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the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
You were willow trees and
Ice lollies on sunny days
You were yellow shorts and
Grinning at nothing

Now you're blurry memories and
Feeling full of regret
Now you're wooden masks and
Smuged charcoal pictures

The seasoned changed and
Rain washed the rose tint away
I was left with cold truths and
Sunshine didn't taste so good

Anymore.
My soul is a drop on one of Monet's paintings at the Mueso d'Orsay
My soul is a fresh shower
My soul is that connection I develop with new people and characters
My soul is tied to everything in the universe and nothing at all.
Where the sunlight splashes through
The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree
It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio.
Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse
When she was writing about how she hated war.

I bend to trace the patterns with my toe
And focus on the possibilities of now
With monster canons rolling down the boulevards
And goose-step imitators marching by
While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles.

A zephyr gently stirs the leaves
And all the patterns rearrange again
I look at them with half closed eyes
And I can’t find the symmetry
That I saw just an hour ago.

The Kraken still is held by chains
And though he gushes fire and venom
The patterns on the wall contain him
As he thrashes to replace the sun
With a new one of his own creation.

Amy walked a peaceful garden path
In dappled sunlight long ago
Creating lines that live today.
I trundle down a brick-lined walk
And hope that I will have tomorrow.
                         ljm
An ode to little rocket boy and Bozo
Messiah with throne up high
Coronation crown of thorns
Arms stretched open
Heart is wide
Healing hands pinned from outside
Inside there's a home
A love you can't deny
See yourself in every man
God's greatest noble plan
They not yet to see
Shown by righteous mercy
Sacrifice for all that shall pass to be
Blood shed colour of corolla
A shade bled from the heart
Crown always to heavens stars
Healing forever in the soul
Your touch of purity Of gracious whole
No death to only those that die
The hill ascended shrine
The dark tomb no cold
No mind
Veins of green leaf vine
Climbing to spirits life
Divine

Rose
+
bloom
from mortal
coil
of
man
Some nights I look out at the world
Wondering if time stood still
Would things really change

I see the beauty in most everything
How nature is like music
Makes my heart want to sing
And I wonder
How our thoughts get rearranged

How people can think
That life is misery
Heart as black as ink
At least, that's what they tell me

How people can think
That there's no hope
There are others less fortunate
So we must cope
What a joke
That's why I tell me

Just look at the chestnut tree
This is actually part of a song that I wrote for what could be a musical about Anne Frank. If you've read her diary, you know how much she admired nature and how her chestnut tree out her window brought her so much hope in the midst of despair.
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