As i in reverie..Recall life scenes' like taxis
And trams, amid myriad dreams, of people
Who want to build a valid life, learn others.
Make inventions, and relish challenges though
They are rife.' I think on builders.? As i look and
See; a carpenter working, industriously, i see
Him draw with pencil, and slide along his saw
I note the sawdust falling, to be swept
aside ' I hear snatches of conversation
The odd word comes clear, yet not real informative
To my ear..I muse on the sawing, and know its
All around world, people striving some doing whats
Best.' Guiding the blind, unravelling many a mess
I think of all i have seen from lifes first breath to its
Last' sense and idiocy.. political farce' as i watch a
Carpenter plying His saw, i see much reason in
Many of lifes actions.? Yet never a good reason, or results ever from or' for
Any type of war.'
Weird,
lost in suburbia of grey concrete.
How did I come here in this tragic desolation?
I just lie down, face up. I cannot get up.
This is no place for me.
What need have I of this place? Where is this place?
Despair.....futility....distress….
No one in sight. No taxis, trams, vehicles,
closed shops, or signs of life.
Just where exactly am I?
Can I retrace my steps?
Like an opened tomb with the smell of stench,
It pervades everywhere as rubbish litters the streets.
There is no illumination at the end of the tunnel.
Am I dreaming? I pinch myself.
No, I'm awake
A door opens; paramedics lift me up.
An ambulance takes good care for me.
Slowly I gain my strength.
The bus is only practical
If you’re not in a hurry.
If time is of the essence,
Then your mind will fill with worry.
Aside from all the local stops,
The passengers board slowly
And don’t know how to swipe or tap –
Annoying! Holy moly!
A number are quite elderly,
While others come with strollers
Or luggage clogging up the aisle
Or shopping carts on rollers.
If you’re in luck, your driver
Will be practiced, moving fast,
But more likely he’ll be insecure,
Afraid of squeezing past
All the trucks and taxis double-parked
And blocking up the street.
You’ll sit there knowing you’ll be late
If someone you must meet.
It’s better on the subway,
Though, of course, it’s underground,
But it’s best if there’s a walking
Destination to be found.
The bordello camp
Morning in Aruba, the cock has crowed three times
Men get out of beds that hundreds have slept in
of other men, they are silent, waiting for taxis
to take them back to their ship
Sad men, there is no jubilation here, cigarette smoke
A cold morning beer while waiting for the transport
A seaman, overcome by the tardiness, tries to run away
There is nowhere to run; the whore camp is in the desert
on a desert, sand, bushes, and snakes.
The madman, plied with alcohol, is sleeping.
The other carried him onboard.
In the courtyard, a woman swipes the dance
floor, doesn't bother to look up, when this day ends
They will be back again, or someone like them
will come, here, drink, dance, and pay for sex
At one time tobacco was king
Today it’s cannabis and hemp
Seems they are Moe, Curly and Larry
While tobacco is stuck being Shemp
And so too is it true of taxis
Whom riders once hailed frequently
Uber and Lyft now rule the ride-hailing roost
taxis deleted ~ like the Confederacy
he woke in the bowels of destruction.
unsure of where he was or what had happened.
Had he slept through a world war?
There was absolute devastation; an entire city was destroyed.
Am I still in New York? He wondered.
He listened for the sounds of taxis, buses, and people.
There was nothing. The silence was bothersome, and frightening.
He did not know which direction to walk. So he kept listening.
The only sound was a dripping sound of water from several directions.
Give me strength he said to his spirit guides; help me out here!
They coaxed him to walk and so he did.
Terrified of what he might find.
If I could write a story song
Our loves’ beginning, told in time
In beautiful, eventful words
Perhaps a Sonnet of a rhyme
If I could write of younger days
Of unexpected rendezvous
Of fate’s design or destiny
I’d write of how I first met you
There’d be no Taxis, Chances Are
No Auld Lang Synes, no Lyin’ Eyes
There only would be tears of joy
For having lived love’s sweet surprise
If I could write a story song
Then every word could fill a page
For love needs only thought to live
And thought defies all time and age
And so my story would portray
The fortune of love’s wondrous gift
Of one remembered summer night
Of wandered hearts, no more to drift
People started running,
for buses, taxis, trains,
with umbrellas no defence,
against the wind and rain,
a drowned rat cycled past,
then disappeared down a lane,
when lightening flashed, I dashed,
hoping to dry out again.
I shot past the pub’s “welcome” sign,
“No Prams or Pushchairs Inside”,
then scrutinised the menu,
for something not micro’d or fried,
with my paper, pint, pasty, and peas,
I sat by the warm fireside,
waiting for the storm to pass,
and brighter weather outside.
New York was so relaxed Lady Liberty was slumbering with snores.
There was a garbage strike, and the taxis were sauntering with oars.
No one was excited, hot dog men were yawning in their wheat buns.
It was a lazy August day, and Central Park had many quiet nuns.
Atlantic ocean was taking a sabbatical, the pizza palors were napping.
The dogs and cats were dead asleep, no animals were crapping.
Tourists were taking naps on almost every kind of stoop.
Pigeons were deep in meditation in every single coop.
Taxi violances
Many taxi owners
Are always murdered
For different reasons
In their taxi industry,
Crime prevention securities
At many ranks and
Houses of taxi owners
With big guns mostly.
Trapping each others
Due to secret coflicts
In some families and
Businesses.
Hate,
Jealous,
Envy
Sounding loudly,
And very
Heavy to carry.
Turning hunters ,
Hunting each others
Publicly.
Very
hard
life,
Yoh!
Yeah!
Yebo! Yes
To live
With much fear daily.
Being riches
But sleepless nights
Thinking of being killed
At any time,
Like some people
With no rights.
Hard
For the government officials
To monitor those crimes,
In many taxi ranks
Of different cities
And
Rural erears.
Hope
Love
And
Peace
Will find
Place
In hearts
Of Crimes
Masterminds
And
stop taxis
Violances.
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe
Mussabwa Chris
Storm clouds overhead,
Rain in the forecast.
Wind's picking up,
Loose leaves soar past.
The skies open up,
Here comes the rain.
Loose leaves flowing,
Down a storm drain.
Streets are awash,
Umbrellas are high.
Pedestrians run,
Trying to keep dry.
Taxis drive past,
Splash pedestrians.
Their pace picks up,
Like Equestrians.
The storm clouds pass,
The wind whispers by.
The sun comes out,
And the streets run dry.
I
A crescent moon,
The smile of Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat.
II
Yellow taxis caught in traffic
A row of sunflowers.
March 26, 2023
Fairview, Baguio City
A hideous construction site
I pass most every day
Has been totally transformed
With student artwork on display.
A city council member
Teamed up with a local school
Having students sketch Manhattan,
Ending with results so cool.
The fifth-graders painted taxis,
Famous buildings, even food
And of course, our well-known statue,
All with New York attitude.
What a wonderful solution,
Turning urban building blight
Into such creative efforts,
To the neighborhood’s delight.
*Thanks to Council Member Julie Menin
and the 5th-grade students of P.S. 183
The wind chill is thirty-two degrees below zero in Chicago
Snow is being pushed around by plows that are burying cars
The wind off the lake is adding to our discomfort, but taxis are moving
Marshall Fields is open, and there are Christmas carolers
Gorgeous nativity scenes light up windows
here in this city
at dawn the dogs rule
they run wild through the empty avenues
chase app taxis
public service ambulances
loaded with victims
of panic syndrome
yesterday the rain caused flooding
and at night the sewer overflowed
displacing its residents
rats, men and cockroaches
when in the morning the sun came up fantastic
he looked proud to show the dried mud
garbage and debris
taking its rightful place
and I think how good this is
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