You've seen the sunlight
now you mask your pride
Friends tell you where to go
Keep on a straight line
peaceful shades of green
strides past you
There's a commuter strip demur
back to cover hes read his Daily Mail
the burglued fox languishes
Making sense of the passing years
Lost in a wherewithal
Is it time to change ?
to purify your soul
or cry to the wind?
You see the sunlight amongst the scree
There was a man
who couldn't tell me anything
Where there was once the comfort
of the evenings telegraph line
he runs wild amongst shops turned into flatlets
Keep on a straight line
he has changed his mind
where once basson roamed
he guesses himself unfree
fortitude follows the wind
My constant friend,
The invisible commuter.
She’s always there:
On my phone and my computer.
Siri’s her name;
She always perks up at my voice.
I’d shut her down,
But she’d lose agency and choice.
Besides, I fear
That Amazon will flood my house.
Or even worse,
She’ll share our secrets with my spouse!
—————
(For the “Let’s Explore Digital Technology” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Simon Rogerson
2/8/2022)
As flowers fill with summer rain
Commuters board their rush hour train
Oblivious to all they see
They must get home in time for tea
Reflecting on their busy day
Decisions seldom go their way
The simple things that mean a lot
Just too busy – Now forgot
Magic times remain unseen
Now blinded by their dull routine
Tomorrows dreams stay in the past
Time flies by - the moments passed
It’s easy to be lead astray
But every dog will have his day
The thoughts inside – Just Cant let go
So don’t let on - no-one will know
All heading for another place
They hide behind a dead pan face
Afraid their plans have gone astray
They must survive another day
Don’t bother with a crystal ball
You have the power to recall
We each determine our own fate
So take control – Don’t sit and wait
Why stand in line and wait your turn
Just cut the ropes and watch them burn
Feelings that we all suppress
You never know – Perhaps they’ve guessed
The sands of time will ebb and flow
The tree that grows will always show
The promise of a future dawn
On platform nine you stand and yawn.
They are looking out tiny boxes
traveling toward the city from the suburbs
wearing tennis shoes on their tired feet
Many have left their dress shoes at work
Some stop at a gym on the way,
these are the high brows who do not punch in
It is Chicago, nineteen ninety-six
My husband is in one of these jam trains
looking out his tiny box, as trees and cows fly by
Upon arrival, the gritty of the city meets them
Gray concrete is their first welcome mat
They are careful to not fall into the trenches
Some race by, but most march as robots
staying in order until they reach Union Station
People stop being human here
The stores are expensive, so most cannot shop
Their lunch sandwiches are tucked into hot baggies
inside the briefcase they hold onto as they march
a line of unsmiling creatures
who have left their mommy and daddy cap forty miles out
being an employee or an employer, less than human now
Ten thousand eyes will each day pass but not a single one will see,
because the folly of their hubris hides the harsh reality,
and when they walk past homeless people posted prone in poverty,
cold cloaked, they are invisible.
Ten thousand ears will each day pass but not a single one will hear
any proper prayers of the sullen souls that live their lives in fear.
And so they sing their psalms in silence hoping angels will appear,
their sadness semi-visible.
Ten thousand nostrils will each day pass turned up and they’ll all detect
the foul fragrance from a stumbling bum with bubble bath neglect.
And yet their greatest fears are fostered from his foreign dialect.
So sobering, so risible.
Five thousand hearts will each day pass but not a single one will feel
for the burdens borne by a beggar with war wounds that will not heal.
Still they will paint themselves as patriots, American, genteel.
One Nation, indivisible.
Submitted: August 14, 2020
Tail Rhyme Stanza Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
"N/A" -- August 26, 2020
Sway, rumble, stop.
Swish go the doors.
"Mind the gap."
Shuffle round the floor.
Everyone squeezes.
Can I get a seat?
So many people
You cannot help but meet.
Sway, rumble, stop.
Swish go the doors. “Mind the gap." Shuffle round the floor.
In comes a man.
We all make a huddle.
There's nowhere left to stand
(Unless you have a cuddle).
He twists and he turns, Like a pike on a rod.
Squish, squeeze, Squash,
My foot-“Oh, Dear Lord!”
Sway, rumble, stop,
Swish go the doors.
"Mind the gap".
Shuffle round the floor.
He had nowhere to stand. He had nowhere to sit. So he rested on my foot And that's the truth of it:
Ouch!
Early morning, bleary-eyed
We’re a weaving coffee-carrying crowd
One more sip, heads bowed
Oh Grief! That train horns loud!
Sorry! Excuse me!
Opps…Shall we dance?
A frown turns round
Manners & Humour - it's sound
My cold not quite over –
With sniffles and cough –
I had a commitment
I couldn’t blow off.
The thought of the subway,
Its rush-hour crush,
Was turning my insides,
Congested, to mush.
But then I remembered,
A few blocks away,
Commuter vans idled
Each morning, each day.
And so I inquired –
How much? Was there room?
I paid and was welcomed,
Or so I assume.
In 15 short minutes
I made it downtown,
Preventing my usual
Subway ride frown.
For just 7 bucks
I could sit and relax
With no getting-stuck-underground
Panic attacks.
I don’t commute daily
But next time I must,
I’ll splurge on the van –
Let my wallet adjust!
We all gathered together in the Home Going of Harold Smiley
The story of life in a previous daily ride
But on this day, a deceased body traveling in the stride
A funeral will take place with Coffin and all
The Family gathered in the subway car, and they are all standing tall
The subway ride with words about the deceased
Meanwhile, the subway car has made several station stops and the passenger volume has increased
Other commuters looked on
Yet some felt they didn’t belong
Imagine a Coffin with a Funeral Director and Family aboard
One could only say, “Oh my Lord”
The reason for a funeral on the subway, it was the request of the deceased
The Cemetery was 10 subway stops down
At Sweet Chariot Cemetery, it would be the burial bound
But the subway car was silent with no one making a sound
The only sound was the subway car wheels
The whole subway funeral ride felt more like a movie reel
Yet this was for real
A decreased one from a commuter subway ride in living been
But the journey has concluded with a final end.
Faith my professor
once said
is like a train
driven on rails
of written truths.
The truth, I ask..
you have lectured
on wars and famines
the Jewish holocaust
and Old Testament prophesies.
The professor and pastor
smiled and stated
everything will be fulfilled
when the Christ returns
a truth mentioned in the Gospels.
I asked kindly
is faith a leap
like off the Grand Canyon?
he reached out and handed me
a schedule of Bible classes.
Faith is a lifelong commute
plenty of time to change
the television station
relive the past
consider the future.
A beautiful Hispanic girl
gave me a Bible
wrapped in plastic
just before that
an old woman
driving a Lincoln
rolled over a flowerbed
good people around
all frowned
with insults
only to be consoled by the pastor..
Stuck in a gargantuan feedback loop
Insentive truckers smash turtle shells
Squirrels sprawled with concrete entrails
Gleaming windshields refracting might
Dull relation just business is right
Scratching the ceiling of my nerve
Making blood curdle vengeance fertile
In shell shocked shin splints rampage
Remember to breathe as the poisons pass
As parasities arachnophobe their fist clenched dreams
Ill just stride and take my time
Pride is futile immortal hallucination
As the sun weaves her way
Ill make my escape and take my place
The Seasoned Commuter
On The platform for ten to seven
No more trains if I get to heaven
Coffee and paper held in each hand
Bought a new ticket, cost me four grand!
The train is on time, not running late
I need three hands or maybe a plate?
I’m near the front so should get a seat
I hate to stand, packed in like meat.
Here comes the train it seems so slow
But it’s just the start of my daily woe.
The doors fly open and in I rush
A dig in the ribs and a poke in the mush!
Just keep going, just hope and pray
I want my seat for the money I pay
Made it, got it, next to Tim
Bit of a squeeze but he’s not so grim
An hour and ten if we run to time
And I’m going nowhere, this seat is mine!
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