Tots waddle to the throttle of life...®a©e®s...start your engines!
Human nature takes wobbly steps forward >>>
Each clumsy effort supported to maintain balance$
Space and times collide *×*
Perpetual motion prevails...®a©e®s...engines revved!
Adulthood rapidly approaches!...Lord help us survive till they move out!
Chance encounters...on and off the computer °}©{°
Experimenting with forbidden fruits @ hormones.com/applejacks
Concerned parents patrol computer...once they figure out the password ?+?=?
Alcohol and weed are soon dating...huh?...what did you say?...uuh...huh?
Driving home with the ***** in their eyes!
Except...they're still in park!!!
Too much ghanja juice dulled their drive ° ° °
Spaced out at space station number: 5
a lone ancient dark night
Your engine stumbles
rumbles, coughs to a stop
so close to E
The gas pump, blocky, digital
smells of gasoline
like a primordial dance
an intercourse of machines
rape of a Mesozoic age, processed
Petrol in a tank, deep
Swipe card, digital hum of circuitry
Choose your poison, your savor
Buttons—regular, premium,
Reek of diesel
Corruption
So many fingers have touched
that white square button
almost flesh-looking
White, pale, cracked, peeling
The horror of the mundane
You need to touch it
You want to
You have to
You have places to go
And miles before you sleep…
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long-truncated railroad stop
humming still with a faded reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
Sweat, rustle and creak,
an invisible locomotion of leaving and arrival.
employed upon an iron labor.
The tall dry weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle
as they wait here or idle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its innards now
are a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate twirling flight
under a corn fed sun.
A mid-day heat thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its bygone world
had not forever disembarked.
Long ago, Mithila was left at this forsaken station,
As the train slipped away on the wrong track,
cutting all horizons.
There was no return
Mithila knew it, even then.
This waiting was only a silent, endless sigh.
In the dust-covered mirror of nostalgia,
Her past flickers, bright as gleaming,
Unreal in its stillness and beauty.
The present? A colourless traveller
That tells no stories, only passes by.
So much time has passed
As if a lifetime quietly devoured all she knew.
Mithila, lost in the unknown crowd, now nameless.
The rails no longer tune
The rhythm faded with the fog.
Time moved on, but never came back in harmony.
The train still whistles
But only for its own journey,
Not for Mithila.
There is no vacant seat for her now, no backwards glance.
Mithila is now just a name,
Drifting in the air of a grey and lonesome afternoon.
No one remembers her,
Only time leaves behind a fading trace.
And the future?
It is a nameless station of Waiting
Not new, just another destination of solitude.
Flickering lights cast shadows on the crowd,
Each chasing hopes that slip through their hands.
Trains whistle past in endless circles,
Rushing toward visions that never stay.
I stand beneath a single blinking light,
Waiting quietly as the crowd fades away.
No need to follow fading tracks,
No rush to catch a train that disappears.
The platform empties, footsteps soften,
Only my shadow remains, still and calm.
Lights dim slowly until all is dark,
The station folds itself into silence.
Here, stillness holds me nowhere left to go.
One last train arrives, quiet and just for me.
A dream that stayed while I let the rest go.
Three women with umbrellas were waiting for this train.
To get on or for someone to get off? I am yet to know.
I lost track of them after the people disembarked.
Looking for my husband, who would not have an umbrella.
My umbrella was at home, I was not expecting this dreary night.
My man would not be the first one off, closer to the last.
I knew from experience, he avoided the crowds.
My smile was wide when I saw his excited look of recognition.
STATION MEETING
The time has come
years depart
I slap your stomach
You throttle me for my
gems
I have none
my gems are the stars
sardines swim towards me
chains rattle loose
to the children in the
Wilderness I flee
verse2016
Midnight in my darkest hour
The radio turned to nowhere, n nothing
The night is open to static, unknown
A vice of something from silence moans
Its whispers are lost in the either of night
Cold moonlight settles on my floor
Its liquid form is translucent and unformed
I draw the air of midnight, misty cold
Feeling dead stations of Soul
Each a place of memory
My birth
My life
I have forgotten all the rest
I watch my coming death
Nothing is as I know
Midnight at my darkest hour
Knowing the dead stations of Soul
Static & unknown!
Dead station of soul, cold
a cuneiform of heavenly hosts
on a cathode ray tube, born
shadows of forgotten sliver gods roam
digital tears, a broken modem's wail, fear
the hollow shell of the sky, cracking
nightshade fingernails fawn
lost in the echo chamber
waiting for a mechanical dawn
Dead station of soul, static old
phantom frequencies crackle n fade
wraiths, tuning into the echoes
of forgotten dreams, decades
channels of fractured memories
dust motes dancing in moonlight
a language lost to time
signs and shadows
wax on a dying flame
into a twilight rain
with the pulse of the divintity
of silence and static
casting secrets to an empty room, void
Imagine if there was a brain station for souls
Plug in a rhyme magic would pop out no controls
With patience sooner or later
Writing thousand word essays
And the literary world would begin to explode
Life is a slow moving train
with many stations along the way.
Some stations will be filled with joy
some stations we'll encounter pain.
Life's journey is a one way ticket
as onwards through life we go.
Every station whispers secrets
at each stop a dream unfolds.
Before we reach our destination
they'll be many twists and turns.
Some passengers will depart life early
as the wheels of fate churn along.
When eventually our journeys over
we must leave all our possessions behind.
For in life there's no return ticket
so just sit back and enjoy the ride.
Joint pourings of nations,
All from different nations.
Funnel of diversity,
Cultures melding in.
The station holds the might of nations.
Flowing round pillars,
Through the gates to the station.
Different dress from all the rest.
Strides unique to note.
Voices raised in sound.
The station is grand.
The train pours more talent,
Into our land.
Cultures blend in elation.
The Grand Central Station.
To all of my loves,
I'm nothing but a greying power station.
They're not interested in me
or my well being
I'm not sure if they ever were.
They come at me with endless barbed babble
have little need for dialogue or advice
I'm just a chew toy for their mental mice...
when their confusion evolves into a vice
They have their smart phones
and other instruments of distraction
they already know everything.
My loves are leaving now -only half charged up
They're onto their next power station
to get topped off.
I'm completely drained
but completely happy that they're gone.
Turning the pages backward
I find pressed flowers in my old diary
from the day we saw
lavender growing in the woods.
The sun was swallowed by clouds
that were halfway to a metaphor
and you told me the eye color of love
was dark hazel, the very depth of my own.
In a packet of handwritten letters
I find polaroids taken at a cemetery.
I remember I told you when I die
pour hot honey on my grave
to wash away my small-town sins.
Your manifesto,
written in a gas station bathroom:
you mourned never having learned
how to properly smell peonies
and failing to share blood and wine
with people who don’t exist.
You kissed me
and I told you things the moon told me
under streetlights and stars.
You replied if it ever ended
to burn it all.
In my hands I hold a broken promise.
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