Short Subways Poems
Short Subways Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Subways by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Subways by length and keyword.
buses cabs subways
how I get around
no subways are here
so buses will do
for six days a week
cities subways
when I am there
cabs cost too much
subways are quick
hitch hiked some
younger days
now buses
bus fare
one way
stop
the crowds taking the subways
enter the underground
below upon waking
to rise up
to work
in the clouds above
only to go back in the evening
down through the underground
low upon leaving
to home
to family
to final rest
in the underground
or in the clouds above
They closed the roads and subways, too
And Broadway shows went dark.
The weathermen, predicting this,
Were not far off the mark.
But since it hit on Saturday,
The children, I am sure,
Though thrilled, must all be wishing
It had come one day before.
I wonder how long it will take
To get things up to speed
And hope that Nature knows that this
Is all the snow we need.
Homeless
The rain falls gently making no splashes
The wind is absent today.
Safe indoors I look out and know many
Seek bus shelters, and they have no home.
Paris is an ugly city, expensive and dirty
Their subways stink of unwashed people.
I think of the unseen whom we don’t see
Mainly because we don’t want to.
In our cosy dens, we should know this
The calamity of losing it all could happen to us.
Homeless
The rain falls gently making no splashes
The wind is absent today.
Safe indoors I look out and know many
Seek bus shelters, and they have no home.
Paris is an ugly city, expensive and dirty
Their subways stink of unwashed people.
I think of the unseen whom we don’t see
Mainly because we don’t want to.
In our cosy dens, we should know this
The calamity of losing it all could happen to us.
Homeless
The rain falls gently making no splashes
The wind is absent today.
Safe indoors I look out and know many
Seek bus shelters, and they have no home.
Paris is an ugly city, expensive and dirty
Their subways stink of unwashed people.
I think of the unseen whom we don’t see
Mainly because we don’t want to.
In our cosy dens, we should know this
The calamity of losing it all could happen to us.
It’s raining, it’s pouring;
The streets are a mess.
For anyone out there,
There’s bound to be stress.
The highways are flooded;
The subways are closed,
As “When will it stop?”
Is the question that’s posed.
With puddles ginormous,
The outlook is dark
And what’s brought to mind
Is that biblical ark.
Some plans may be altered,
But that will depend
On when Nature decides
All this rain has to end.
A secret is granted
any curb captain
listening.
To speak rarely and
with roots.
Blake wears a hardhat,
drives a forklift for
Metal Products.
Whitman collects
unemployment in the mail.
New words
are mined coal.
They are the drink
from bags,
the suicide in jail,
and
the housekeeper
called only by her first name.
Keeping pace
with a secret at
the speed of light
is the wisdom felt on crowded subways.
New Yorkers, Get a Permanent Marker and write your Social Security number on your Limbs so that we will know who you are, when we find you. This message brought to you by a Katrina Survivor..
Soupers encourage all your friends in the path of Hurricane Irene to get out. The subways will be flooded, the airport will be 5 feet underwater and there will be no electricity....Do your part to help. THIS IS SUPER SERIOUS....SUPER....
To: the “Timeless” One
Like parallel lines that don’t intersect
Like strangers in subways that never connect
Like messages in bottles that never reach shore
Like a drained stream, I don’t try any more.
Because
You’re like a stormy cloud that dampened my light
Like a blank stare in the dead of the night
Like a worn out movie that’s stuck on rewind
You’re that man on the sidewalk, ten steps behind.
Love,
The Hourglass
. for public domain
I know her through the cheap hellos,
shared taxi cabs, subways below,
strolling in the fresh fruit aisle,
shared bench for lunch, a sidewalk smile,
but not like I knew my sisters,
their blistered toes, and bathroom woes,
heartaches from a stolen kiss,
and sorrows from our dead parents.
We old neighbors have been pleasant,
civil, helpful, ever present,
with eyes where joy is often absent,
lives and love somehow misspent.
Bullfrogs in the belfry – get it on.
Butterflies sipping tea – get it on.
Bananas making bread – get it on.
Bubbles beyond belief – get it on.
Bare bottoms bumping blue birds – get it on.
Got on it – hair follicles parading past ferris wheels.
Got on it – hungry appetite hurrying onto subways.
Got on it – helpful hints scurrying onto freight cars
Got on it – hilarious hippos stomping through a zoo.
Got on it – hugs all around for the USA, red, white and blue.
Her high anxiety kicked in at the age of three her parents said.
I was horrified, shocked, were they daft in their head?
No one is anxious at the age of three. That is crazy, right?
She told me “the ghost monsters come out in the middle of the night.”
Where are they in the day time? I asked the four-year-old.
They are riding the subways, carrying lunchboxes of gold.
I did not dare ask the child what they had in there to eat.
She has been raised by monsters, Silly Barbara and Pete.