Long Commuters Poems
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At Rotterdam in Netherlands
I made plenty of window friends
I could reach out to them
whenever I missed my own
friends and near ones back home.
The window facing the South unfolded
the beautiful, enchanting river Masse.
Its simmering and quivering depths reflected
the multitudenal colours of historic city it nurses.
The bright sunny days with clear blue skies
Were often dotted with jets with gaseous, white, long tails
Criss crossing randomly in all directions
expressing the vastness of freedom and joy.
The golden setting sun
sprinkled the mature shades of
orange and red and yellow
in the reflective silver flows of the Masse,
slowly admitting its failure
to defreeze the lakes and snows around
and to warm up the cockles
of the easterlies which travel
far from Russia on a typical winter day,
before being engulfed by
dark and grey clouds at the horizon
like a surrendering fugitive.
The act of humbleness of the mighty sun
the only energy source of our universe
betrayed the celeberative mood of the city lights
which danced proudly on the flowing waters of Masse at night.
The frame of the window facing the North
helped me rendezvous with few more friends
the historic church there
stood in its monolithic glory
kissing the sky with its long Needle thin tower
its clock religiously reminding us
of the duties that we had to perform,
could not be missed by anyone.
Looking down at the street below
the empty red and yellow trams of RET
curled in sleepily into their shelter
at Strissenburgdwarsstrat
for a well deserved rest
after having served the varied commuters
of the city of Rotterdam.
Not too far in the distance
beyond the red brick and brown brick roofs
and amongst bare trees
I could also spot a wind mill,
its huge wings rotating leisurely
ever challenging the winds to come faster.
From either of the windows
I could let my imagination fly
and accompany the lovely
seabirds to limitless ends
the greyish white winged beauties
were enticed closer to me
when I opened the window panes
with crumbs of bread for them,
thrilling me with their aerobics.
When I came back home from there,
and met my native friends again
I started to miss all these new friends of Rotterdam.
RET: Rotterdam Electric Tram (Rotterdamse Elektrische Tram)
Day after day, week after week, when rush hour traffic’s at its peak,
I’ve had to sit and wait and wait, knowing that once more I’d be late
And have to face the boss’s frown, who lives the other side of town
And can control when he’ll arrive; there are no road works on his drive.
But our road’s down to single file; it’s been like that for quite a while,
With traffic lights at either end, while workmen work out what to mend,
Behind a line of orange cones, oblivious to the drivers’ moans.
It started with a water main. They mended it – it burst again
And cut off electricity, another high priority
So they hired another digger; made the trench a whole lot bigger.
With traffic lights now far apart, commuters started losing heart.
To town there was no other way, so queues got longer every day.
One day they started filling in, but scarcely did the work begin
Before there came a frantic yell, “The bloody gas main’s gone as well”.
And so they dug it out once more, till it was deeper than before.
They put a sign along the way, “We’re sorry for the long delay,
All caused by things beyond control. One day we will fill in the hole”.
This morning, passing in the car, I spotted something quite bizarre.
With paper hats and champagne flutes and coloured ribbons on their boots
The men were gathered all around, their spades were lying on the ground.
And I could only sit and stare, as “Happy Birthday” filled the air.
I called out, “Who’s the Birthday boy, I’d like to wish him Birthday joy?”
And, as one man, they turned to say, “The trench is one year old today!”
She sits on a street corner with a teardrop in her eye
Wishing she were in the cars of the people driving by
Her mother left with some john about two months ago
The man with the eviction notice didn’t care she had no place else to go
She carries in her small backpack everything she owns
The coming of the winter colds is in the winds that have blown
The bed she made on a City Park bench can comfort her no more
Her absences in the public school do not entice anyone to go looking for …
… the poor little black girl that nobody cares about
She has potential deep inside of her buried beneath the hunger pains
But nobody in this busy world recognizes what there is to gain
She is doing everything she possibly can to stop from turning tricks
But the only thing her mother taught her was how to hide the bruises from her kicks
The Styrofoam cup she holds out to strangers hasn’t collected any coin
People just leave her looks of disgust as if she is at fault for being forlorn
Shadows cast by the high-rise buildings grow longer with the setting sun
As commuters begin their journeys home she stands up in front of everyone …
… and the poor little black girl lets out a booming shout
“I don’t do this because I want to; being abandoned was not my choice;
I tried quietly to ask for help – but today I will use my voice
I turned thirteen years old today – the anniversary of another girl’s mistake
Is it too much to ask for, just once, a piece of cake?”
“You can pretend that I don’t exist; you can pretend that you’re better than me;
You can long for that future day when I am no longer here for you to see;
You can hate me and fear me and just turn your head the other way;
But you will see me again, sitting by our Father to hear your excuses come judgment day”
Businessmen and businesswomen stopped for just a minute
They looked around at one another not sure of the message or how to spin it
Then continued towards their taxis, subways, ferries and their cars
She stood alone after the sun went down beneath the twinkling stars …
It is up to you, now, to determine how this story turns out
Day after day, week after week,
When rush hour traffic’s at its peak,
I’ve had to sit and wait and wait,
Knowing that once more I’d be late
It started with a water main.
They mended it – it burst again
And cut off electricity,
Another high priority.
With traffic lights set far apart,
Commuters started losing heart.
This morning, waiting in the car
I spotted something quite bizarre.
The men were gathered all around,
Their spades were lying on the ground.
And I could only sit and stare
As “Happy Birthday” filled the air.
I called out, “Who’s the Birthday boy
I’d like to wish him Birthday joy?”
And, as one man, they turned to say,
“The trench is one year old today!”
Many people are sprucing up the Quaker City.
Everything must appear clean and pretty.
They anticipate the last weekend in September.
That will be one all of Philadelphia will remember.
Countless visitors will be Philly bound.
Not one vacant hotel room in the city will be found.
There may be some difficulty for commuters to get around.
The Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority
will be selling train passes to a select few by lottery.
Restaurants and stores are expecting a boom in business.
What do you think will be the cause of all of this?
Philadelphia will be visited by Pope Francis.
Corona virus
Corona virus; we cannot trust
Hundreds already have become dust
Millions fought back the death's spell
Conquering corona, now living well
Humans greed for sentient foods
And their craving for luxury goods
Led us to destroy the environment
Purely, for selfish enjoyment
Plastics, vinyls float on the waves
For many trendy items we've become slaves
Austerity is only a political slogan
The way we live today is not paragon
Spanish flu endemic took many lives
Plaque and swine flu, marked our times
Diseases pass by some have to die
History will repeat and we shouldn't cry
Show compassion for our fellow creatures
Treat well our planet's great many features
Accept the good and bad with equanimity
Be all blessed with Corona immunity
Winnie.
Although Winnie did not look elderly
Because she dressed prim and properly
She was constantly there on the platform
Not often though, in the railway uniform
She treats and greets the big and small
Those who pass through the ticket hall
The children call her Grandma sweetie
But she told me that her home is empty
Her husband died at the Falklands War
Never had the children much wished for
Being the only child for a single parent
She became a dutiful railway servant
She should receive a community award
For the long term service as a reward
The commuters agreed, the form was signed
But, the following morning she wasn't seeing
I knocked hard on the ticket office window
A different woman opened the front door
She looked pale and without a smile
Told me , softly to wait for a while
People dressed in black and white
Came through the door and led their way out
They gave me a leaflet, it was an eulogy
Winnie, I am late, accept my apology!
Concrete and Tarmac
Betwixt concrete grey and tarmac blackness
creeps the wand’ring eye of lazy sunrise
drawing inland sweet hint of windblown fresh
awakening the breaking surf’s curled sighs
blue docks echo a seagulls lonely cries
grounded beneath dark ever shifting skies
Red eyes survey commuters as they pass
long tails and oily hair in silent haste
reflected in stores high end looking glass
first streaking rays of sunrise breaking chaste
upon the heated scowl of brownstone face
glaring at a history time disgraced
Purveyors of a stream of urban wealth
small businesses subsisting day to day
seek sustenance ‘neath Wall Street’s wily stealth
hard fortunes made and lost on shell game tray
cold suits and leather bags too soon passe
how soon the predator becomes the prey
Alas, concrete and tarmac, faded pawns,
await the rise and fall of breaking dawns
©1/21/2018
submitted to – Urban Sonnet – Poetry contest
sponsor – Laura Loo
At Nahal Oz, Hamas hurled a substance weird
It burst into flames, released a gas to be feared
Jews suffocated in minutes, but we don’t know
Who made it, what it was, nothing to show.
At a theater in Moscow, rebels came in
Took the audience hostage, in the cause of Chechin
Russian police made an invisible gas flow
Terrorists were led away, what gas used we don’t know
Tourists describe a chemical they call “devil’s breath”
Makes you a zombie, in some cases causes death
Some Columbians use it, so visitors beware
It may seem underhanded, but crime isn’t fair.
Madman in the commuter train, makes fake phone calls
To warn the commuters of drug aerosols
He says criminals can attack this way, and you wouldn’t know
That you’re a victim, of a gas drug flow.
He says he’s a victim, they got his keys
Then entered his house, easy as a breeze
Affected his behavior, damaged his brain
White coats lead this guy away, but is reality insane?
What you don't know can hurt you, and it gets worse
You can blame natural causes, when your luck hits a reverse
When your health goes bad, when troubles accrue
Now it's possible someone's doing it to you.
The beaten clay of the market road is thick and heavy underfoot,
clinging to the tires of purple line 7 seaters and boots of the commuters.
The silence of the Kasane tarmac feels a thousand miles away
the moment I step across the border line and drop into the shouting of the crowd,
where the zinc sheets of the stall roofs are still dripping onto the mud from the sudden downpour.
I navigate the narrow lanes, my sneakers sinking into the wet, rutted earth,
as the sharp smell of dried kapenta mixes with roasting maize and hot diesel exhaust.
The money changers lean past my shoulders, aggressively flashing thick bricks of Kwacha notes,
their voices competing with the loud, erratic vibration of a petrol generator
that someone is fueling with a plastic funnel just a few steps away from the food stalls.
The woman who sells tomatoes doesn’t look up as I squeeze past her wooden crate;
she is entirely focused on using a piece of cardboard to sweep the muddy water away,
her plastic apron heavily stained with the dark juice of crushed vegetables.
Beside her, a trader aggressively unpacking secondhand jackets from a damp canvas bale,
shouting out prices to consumers who keep their heads down, calculating the cost of a meal.
A couple of young men stand huddled together under the narrow shelter of the butchery awning,
their smartphones held high toward the sky to catch a flickering network signal after the storm.
They are talking loudly about a music gig in Lusaka, using big words and forced laughter,
trying to pretend that the wet mud on their jeans doesn’t tell the true story of their morning hustle,
but the market doesn't care about their city pretenses.
It only asks that you look closely at the people who do not have the luxury of quitting,
and that you write down their names exactly as they are written in the mud.
The afternoon sun begins to drop behind the floodplains, turning the puddles into sheets of orange light.
The freight trucks bound for the north begin to rev their engines, waiting for the customs gates to clear,
while the vendors slowly fold up their damp tarpaulins for the night.
I walk out toward the edge of the clearing, leaving the smell of wood smoke and wet earth behind,
as the market closes its books and prepares to do the exact same thing tomorrow.
10 crabs together in a plastic bag
A friend who brought them for dinner to take home
Crab feast
Subway ride
MTA NYC D train to the Bronx
Observed one of the crabs maneuvering through the subway car
Fast mover that got far
There’s your dinner, after it
Get that crab
However, the crab was spotted by several commuters as one woman screamed and total chaos began
I wanted to laugh, but didn’t make it obvious
So I just held back, and acted like nothing happened
Before I got off to change trains, I told my friend, good luck crabbing home
I changed subway lines at Rockefeller Center for my fantastic F for Queens, New York
Once I got home, I called and asked my friend did she make it home with her bundle of crabs minus one
My friend said yes, but she stated when she unloaded them, they were fighting each other
Crabs will be crabs I responded
Such a crabby scene.