#commuter - Hello Poetry

You think I won't? You see I will. You better belie' me I ain't even lyin' This is real, guy. This is what I meanne. 'nuff of this sh#t. 'full of sh#t... This is change - You jus see.

0

Apr 10, 2025

Apr 10, 2025 at 12:17 PM UTC

stevejeff

Train Talk

You think I won't? You see I will. You better belie' me I ain't even lyin' This is real, guy. This is what I meanne. 'nuff of this sh#t. 'full of sh#t... This is change - You jus see.

10

Two wide open arms phrygian, pumping with generous excitement preparing food or pouring water I am a stray licking at puddles blowing past the frigid opening hours of anabolic windows drafting out the nutty smoke of tobacco bleeding out into the air I say that I like, enjoy being cold I prefer it and San Fransisco is far, but I’d love to go me and my wet, refrigerated soul.

0

Jan 8, 2025

Jan 8, 2025 at 4:53 PM UTC

kiss_of_love__

Any Arms

Two wide open arms phrygian, pumping with generous excitement preparing food or pouring water I am a stray licking at puddles blowing past the frigid opening hours of anabolic windows drafting out the nutty smoke of tobacco bleeding out into the air I say that I like, enjoy being cold I prefer it and San Fransisco is far, but I’d love to go me and my wet, refrigerated soul.

13

The protagonist is Hope, Mesmerizing, Could it ever give up? Takes the scarf and then the keys, The two different socks are still an issue, But Hope promises to stop. Hope goes out the door, Shuts it loudly, Wakes me up, I rise without it. It goes to work with all the folk, It checks in proper, In and out, Like the wheels of intercities, Reading seams of rails aloud. They're conveniently placed, Right below my bedroom window front. The train that Hope has boarded trails on With scraping screeches Through said bedroom like a joke. Like the Triplets of Belleville, I am the dog, I bark right at it, Hit the beat at which the wheels Shift through the rails As they charge into a whistle, And also hope’s inside there, Nestled, Sitting proudly by the window Headed into the city. You can’t hear the sounds from inside of the rail jet they are muffled, almost pleasant. Hope goes unhidden, Always present, Steady, stuck, Like scorpions in resin. So Hope travels on, Into the city, Travels lightly, No possessions, As it works And drinks its coffee, Jittered slightly, Stamps letters into word processors, Gets a sandwich at the Prêt. The work is good, All good And well And good And well And good again! It’s all so good, Why should it not be? The answer's predetermined, set. Hope comes home with something edible Wrapped in cellophane And surely meant to **** me As I douse it in some Heinz Hope usually comes home at different, untraceable, untrackable times. When it finally comes back, When the day draws to a close, When Hope is folding its attire, Its business casual clothes, I burst alight with laughter, Panicked, I ask again if all’s ok. Hope turns and says, "Don’t worry 'bout it." I scream, Jump up, Lunge at it, Punch the space right where it stood, And hear another train horn fizzle as it whistles through my room.

0

Jan 7, 2025

Jan 7, 2025 at 2:58 PM UTC

kiss_of_love__

Belleville

The protagonist is Hope, Mesmerizing, Could it ever give up? Takes the scarf and then the keys, The two different socks are still an issue, But Hope promises to stop. Hope goes out the door, Shuts it loudly, Wakes me up, I rise without it. It goes to work with all the folk, It checks in proper, In and out, Like the wheels of intercities, Reading seams of rails aloud. They're conveniently placed, Right below my bedroom window front. The train that Hope has boarded trails on With scraping screeches Through said bedroom like a joke. Like the Triplets of Belleville, I am the dog, I bark right at it, Hit the beat at which the wheels Shift through the rails As they charge into a whistle, And also hope’s inside there, Nestled, Sitting proudly by the window Headed into the city. You can’t hear the sounds from inside of the rail jet they are muffled, almost pleasant. Hope goes unhidden, Always present, Steady, stuck, Like scorpions in resin. So Hope travels on, Into the city, Travels lightly, No possessions, As it works And drinks its coffee, Jittered slightly, Stamps letters into word processors, Gets a sandwich at the Prêt. The work is good, All good And well And good And well And good again! It’s all so good, Why should it not be? The answer's predetermined, set. Hope comes home with something edible Wrapped in cellophane And surely meant to **** me As I douse it in some Heinz Hope usually comes home at different, untraceable, untrackable times. When it finally comes back, When the day draws to a close, When Hope is folding its attire, Its business casual clothes, I burst alight with laughter, Panicked, I ask again if all’s ok. Hope turns and says, "Don’t worry 'bout it." I scream, Jump up, Lunge at it, Punch the space right where it stood, And hear another train horn fizzle as it whistles through my room.

74

i have the prettiest handwriting but my mother hates it as a professor, she says, it is important for me to be able to read it when she says that were both quietly seated i object, a thing that i chose to do best i almost went to law school, but failed the entry test at the time my grandma was sad that's what she chose to do best she'd sigh and put her hand on her heavy chest but i say mom mommmmm listen it's not about reading it's more about feeling feeling the shape of the word it's neurolinguistics, she smears a bread full of curd why are you surprised that i know this term it's like all i do is try and to learn my page is like the sea and the words are like boats with the sails it's about the swirls and the whirls of the meandering tails of the g's and the y's and all the letters have bonds to each other, unbreakable ties my greek looking e's and fictional t's my a is a bow my b has a toe even the capitals sometimes appear to be low like my head on the way to the train that likely takes me home right after rush hour when the overtime workers are hungry and dead longing all day for their ikea bed listening to educational talk i never liked people who enjoy it, to mock and me, i listen to indie with deep breaths in the mic and finally learn to sing how i like cause apparently my notes are too long my voice is too loud and the melody’s lost in the scattered train sound i don't like it but its there like a dog to be walked we sat at the table at 8 and we talked the wiener dog with coffee like fur the thing it did best is listen to her i can change anything but i won’t change my Rs i hear them approaching, the lit subway cars

0

Jan 5, 2025

Jan 5, 2025 at 2:49 PM UTC

kiss_of_love__

Of How I Tried

i have the prettiest handwriting but my mother hates it as a professor, she says, it is important for me to be able to read it when she says that were both quietly seated i object, a thing that i chose to do best i almost went to law school, but failed the entry test at the time my grandma was sad that's what she chose to do best she'd sigh and put her hand on her heavy chest but i say mom mommmmm listen it's not about reading it's more about feeling feeling the shape of the word it's neurolinguistics, she smears a bread full of curd why are you surprised that i know this term it's like all i do is try and to learn my page is like the sea and the words are like boats with the sails it's about the swirls and the whirls of the meandering tails of the g's and the y's and all the letters have bonds to each other, unbreakable ties my greek looking e's and fictional t's my a is a bow my b has a toe even the capitals sometimes appear to be low like my head on the way to the train that likely takes me home right after rush hour when the overtime workers are hungry and dead longing all day for their ikea bed listening to educational talk i never liked people who enjoy it, to mock and me, i listen to indie with deep breaths in the mic and finally learn to sing how i like cause apparently my notes are too long my voice is too loud and the melody’s lost in the scattered train sound i don't like it but its there like a dog to be walked we sat at the table at 8 and we talked the wiener dog with coffee like fur the thing it did best is listen to her i can change anything but i won’t change my Rs i hear them approaching, the lit subway cars

47

The chemtrails in the back of the sky Are short, like slits, or more like cuts, Like the little daft scars on my student's skin Her mother must not know about. I feel like I have to address it, The panic for a child sitting fatherly and loud I will not, because I cannot, it is not my scope. Sighing, this is what I think about. Commuting not computing, Filing through the turnstiles, sticky, I'm a slithering commuter, Not a competent tutor, Growing tired and not cuter, I am commuting to you. As long as Rotterdam is standing, I’ll be the body on the train, Sprinting on by grazing cows. A little longer and I'll feel my heart break again, When I tell you about her. As long as Rotterdam still stands And my student jokes about self-harm, My commuting heartbeat pounds on, In tune with trains stampeding through the farms, Pounding permanently, panging on the parchment of time, As the airports below sea level send their planes to start their climb.

0

Jan 4, 2025

Jan 4, 2025 at 4:57 PM UTC

kiss_of_love__

Commuter

The chemtrails in the back of the sky Are short, like slits, or more like cuts, Like the little daft scars on my student's skin Her mother must not know about. I feel like I have to address it, The panic for a child sitting fatherly and loud I will not, because I cannot, it is not my scope. Sighing, this is what I think about. Commuting not computing, Filing through the turnstiles, sticky, I'm a slithering commuter, Not a competent tutor, Growing tired and not cuter, I am commuting to you. As long as Rotterdam is standing, I’ll be the body on the train, Sprinting on by grazing cows. A little longer and I'll feel my heart break again, When I tell you about her. As long as Rotterdam still stands And my student jokes about self-harm, My commuting heartbeat pounds on, In tune with trains stampeding through the farms, Pounding permanently, panging on the parchment of time, As the airports below sea level send their planes to start their climb.

26

have a look: the [a-ha-ha-ha] platform is packed with commuters dressed in occupational colors the commuters are not used to smile regularly by the end of a long day [a-ha-ha-ha-aaa] therefore have a closer look: between the commuters you see loosely some guys carrying transparent [hr-ha-a] chunks filled with ***** somebody asks about the fluid now people have a reason to laugh hr-ahem-hrr-ahem-hrrr-i-don't-ha-want-ha-ha-ha-that

0

Nov 18, 2019

Nov 18, 2019 at 7:54 PM UTC

maxneumann

Speedy ***** Joker

have a look: the [a-ha-ha-ha] platform is packed with commuters dressed in occupational colors the commuters are not used to smile regularly by the end of a long day [a-ha-ha-ha-aaa] therefore have a closer look: between the commuters you see loosely some guys carrying transparent [hr-ha-a] chunks filled with ***** somebody asks about the fluid now people have a reason to laugh hr-ahem-hrr-ahem-hrrr-i-don't-ha-want-ha-ha-ha-that

22

He's Coughing Choking think that man should give up smoking. Someone tagged the door Isn't that against the law? There are those wearing 'High Visibility' there are those full of misery such fun on the jubilee. It's painkiller quick, but it makes me feel sick when i look at the price I must pay. Commuting and they put the boot in the whole lot need shooting my way on Friday.

0

Oct 12, 2018

Oct 12, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

It's me on the jubilee

He's Coughing Choking think that man should give up smoking. Someone tagged the door Isn't that against the law? There are those wearing 'High Visibility' there are those full of misery such fun on the jubilee. It's painkiller quick, but it makes me feel sick when i look at the price I must pay. Commuting and they put the boot in the whole lot need shooting my way on Friday.

24

Avoiding the eyes, the arms and legs the charity seller eagerly awaiting I look about but all I see is a sea of bodies polluting the streets, the skies, their minds move on making noise, make less noise fill the silence take a breath of air, all the way down take a pause there's time no need to rush around pounding the chewing gum streets The grime of life is on your skin now embedded in the layers of filth the coffee stains and late night bars the early starts and frown lines of life are on your face now that's life now make change and waves in the noise that was your life where silence pounds the chewing gum streets of your mind.

0

May 31, 2018

May 31, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC

acaldow

Breath

Avoiding the eyes, the arms and legs the charity seller eagerly awaiting I look about but all I see is a sea of bodies polluting the streets, the skies, their minds move on making noise, make less noise fill the silence take a breath of air, all the way down take a pause there's time no need to rush around pounding the chewing gum streets The grime of life is on your skin now embedded in the layers of filth the coffee stains and late night bars the early starts and frown lines of life are on your face now that's life now make change and waves in the noise that was your life where silence pounds the chewing gum streets of your mind.

20

sitting by a window staring out the smudged pane past the polychromatic crowds bent, huddled, faceless in the rain a smeared image swirling by modern art painting not yet dry wishing to nod off tired to the bone the rattle and rumble beneath the stop and the start keep my weary eyelids apart the odors of crowded humanity fill my nostrils, make them burn alcohol, sweat, stale cigarette smoke on clothes that are old and worn garlic, deep fryer grease pastrami and cheese in a sack blood dried on the apron slung over a butcher's back a cacophony of noises surge inside the car papers rattle, fingers tap on electronics or on steel bar ~~~ nobody's talking eyes are downcast to newspaper, cell phone or hangnail fear and distrust thick in the air scattered about like yesterday's mail on this common commuter carrier they're traveling the same route home just working folks trying to make it all work out they have much in common in a way, aren't they all kin? worn and weary at end of day, fellows in the midst of this din? 14th Street station ahead warns of various dangers posted there on a column decreed Please do not smile at strangers

0

Mar 25, 2018

Mar 25, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC

WingedPoet

Fourteenth Street

sitting by a window staring out the smudged pane past the polychromatic crowds bent, huddled, faceless in the rain a smeared image swirling by modern art painting not yet dry wishing to nod off tired to the bone the rattle and rumble beneath the stop and the start keep my weary eyelids apart the odors of crowded humanity fill my nostrils, make them burn alcohol, sweat, stale cigarette smoke on clothes that are old and worn garlic, deep fryer grease pastrami and cheese in a sack blood dried on the apron slung over a butcher's back a cacophony of noises surge inside the car papers rattle, fingers tap on electronics or on steel bar ~~~ nobody's talking eyes are downcast to newspaper, cell phone or hangnail fear and distrust thick in the air scattered about like yesterday's mail on this common commuter carrier they're traveling the same route home just working folks trying to make it all work out they have much in common in a way, aren't they all kin? worn and weary at end of day, fellows in the midst of this din? 14th Street station ahead warns of various dangers posted there on a column decreed Please do not smile at strangers

46

I mourn for skunks. The squashed, flattened masses ***** mashed, their stripes scattered Matted masks disguising unseeing eyes Through how many fields have they run? Once sweet babies, small noses, downlike fur fleeing to their final place from green leafed bowers in a terrible act of asphalt bait n' switch Let us all grieve the sacrifice which, Unto the motor gods Has been served.

0

Sep 30, 2016

Sep 30, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC

f-white

R•ode•kill

I mourn for skunks. The squashed, flattened masses ***** mashed, their stripes scattered Matted masks disguising unseeing eyes Through how many fields have they run? Once sweet babies, small noses, downlike fur fleeing to their final place from green leafed bowers in a terrible act of asphalt bait n' switch Let us all grieve the sacrifice which, Unto the motor gods Has been served.

10

St. Mary's, I obligatorily board the biding vessel, I drift from your shores in the midnight hour, I sail home where I must lay my weary head; but little do they know, you are my bedfellow, St. Mary's.

0

Feb 21, 2016

Feb 21, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC

jarjarrhine

Commuter

St. Mary's, I obligatorily board the biding vessel, I drift from your shores in the midnight hour, I sail home where I must lay my weary head; but little do they know, you are my bedfellow, St. Mary's.

6