Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Wesley Willis Jan 2014
It's Wednesday, April 2, 1997, at 12:00 PM
I took a Greyhound bus to Des Moines, Iowa
It was a six-hour profanity demon hellride
At 6:00 PM, the Greyhound bus arrived at the Des Moines bus station
Two of my music fans picked me up and drove me to Fort Dodge, Iowa

Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride

At 2:00 PM on Friday, April 4, 1997, I went on a radio show joyride
I whipped out my Technics KN3000 keyboard and sung four rock songs on 88.1 KICB
At 6:30 PM, I rode with my friends to Knights of Columbus for sound checking
At 9:30 PM, I got up on stage and sung twenty rock songs in front of 200 rock fans

Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride

At 11:20 AM on Saturday, April 5, 1997, I caught the Greyhound bus to Chicago, Illinois
The Greyhound bus left Des Moines, Iowa at 11:30 AM
It was an eight-hour profanity demon hellride without music
At 7:30 PM, the Greyhound bus arrived at the Chicago bus station
I then got off the intercity bus and yelled like a stupid fool

Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride

Kinkos, it's the new way to office
Cyril Blythe Nov 2012
Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.

“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”
preservationman May 2017
Who would have thought of a magical toy bus?
Some would say that would be a plus
Others might say it is not a must
It wasn’t a Greyhound nor Trailways bus
It was a plan ordinary highway bus with no name
So little Thomas would often dream that he saw a magical toy bus in the stars
Well the distance sounds very far
Little Thomas would always run and tell his parents
But there seemed to be no interest and certainly no love
So the magical toy bus came up with his own campaign called “The Love Bus on the Run”
That is a chore, but might be fun
The magical toy bus was determined to bring a family together combined with love
So the magical toy bus maneuvered all around the house with cards having love sayings such as “Together being forever” and “Love needing an extending chance”
It was those very words the magical toy bus wanted to express in getting through to Little Thomas family
The magical toy bus wasn’t built to just sit back, but get involved
You could the creation to resolve
Somehow Little Thomas family found love again and it was all because of a magical toy bus
However, sometime mythical happened, the plain magical toy bus now had a model name being the “Renaissance” followed by a company called “Motivated Love Bus Company”
This was a gift from the Heavenly stars themselves
The magical toy bus became love to Little Thomas’s heart
But he knew that from the very start
This had to be shown his parents making a mark
In fact, Little Thomas held it ever so close to his heart, and slept with the toy bus every night
So the moral to the story is according to the magical toy bus is more than something to play with having wheels
Yet love being a life time
The magical toy bus brought love to share and closeness to one’s heart.
andy fardell Sep 2012
Where is my head cos its gone out of here
It went for a ride on bus 79
Where did it go?
What did it see?
The bus 79.... is free
The bus 79 yippee
On bus 79 you'll see

Lets go for a ride on bus 79
Lets go to the ocean for tea
Lets hop on along and sing a great song
On bus 79 we'll be  
On bus 79 we'll be
On bus 79 yippee  

You bring uncle Harrold and auntie Mc Barrell
Fish supper for us by the sea
The bus 79
We'll sing all divine
We'll sing for our supper
You'll see
We'll sing for our supper
You'll see

Lets go for a ride on bus 79
Lets go to the ocean for tea
Lets hop on along and sing a great song
On bus 79 we'll be  
On bus 79 we'll be
On bus 79 yippee  

Tis getting quite late as sun hits the waves
Is time for the bus to go home
The bus 79
We had a good time
Lets sing till we can no more
Lets sing a good song
Come join in the fun
On bus 79 to your door
On bus 79 to your door
WhyamIaSpoon Oct 2010
I am aboard a bus that is driven by someone i don't know. He never takes His eyes off the road but yet He knows everything that I and everyone else are doing. Though i have never seen His face or met Him, I trust that He will take me safely to where i want to go. However the bus may never go the way i want it to. After all He is the driver, not me, and it might be necessary to take detours. On the bus are not only me and Him, but my loved ones as well. Everyone on the bus sits in different seats to talk with different people and is in separate groups at some time. However no matter what we are still on this bus and therefore together. Sadly though, some of my loved ones may have to get off at their stop. He will have to stop the bus and my loved one will say good bye to everyone and then slowly walk out the door. From time to time the driver will also stop to pick up people as well, these people are usually people i have never seen before, though other times they are the same loved ones that got off before. My bus takes a long, long time to reach where i want to go and along the way the people on the bus change quite a lot. Their personalities can change sometimes and the people will always switch. New people coming on, old friends leaving, however there are always 2 or 3 people that will stay on the bus as long as they can. When I look out the front window, I can only see a blur of lights and the rest is darkness. I don’t know where I am going and I’m surprised that the driver knows where I’m headed in all this darkness, but I do trust Him. Then I look through the back window to see all the places this bus has been. This window is clearer then the front one, but there is nothing clear outside. All I see is a large mass of people and events mashed together in a way that doesn’t make sense. It’s only on certain days when I look closely that I can piece together what is happening. Sometimes I see people that I’ve known, doing things that they had done before. However that’s not the odd part. Occasionally I see myself outside the back window. I don’t understand how or why, but outside the back window I am with people I have known or even with someone that is on the bus currently. Still, I can’t question much, I can only stay focused on what’s going on in the bus because the back window is where the bus has been and the bus never goes back. In my long bus ride I will eventually reach my stop as well. However in my time on the bus I have noticed that it’s missing a few parts. There are no cameras, no emergency exit signs, or emergency exits at all. Furthermore I have also heard that our bus doesn’t have a number, rather it has a name, life.
- From Love and Pain Go Hand in Hand
preservationman Jun 2018
The hour of midnight of tomorrow dark
A vision like a stark
Fog thickened like solid mug
A Greyhound Bus Terminal ghostly in spiritual nature
Yet adding to the mystery appeared a Greyhound Bus
Driver and passengers were in nothing more than past spirits
They had often travelled this road many times
Flesh wasn’t there mark
It was a Greyhound Bus that just decided to park
The characteristics of the Greyhound Bus was the blinking lights
It became a circumstance contributing fright
But it will be a thriller starting tonight
The Stretched out Greyhound dog trademark with Evil on its mind
Car and Truck Drivers witnessed the disturbed revengeful Greyhound Bus on the highway
It was the look being the last highway to hell
The Blood was flesh thrown off the highway by the Greyhound bus
Most of the flesh had previously died
The spirits were on a rampage at Greyhound
Bus Dispatchers were announcing agendas and not schedules
The roll call being an assignment to destroy
There was no more happy in joy
The night was had a evil twist being fierce
The Greyhound Bus stretched had Dracula teeth and eyes being Red
A thirst to fulfill but with acceleration at will
There’s no time to be still
There was definitely evil powers having everyone being hypnotized
But it was the obsession of the Greyhound Bus under control
The number of the Greyhound Bus 1811
Years ago something on that one
The bus got into a terrible accident
Everyone died but Souls would return with a rage against the living flesh
Midnight will soon strike
Souls who died on that Greyhound bus 1811 will arise and walk the streets in rage
Midnight has struck and it’s too late
It was written on that very date
A hound bus will be bound and there will be no one sound
The town of Jeffersonville know all too well about the Greyhound bus curse
No time for any written verse
Souls have risen
Greyhound bus spiritual revenge having no wait
Again, it was anticipated
A night that would come
Don’t travel on Greyhound bus 1811 restored
There might be an evil plan having an accord.
preservationman Oct 2016
In the distance, I see a Hound bus cruising down the country road
The stretched out Greyhound dog in front of the bus with look and behold
Now watch as numerous stories unfold
I hear a Greyhound Driver narrating his tail of his stories surrounding the hound bus
I will narrate a couple for you
Our story starts in Topeka, Kansas enroute to Kansas City, Kansas
The bus left on time during its usual run schedule
However, the weather started getting rough
Driving in the wind and rain made it really tough
A Tornado could be seen in the distance destroying everything in its path along the farmlands
Yet that Greyhound bus steadily kept moving
But the fierce violent winds were blowing
Suddenly, the Greyhound bus got a lift
Up in the funnel of the Tornado the Greyhound bus went far from any drift
However, a miracle took place, and the bus was slowly let down gently to the ground
The Greyhound bus remained in tacked and nothing but praises in God’s thanks was the sound
This is my account of another story
I was travelling from New York City to San Francisco, California
It was a vacation being a 4 days journey and New York City back
We had just crossed the Nevada state line being a rest stop
A Young Woman went into labor on the bus
The Driver was counting the contractions, but we all knew what was going to happen
This was supposed too be an 30 minute rest stop, but turned into a 2 hour rest stop
Luckily, the bus was near a major hospital nearby, and an ambulance was summoned
The EMS carried the Pregnant Woman on a stretcher off the bus and her Boyfriend (Husband) followed
Later, the bus pushed on, and I arrived at my final destination ahead of schedule into San Francisco
Another story tail
This time I was travelling to Los Angeles from New York City
We stopped in a Ghost town
There were tumbleweed flying everywhere and shutters were hitting all the houses along with wind blowing
Yet, there were no citizens in the town
Meanwhile, it was 6:00 AM in Arizona
Suddenly, all the passengers wondered who was coming aboard
But everyone was thinking thriller oh my Lord
A Male Passenger boarded, but spoke Spanish
He was drunk and wanted to sit with anyone, but passengers refused
So he had to go to the back of the bus where the restroom was
He talked from the time he boarded until we arrived in Los Angeles
So Greyhound is more than a ride, it became an adventure
Stories upon stories
Go Greyhound with its own storyline
The venture being the bus, but no need to fuss
Greyhound is the American Frontier and that involves us
What is your Greyhound traveling story?
Hetti Halloween Oct 2012
Mami bus' great adventures...
Mami bus can carry it all!
Mami bus can not be anyone else...!

Who will come for you when you get stuck?
Who will take care of the lots of half-dead?
Who's the Hero of the buses, the greatest Queen?

Mami bus' great adventures...
Mami bus can carry it all!
Mami bus can not be anyone else...!

The bestest friend of the Concords!
The great life saver!
Hero of the heroes in the bus world!

Mami bus' great adventures...
Mami bus can carry it all!
Mami bus can not be anyone else...!

Trust me it'll be all good here,
When this bus gets back to Earth!
How many people are waiting for her?
Stuck in a bad world ajajajajaaaj!

Mami bus' great adventures,
Mami bus can carry it all,
Mami bus can not be anyone else!
The chorus is my brother when he was about 5 years old. :D
I remember, he was singing it with great enthusiasm.
If I ever get to, I'd love to make a series based on the idea that Mami bus solves accidents that happened in real life in a specacular way, and brings the people who died in those, down to Earth. :)
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018

She catches the London bus
in her fist.

Gnaws it...then throws it
through the window.

Lucky the window wasn't

She chews it  when

Chews its redness
- off.

She is amazed to see
the real thing for the first time.

For her
her toy has grown into a giant.

Then she discovers double-deckers.
Counts: "One double-decker bus...two double-decker buses

...24 double decker buses!"
It is unbelievably so!

Doesn't know she is counting
the same bus twice!

And now to add to her
amazement she

encounters a green bus!
Will the excitement never end.

"The bus has changed its clothes?"
she says unsure that this can be so.

But now confounded by a bus
all in white!

Even we have never seen
a bus in white.

It looks like it has taken
all its clothes off.

A **** bus!

But to her it's worse
far worse than that!

"The bus has taken
it's skin off!"

She refuses to go on
this skinless bus.

We wait for a "normal"
bus to somehow appear.

And appear it does
busy being a red bus.

The world of buses
restored to its proper order.
it was just a left over toy of a London red bus that a tourist would would fit in your fist. It was just around and when she was teething she would gnaw at became a security toy! She thought, I guess, that this was the normal size of a London bus so you can imagine her amazement when the real thing blossomed into being for the first time....the tiny toy had become a monster. She would gasp in wonder that things could be so. So just when she had got used to this then she saw a green bus for the first time and she equally couldn't believe that they could be any other colour than red! Then there was the time when the world went crazy and they're were double decker buses. She just kept coming out with the remarks and then the white bus threw everything she knew outta the window! Over 30 years later a white bus crossed my path and indeed it did look naked as a jaybird or as Tilly then put it- skinless!

I never thought of it again until now....there is no memory store I can go to in order to write a has to organically grow back into place and just the happenstance of a bus being driven to put on its paint clothes or to get dressed with logos kickstarted it all over again.

It the kind of thing a poet/father will take out of his wallet and show you an emotional picture of his daughter.
She didn’t look awfully well that day
Though she never would make a fuss,
I said we should get to the hospital
That I’d travel with her on the bus.
The weather was terrible, snow on the road
And a seaborne yellow mist,
So I wrapped her well in a scarf and coat
And did my best to assist.

She leant on me, walked out to the stop
And we sat on the ice cold bench,
I thought for a moment she’d faint or drop
So taking the bus made sense.
The car would be hard to manage that night
For the roads were covered with ice,
I couldn’t hold her while driving the car,
But we needed a doctor’s advice.

The cough had got worse as the day went on
And her hanky was spattered with blood,
I prayed it was just a vessel that burst,
Not that I thought it should,
But consumption sat at the back of my mind
It was rare, but still around,
I was praying a lot, but still my head
Would cover the same old ground.

We watched as the lights of the bus rolled up
So dim in the mist to see,
A double-decker, we climbed aboard
It was number twenty-three.
The passengers all were grey and drab
And some of them seemed asleep,
A skeleton sat hunched up at the rear
And Kathie began to weep.

‘It’s only a medical student’s thing,’
I said, ‘there’s nothing to fear.’
But Kathie flinched as we walked on past,
‘Then why did he leave it here?’
She settled down in a window seat
While I sat next to the aisle,
And the bus rolled into the swirling mist
So we sat quite still for a while.

The lights in the bus were more than dim
And Kathie was looking grey,
While I got up at the hospital stop
Kathie was looking away.
Then suddenly I was out on the road
As the bus took off in the mist,
While Kathie stared through the window pane,
It was like she didn’t exist.

I ran and I ran, and chased the bus,
But I ran and ran in vain,
For the bus veered off, went over the cliffs
And vanished into the rain,
I found her there on the bus stop bench
Where we’d sat, all grey and still,
And I wept, and thought of the phantom bus
That had taken her over the hill.

I could swear we’d stood, and climbed on the bus,
My love, my Kathie and me,
But they said there never was such a bus
As a number twenty-three,
And I see her now in my dreams at night
As she stares through the window pane,
Of a phantom bus that takes her away,
Over the cliffs in the rain.

Over the cliffs on a freezing night
When she died, ice cold on the bench,
What was I thinking, I ask myself,
Where was my common sense?
Then I take some comfort to think that I
Had once been a part of us,
And travelled some of the way with her
Where she’d gone, on the phantom bus.

David Lewis Paget
MK Nov 2013
Dear boy on the bus
You had to sit beside me, today of all days
My hair a mess
Bundled up in a black winter jacket
Acne and tired eyes
It had to be today of all days, didn't it

Dear boy on the bus,
From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species
I’d call you an angel, but  I don’t even know if you were attractive
I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice

Dear boy on the bus,
I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man,
Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel

Dear boy on the bus,
they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word,
But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same

Dear boy on the bus,
Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep
Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’
I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you

Dear boy on the bus,
You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal.
So why didn't you?

Dear boy on the bus,
With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults
It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there.

Dear boy on the bus,
My heart was shivering as my stop got closer
I didn't want to leave before you did
I imagined you didn't want me to leave either

Dear boy on the bus,
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice.
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep?

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish you said something

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish I said something

Dear boy on the bus,
When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.
November 19, 2013
© MK
preservationman Aug 2017
On September 27, 2017, a Partnership between Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines on the Northeast Corridor will come to an end
The key word is “Independence” of both that will begin
Interline tickets barring both bus carrier names will no longer remain
It will be individual tickets only barring the issuance of the bus company name
Before on the Northeast Corridor having both Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus lines combined together
The term individuality will be two carriers being the other
Peter Pan Bus Lines is run by the Picknelly family
The company was once part of the Trailways Organization
When Peter Pan started doing runs South coming through New York City nobody really knew who Peter Pan Bus Lines was
It wasn’t until Peter Pan and Greyhound formed an agreement and that is how Peter Pan became passenger known
Peter Pan and Greyhound will operate as a separate entity
Peter Pan Bus Lines is a bus company being an away we go
Then there’s Greyhound who started the partnership show
But it has become a time to move on
Peter Pan and Greyhound are bus operations that are still strong
Now this is something travelling bus customers will have to get used to
But it will be a matter of time they will get through
The highway will always keep both bus carriers connected
There could be select in what passengers will elect
But bus travel in general I don’t think will have that much effect
Two enterprises having histories of their own
What’s in a name has always been shown
A partnership that will change
The names of Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines that will always remain.
jake aller Nov 2018
the Bus – Travels Through America’s Underbelly

I am a bus rider
That makes me unusual
For a white male
From an upper middle-class family

Our people are not bus riders
Though some are subway riders

Bus riders are other people
The poor, minorities, immigrants
People who don’t drive
Because they are blind
Or have a DUI

And in my case
I don’t drive
Because I have bad vision
And bad coordination
Just never got the hang
Of the whole driving thing

Fortunately for me  
My wife does the driving
But I still take the bus
From time to time

I rode the AC buses in Berkeley
As a child
Line 67, line 51, line 43 F bus
Rode them long before BART came along
And afterwards as well

As an adult seldom rode the bus
But when I did so
I was always impressed
By the sheer diversity
Of the bus riding population

Hundreds of languages
All sorts of ****** orientation
Some were white
Most were not

Most of my fellow passengers
Were nice enough
Some were friendly
And some were lost
In their own thoughts

And a few
Were scary looking dudes
With the look
Of someone who had done time
And were capable of more violence

I also rode the bus
In Seattle as a graduate student
A lot of fellow UW students
And the usual immigrants
Minorities etc

And some white people

And in DC
Over the years
I rode a lot of buses

Mostly to and from the metro
But I got to know
And love the DC buses as well

I also took the greyhound bus
Across the country
Several times over the years
All over the U.S.

From Bay Area to Stockton
From Bay Area to Clear Lake
From Bay area to NYC
All over the USA

Taking the Greyhound
Was always an adventure
Met a lot of interesting people
As people on long distant bus rides
Tend to open up and talk
To pass the time away

Overseas I took the bus
All over
In India, in Barbados
In Spain and in Korea

The Korean buses
For many years
Were difficult for foreign visitors
As the signs were all in Korean

Most have signs
Now in English, Chinese and Korean
And are much more foreigner friendly

Riding the bus
In America
Allows one access
To the underbelly of American society
The poor, the marginalized
The immigrant communities

That many middle class white people
Just never see

And for that reason
I am glad
That I am a bus rider
reflections on riding the bus for more check out my blog at
Darvay Jun 2015
I got lost in a feeling, pried myself open to be understood when every part of my nature said to conceal. I wanted to feel human like the rest of them, I wanted to stop feeling so alien. Distance had become me so I exposed myself and now I’m faltering. My deepest crevices of thought are now known, this openness that kills me has also served me. I realized I was raw art, that the strokes of a paint brush within the walls of my mind were defined by complexities of thought echoing so loud until my lips sung my soul once again. I realized that not everyone could simply understand and I wanted to revoke all I said, I wanted to close myself again but I couldn’t erase the damage already done…
Well I got lost in a feeling, I became slave to it and did all I could to serve this unquenchable thirst that my soul holds. I grab at my heart with both hands and clench so tight at the restraints of this suit of skin that keeps me held in. I felt like painting the walls with my brain and it wasn’t for my disdain towards this life I lead, I was actually fond of life but that’s the thing. See I was so devoured by a moment, that I couldn’t bare letting go, and I knew time would shift and the faces would change but I was so loyal I didn’t want to adapt. I was in love with everyone I knew and life was tearing us apart, breaking us down and I saw the light behind so many eyes that used to burn with the intensity of the sun, fall so dim it resembled an empty void and one by one iron wills were broken.
I felt like crying in rooms full of people, when the alcohol was long gone and everyone escaped but I just sat there absorbing the fact that I was the only one present. That I got so lost in this feeling, in this very moment, I could no longer run. So I waited patiently for intoxication to leave my mind and I walk outside to my car, I put the key in the ignition and drive. The sun is now rising and there’s a baby blue fuzz surrounding me. I parked in front of my house and thought about the hell that awaits for me behind closed doors. So I drove, I broke free, I gave myself away to the bohemian screaming to be set free. Reality was sure to crash upon me, I looked at the sun while it caved in and I called up an old friend but was reminded of how desolate a moment can be when the answering machine fooled me...
I looked out the window and everyone was going on with their lives in full acceptance. The man walking to the grocery store, the people gathered around the bus stop, and I fell slave yet again. I parked the car in the parking lot behind the bus stop being sure to lock my keys inside so I wouldn’t turn back and dug for some change and I walked up to the bus stop as the bus was just arriving, this moment I can only describe as fate. I dreamed of a clean slate and it was right there in front of me the whole time, my life became centered around riding the busses and people watching. I dug my head in a book in fear of being noticed but somehow I feel as if my deepest fear was my only hope now.
So I was waiting for the right moment, a moment to set my mind free on some poor individual and then the bus stopped, it was late and I was the only one on now. Some of the bus drivers knew me by name and I didn’t know whether to feel proud or pathetic about that but as the bus screeched to the stop before the last one. I saw a leg extend, and pull up a person of slender figure, it was a beautiful woman around my age, I felt sorry for her because the only stop after this one was the bus station and that’s where the bus driver awkwardly kicks you off and tells you to go home.
This is the moment that got me, I was in complete and utter submission as I buried my head into an upside down book, the title read “I am the messenger” and out of all the seats she picked the back corner next to me, she sat too close and I couldn’t focus on my book at all, I was too caught by her presence, I didn’t even realize my book was upside down. She looks down towards my book and doesn’t say a word as she adjust it to be right side up and pats the book twice, almost to assure it will stay upright. I looked over to her with my empty cold eyes and starred dully and she smiled a sweet, closed eye smile.
The coals in my head must had found the furnace again because in that moment I was relit, the fire behind my eyes roared and my soul was awoken again. I felt so very human but I also felt so very human, my shyness lead me to falter and she linked her arm to mine and said “do you mind?” I hadn’t spoken in so long, so very long, I almost forgot how and I said “uh-uh… of course” I clear my throat immediately after and say “I would introduce myself but I don’t believe in names” she smiled with understanding and told me to read aloud and I did with no questions. Two chapter later the bus screeches to a halt and the bus driver gestures for us to leave.
The girl grabs me by the wrist and guides me away, we start walking to a diner that you can see the light to in the far distance. Nothing existed besides for us as far as I was concerned, only the path beneath our feet. She starts telling me how she’s seen me before that she’s been watching me from a distance, and she knew I road the bus all the way to the end and that she wanted to ask me why but I couldn’t tell her why exactly because I didn’t know myself.
So I said what I felt “I fell out of existence and the bus helps me feel like I exist” she smiles again and we are just now sitting down for stale coffee and waffles. She starts drawing on napkins asking me questions, the first one read “why did you fall out of existence?”
I scribbled down “I didn’t feel human” and slid it back to her.
She flips the napkin over and writes a simple “why?”
And I scribble down “well that’s hard to explain”
and she writes “well I can understand”
and right as she slides the napkin over the waffles arrive and the sun is rebirthed as it rises and she looks at me and says “it’s a baby blue fuzz you know?”
As she stuffs a fork full of waffle into her mouth. I’m breathless and overwhelmed by a moment that can only be explained by fate and I feel like crying but I disguise it with a yawn. I write down on a new napkin “I think I feel human” and I crumple it up and put it in my pocket.
She asked what I wrote and I respond “the moment."
A short poetic story.
This is on a bus back from camp. I’m thirteen and so are you. Before I left for camp I imagined it would be me and three or four other dudes I hadn’t met yet, running around all summer, getting into trouble. It turned out it would be me and just one girl. That’s you. And we’re still at camp as long as we’re on the bus and not at the pickup point where our parents would be waiting for us. We’re still wearing our orange camp t-shirts. We still smell like pineneedles. I like you and you like me and I more-than-like you, but I don’t know if you do or don’t more-than-like me. You’ve never said, so I haven’t been saying anything all summer, content to enjoy the small miracle of a girl choosing to talk to me and choosing to do so again the next day and so on. A girl who’s smart and funny and who, if I say something dumb for a laugh, is willing to say something two or three times as dumb to make me laugh, but who also gets weird and wise sometimes in a way I could never be. A girl who reads books that no one’s assigned to her, whose curly brown hair has a line running through it from where she put a tie to hold it up while it was still wet.
Back in the real world we don’t go to the same school, and unless one of our families moves to a dramatically different neighborhood, we won’t go to the same high school. So, this is kind of it for us. Unless I say something. And it might especially be it for us if I actually do say something. The sun’s gone down and the bus is quiet. A lot of kids are asleep. We’re talking in whispers about a tree we saw at a rest stop that looks like a kid we know. And then I’m like, “Can I tell you something?” And all of a sudden I’m telling you. And I keep telling you and it all comes out of me and it keeps coming and your face is there and gone and there and gone as we pass underneath the orange lamps that line the sides of the highway. And there’s no expression on it. And I think just after a point I’m just talking to lengthen the time where we live in a world where you haven’t said “yes” or “no” yet. And regrettably I end up using the word “destiny.” I don’t remember in what context. Doesn’t really matter. Before long I’m out of stuff to say and you smile and say, “okay.” I don’t know exactly what you mean by it, but it seems vaguely positive and I would leave in order not to spoil the moment, but there’s nowhere to go because we’re are on a bus. So I pretend like I’m asleep and before long, I really am.

I wake up, the bus isn’t moving anymore. The domed lights that line the center aisle are all on. I turn and you’re not there. Then again a lot of kids aren’t in their seats anymore. We’re parked at the pick-up point, which is in the parking lot of a Methodist church. The bus is half empty. You might be in your dad’s car by now, your bags and things piled high in the trunk. The girls in the back of the bus are shrieking and laughing and taking their sweet time disembarking as I swing my legs out into the aisle to get up off the bus, just as one of them reaches my row. It used to be our row, on our way off. It’s Michelle, a girl who got suspended from third grade for a week after throwing rocks at my head. Adolescence is doing her a ton of favors body-wise. She stops and looks down at me. And her head is blasted from behind by the dome light, so I can’t really see her face, but I can see her smile. And she says one word: “destiny.” Then her and the girls clogging the aisles behind her all laugh and then she turns and leads them off the bus. I didn’t know you were friends with them.
I find my dad in the parking lot. He drives me back to our house and camp is over. So is summer, even though there’s two weeks until school starts. This isn’t a story about how girls are evil or how love is bad, this is a story about how I learned something and I’m not saying this thing is true or not, I’m just saying it’s what I learned. I told you something. It was just for you and you told everybody. So I learned cut out the middle man, make it all for everybody, always. Everybody can’t turn around and tell everybody, everybody already knows, I told them. But this means there isn’t a place in my life for you or someone like you. Is it sad? Sure. But it’s a sadness I chose. I wish I could say this was a story about how I got on the bus a boy and got off a man more cynical, hardened, and mature and ****. But that’s not true. The truth is I got on the bus a boy. And I never got off the bus.

I still haven't.
preservationman Apr 2017
The Greyhound bus that paused for a moment and couldn’t run
Donald Coffin a.k.a. Dad bus pioneer was no longer among
It was Dad’s soul in the Heavenly flow
It was God throughout being in the know
Donald Coffin a.k.a. Dad as I called him
A man with buses on his mind
It didn’t matter the name and shape
The fact it was a bus and that was enough
I had the opportunity to buy two buses from Mr. Coffin’s collection being the GM PD-4106 and GM PD-4107
They will always be the remembrance of Dad’s life and his bus involvement
The key word is “Commitment”
It was the Bus lesson taught being bus advice
It was Dad’s delight that enlightened me with enthusiasm
His knowledge being experience
I remember a time when Mr. Coffin being Dad was the Greyhound Curator, and the time I assisted him in getting pictures that he was unable to get
Dad was a dedicated bus pioneer
I will remember Dad the way buses that inspired him
He captured my understanding and his legacy of empowerment
Buses will continue to run
It’s Donald Coffin’s spirit that will always be among
Thanks Dad in your wisdom share
I see whispers of love flying in the air
Your time had arrived
Heaven had prepared the highway being the direct route of your resting place
The Greyhound bus was your last ride
It was your chariot to Heaven being your stride
Bus headlights flash in your honor
Horns blow that your bus work is finished
Dad you captivated me, and you will always be distinguished
I will never forget you
Until we meet again.
preservationman Apr 2018
Round and Round we go
This story might be a bus you know
It involves an amusement park
But let me narrate to give you the start
It was when I was young visiting Coney Island
There were rides galore
But what caught my attention was a bus for sure
There were many vehicles, but it was that one Volkswagen Bus
It was that bus I wanted to ride being an absolute must
Since I am bus lover
I had to ride that multi Vehicle Merry Go Round
As I stepped in, for me it was an adventure to begin
So I was at the steering wheel
I had to get that driver feel
Yet, every time some kid wanted to control
I had firm and was plain bold
That bus was my sheer delight
In fact, it was total excite
I was smiling like a bright light
Buses have always been my passion
But that specific vehicles go round I was never forget
I am thinking with no regret
However, it was the bus that captured my heart
The vision being a bus
My enjoyment having no fuss
It was simply that Volkswagen bus
It’s a passion I said, and the bus wheeling being remembered
A bus a bus, but there are many bus fans, and this is the illustration of us.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019

She catches the London bus
in her fist.

Gnaws it...then throws it
through the window.

Lucky the window wasn't

She chews it  when

Chews its redness
- off.

She is amazed to see
the real thing for the first time.

For her
her toy has grown into a giant.

Then she discovers double-deckers.
Counts: "One double-decker bus...two double-decker buses

...24 double decker buses!"
It is unbelievably so!

Doesn't know she is counting
the same bus twice!

And now to add to her
amazement she

encounters a green bus!
Will the excitement never end.

"The bus has changed its clothes?"
she says unsure that this can be so.

But now confounded by a bus
all in white!

Even we have never seen
a bus in white.

It looks like it has taken
all its clothes off.

A **** bus!

But to her it's worse
far worse than that!

"The bus has taken
it's skin off!"

She refuses to go on
this skinless bus.

We wait for a "normal"
bus to somehow appear.

And appear it does
busy being a red bus.

The world of buses
restored to its proper order.
preservationman Jan 2016
You told me personally on facebook to stop posting bus pictures
This is strictly for you
Everything I will be saying for you to pursue
But whatever happened to understanding
What’s wrong with knowing about a bus?
Bus Nuts are enthusiasts it surrounds us
So why all the negative fuss
Knowledge and education all get a plus
If you don’t like what you see than just flee
We are Bus Nuts and we hold the key
Misery loves company
But I will not be your guest
In fact, you don’t get respect being an unwelcomed pest
I certainly will not be at your request
I am a bus nut and it’s the multitude more than me
You lack personality and all can see
Just because you never had the opportunity to get your bus ride on
I suggest that you just move along
2016 is negativity has no place
Your negative comment has been erased
Let the bus exhaust be the force
Let your lack of understanding take a new course
As a bus nut I will continue to be
Bus pictures will continue for all to see
A Beatle’s song “Let it be”
So the facebook person who told me more bus post
It’s really up to us bus nuts folks
You actually have no vote
You are only wasting your own time
Buses are here to stay
Go read a book and just astray
Maybe just maybe you might be ok
Life is how you live it
Strive in what participation that you give
The bus has departed
You are left all alone.
preservationman Jul 2016
The story opens surrounding a Greyhound bus
But the dialog illustrating must
It was a normal day at the Greyhound lot
But somewhere not far away some thieves were planning a plot
The thieves were planning to rob the Shining Light Jewelry Shop on Solid Hands Blvd
But they were going to use a Greyhound bus being there getaway
No one would suspect a Hound bus going astray
So the Robbers entered the Jewelry store with masks over their face
It was a matter of precaution so no one could trace

The Thieves quickly and moved swiftly out of the Jewelry store and onto the Hound bus
It was a perfect crime with the bus being the thieves plus
However, the Greyhound Company notified the Police that one of there
Buses was stolen from the lot
The Hound bus was now cruising on I-95 of the New Jersey Turnpike heading for Philly
That might sound silly, but the heat was on in New York and New Jersey

The Police were in hot pursue
The Hound Bus was maneuvering in and out of the Turnpike lanes
Yet, the bus was speeding at 80 miles per hour
The chase was on and it was long
The Hound bus being the fastest dog on wheels, but became the subject of ordeal
But the ordeal was for real

A chase that went on for hour after hour
A Road block was at a stretch of the New Jersey Turnpike
But the Hound bus barreled through
However, the Hound Bus had to be stopped before it reaches Pennsylvania lines
The chase was still on, and Helicopters were flying high and being on alert
Suddenly, Gunshots rang out
There was plenty of commotion on the highway being out and about
But somewhere this Hound Bus chase had to end
However, it wasn’t until when
The Thieves had been driving so fast
The Hound Bus was now running out of gas
The Police were able to move in
The Thieves were arrested and out done
The Hound bus was returned and another one of my stories being among.
preservationman Jul 2017
Well Mack being a Bus manufacturer had an idea for a new design highway bus
Yet the world wondered what was all the fuss
The MV-620-D was a new prototype bus
It all engineering that would be a plus
So Mack MV-620-D was given to Greyhound to test
It was going to be an observation better or for less
So Greyhound put the bus into regular schedule service
Reaction from the traveling public was certainly obvious
Greyhound tested the bus in 1957 being the year of my birth
The Mack bus traveled on the West Coast
So there was reason for everyone to boost
There was admiration by most
Greyhound put the Mack MV-620-D through the highway paces
However thought the bus was in a race
But throughout the test, optimistic with plenty of uncertainty
It was drive into the ride
Research in what would arrive
Yet test after test, Greyhound concluded that the MACK MV-620-D wouldn’t fit in with it’s fleet
But imagine, Greyhound would have a bus and they could compete
But it turned into defeat
Yet now it becomes a retreat
But Greyhound chose not to have the MV-620-D as a prize
But what Greyhound didn’t realize
A new design for the Greyhound enterprise
The MV-620-D could have truly been a success because of the engineering structure from front to back
But Greyhound felt the bus had a lack
The front looking like a highway bus, but the back having a auto look being the track
Yet Greyhound had the global name and could have encouraged other bus companies to purchase the MV-620-D to their fleet
Now this would have been neat
However, Greyhound being the beast
The MV-620-D was a release
Your writer has seen the MV-620-D up close and personal
A friend of mine actually owned it, but sold it overseas
What’s in a bus name?
Mack history in what will remain
The MV-620-D had potential
But Greyhound would have had the first original.
preservationman Nov 2015
It was a pan and bake
No it wasn’t going to be a cake
Something new in holiday cheer
Encourage travel and not draw fear
The idea came to create a Gingerbread Hound Bus
Even the Greyhound racing dog wouldn’t even fuss
Craftsmanship of the mold and ingredients in producing the Gingerbread Hound Bus
Gingerbread Hound Bus in being steady
A welcomed holiday treat
The highlight being the lights
Fresh from the oven being sheer delight
All aboard in the kitchen
The Gingerbread Hound Bus has reserved your seat
No need to push as there is plenty to eat
Yet the Gingerbread Hound Bus looks too good to put in one’s mouth
It should be mounted and on display
To my fellow bus nuts this is a relay
Giving thanks should be every day
The Gingerbread Hound Bus is spreading the word
It’s the Gingerbread in wanting to be heard
“A Gingerbread Hound Bus filled with sugar and spice, and it is also bringing the holiday spirit with the feeling of nice. Yet the Hound Bus in giving advice. The Gingerbread Hound Bus welcomes you to dig in, but remember it is the Gingerbread Hound Bus that says when”.
preservationman Apr 2019
It’s not about the Peter Pan Character
It’s the Peter Pan Bus Lines of Forever Enter into after
Someone had made a GM PD-4104 Peter Pan Bus of the past
It was a bus that was formerly in Operation but didn’t last
I was able to buy that scale model bus
I was determined and it had to be a must
The GM PD-4104 is Famous within the Peter Pan Bus Family
But as the Peter Pan Character would say, “Away We Go”
Truly the GM PD-4104 is missed from the Peter Pan Bus Fleet
But rest assured, the Peter Pan Bus Company has the bus in keep
So the GM PD-4104 lived out its function and became history
So there is no longer a mystery
So the GM PD-4104 Peter Pan Bus had its day, but is now vintage
It is now in my personal bus collection being heritage
So the PD-4104 had drove into the Highway sunset right into the Peter Pan Bus Remembrance Garage
So away we go in putting the GM PD-4104 Peter Pan Bus with you being in the know
That’s the end of this show.
River Nov 2015
I board a public bus
A graying bus driver is a woman and then morphs into a man
A normal experience within a dream

My eyes glaze over as I assume a state of aloofness
As I tend to do when surrounded by unfamiliar people
As some sort of defense mechanism
As if the otherworldly look in my eyes
Will thwart the formation of an ill intention forming in the mind of a stranger that occupies the bus with me
Just in case

Two older men are on the bus
I don't validate their existence
When I am aloof
It feels like I am the only person truly alive
Everything gradually grows dimmer
As my inner world roars as loudly as an amphitheater.

The bus drives for hours
I've never been on this bus before and I've never been to the town I am traveling to
I'm going there to check out a church
Even though I'm not a Christian
Hours pass...
I start falling asleep in my dream
The bus has no stops

Finally, the bus reaches the end of its route
I am dropped off in front of a CVS along with the other two male passengers
One scruffy old man leers at me and smiles at me
But I act as if I didn't see him
I have no idea how to get to the church
It's getting dark
All that is around is the CVS, the bus stop, and a road with an onslaught of cars driving in either direction
Why did I make this hours long trip if I didn't even know exactly where I was going?
If only I could cross the wide street to get to the other side where the bus stop for the bus back home is
But I can't
The cars were driving at fast speeds and their was a constant flow of them
So I stood in that nakedness of uncertainty and abounding possibility
Stuck and calculating
As the sun set over this foreign place I ended up in
All because I was seeking some purpose
And yet, it brought me so far away from home,
the comforts and luxuries and certainties of home
Yet, when I awoke, something deep and vital within me knew
That I will never find my purpose within the comfort of my home.
dream I had last night. Insights added
Analise Quinn Jul 2013
To the girl who sits behind me
On the city bus everyday:
I know they probably say
With your cat-eye and your beehive
That you look like you belong
Way back in the day
But I think you look beautiful,
Even more so yesterday,
When you walked onto the bus
with your hair down wearing tear-stains.
I think you looked best today,
With a messy bun and no makeup
Listening to a song
And laughing
While I tried not to smile

To the guy who wrote the poem for me yesterday:
I know you must work hard,
You come here at six in the morning everyday,
And I don’t know why
But when I look your way I feel safe.
I know you probably hear
That you should take a break
But I know what it’s like
To work hard
Because there’s not another way.
And I know they probably say
With your tattoos and your gages
You don’t look your age
And you shouldn’t have gotten the job,
But I think you look best
At five in the morning
When you’ve just woken up
And you’re sipping coffee
While we wait for the bus
And your hair’s all messy
And your tattoos catch my eye
And I try to read them,
But I don’t want to pry

To the girl who replied to my poem yesterday:
You can read my tattoos
Any time you like
And I think you look best
At six in the morning
When your eyes shine bright
And you sip your coffee
And don’t hide your delight
I like the way
You bite your lip
When you read a book
Or you’re thinking
Or bored,
It drives me crazy
How come we never talk?
Maybe one day,
Instead of poems at bus stops
We could go for a walk.
Well, I have to get off.
Your stop’s in a minute,
Try not to forget it.

To the guy who writes me poems at bus stops:
I feel like I know you better everyday,
But it’s really weird,
Because I don’t know your name
And you don’t know mine,
Which I think is fine,
Because if this turned
Into anything other
Than poems
At bus stops,
I’d probably scare you away
Like everybody else.
Maybe we should stop,
Before we both get hurt.
Signed tearfully,
The girl in the seat behind you

To the girl who told me to go away:
You wouldn’t scare me away,
Not yesterday,
Not today,
Not ever.
Please don’t make me leave
Like everybody else.
Signed hopefully,
The guy who writes poems at bus stops

To the guy who writes poems at bus stops:
My name’s Haley
And sometimes I close my eyes
And wonder what they call you.
I take pictures everyday
And that’s why I’m here at five
Or maybe six
Every morning
To capture the perfect sunrise.
Here’s the picture I got
Yesterday, just in case
You wanted to see.

To Haley,
Who gets up early
To capture sunrises:
My name’s Ryan and
I spend all day crunching numbers,
Praying they don’t crunch back.
The picture was beautiful
And I though that maybe
One day
We could meet for coffee
And turn this into something
More than poems
At bus stops.

To Ryan, the number-cruncher
Who stole my heart:
I’d love to go for coffee
And we can laugh while we talk,
Maybe I can even show you
My favorite place
In Central Park
And we can go for a walk.

Dearest Haley,
Who captures sunrises
And stole my heart:
I can’t believe it’s been
A year since we began
With poems at bus stops
And coffee while we
Watched rain drops and talked about us.
I know this may be too soon,
I pray you don’t think me a fool,
To believe a number-cruncher
And sunrise-capturer
Could have a happily ever after.
But what do you say
We give it a shot
And spend the rest of our lives
Telling our kids
About how a number-cruncher
And a sunrise-capturer
Had a fairytale wedding
And are living their
Happily ever after.
Terry Collett Aug 2015
Shoshana waits by the bus stop shed told her mother she was going to the village shop and her mother said to get a small list of items which were not too heavy but as she was going there she might as well get them now she has to go to the shop and buy the items and get back to the bus stop in time to see if Naaman actually does turn up as he said he would at school the previous day the bus stop is by the village green where in summer cricket matches are played and in winter football is played between local teams Shoshana isnt over happy that Naaman is coming to the village to see her not because she doesnt want to see him because she does but because of the smallness of the village where everyone knows each others business or tried to do and she knew that if she was seen with a boy around the village it would be reported back to her mother before the sunset but she didnt want to put Naaman off coming in case he thought she didnt want to see him when she did and she didnt want to try and explain about the nosiness of the village as it may have appeared as small-mindedness- she stands at the bus stop with the small bag of items at her feet looking in the direction the bus will come Mrs Crabshaw was waiting there too her thin features and narrow eyes made her witch-like despite the fact that her husband Mr Crabshaw is the church warden Shoshana looks away from her and stares in the direction of the hill where the bus will come going into town? Mrs Crabshaw asks her no Im waiting for someone Shoshana says o I see Mrs Crabshaw says a relative? no Shoshana says a friend of mine o thats good it is good to have friends Mrs Crabshaw says the bus comes over the hill and Shoshana is glad but also nervous as she will be seeing Naaman alone on her own ground not at school not surrounded by other kids the bus draws up at the stop and a few people get off the last one is Naaman who is dressed in a blue tee shirt and blue jeans and black battered shoes hi Shoshana he says she nods and smiles unsure what to say watching Mrs Crabshaws beady eyes staring at Naaman as she got on the bus the bus drives off and Mrs Crabshaw was gazing out of the back window of the bus so this is your village Naaman says small and quaint isnt it she watches the bus go out of sight yes it is a bit she says turning her gaze to Naaman he is smiling that Elvis smile(other girls had told her at school) is there a coffee bar we can go to? he asks no not a coffee shop but there is a tea shop over the green but its a bit old fashion she says I see he says looking around him I best take you home with me she says otherwise it will be all around the village before  my mum knows Ive been seeing you ok if thats ok with you he says is she expecting me? not exactly but Im sure shell be pleased to see you Shoshana  says uncertain if her mother will but knowing she must show him and explain or it will be worse if her mother finds out by gossip they walk along a narrow road off from the village green and she is silent not sure what to say he walks beside her taking in the scenery you didnt mind me coming here did you? he asks out of the blue no of course not its just that I havent mentioned you yet to my parents and Im not sure quite what to say she says  o I see he says Im sure it will be ok parents are only concerned about their childrens friends and welfare I guess so she says  they come to the cottages the left hand side where she lives with her parents and she opens the gate and he follows her in and they come to the front door and she opens up and go into the passageway Im back Shoshana says and I have brought a friend with me she adds looking along the passage hoping her mother will come out from the kitchen there is silence maybe shes out Naaman says no she was here a while ago Shoshana says Naaman looks around the passageway the door at the end opens and her mother comes in from the garden o youre back then her mother says and who is this? Shoshana blushes Im Naaman a friend of your daughter Naaman says nodding and smiling o I see her mother says eyeing Naaman carefully then at her daughter a school friend Shoshana says hes a boy her mother says yes he is Shoshana says youve not mentioned a boy before her mother says not known each other long Naaman says we share an interest in birds and butterflies and such o I see Shoshanas mother says Shoshana feels ill at ease I got the items from the shop you wanted she says put them in the kitchen then her mother says eyeing her daughter you best come into the kitchen Naaman her mother says cant have you standing in the passageway all the time can we o no right Naaman says I like the colour of the walls compared to the doors they have a good link to the eyes do they? the mother says yes Naaman says have a homely feel relaxing kind of thing the mother stares at her daughter I see the mother says tea? do you drink tea? walking into the kitchen Shoshana puts the items on a sideboard and sits at the table and Naaman sits opposite her I drink tea he says but without sugar he adds looking at the mother and smiling Shoshana feels unsure of how things are going but it is nice that at last Naaman is there with her and only a few inches away from and now her mother knows and that is just the beginning of matters after Naaman has gone the interrogation will begin the questions will be asked and needed to be answered and she knows her mother will tell her father and they will say to her you are just a young girl of fourteen too soon to be thinking of boys and why did he come here? now it will be all around the village and you know how people will talk and so on and so the mother makes tea in a teapot putting the items away in cupboards with her back to them Naaman reaches across the table and holds her hand in his then lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it gently and she blushes and smiles and feels an opening up inside her and a new world begin expand sensing the kiss on the back of her hand.
Maggie Emmett Jul 2015
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.


Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.


Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
preservationman Sep 2014
It’s a race between a Greyhound bus and Coach USA bus
Everything is prepared on the Race Track
The fans are cheering in the back
The Greyhound bus and Coach USA bus are put through their paces before the race
There will be plenty of dust in the trace
It has been announced buses please take your place
The checkered flag is raised up
Then the flag is raised down to begin
The Greyhound bus pulls out first
But the Coach USA bus pulls out like it’s a hearse
Suddenly Coach USA picks up speed
But the Greyhound bus still has a good lead
Cheers from the crowd
The clock is ticking with time allowed
Out of nowhere the Coach USA bus catches up
The Greyhound bus is no longer in the lead
The Coach USA bus is focusing on proceed
The points are certainly stacking up
Keeping score a Judge’s view
Well the buses are down to the finished line stretch
What bus has made their match?
Greyhound and Coach USA are neck and neck
The fans are thinking in what the heck
Coach USA bus crosses the finished line first
As for the Greyhound bus being like a page from a verse
“At last you tried, but you scored behind, and you wheeled everything you got, but it was second place of thine, but until next year, keep that mine".
preservationman Dec 2016
It has been an amazing Bus Nut Year
We all have travelled on various buses together, and that is something to cheer
It was miles over the roads
It was bus designs in behold
The bus pictures that were never really told
Yet it was the shifting of the gears and we were bold
Now 2016 is about to close
But this is a triumph being a suppose
Let 2017 being our year as Bus Nuts to shine
Continued being inspired, but keep that in mine
Thank you for the friendship in what Bus Nuts that are meant to be
We showed the world that buses they need to see
We are Bus Nuts united
We are committed where others say no
We are the voice and we say so
Together in unity
Holiday time is about caring and giving of one’s self
We are Bus Nuts being not like everybody else
Happy New Year along with prosperous 2017
We travelled the road with more to explore
As a Bus Nut, this inspiration I just couldn’t ignore
We conquered and we saw
Let 2017 continue to be our year to soar
As Bus Nuts we know
Buses are more than just for show
A motto for Bus Nuts to think by, “A road isn’t a road until a bus comes down that proud road, but a place in our hearts of look and behold”.
Neha D Jun 2014
At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late.
I have now waited over an hour
And my mood is surely turning sour.

I crane my neck for the glimpse of that bus
Which, when moves makes ruckus.
I am excited by the noise of yonder thunder
Alas it turns out to be a school bus, oh what a blunder.

I'm tired, hungry and even ready for bed
Yet compelled to wait for the bus in red.
If only I had money for a three wheeler
Alas I can't afford it on my income meager.

My patience is put to a severe T-E-S-T
As I stoically wait for the B-E-S-T.
A serpentine queue has now formed
But come the bus its door will be stormed.

My hopes rise upon the sight of something red
Alas it's a bus of another route instead.
The hunger has traveled from stomach to mind
Can someone please a solution to this delay find?

At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late!
Adeline Dean Dec 2014
(If there's spelling mistakes I'm sorry , I don't read over things )

Its 8:00 pm. The streets are speckled with cars and airport buses bringing people to and frow, but whether that be to the airport or a nearby hotel is beyond my knowledge, only a flirtation of an idea that's briefly allowed to waltz around my head.

There's only a handful of people on this bus, most people usually drive cars around here. Or is it perhaps a bus doesn't come at a convenient time for them? Or is it that they live in a remote part of the city where buses simply don't venture? Or can it be that theses people are perhaps not old enough to drive and those that are seemingly can't, or wont.  

The bright lights in the bus sting your eyes in comparison to the dark December night, days get shorter and nights so much longer, and colder. Surely the eyes of the drivers passing by must sting from the lights of the bus? Almost like you check your phone in the middle of the night and remember that you never turned the brightness settings down and as a result when you go to check your phone it feels like someones dowsed your delicate eyes with acid and you put your hand over your eyed and reenact a scene from an old 'Dracula' movie as you cry, "The light! It burns!" Ah, I'm morbid.

I remember getting onto the bus. The greeting wasn't something I'd choose to remember. I was met by a round, middle aged man in his fourtys accompanied by a face that could only be described like he was constantly ******* on a lemon. He was bald and had deep, sunken in eyes that were turning a beetroot shade around the bottom. Alcohol? maybe. The own self knowledge that this day would never end ? possible.  The knowledge that this job was, sooner or later, going go lead him to a deep state of depression and eventually he'll get fired for telling an elderly lady in not-so-nice terms to get off "his bus"? Could happen.  The addition of all of the above? Most likely, no offence to any other of you bus drivers.

Oh, his fake gold company name tag told me that 'Gerald' had been the name his parents had written on his birth certificate all those year ago.
The noise of persistent and agonising coughing bleeds through the sound of my headphones and I look up to see the cause of my disruption. The sound seems go be coming from an elderly woman sitting across row from me. At first, as the natural thing for you to presume would be that she has a cold, or perhaps a dry throat, to which you'd be the good citizen and ask if she was alright and offer her your water, but upon further inspection of the situation, I've come to the wrong conclusion.

Her skins crying out for the oxygen its been deprived of for years. All thats left of it now is not something left to be envied, I've seem white towels with brown tea stains on it with less discolouration on that of the skin hang upon her old face.  

The burgundy lipstick she decided to support today was no use in trying to conceal the lines that had taken shape on her  lips, sadly.
Behind those lips I can only imagine what horrific delights might rear their ugly head. I imagine a once pearly, perfect set of teeth now nothing but yellowed decay married with the horrible mix of sugar free gum to try and remove the smell. I wouldn't say it works very well either.

Lastly, her eyes. Something we all have a dreamy tendency to stare at. Hers were grey, almost like that of an artist's 2H pencil. Around her eyes, yellow rimmed the grey scene. The contrast of this and the streak of a one shade purple colour on her eyelids was all to much to bear and I broke my gaze from hers. She was beautiful once.

Beside me was a young mother of 9 and 20 years holding her child. Perhaps he found the rhythmic journey of the bus's adventure soothing and for that I was grateful. Its late and irritated children are the last thing anyone needs on their Tuesday night. She looks tired, but that's to be expected. Whoever said raising children was easy and involved sleep? But what would I know, I don't have children of my own. She didn't wear a wedding ring. Perhaps its of more convenience for her not to wear it. Or maybe she isn't  married. Or maybe she isn't romantically involved with someone. Was she once?

The bus stops outside a middle class looking estate and an impatient looking business man with a a bag carrying his laptop and a very expensive pair of shoes walks out and just before he steps off the bus he turns to the driver and thanks him for his service.
He didn't mean it.

All is quiet and I start to feel tired. My head bounces off the pole standing costumers use when the buses are packed and it doesn't appear that seats even exist. My headphones are in and I look out the window to see the sea, peaceful and graceful on this cold December night, greeting me, almost with open arms.

The lights of the cars rush by like multicoloured fireworks, so close you could almost hold one in the palm of your hand.

And as the night gets longer and the journey seems that ever bit more endlessly scenic I find myself questioning.

Questioning what I'd just been witness to.
Questioning this December.
Questioning this bus.
Questioning this night.

Then the main question swam afloat.

In years to come, when I might once step onto this very same bus again, who will I be?

And then it was my turn to depart.
preservationman Jun 2014
An Aunt and a Nephew on an adventure to explore
It all happened at the Macy’s Herald Square Store
It was the marquee eyes and yellow buses that caught the attention in a little fellow being wise
As a tot, I picked up the yellow bus
I had to have the bus being a must
My Aunt saw the bus in my hand
She told me to put back at her command
But a tot determined to get the bus became my demand
I made such a fuss for that bus
My Aunt was forced to buy the yellow school bus
My persuasion in maneuver became a must
My passion for any bus became my reality with no fuss
Buses have become my hobby from that start
I have a complete 2,000 Bus collection in making my mark
From the start of the engine to the movement with exhaust
A bus hobby I love
The structure and wheels I think of
From a bus pioneers point of view
Here is a more detailed clue
My apartment is a like a bus collector’s paradise
Each bus I have represent themselves
Yes, they fit quite comfortably on the shelves
But it’s Greyhound ahead on the mount
I have so many busses you simply can’t count
It’s my Greyhound glass stretched hound
It doesn’t make a sound
However it stands on my bookshelf being sturdy bound
Buses have become what I missed
I don’t intend to ever dis
My buses have become my catch
They are my assortments like a batch
My buses are just for fun, but everlasting as the shining sun.
Emily Larrabee Jan 2014
Bundled under her black and white comforter knowing her alarm will ring any second. Wraps the blanket around herself and rocks herself out of bed. Right as she does the alarm starts to ring. She tells it to shut up as she turns the switch to off. She goes out into the kitchen no one is up yet. Grabs herself a packet of oatmeal (Always strawberries and cream) She likes it thick and lukewarm with a glass of milk. While shes out there her dad comes out makes his coffee then leaves.After she eats her breakfast she slowly makes her way to her bedroom. The night before she lied out an outfit. Skinny Jeans and a purple button down shirt. She looks at herself in the body mirror by her dresser and pinches the fat around her hips and stomach. She takes off her fleece shirt and pants. She puts deodorant on and sprays herself with "Our moment" she put her shirt then her pants on. Goes into the bathroom. And brushes her red hair back into a messy bun. She applies her favorite makeup on her freckled face and her favorite lip balm on her small lips. She brushes her teeth with one of her eight toothbrushes and Colgate toothpaste. She runs into her room and puts her black flats on. Puts on her red jacket with the fur trim and walks out the door.  "Oh ****" she thinks "I forgot my back pack" She runs inside and grabs it. She makes her way to the bus stop. By the time she gets there everyone is there. About five minutes later the bus shows up. The bus is freeeezzzinnggg because the bus driver doesn't heat the bus. She sits in the seat still bundled up. A little later Aaron and Lori get on the bus. Aaron pushes her over and lies on top of her. Soon after the baybridge kids get on and it gets extremely loud. She talks to Brandie Logan Hannah and Aaron until the bus comes to her highschool. She walks off the bus and into the school. She walks to the cafeteria and puts her stuff down. She sees her best friend and walks around the school for what seemed like an hour. She sees her crush by his locker and tries to hide but he sees her and waves. She smiles and waves back shily. Soon after her class starts. Then she has lunch with him. She sits on her friends lap because there are no seats left. She checks her pockets for a dollar for a bagel but has none. One more class left. She finishes her school day and gets on the bus. (Pretty much the same thing but this time They have to pick the Jr high kids up) She gets to the bus stop and gets off of the bus. HOLY CRAP its freezing she thinks as she starts to walk home. Once she gets to her house she opens the door. She throws her stuff down and runs to the bathroom because she really has to go. Once shes done that she watches t.v. for a few hours. While procrastinating doing any homework or chores.  Finally at about 5 she decides to get some **** done... After dinner she washes the dishes and this one day asks to go on facebook. Her dad says yes so she goes on. She continuously sees Jessica's picture on facebook and tries to hold the tears in. After awhile she can't anymore. She asks her dad to take a shower but the real reason she wants to take a shower is so she can sob without people hearing her. Her dad says no though. She goes into her room and tries to find a razor.... nothing. She grabs a rock that for some reason appeared on her night stand.She srapes her arms over and over. She scratches fat into her stomach. she outlines the word Jess into her arm then crosses it out. Jess is gone she thought. She lies on her bed under the covers and silently cries until she falls asleep.

— The End —