Long Subway Poems
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Dots and line and blips on a page.
Squiggles. Dashes. Swirls. Short and long ones.
Some with loops. Others just plain plain.
None meant anything to Charles. They never had.
He had gotten along fine in forty-six years without reading anything at all.
He knew numbers.
He could add and subtract.
Numbers was about money. They made sense.
Reading was a waste of time.
His mama had apparently been a reader,
but he never knew her. She died the day he was born.
He sat on the subway watching people stare at their squiggles and dots.
Most had flat screens now.
Some kids were sliding their hands across their flat cold screens,
and whistles and bells were happening.
Once in a while an old lady in the back
who was holding an old fashioned printed book would laugh.
No one looked up or even her way, when she did.
Subways are not places where people are friendly.
One guy had turned his book and shown Charles a cartoon once.
He looked at it, but it meant nothing.
The man looked miffed, and stopped speaking to him.
Reading was a language he did not speak.
He was not worried about it.
He stared out the window and thought about all the people in the houses.
Wondering what they were having for supper.
Wondering if the house children were loud like the subway children.
People used to smile sometimes on the subway.
Sometimes one would wink or grin at him.
Now they were all stirred up in their flat screens,
even their phones seemed to be intriguing to them.
Reading was a language he did not speak.
He was forty-six-years old now.
He did not need it.
When he got home he could listen to his TV.
His mama would have read a book to him he thought.
This made him smile.
She's the enemy to whom I've yet to be
Formally introduced --
Her sites set on my
Tennis bracelet or clutch...
She glowers.
There's something off about her hair
It's color strange and unreasonable.
She dons a skirt too short
And tight for one her age --
My age.
Her colors loud and far too bold
For this town.
She stares me down like I would flinch,
As though intimidating me would be an
Easy job.
Here's what we can't tell:
She's a child of the Bronx.
A survivor.
It will take much more than
Undivided attention
To cause cowering.
Don't force it.
She despises on principle
Though of which one I'm uncertain...
Probably doesn't like that
We are of the same stage in life
Relatively
And unusually surrounded on
This subway
By a majority who happen
To be of approximately
The same range, age-wise.
Not the usual youth of Beantown
Who seem to own this city
(Or think they do)
Transplants from other locales
Here for educations
Or jobs, or beer,
Or whatever opportunities come their way
To seize upon and take from us.
Why are we not on the same side?
These rides serve no
Purpose other than
Perhaps to bear witness to still lives
And words set upon portable devices --
Commutes and communions
Of little consequence
Other than the fact that
Moving through space and time
Reminds us that we're still
Alive.
Form:
They’re building a subway
(They call it the Q)
To run underneath
Second Avenue.
It’s nearing completion
(But way overdue).
They’re hoping by New Year’s
To have its debut.
Construction’s so noisy
(If you only knew!)
That the neighborhood feels
It’s been getting the screw.
But now they’re on deadline
(With much ballyhoo)
And the streets are so tight
You can hardly pass through.
If it ever gets finished
(Despite the huge crew)
We’ll be shocked ‘cause it seems
Like a classic snafu.
When the new year begins
(And there’s still no review)
All New Yorkers will sigh,
Unsurprised, as on cue.
She wasn’t crazy about the insipid
platinum blondes she was asked
to play, sop to buffoons,
goddess too merciful to see
she could turn them to ashes,
or orangutans with a murmured spell.
Her last film was The Misfits:
written by her husband: a woman
in pigtails and jeans, frank
and naive, blind to the effect
she has on cowboys as lost
as she. She finds them trapping
defiant mustangs, and fights
them off, before they can break
another soul. In The Seven Year Itch
she straddles a subway grate, steam
lifting her skirt like the hot breath
of a Minotaur or drooling neighbor.
In Some Like it Hot she plays ukulele
in a women’s band, crossing paths
with two musicians, disguised
as ladies. She’s done with guys
who squander her money
on the ponies, and other girls.
Sleeping that first night
on the train, the bass player climbs
into the upper bunk, drunk
on enchantment. He wishes her
goodnight. Goodnight, Honey,
she replies, in that whispery
way, softer than moonlight.
For that moment, this
orphan of the world
splurges without caution,
warmth impossible
to find. In that astonishing
instant, gone before we know,
actual care brushes
our cheek. But lingers
as long as we let it.
Forget about me,
like a dropped coin in the gutter,
like a breath lost in the wind,
let me slip through your fingers
like sand in an hourglass.
Forget me,
like yesterday’s news,
like a raindrop in a storm,
let my name fade away
like graffiti on a subway wall.
Forget my voice,
that once echoed in your ears,
that whispered secrets in the dark,
let it vanish
like smoke from a blown-out candle.
I beg of you, forget me.
In the chaos of your thoughts,
where memories collide and scatter,
let me become a distant echo,
a whisper in the cacophony.
Forget my smile,
that lit up your world,
that cracked open your heart,
let it blur
like footprints in the sand.
Forget my laugh,
that rolled like thunder,
that shook your bones,
let it dissolve
like echoes in an empty room.
For I will never come back,
like a ship lost at sea,
like a shooting star in the night,
I am a memory now,
a ghost in the corridors of your mind.
I’m sorry,
if my absence leaves a void,
if my departure leaves you adrift,
but sometimes endings
are the only way forward.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The oak splits its ribs for the nesting wren,
lets termites tunnel its marrow to dust~
a cathedral collapsing in slow grace.
Even the gutter, choked with last night’s rain,
holds a sky for the beetle’s iridescent back.
You’ve seen it: the way the sidewalk cracks
to cradle dandelion roots,
how rust kisses the abandoned swing set red,
how the subway grate exhales its warm breath
up the skirt of a shivering stranger.
The world is a wound that heals
by staying open.
Somewhere, a spider repairs her torn web
with the silk of her own body.
Somewhere, a streetlamp hums
to the moths it will burn alive by dawn.
And you~
you are alive to witness it.
Frigid temperatures filled the square
Rigid opponents chilled the air
Deriding him a radical socialist
Unbridling the race to get him off a ballot list
The city was arm in arm, in protest daily
Whites, Blacks, Arab and Israeli
and what came up to all’s surprise
Mayor elect—Mamdani’s rise
Along came the 112th Mayor elect
Strong spent are the people who'd select
Lines stretched around doters
Awaiting hours were his voters
Indulges in a city reborn it’s bagels and lox
Sworn in over the subway station docks
Hand upon Islam’s holy text
A marvel of a man who’ll govern next
Swearing words of conviction and not of pity
I swear, to bolster and defend this dynamic city
Mayor Mamdani
promises New York City ~
a hopeful journey
New Year's Day
1/1/26
I witnessed on the subway
What I’ve never seen before –
A woman tumbled from her seat
Onto the dirty floor.
It seemed that she was sleeping
And, as we all sat and stared,
We wondered who would intervene,
But not one person dared…
Until a brave soul leaned on down
And shook the sleeper’s arm.
She boldly shouted, “Get on up!”
A human-train alarm.
The sleeping lady gave a moan
And uttered, “I’m all right.”
Perhaps she thought she was at home
And tucked in for the night.
The kindly soul persisted,
Saying, “Get back in your seat!
You’re stretched out on the filthy floor,
Surrounded by our feet!”
At this, the sleeper’s eyes went wide;
She let go with a curse.
The Good Samaritan backed off,
Afraid of something worse.
The passengers all held their breaths;
The train stopped at the station.
The sleeper slowly rose and made
A seat her destination.
She promptly fell asleep again.
Who knows what wiped her out?
But watching this, I understood
What life is all about:
When people struggle, some will help
But most won’t interfere,
‘Cause sometimes the recipients
Would rather you stay clear.
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved.
Great lines, something to think about (Edward Thomas)
Woke up to the rain and the wind beating on my windowpane,
Yet I thought of getting dressed and going there.
A subway system, so far not yet up to standards,
A job like mine, no one need to rush too
A mindset like mine, meant for me to lay low
during the northeaster...rain and wind
Poor yet full of pride, I am the servant Queen,
Yesterday, I struggled to maintain my sanity
Due to working conditions: at the workplace
I have been feuding for years. Nothing changes
not even an added penny, before its death,
More work, more stress, no respect
Night supervisors, penciling
or rather maneuvering into the darkness
at six am. A street crowded with overturn bins,
Flooded streets, with mudded running water
Mother of Nature, another dangerous disaster?
You are meaner than corvid and Alaska,
I am the servant Queen, poor, yet full of pride:
I am fed up with others trying to take me for a ride
Sometimes, you just need a break from a bad situation
Never, berate yourself for giving expression to your emotions.
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;(Edward Thomas) line
I planned to stick to my believes, nothing will change,
I will always be the servant Queen, as long as them reign:
What does the sign Subway convey?
What linkage to food does it play?
Word 'subway' hints fast-
sharp arrows broadcast-
the fact you'll get served right away!
December 12, 2020
Contest: Trademark
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Form Used: Limerick
The arrows on the Subway logo represent speed and movement.
You can get a personalized, healthy sub sandwich fast and it jives
well with an active lifestyle. The connection with actual subway
stuff came in 1980 when the founders decided to adopt a common
system by decorating the shops with maps of the New York City
subway system.
https://www.rewindandcapture.com/why-is-subway-called-subway/