Waving to the bus driver
Coming on the bus. Door closing.
Journey. To my workplace. Get off.
I say thank you, and I wave to the driver
From the bottom of my heart
The driver waves back
The smile of driver is honest
Beautiful
This daily moment
aboard the 71, about halfway down the left side
i sit facing forward, heart leaping as he embarks—
he’s on the way to the grocery store,
or his sister’s house,
or work, but he’s running late;
standing room only
he grabs a handle facing me.
he catches my eye and i his,
waves at me with all five fingers and
i wish to hold them in mine, trace
the outline of the bones in his hand,
look into his eyes deeply,
see what’s true;
two stops later, a seat opens up on the right—
one row ahead.
dark, curly hair.
i take measured glances,
don't stare don't draw unwanted attention.
i want his arms around me,
to look into his eyes some more.
he disembarks.
The bus is only practical
If you’re not in a hurry.
If time is of the essence,
Then your mind will fill with worry.
Aside from all the local stops,
The passengers board slowly
And don’t know how to swipe or tap –
Annoying! Holy moly!
A number are quite elderly,
While others come with strollers
Or luggage clogging up the aisle
Or shopping carts on rollers.
If you’re in luck, your driver
Will be practiced, moving fast,
But more likely he’ll be insecure,
Afraid of squeezing past
All the trucks and taxis double-parked
And blocking up the street.
You’ll sit there knowing you’ll be late
If someone you must meet.
It’s better on the subway,
Though, of course, it’s underground,
But it’s best if there’s a walking
Destination to be found.
Today’s thought
Tomorrow’s venture
Bags packed
Wheels ready to spin
A Greyhound bus open road ready to begin
The journey through state to state
Stopping at towns being no mistake
Four days travel
Freeway wind
Various interstate routes
Distance far
Bus comfort than a car
Recline and relax
America’s acquaintance
Passerby wave
High Mountains up look
Heart of hope
The sense of cope
A friendly hand
Goodness in the land
Major cities after major cities observe
Into the morning, Night and next days
Soon to arrive
Refreshing sights that only the Greyhound Bus can provide
America’s beauty seen through the eyes
The skies being wise
Wonders never seen
Up close and personal
Travel to remember
Heart and Soul amber.
Your mood changes depending on the time of day
In the morning most are restless with nothing to say
In the afternoon that when the annoyance starts
With loud school kids and drunks from liquor marts
You try your best not to give too much eye contact
It's loud cell phone conversations behind your back
The seats are constantly signed by a street gang
So-called men won't get up for the elderly in pain
There's always passengers who want to ride for free
And seem to bother others and won't let them be
Parents get on the bus with strollers big as beds
Also there's the deranged that didn't take their meds
Anger is always displayed by someone's bad speech
The stop requested cord is always to far to reach
Then you have the strange ones who likes to stare
Sometimes riding the bus can be a total nightmare
I’m waiting for the bus.
Ain’t nothing to discuss,
ain’t no more dumbing-down.
You’re super-pissed-off-plus?
Well that makes two of us.
I’m heading out of town.
Ain’t no more fight or fuss
(who taught me how to cuss?)
Don’t want to stick around.
A little bar that sells cold beer,
that’s where I intend to steer,
or any place but here.
I need a change of atmosphere
and I ain’t gonna reappear:
the round-trip costs too dear.
I’m sitting at the stop
outside the betting shop,
and all I’ve got’s a song.
Yeah, do it. Call the cops.
There ain’t no crime called “swaps”.
Ain’t me who done you wrong.
Don’t mind them open-tops,
don’t matter where it drops:
first bus that comes along.
a bobble hat fellow rumbles along
sharp turns behind me - hello -
but reaches up to the wall
grabs an apple 80 percent intact
and hobbles away again
a few seconds later he's back again
turns behind me, bends low
and picks up the soggy, abandoned
box of donuts
two inside remaining
successful mission
he wobbles away
Curly haired Carlotta brought her curls onto our bus
Filling it up from seat to seat, annoying many of us.
Her hair grew an inch every fifteen minutes you see.
We could barely speak to each other for it was not wee.
These curls went down the aisle and into the seats.
Two guys sitting on some of it were known as the Petes.
We cannot cut it, they told us, for we did that another time.
Those curls transmogrified into thugs and held us hostage until almost nine.
Perched on a sapphire bus, its curves agleam,
In a painted glade where wildflowers teem,
A young man and lady, entwined in a glow,
Bask in love’s fervor, where soft breezes flow.
No tangled forest, but a sketch of delight,
Where a stream’s silver ripples catch dawn’s tender light.
wildflowers and violet blooms burst in the air,
Their petals like whispers, adrift without care.
Her eyes, molten amber, spark embers of dreams,
His laughter, a melody dancing with streams.
Their fingers lace gently, like vines that embrace,
Each touch a warm ember, each glance a soft trace.
Below, on a gnarled branch by the water’s bright hum,
Sits a shadowed creature, its form strangely numb—
Dog, monkey, or kangaroo, cloaked in the haze,
It watches their rapture through the morning’s soft blaze.
In this vivid drawing, their love burns alive,
A canvas of passion where heartbeats connive.
The bus, a bold beacon, the stream’s crystal call,
Frame their forever in this blooming sprawl.
A Bus Ride
I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home
an hours ride
up to my village. I looked at the
headlines
noticed the paper had no date
was I reading yesterday’s
today`s news or tomorrow`s
The bus was empty this afternoon
it struck me how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of
rubber against the
asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped on this journey outside my house
so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting
just for me.
The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn`t run to me
I hesitated; was it the same house
yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale, a copy of a painting
forgotten rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP
Not my village
I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked, I didn’t answer
the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper
It was Monday.
The Day the Country Died
November 22, 1963
three pm e.s.t
fifth grade
pa speaker clicks on
“today, at one pm c.s.t
President Kennedy shot
he is dead”
our young substitute teacher
gasps then starts to cry
we are silent
school is dismissed early
buses home, no one speaks
our country has changed
“This is a familiar route and one of the most common ones (at least to my seasoned eyes; you may find it beautiful)” — overheard.
______
A day like any other,
but also
a day like no other—
She’s losing the threads again.
No—she’s finally starting to see.
—A day like any other.
The bus hustled over
cracked cement in damp air—
a sight scorched
to the back of my skull.
I sat in my window seat
like it’s a
reflex—
a voice nudges me in the ribs
break something— it said
—anything,
just stopping sitting here.
I switched sides
before my brain can question
if it makes sense.
I let my eyes drink out
the other window—
A smidge of red—a balloon.
Something navy—a child’s backpack.
A birdless branch wobbles—
My gaze drifts up,
the sun reply with dazzles—
For a second,
everything rhymed.
Large and in highway charge
Highway power
Hour by Hour
A name among giants
The Greyhound bus name started as a car
Miles after Miles the bus company has gone far
It surrounds go in travel and us
Full of promise through the years of passenger transportation
Plenty of history information
The Greyhound Bus was once a Fortune 500 known as the Greyhound Corporation
Precision in road schedule
Timing being just right
Day and Night
Bus wheels still are turning
1914 to present
The Greyhound dog stretched trademark represent
Highway friend
The pioneers Anderson and Wickman who gave the Greyhound bus its start
They saw the highway vision
Broken up into division
The hound dog attention
Giving the buses that certain effect
Greyhound bus move
Years of prove
History made and still continuing
As dust kicks up in the wind behind any Greyhound bus
Another journey into the sunrise and sunset
Never ending chapter
Go Greyhound and Leave the Driving to us
Two guys by a bus stop, and they have nowhere to go.
They begin merging plucks and ribbits into a melting comfort.
Their destination is the Earth, and sedans honk at them.
Red stop sign becomes a resting place for a fellow cellist.
Fair lime crickets play along to the weeds, if just for this one moment.
And the taste of copper and paper is thrown at them in antipathy.
They are not homeless if the meadow’s honey is their home.
Yellow plaid is unlikely to grow here, it is foreign, says the guttle.
Different hues of blue in their familiar magical background.
No mortal whistle in the gale ought to be uttered during the tree’s ballet.
One hurricane lantern is shared between deities, or humans, or leaves,
And you can barely make out the vicars of string and bloodline.
Powder white porcelain glares at the back of their senseless heads,
Resting on a moss bed wearing a dress fly-fish dip in and a bear died for.
With a face made of zig-zags, one of them eats their mom’s snack,
The other swims with a black dog in gin bottles and stolen mint.
What a paradox, cried the wolves; they soon bellowed along.
A tragedy occurred was the news
A young boy died in a bus crash
He was with other students too
When the bus got a tire flat
To send your child on a field trip
And have it end his life is insane
Parents hearts forever ripped
Finally they released his name
Maybe seat belts on busses may
Void a future tragedy one day
But that would cost the state
Likely they won’t want to pay
So they will keep old bus fleet
While in crashes kids are dying
Just as they don’t value life
Look at the parents suing for rights
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