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.
It’s not always the big things that break us—
it’s the shimmer we miss
on the ordinary day.
When grief doesn’t arrive with a wail,
but as a subtle ache,
a missed beat,
a song that plays when no one’s listening.
I remember being happy once—
but I don’t trust the memory.
Too many mirrors,
too much static.
I learned to smile in sepia.
And when the world said, “Move on,”
I walked backwards.
Into the arms of ghosts
who knew my name before I lost it.
I wanted to be a woman who dances,
but I became a woman who waits.
I became a lighthouse with no boats to guide—
only fog.
We don’t always cry because we’re sad.
Sometimes we cry
because we can feel again.
We make altars out of wine glasses,
rituals from selfies and shopping carts.
But when we whisper to the stars,
we mean it.
I mistook money for meaning,
and silence for peace.
But the wind has a memory,
and my skin still listens.
I came here to remember.
To fall apart on purpose.
To dig up the bones of who I was—
and build something truer from the ruins.
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
When we build
for everyone,
everyone wins:
The ramp helps
not just wheelchairs
but strollers,
delivery carts,
tired legs.
Captions help
not just deaf ears
but noisy rooms,
second languages,
different processors.
Multiple ways in
mean no one
stands outside
looking through
locked windows
at learning
they can't reach.
Every entrance
leads to the same
beautiful place:
understanding,
belonging,
growth.
Design from the start
for every brain,
every body,
every spirit
that walks
through your door.
Labubu grins, a curious work of art,
Kasing Lung’s dream, brought forth from the heart.
Pop Mart displays, collecting carts start,
Lisa’s embrace gives trends a new chart.
People of faith, consider your part,
Not every craze should capture your heart.
Fame’s shining lure can pull us apart,
Discernment and wisdom must always take part.
Enjoy what is lovely, but don’t let it chart
A course that could lead your soul to depart.
The world may entice with treasures and art,
But truth and love must anchor your heart.
Let light be your guide, not just what is smart,
For faith is the truest and timeless art.
It is Saturday afternoon
everybody and their uncle is in Target
buying things they will put into garage sales next summer
their red shopping carts are full
I had brought my friend here to get a shingles shot
Since she is ninety-two and has a walker, I parked her at the door
I won’t be here but a minute, she tells me.
She is right; she was there ninety minutes
I could have knit a sweater while I waited
If I had brought yarn and knitting needles
And if I remembered how to knit.
Suffer the plot of the parking lot,
Acts of attrition, lots of the disappearing shopping carts,
I had the camera out
Could hardly see where I’m going.
I called just to set up delivery
Then you laid out your whole life story
And relayed your PTSD of living with an anarchic narcissist
Neglected kids, a messy divorce, and the consequent fallout
She took him to the cleaners.
I simply walked out.
Actually, she left.
I was hard to live with.
I left it all go, years ago,
But suddenly, lately, it’s all returned.
Back in my world as if it just happened
And I am the one, all worse for ware,
Never wanting to talk about it.
Life comes back to haunt us,
Time escapes us...
No matter how far we run, or how much time passes,
That puts us right where we are, in the middle of it. ~psp
dr. p (pi)
.
Black Birds Flying at Wal-Mart
I see them gather, flock on flock,
At 7:30am sharp, they start to squawk and talk.
The sun peeks up, the horizon glows,
The air alive with cackles and crows.
Their feathers bristle, sharp and black,
They soar and dip, they dart fourth and back.
Their eyes, a yellow shining disc,
Reflect the light, a golden whisk.
The parking lot, their chosen stage,
They flutter, and fly in trees they engage.
Heads turn left and then to right,
When they fly the sky turns a speckled night.
They peck at crumbs, on scraps they dine,
Their steps in rhythm, a sequenced line.
Among the cars, they dance and sway,
When humans enter their territory they fly away.
From tree to light poles they take their flight,
Under the Walmart’s neon light.
Upward they rise to poles they glide,
On top of Walmart’s walls they nest and subside.
On the back of the wind, they wheel, and turn,
For insects, food, their hunger burns.
The Black Birds gather on shopping carts.
Masses of Black Birds flying at Wal-Mart.
When we lived beneath thatch-roofed houses,
Curry simmered in pots,
Flames flickered from firewood gathered
From hills and thickets.
When bullock carts creaked
Under paddy loads,
Harvests reaped from fertile fields,
Bicycles spun on dusty roads.
When sounds of hand-pounding paddy
Echoed from homes everyday,
Women weaving at fly- shuttle looms
Sometimes till late night.
And when caws of the crows
And chirpings of tea cricket at dusk heard.
Then we helped one another -
Life was simple,self reliant,and beautiful.
His narcissism’s off the charts
Only psychos say he’s got smarts
This china shop bull
Sells shopping carts full
Of shlock from his rear-facing parts
Writer’s block is a horrible thing.
Like cabinets slamming shut.
So the writer’s block begins.
Day one of writer’s block.
Nothing except single words.
And then single letters scattered.
Sitting on the couch.
Sighing slightly.
Nothing is fun anymore.
I could cook a slice of toast.
Or simply order pizza.
Nothing comes to mind.
Except the hunger.
Under the sink, it is leaking slowly.
Scratching my back.
Trying to grasp the bugs.
I have writer’s block.
And it will never go away.
I got in my car to head to the store.
I bought things I didn’t need.
Coupons expire.
Grocery carts squeal.
Go home to the writer’s block.
Go to bed and have a dream of words and phrases.
Draining slowly.
They say writer’s block is a horrible thing.
And that’s all I can say.
We were out of milk
So, we raced to the grocery store
My husband and I had competing carts
We raced around the aisles like we were on fire
As we were loading ten bags into our trunk
My husband said “Did you get the milk?”
Both of us had forgotten why we came
Kid, states is paid
Tapped your hand pad out
No grissle on the iron
Steam tears of fear
Preposterous approval
Applicants endure sub traction
Textworth of link sis
Under obligated
Your sheath
Envelopes back paying crime rent
Stray cats slipped under a waterlogged night
only to drift back bedraggled,
as if today still pulled at their tails
Old Charley Winslow died
before the deluge,
before the river threw itself
over the dike.
Laid out for burial
he was seen to float out of a lower window.
Lots are gone,
welcome mats and watering cans,
sheds and shingles,
plastic peddle carts,
potted plants, stretchy pants, and porta-potties.
Many never made it back,
though some may turn up tomorrow
to be salvaged and put away
for a rainy day.
Time hands seconds past the minute,
winter melts the sands,
sprung barter the seeds to take root,
petals leave for lands.
Abandoned juice bathes the barren,
weather soaks wet dreams,
towering outstretched limbs fashion,
cries tear up the streams.
Quartered the core green overgrowth,
sweet fester the sour,
fertile soil sources root approach,
West turn sunset lour.
Stockers fatten wanting store shelves,
greens packaged refreshed,
farmers loaded like Christmas elves,
checks at counters cashed.
Shoppers and grocers swapping smiles,
carts staggering highs,
past harvested fields, endless miles,
as New Year's Eve, nigh's.
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