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N Chairannisa Aug 2020
I heard that time seems to warp in airports and stations
because our brains don’t see them as real places,
only temporary passages,
marked by their impermanence.
Inside their walls, reality is in transition,
the way dreams fade out into hazy mornings.

In this drowsiness, I am transported.

Outside the window
emerald hills and dusky clouds
glittering with gold and silver
tumble behind with alarming speed
as if propelled into motion by
the strongest of forces
and concrete blocks scratch the sky
held too high by thousands of suits
and i wonder if it hurts to run
bearing such heaviness on their shoulders
but when one falls a newer one comes
with more energy and faster feet
and they run and run and run
as if trying to escape —
but from what, and to where?

I keep projecting forwards.
My body starts to ache.

I am still in transit.

From my carriage I wonder again,
Will they arrive before me?
Kendra Canfield Apr 2020
never knew how blinding the
sun could be before I hid from it.

the dark is a dangerously
safe place to be isn’t it?

I think I found a new emotion
it comes from experiencing
the beauty of things I find

all the dream house
developments nestled
like cheap toys

sun glinting off the bumper
to bumper traffic
arcing above the horizon
semis blocking out the sun

parking lots
fractals of shiny beetle shell
car bodies disappearing into the glare

countless things
somewhere between awe and loathing
it’s kind of like a scream
stuck in your chest.

also,  I think I keep seeing people
who aren’t real.
they exist. other people see them too.
but they just seem out of place.
or maybe too in it.
too predictable

I say I hate public transit
but ya know
I think half the time
I like sitting on bart
more than doing
whatever the **** I left
the house to do

my mind wanders best when
my body is hurdling through
space at high speeds
it’s been weird
going thru an old journal
nick armbrister Feb 2020
Where is the mass transit sending people to?
Dispatch of souls to places unknown
See the loading ramp down by the barracks
A place to herd them into vehicles
What type vehicles and for what use?
A bus to drive them to a spar resort
A truck to take them to the firing squad
A space shuttle to take them off world
A plane to ferry them to a new colony
All this and more to relocate humans
Orders given from up above carried out
Adding up the numbers of people shifted
Under command of the always ready soldiers
Commanded by a ruthless ******* officer
Look back into the past and compare
Just like the trains at the death camps
Remember what happened then
History repeats itself over and over
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2019
On the day
Of graduation
A transit point
I was asked
To choose a future

Did you know?
It was
I always

You are enough
To align together
Genre: Romantic
Theme: Vows
Sketcher Jul 2019
I trust the bus to take me home,
I must adjust to how I roam,
From here to there,
With the slowest four wheels,
From stop to stop,
This doesn’t appeal,
To my sense of speed,
I have places to be,
Not only that,
But I have to ***.
Waiting on the bus...
Juhlhaus Apr 2019
Fingers on the rails can feel
The pulse of steel and diesel engines,
The muscle and sinew of a continent.
Ten thousand horses throb the air
And bear down on a mile of freight.
It rolls by like thunder
Under a clear blue sky, stirs the soul
With memories of lonely whistles
In the night, a desert wind, mystery lights;
When little fingers at the open window
First felt the pulse of steel and diesel,
A few million miles ago.
For my father who loved trains from childhood and worked forty years on the railroad, traveling approximately five million miles by rail during his career.
uv Mar 2019
When the gloom weighs down heavy
Your presence becomes my story
Your love is my shinning glory
Everything else is transitory
When things dont go your way
And life is difficult, no way to sway
Those small blessings you forget
That mistake, you will forever regret.
Juhlhaus Jan 2019
The day of the site visit
I hurried out at six fifteen to wait
For a train with a waning moon,
Bright Venus and Jupiter hovering
Above the skyline. The amber horizon
Turned to orange and pink
As scattered stars went dim.

Misread the schedule and arrived
Downtown three quarters of an hour
Before my Electric District connection.
An accidental gift to self.
I ascended, ate two breakfast sandwiches
I got for one dollar with a coupon,
Warm in my hands on a blue picnic table.

The sky grew light
Above the Lake and I wandered
Through Millennium Park. It was empty
Or nearly, which felt the same.
The sun broke the bent horizon
In chrome and ice. I took some pictures,
Then descended to find Track Five.

The day's light revealed
Hollow houses with cartoon stone applied
Like paint, unable to compete
For preeminence with two-car garages.
The newest were bigger and offered
In different colors, but all the same.
Driving conditions were excellent.

At sunset I stood on another platform
Above a busy highway. The last rays came
Through tree branches and melted
Into the pale sky as they left my face.
I had witnessed that sun's birth,
It had warmed me while I waited for my carpool,
Rested with me on a concrete planter after lunch.

I entered the city in darkness
A second time. Changed muddy boots
For clean shoes and hurried to the museum.
It was a free night, overcrowded
With families and children, so difficult
To find a quiet corner for contemplation,
Any sanctuary for my own small soul.

I descended, discovered the typewriters, then
Realized you and I were already there, just
In different colors, using different words,
Spending school vacation to view old paintings
And the Holiday Miniature Rooms.
It dawned and the future was brighter even
As I left the city in darkness.
For a wonderful fellow poet who reminds me that there is no such thing as an ordinary day.
Juhlhaus Jan 2019
Seventy minutes or years
The bus does not stop

We ride past invisible fields
Through birch forests
I see their ghosts
In the headlights' glow
By day it could be Wisconsin
Or Indiana or Michigan

Our people have well-hidden scars
Seeds of pain buried deep
Underneath these invisible fields
Brother betrayed brother here
And many times before that
Since the first of us

Fairy lights dance on the horizon
Assemble to make a suburb
The bus does not stop
By night it could be Wisconsin
Or Indiana or Michigan
And so it is

Seventy years or minutes
To process these thoughts

And in that time
Seeds of pain may grow
Into a harvest of love
If we choose
Written on an express bus traveling between the cities of Kecskemét and Budapest in Hungary.
Juhlhaus Jan 2019
The sweet kiss of the young sun
And a bitter embrace
Begin another day.
Do people still die in the cold?
Trains and warm cars keep it at bay.
Could one bewitched by this light
Receive its kisses
While losing his life?
The universe giveth and taketh away.
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