Long Bus Poems
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You shouldn’t take the bus unless
You aren’t in a rush
‘Cause if you are, frustration
May burst forth and start to gush.
The line of people inches up,
Embarking one by one;
At every stop the minutes pass
Until the boarding’s done.
One person cannot swipe his card;
Another looks for change,
While exiters go out the front,
Which seems both rude and strange.
The drive doesn’t seem to mind
This snail-like slowpoke pace.
He gets his pay no matter what
And this is not a race.
But when you’re in a hurry
You can rage and rail and curse,
Though it’s better to calm down
Or your next ride will be a hearse!
I gave up my drivers license because of my poor eyesight,
but after two surgeries I have my eyesight back;
so, I must take the driving test again and learn all rules,
especially all the traffic signs and lights.
Stop, yield, no parking, no left, etc turn, school bus stops,
the buses are in a range of sizes but are all yellow;
with SCHOOL BUS displayed, we must stop 20 meters away,
either from the back or front and watch for kids.
Some buse have red flashing lights, some have stop sign arms,
we must remain stopped until the the bus is finished;
even so, be careful for children walking across the street,
and children running and darting out suddenly.
Often there is a school bus crossing guard, with a stop sign,
stop your car on the line, remain until everyone;
has crossed and then proceed slowly, kids are unpredictable,
so be ready to stop your car at any moment.
The endless, gray-smudged window
of this bus seat where the rain streaks down and blurs
the passing world into a watercolor of passing cars
and muted neon signs, and I can’t help but feel a strange
kind of peace in this temporary suspended motion,
this observation booth where the world outside
continues without me and the only constant is the
rhythmic swish of the wipers and the humming of the
engine that seems to cradle me in its vibrating heart as
the city lights smear and run, becoming something else
entirely, a long, liquid memory that pools and spreads
across the dirty glass, and I wonder what the
passengers on the behind side of the bus are doing, if
they are looking out their own windows at this same
downpour, or if they are inside, warm and dry, with a
different kind of day unfolding for them, a day filled with
sunlight and clear, crisp air and the sound of birds that I
can’t hear right now, only the low, deep hum of the bus
and the soft hiss of the brakes as it pulls up to the next
stop, where the rain is already beginning to pool on the
cracked and broken sidewalk, and a lone figure stands
under an umbrella, a dark silhouette against the watery
light, and I can only watch them from this distance, this
glass-encased world that moves through the larger, wet
world, and I am a part of both and neither, just another
face reflected in the window, waiting for the next stop,
the next blurry landmark, the next moment to disappear
and with backup who is wide-eyed and all peppered up
and looks just raring to go until you look at me wonderin'
who must be that poor excuse of a guy into the passing
stream of the night just before my stop b winter starts.
On a crowded bus I watch
A tide of texting thumbs.
No one young’s immune –
It seems that everyone succumbs.
Older folk read papers
Or a magazine or book;
Many simply close their eyes
Or wear a vacant look.
Younger people can’t survive
Without their techno-tools.
Losing them, I fear, would make them
Flail like helpless fools.
Somehow, in the days of old,
Pre-smartphone, way back when,
We occupied ourselves with books
Or paper and a pen.
Or, even better, we could sit
And think or dream or muse;
Trying to explain that now,
I think, would just confuse.
I once was taught that human thumbs
Made us the better beast,
But watching all those texters,
All my admiration’s ceased.
So you have to accept someone else’s concerns
If you still care to go abroad
Are you corrupt, do you get the returns
Do you hide them as an experienced fraud
What they call a survey is an interrogation
There is no presumption of innocence
You are pledged guilty because your nation
Is all badly spoken which shortens the chance
To get anywhere you would want to fly
Because you, and not somebody else, just you
Must stop the war, so they'll decide
If you’re worthy to taste their national stew
Isn’t it quieter to take a bus ride
At home, with no worries about bank statements
About who are your parents, dead or alive
The driver won’t bother about their status
None of that humiliation is guaranteed
But isn’t it too clever that people get stressed
For intention to travel abroad, when they need
Just a fortnight break for a much deserved rest?
The bus driver and a rowing boat
I remember a song “A slow boat to China”
There was a man a bus driver who took his wife on holiday to Spain
where his wife ran away with a shepherd
The bus driver went home alone but had the house which exploded
(a gas leak) when he sat on the loo; he was unharmed but somewhat
embarrassed. When the insurance money, came he bought a rowing boat
which had a mast and he could set sail when the wind was right.
He landed in Falmouth before the winter storms.
When spring came he rowed and sailed to the island of Neves where
he met John Cleeve, who wrote a funny article about the brave man
and suddenly the bus driver was famous.
The rich people in Neve gave him money which put in a bank
(there are so many banks) when he went to the bank to draw
out money for an ice-cream, he found he was a millionaire.
High finance is a mystery and something had gone wrong
not for him to ask questions, but he did transfer the money
to a Swiss bank and took the first plane back to Europe.
The bus driver is now a prosperous cattle farmer in Andalusia.
Standing out there in the cold so many people waiting for the bus
Some were young and some old but none of them making a fuss
They were headed off to Washington D.C. many a sign in their hand
As those who don't agree are the same one's who don't understand
They set aside this particular day in order to stand up for the unborn
Some of them just go there to pray beyond the eye of all that scorn
As they march right up to the capitol just imagine the angels above
Saying it to be of God's Will, responding with the quite peace of love
In being a big believer in prayer I know they are going to win this war
But to this day it isn't fair as America has again murdered 3,000 more
But I speak of consequence as you can't go on destroying His Creation
A storm that is truly immense is quickly headed for this chosen nation
Will the tide finally ever withdraw and the nightmare of 62,000,000 end
Or will we eventually just fall in not hearing the message these signs send
As once again they're waiting on that bus this time to take them all away
Yet once again no one was making a fuss in just reflecting upon this day
With window view
I take this trip,
Set on a cue
As thoughts now skip.
This bumpy ride
Feeds a sane find,
Strange faces hide
With troubled minds.
I stare blankly
At this old world,
Watch things blurry
Fashion new swirls.
Time follows me
In waves unseen,
Trick or fancy
Lurk deep within.
The plot and play
Upon the breeze,
The tired dry day
In humid squeeze.
Words on a bus
That I attire,
Feel finds full blast
As thought conspires.
Soon I will reach
My journey's end,
A few lines teach
An honest bend.
Word patterns hurl
A frame of mind,
Swirl upon swirl
As stanzas find.
Leon Enriquez
23 April 2015
Singapore
Family Visit
Highway destination
Christmas presentation
Roll out smile
Reflecting back while
Baltimore being my arrival
Thinking on a Christmas novel
Connection in togetherness
Christmas Day almost upon
Snow falls starting the holiday right
Momentum spirit
Inspirating merit
Journey on Journey on
Christmas has officially begun
Embracing love among
Merry Christmas in the Greyhound way
Peace, Joy and Blessings every step of the getaway
Happy Prosperous New Year 2026
Through the mind and enter the heart
Love surrounds and spread it in warmth
The friendly Greyhound Driver with handshake extended
Go Greyhound and let memories carry their own holiday stories for many years to come.
The bus is half-full, empty seats are occupied
by the soon to be born, the soon to be dead,
those in transition.
The medium knows he is a guest in a stranger’s dream.
When he thinks about this, he shivers and turns
to the window, lets himself be distracted
by the dusty fields, the wind cranking farms.
A bespectacled matron moans
as the knit of her life slowly unravels.
Eighty years dead; white mice
have been born and have passed away in her head.
A travelling salesman yet to be conceived
stares about him, thinking he is in a movie.
People speak a language he does not understand -
there are no subtitles for his state of mind
however, his future occupation has already been seeded
within the mixology of an ancient starlight.
The medium wishes he were more accustomed
to the slow process of astral dissolution
and regeneration.
Passengers cling to the long straps of their minds
as the Greyhound sways.
Some occupants dream
that they have a real ticket for this life,
others may have purchased a ticket,
but not a destination;
they fidget in their seats,
and wonder why the trip is taking so long.