Long Bus fare Poems
Long Bus fare Poems. Below are the most popular long Bus fare by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bus fare poems by poem length and keyword.
Sometimes we pay double extra
During inflation
Price rise in cooking oil
It has been a long time
We're eating waste oil
Increment in electric bills
Already suffering from
An extreme hot day
Price rise in cars
MCO lingers
We're unable to change cars
Price rise in household electrical appliances
Have to buy an expensive
All-purpose cooker
Price rise in worshipping supplies
Have to ask for God's forgiveness
Rise in bus fare
Pity the children
Free education but burdened transport fare
Price rise in chicken eggs
Have to use less tasty duck's eggs
Price rise in farm fresh drinks
All along no confidence
Price rise in beers
Not all the people's favourite
Price rise in sugar
Saccharin is already widely used
Price rise in bread and mee
Have to change to
Less tasty rice buns and meehoon
Besides inflation and tax increase
We do pay double extra
For people's carelessness
Ignorance
And greeds
All finally will result in
An eternal suffering
My Kolkata was Shamsul Huda Road, Tanning area, Shiva Temple,
Lansdowne Park. My hallowed celebration was
month-long festival in the neighbourhood -
sometimes the open-air play like Madhusudan story,
sometimes the pastoral songs by Nirmalendu Choudhury.
From far watched prestigious Modern School, and the line-up of cars at lunch,
waited at Beckbagan stop to Jadavpur University, for Number forty-five bus.
Sometimes walked to Lady Brabourne College to save the bus-fare,
spent hours at Gol Park Library, among books which marvelled me.
Sometimes travelled to National Library at Alipore for some fictitious reason,
chatting at 8B bus-stop, those friends are lost to me now,
don't find them on Facebook, never dared to step in Jadavpur Coffee-House.
Moved far away, Kolkata has changed.
British Council was not too far, experienced Shakespeare and Dickens there.
And New Market was on the way, spent hours and hours with no purchase,
having the bus-fare was enough. Once entered Victoria Memorial Museum,
did we bunk classes? Don't remember.
Muktaangan Theatre? My Teacher-aunt was so fond of!
Kolkata has changed fast! A little slow…would be better!
The smell of earth hasn't changed…the petrichor!
So exhilarating was getting drenched while returning from college!
Wet saree, didn't even know what a make-up was,
water dripping off from braids of hair !
The petrichor gets me back to the soil,
to the same place, which once I left!
Dad said this about the penny
Have one in your pocket to touch
You will never, ever be broke
Times, I have existed on the penny
Have one in your pocket to touch
I have many in various vessels
Times, I have existed on the penny
One day, I paid for my bus fare
I have many in various vessels
The church seems to like my pennies
One day, I paid for my bus fare
Pennies remind me of what Dad said
The church seems to like my pennies
You will never, ever be broke
Pennies remind me of what Dad said
Dad said that about the penny
________________________
September 5, 2012
Poetry/Pantoum/Penny Memories
Copyright Protected, ID 09-418-532-05
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Penny Pantoum
Sponsors, Rhonda and Cyndi, HM. Judged 09/24/2012
She saw him as she was driving by
She noticed an air of desolation about the guy
Huddled in his overcoat, his face was blue with cold
Stooped and unshaven, walking slowly as if quite old
She stopped the car abruptly, no time to think things out
On an impulse, she gave the man a shout
He was laden down with baggage, everything he had
He was carrying with him, he looked sad
She said "How can I help you? you look a little lost"
He said "Could you please give me a ride
I have not got the cost
Of a ticket for bus fare or for food to eat
I am in Adelaide to look for work
I've been tramping around the streets
I need a wash and shave
And to find a place to sleep"
As he was getting in her car
She was suddenly gripped with fear
Was this a foolish gesture to help this stranger here
He seemed to look much younger
As he settled in the seat
He was amazed at her kindness
And his good luck that they should meet
He glanced at the driver sideways
Out of the corner of his eye
She'd taken quite a risk
To pick up this poor guy
He said aloud "Don't worry I won't harm you in any way
I understand the chance you took
Giving me this lift today"
She said "It's my pleasure I have saved a few bob
You see, I've worked hard all my life
I've been lucky to have a job
Go to a mans' shelter and have a rest
Here's $50 to help you out
I wish you all the best"
He turned to face the woman, his eyes were very bright
"I can't accept the money it doesn't feel quite right"
"Please accept this little gift that's what life is all about
It's a poor existence if we can't help each other out"
He stared at her astonished
As if she was an angel from above
"Would you mind if I kissed you?"
He said, feeling something akin to love
For this kindly compassionate woman
Whom he had only just met
And although they may never meet again
He knew he would never forget
I have seen yet another miracle under the sun,
An eastern girl.
A firefly that has brought light to my pitiable living....
Poetry like music is just another description of art a painter never had the words to say out loud,
But in my case this is what happens when charisma plies against literature.....
What if I told you my wrist is part of the arms that planted the Boughs of the forbidden fruit?
And in my reveries,I write lustful poems like it's an addiction,
Sin after sin.
Or perhaps I write of love knowing I shall only taste it on stanzas and metaphors?
It's this type of poems that feel like they were written for me....
But today I'm a lucky man,
For there's a lass I wish to say my love to, love of it's purest form,
Stand on mount Everest and shout her name for millennials like I'm on salary to do so,
I'm not much of affectionate behavior
But for simplicities sake....let me just say
I want go on lavender candle dinners,hitch eyes until she's comfortable enough to talk about her insecurities,
And if I was to die before her
Bring me kwachas and ngwes...for I will need bus fare to find my way back to her, only rapture will do us apart.
My Kingdom
For a verse
Worthy of note
A poignant stanza
Recited before a willing audience
My Kingdom
For the words
Etched on an unmarked grave
Moss won't grow over
Because it's visited
Time to time
Read chapter and verse
As it nurses the soul
Of the lost dead poet's
Who congregate at midnight
Feasting on the shards of fame
That never came calling
Beset rather by Crippling writers depression
Dead before deciphering the lesson
My kingdom
I tried
But cold and wet
Looking for a phone box for shelter
In search of finery
I sink blessed without even a coin
My damp hand clenched into a pocket full of hole's
For bus fare home
My kingdom
For a happy end
HOMELESS
Pale palms spread ! Lie flat, damp on a beer mat
lip stained pint glass, bubbles rising,carbon gas.
Puddle, pooled, red-eyed perspective, insulin injected.
Life lives in a toilet visit, dripped, stained, unzipped.
Crabbed-walked, twisted-talked, bent legged kneeling
urine smell immune, numb, no feeling.
Blurred haze across table strewn, stool, chair maze
falling body held in a strangers grasp, a sick rasp.
Limp-mouthed words fall out, joined in spit
short breath from Hell and split trousers smell .
Cold gutters await, dark, alone late
and no home, not there ! No care.
Please bus fare ?
is there not a note or chord or rhyme
i haven't explored or given time,
or some three letter tune, with notes so true
it perfectly explains my state of mind?
its hard finding new rhymes with lonely,
or to make arguments i've been betrayed,
those long nights still haunt me
and time and shame they cost me
behind an unlocked door barricade,
i wish i was a lot kinder,
to the one i had left on the floor,
instead of torturing myself with more questions
about if anyone really does care,
i should have packed up my rags,
put my time in a bag
and paid for a one-way bus fare,
to get me the hell out of there,
i'm sorry for leaving you abandoned,
and yelling at you to believe,
you must suck it all up,
put your pride in a cup,
and swallow your hollow disgrace,
the taste was always sour,
the smile soon would fade,
and back again you'd find yourself
behind another barricade,
Your day wasn't bad enough.
You had to work late,
on a job with no
time and half for overtime.
On your way home,
waiting for the bus.
Only to be held up
by two members
of Thugs-R-us.
There's never a Cop around
when you need one.
They wave a gun
in your face.
Knowing you won’t make a fuss.
You said look man!
You must be practicing,
because I’m broke as hell.
They laughed and took
Your cellphone, wallet
and bus fare as well.
But they weren’t through
They took your over coat too.
They were laughing
As it began snowing.
Then they got on your bus.
And only because it’s Xmas season,
they rob everybody on the bus.
They left you standing there
in the freezing cold.
You saw the whole thing
and they didn’t care.
Because this didn’t really happen.
Only because
you picked this day,
to called in sick.
EARLY POEMS XVIII
You didn't have time
by Michael R. Burch
You didn't have time to love me,
always hurrying here and hurrying there;
you didn't have time to love me,
and you didn't have time to care.
You were playing a reel like a fiddle half-strung:
too busy for love, "too old" to be young . . .
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time to take time
and you didn't have time to try.
Every time I asked you why, you said,
"Because, my love; that's why." And then
you didn't have time at all, my love.
You didn't have time at all.
You were wheeling and diving in search of a sun
that had blinded your eyes and left you undone.
Well, you didn't have time, and now you have none.
You didn't have time, and now you have none.
This is a song-poem that I wrote during my early songwriter phase, around age 17.
49th Street Serenade
by Michael R. Burch
It's four o'clock in the mornin'
and we're alone, all alone in the city . . .
your sneakers 're torn
and your jeans 're so short
that your ankles show, but you're pretty.
I wish I had five dollars;
I'd pay your bus fare home,
but how far canya go
through the sleet 'n' the snow
for a fistful of change?
'Bout the end of Childe’s Lane.
Right now my old man is sleepin'
and he don't know the hell where I am.
Why he still goes to bed
when he's already dead,
I don't understand,
but I don't give a damn.
Bein' sixteen sure is borin'
though I guess for a girl it's all right . . .
if you'd let your hair grow
and get some nice clothes,
I think you'd look outta sight.
And I wish I had ten dollars;
I'd ask you if you would . . .
but wishin's no good
and you'd think I'm a hood,
so I guess I'll be sayin' good night.
This is one of my earliest poems; I actually started out writing songs when some long-haired friends of mine started a band around 1974. But I was too introverted and shy to show them to anyone. This one was too racy for my high school journal.
Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, juvenalia, time, love, youth, young, 10th grade, sun, night, care, song