, gradually working my way up to 100. So I did it cautiously, considering the possibility of injury, but I felt really good and much better afterwards.

Now it’s time for a confession– my daughter, Shannan, aka Ksanakai brought home pizza 🍕 one of the worst destructive foods for your body. But you know what? I deserve it. 😌

poems, poetry

Post your poem

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Thank you for visiting Papopoetry.com Post your poem in the comments or “Leave a reply” below. Looking forward to reading 📚 your poem and I hope you get a lot of constructive feedback.

Sincerely yours in poetry,

Papo- Poet of Ksanakai

PS: Please post only poems in good taste. I reserve the right to delete inappropriate posts such as overtly sexual themes; promotion of hate, vulgarity, et al.

poems, poetry

What makes this a good poem. Robert Frost

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Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

This poem only scored a 3 on allpoetry.com auto-rank. So what makes it a good poem?

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

poems, poetry

What makes this a good poem? Sylvia Plathe

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This famous poem ranks only a 4 on AllPoetry.com auto-rank. So what makes it a good poem?

Mirror
By Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful ‚
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.