Little Yellow Bus
First day of school yellow bus stopping at the mailbox,
Bouncing down country roads - pausing next to city sidewalks.
Nothing seems to stop you not autumn rain nor sleet
Morning and by afternoon you travel busy roads and streets.
Traffic never phases you - you just motor on,
Following appointed routes - this your daily marathon.
Girls with pompoms, boys with bats, runners from a track meet,
Students ride of every age filling up your empty seats.
Stopping at the bus stop, not all cars stop too
Speeding past your warning, they haven’t got a clue.
Do you sigh when you rest within the bus brickyard
Or dream the school year yet to come riding lanes and boulevards?
First ride giggles, last ride whispers – all the in between –
Forgotten lunches, mittens, scarves – life’s signature you see.
We wait for your arrival, bus stop routine day-to-day,
Sometimes need to remember, you don’t come on Saturdays! Hooray!
Before me is a pile of bricks.
Some so handsomely carved from granite and quartz,
Fit for the construction of any deserving community.
And some are made of mud and straw, dried in the sun,
Thumb prints of this world and even a few of my own.
These bricks are mine to carry.
Beautiful or not, they are all heavy, but it is an honor to stack them,
I shuffle to and fro in the brickyard, trying not to let them sink in the mud.
Sometimes so exhausted, so sore, not knowing where the next one will go,
And then I see your face, the way you looked at me when we first fell in love.
The bricks begin to change.
Though the work is hard the bricks soften in my hands,
They lighten as does my heart when you hold me, when you are near.
The bricks become warm to the touch, as though they are coming alive,
Much like my senses when I see you smile, when I hear your laugh.
The bricks are like doves.
I know the bricks are the foundation of my life,
But when I carry them with you, they float into place with fidelity and care.
And they fly from my mind in the beautiful sunlight,
When I am with you, so vulnerable and yet strong, together as one.
I love you.
Premiered at Midland Motor Speedway, Odessa, TX – 6/26/1998
ACT 1
Das Lied für Alma
Still Life Instrumental
First Nights
Pain Hurts
Violet
Dancing with the Blues
The Reckoning
No One’s Going Home
ACT 2
Brickyard Informal
Beneath the Wheel
Eyes of a Miner
Here She Was
Halfway to My Knees
The Last Time We Made Love
ACT 3
I Quit
Never Be Too Far Away
Yesterday’s Coffee
Stale Green Light
I got home so late,
It was time to get up.
Poured coffee in the toaster,
Stuffed bread into a cup and I said,
“Here we go again.”
Tied my work boots on
With appropriate haste.
Stood up a bit too quickly,
A locomotive raced through my head.
Here we go again.
Here we go.
Grab my keys and wallet.
Here we go.
Pack my ass and haul it.
Here we go.
Drive like hell and stall at the light.
Can’t do right.
Had to punch in red.
Fed a line to the boss.
The bastard don’t look happy.
I know it’s gonna
Cost me but, hey,
Here we go again.
I stack load on load,
Humping brick after brick.
Sweat forty hours labor.
Complain about my
Chicken sh*t pay.
Here we go again.
Here we go.
Need to earn some money.
Here we go.
Make hay while it’s sunny.
Here we go.
Tumble with my honey tonight.
Feels so right.
Hear that whistle blow.
Let the party begin.
Get showered, shaved and polished.
The mirror cracks a grin on the spot.
Here we go again.
Feel some urgent flames
Burn from opposite ends.
My body knows it’s tired.
My ego just pretends that it’s not.
Here we go again.
Little Yellow Bus
First day of school yellow bus stopping at the mailbox,
Bouncing down country roads - pausing next to city sidewalks.
Nothing seems to stop you not autumn rain nor early sleet
Morning and by afternoon you travel busy roads and streets.
Traffic never phases you - just motor on,
Following appointed routes - this your daily marathon.
Girls with pompoms, boys with bats, runners from a track meet,
Students ride of every age filling up your empty seats.
Do you sigh when you rest within the bus brickyard
Or dream the school year yet to come riding lanes and boulevards?
Waiting for your arrival, bus stop routine day-to-day,
Sometimes have to remember you don’t come on Saturdays! Hooray!
9-11-20
Contest: Fall-Autumn Rhyme
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.