"commuting" poems
I am a traveler commuting on life's rails,
going station to station.
Disembarking at different destinations,
each time spent differently.
The car can be claustrophobic with passengers,
suffocating me in anxiety.
Other times, just a few of familiar faces,
friends, families, locals, daily riders.
Some talking, of life, nonsense, all or nothing,
each making their way.
There are times of light, above ground and of sun,
the rest tunneled, falsely lit, dark.
The sights of open land, buildings, and of the day,
the faces of love, hurt, hurried and grind.
Day in Day out this cycle goes on,
different,yet the same.
I am part of this mass exodus to get somewhere,
yet my commute is my own.
At times I arrive with many at the platform
bustling towards their tasks.
Trains for life come and go, expresses to locals,
roaring with noise, movements, purpose.
However, there are times i am the only one there,
Occasional train, in silence, alone.
Those are the days that my commute seems fruitless,
leaving me to wonder,
Have I just been passing it all by?
© J.L.Gonzalez75 09/2016
* this is a rough edit... am not a poet, but just write.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
The flames were so high, Byron was fighting hard against them, to no avail."Megan"!,"Megan"!, screaming her name, he felt engulfed, and light headed.A thousand thoughts raced through his head, panic, seering pain with every breath he took, call an ambulance, Megan,s screams cut through him like lasers, she was trapped, scared, how must she be feeling right now?
Wood crackled, metal creaked, echos, lights, sirens!
Byron jumped, bolt upright in bed,"O **** SHIT",another nightmare, each one bringing his memory closer to what happened in their cottage they had built together.
Byron was working from Leeds, commuting to Killough, his favourite village in Ireland, well, it had to be, it's where he and Megan had met. He'd planned to run the architecture business from home.HA!, home, where was that?, he wasn't sure anymore.
As Byron strolled into the bathroom, turning on the shower he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.Almost forgetting the scars he had aquired from the fire, those visible reminders that his electrician was skimming from the funds, cutting corners, greedy little ******* The sight was gone from his right eye, and his face bore severe scarring right down to the collar bone. A small price to pay, at least he made it out alive.
He made a mental note to get back to Killough, this very night, to see Megans grave.He'd settle for anything, any reminder of Megan, she was slipping away from him, he couldn't have that, ever...another reason for moving to Killough.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
Welcome,
Ladies and Gentlemen,
I'm preaching a lesson,
And the merest mention,
Might cause social tension.
We live in an age of,
New things, super computing,
Mood rings, school shootings,
Fast Commuting, Mass Polluting
If you've got a question,
You should try and ask it,
Try and draw attention to,
Oceans full of grime and plastic.
Drastic measures are needed,
Why can't they see it?
We poison the earth,
And then try to seed it.
You might choke from the smoke,
Everyday Beijing breathing,
Our enemy is cloaked,
But free eyes see him.
Squeezing the last drops,
From the planet won't work because
Before the last's tree's chopped,
We have to plant with love.
Now who are these men,
With the Greatest greed?
Depriving people with a pen,
Of their basic needs.
The proceeds of their misdeeds,
Flow back to the system,
The corporate creed,
Profits off human divisions.
Listen by this time,
We've all had enough of it,
The mind control message,
Still tells me, "I'm loving it!'
Our generation is facing
Annihilation in our age
But the politicians on stage
Fight about the minimum wage.
Debate over free-speech,
Is finished we won it,
We won't get arrested and beat,
This isn't a G-8 summit.
Don't sell your life to the Company,
For a car and a home,
Claim your right to be a somebody,
Your life is your own.
I find it sad and pathetic,
People are attracted magnetically,
Or genetically to create,
Something we can't see.
A father in threes,
Behaving apologetically
and ethically correctly,
Directly see the universe's apathy.
People always have faith,
Governments will save us,
But at a suitable date,
won't hesitate to invade us.
Everybody's cynical,
About the media.
Remaining uncritical,
Of internet encyclopedias.
Obedience Blind,
Is worth less than nothing.
Read, think, search, find,
Catch the fake world bluffing.
There is a solution,
You can break their control,
You heart starts the revolution,
Save your soul.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
Commuter trains go clickety clack
up and down the trickety track
except when it snows
or leaves the wind blows
then you can’t get there or back
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
On my usual flight
from Dallas to Boston,
I saw her,
a perfect belle
a white summer dress
red roses in print
Alfred Dunner perhaps?
Lips pouting,vermillion red
delicate nose, dark sun glass
a Gucci, I could see,
scent of Nina Ricci perfume
reached my nose
"Lucky lady", I told myself.
Me in modest clothes
wondered how happy she was,
sure as looks do tell;
diamond ring
perfectly poised,
commuting to work place
has a good job for sure!
On a sudden impulse
glanced at her face,
and was just in time to see
large drops of tears
slide lazily
from behind the dark glasses
roll over the cheeks
and fall on the lap,
and then another
and another.
Yet she sat still
faintest tremor on the lips
I imagined a volcano
erupting in her heart.
I looked at my faded skirt
and closed my eyes,
wondering, wondering;
joy and sorrow
elusive indeed,
where do they strike
how do they ****
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Warmth is a jumper,
a knitted, sewn and cross stitched bunker
in which we exist and sweat in, let out sighs of
I am okay or I'm always this upset,
and behind those patterns we see the world
through a window the size of a pea, an out-of-focus
key hole where we can watch and wait
and be warm in the thought that
we've no work tomorrow.
Warmth is a blanket on a bed,
a mass produced widespread piece of material
in which we can dive under and have serial sleeps
that carry on into the evening;
and the light coming in through the wide window
hits the Hiroshima shadow-damp on the side wall
making it dance with the commuting-home-traffic.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
The way to the city
on both sides of the street
was discretely displayed
then replayed
as recollections of the mundane
inequitable and respectable
a ubiquitous ritual
with screams of laughter
cries from shouting houses
and grimacing faces.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
If Monday was a person,
Maudlin would be the lesson,
"Oh no, not another Monday."
"What became of Sunday funday?"
Yes, it's Monday, so it seems,
Same old dreary routine,
Back to the rat race again,
Commuting by car or train,
Wage slaves, off for gain,
Maudlin Monday on their brain,
"Yes, it's Monday, so it seems,
Same old dreary routine."
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:00 AM UTC
I sat hard-pressed against
the plastic seat on the Metro,
green line to Branch Ave,
feeling the heat
of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me,
5:30 PM and everyone
making headway for home after a
long, hot work day.
The swampy humidity
clung to my arms like sticky tack.
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my
blazer
and listened to some 90s
R & B on my iPod as I
c
o
u
n
t
e
d
d
o
w
n
the exits till I could
free myself from
the suffocating crowd.
It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary,
no life-changing series of events,
no incredible people I had met;
nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of
town as I had
every day that summer.
I looked up and took
a snapshot with my mind;
I remember exactly
how that sliver of time
felt to me,
how it looked,
smelledsoundedtasted
as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel
like the norm,
that I had grown accustomed to the
claustrophobic train cabins,
the repetitive street names,
and
10% sales tax.
So suddenly there was this
catastrophic
timeturning
momentous magnanimous monumental magic
of the most mundanely minuscule moment,
as ordinary crawled up my veins
and absorbed me in it.
Somehow
squeezed.in.between
the rush-hour,
the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation
felt like
home.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
akin to sewer grates
seeping toxic gas,
a friend to deadly smog,
and bad attitudes,
a product of waste,
between holes in the lime sandstone
occasionally silenced by
commuting feet, disparaging
their accidental charity,
retaliating with lethal fluid
those feet then fleet from,
all the while wondering why they
can't bear the stench
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
What if the LIRR didn’t run?
For thousands of travellers, it wouldn’t be fun
It will be find another alternative
There will be no time to be selective
It will be your efforts in trying to get to work
Being on time won’t be an option
It will be more of an experience far from being an adventure
It will be overflowing crowds
Speed would be the essence in what time will allow
This will become a process for a while
Straphangers will not be travelling in style
In fact, the rails won’t be easy as a sail
There will be times when your efforts will seem like fail
Yet you will be moving in a commuting mode
This is how your day will be sold
It’s up to the unions to avoid a strike
Frustrations could end in a very strong fight
It’s a matter of coming to the negotiations table
Then coming with a plan that is sound with talks in able
We will have to wait and see
We don’t know what the results will be
It will be definitely the subway and the bus
But this will affect all of us.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Today I spotted
a disfigured man
by the lake.
His right hand
in a soiled
bandage loosely tied.
Left eye missing -
I dared not
uproot his repose.
I feared for
him so frail,
Beside black water.
Today I spotted
a disfigured man
aboard a train.
Earphone hung from
melted plastic ear,
does he listen?
He smells foul
and looks unblinking -
a commuting ghoul.
What station can
such a man
find his home?
Today I spotted
a disfigured man
at dinner alone.
His teeth rotten
with gums bleeding -
drinking soup slowly.
Waxy red blood
staining cheap napkins
He doesn't care.
An omnipresent reminder
that no man
survived a week.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
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
Commuting
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
NYC to DC
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
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 1:37 AM UTC
oh right... no social criticism... just a bomb will do? mm, yes, a bomb will fair much better... no social criticism... and only the political class are allowed a backdrop of satire... now i have to be thankful for a 7 year old schizophrenic simulator, the "inability" of the medical profession to misdiagnose... oh yes... i'm really thankful for all of that.
philosophy and its rigid vocabulary,
clutters up the range of ******
expressions, scientific atheism
is still measuring the non-existence
of something via the occator crater
of ceres as: ah... look at that... a cute puppy!
enlaraged eyes of a kitten pleading!
ooh ah! so so cute! mm.
actually, in #a, philosophy is the original
divination of divisions - centimetre in man
to distinguish him into a spider-web
project of thinking, feeling, consciousness,
sentience, animate, zombie,
it cuts cuts in, slashes away at so many
meanings, you end up with shorthand
of 140 character allowances -
so this scientific negativism - i can't
see any scientific positivism right now,
calling something cute as a puppy will
not really do justice to the measure of things,
unlike atheism in humanism,
where the projection of will is paramount
to define life, of how one human influences
another, if at all, atheism only matters in
how humans politicise, i love the fanciful
individualist definition that does not
really wish to congregate... and there we have it:
atypical to the English, the invention of
utilitarianism, the best moral action is
to be polite, or simply nice, to say
'yes, thank you' and 'no, thank you',
to say sorry a lot when commuting in the
tube... ah, mm, oh... and the other grand
pillar of utilitarianism? REMEMBER PERSONAL
SPACE... well spinoza could tell you a lot
about this principle when the rabbis
****** him: about how people were not
supposed to stand at a certain distance
near him... sardine **** of human sweat
on the tube during rush-hour.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
The innocence of the sun in the morning, thick
clouds casting shadows like daylight apparitions,
civilians running away from intermittent drizzles,
religions conflicting in the mire of broken
promises, the fall of mankind in the dusk and
reviving with lucifer at dawn of enlightenment,
these are universal norms, we are overwhelmed
by strange powers from parallel world, and
commuting poverty into lust for money, this evil
life has hit hard, hard enough to cause spiritual
concussion, we are tamed, living life in a web of
hardship, the price of life is on a hike, now
mankind has to embrace spiritual benefits, to set
himself free from the redemptive suffering, chug
the holy wine, forsake alien gods and be worthy
of reverential praise.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
• This great division of space. •
And the untamed plants.
Geckos...
Pose as domestic pets -
slide along its faded railings.
Casing draughty walls,
tethered to rafters loose lashing;
hanging in jungle green.
I clean up the wild flowers
that float in the a i r, without
explanation, without wrong measure.
Is as it comes -
I am ashamed that this is all I want.
A testament to solitary hawks in the upper branches.
Flutter in memory carefree cardinals
in this leaf-strewn place,
Dragonflies form wing-prayers
We kneel and peel our shoes off,
drop our feet to sleeping grass
to be closer to the narrow splendor.
Peacocks honk rough phrases, asking anyone.
Commuting the tracks, between valley stream.
I linger limbo roads
On the jungly drive,
pass a farm that repeats
its exotic fruit tree, the elbows of orange blossoms
Guava groves, avocado arsenal,
saturated ocean views beyond pestyflower frills.
At the life proof gate. This world is untidy
with its muddy banks, with its eyes.
1000 flower bloom
Listening feral fowl, ungulate shake
Retirees friendly fire,
Long forgotten barbwire crossing creeks
the mountain lost in a sea of green
This land, like me, is free
To live a less domesticated dream
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
Sitting across
my eyes study you;
a painter taking
in his model, to mind's portal:
you sit hunched
over the dining table top,
a work of art
"The girl in a hurry
taking few quick bites"
I am a picture
yet to be attempted
"The man in agony"
would have just dark hues,
you left in a huff
to catch the inter-city train,
I work at night,
so went to lay down,
When my eyes drooped
I leaned against you,
your scent has such
soporific touch
that bring longings
soon to the fore.
And in my sleep I remember,
you'll be lying in my bed,
with in your lonely mind
all through commuting,
rocked by the train.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
In a distant world things seem so distant, its consistent the distance is always distant
No resistance,
Achieving is noticeable through persistence
The crimes logically committed are lost to delinquents
In sequence commuting through short existence
Its fiction
"knowledge" the most powerful addiction
Controlling power that can put "nothing" to extinction.
Unlocking impossible is possible
Highly unprovable
But possible
Do what you believe
That's what you'll receive
Thinking is a process indefinitely intrigues
Mastering can put you on top of all leagues
Every time it gets harder to prestige
just breathe
Think twice were all animals
I can even turn vegetarian's into cannibals..
nothings impossible its logical...
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
when the child tugs at my apron strings,
what is my name but satan.
mistress river acid,
strip my legs of their skin with each step,
down to tendon, bone, and marrow.
i’ll wash up, limbless and parched.
we’ll stand, nubile and resplendent
beneath you while you sleep,
lobbing pebbles at your window,
while you’ll believe it to be rain,
commuting furtively into the pile of dead leaves
and crumpled tissues in the drain pipe.
you’ll ask us if we were there,
not believing voices beyond cave shadows.
we’ll lie, aged and eyelid heavy,
in sweet-earth-cupped-hands.
~life's about to get real weird in the next ten seconds~
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
Mr. K leads a normal life. Wife and kids, school,
home in town, commuting to work, mornings
for breakfast, evenings papers, chatting away;
The clerk in the government office, executive
in the tech firm; The teacher at the university,
official at the ministry. Like the sun in many
pots, Mr. K is one person living in many bodies.
In the morning, he worships the Eye in his shrine.
Upholding traditions, one must get ahead in life.
Half-believing, within 'Bounds of reason' tepid.
The Eye sits observing him: sometimes, staring
from the sky above, and some times, through
the eyes of the beggars lining the temple street.
Irāvāṇ laughs as Mr. K walks past the totem pole.
'Bad' is always elsewhere, in the nebulous 'other';
Cutting corners is not bad, just an expedient.
Does the Eye only observe silently? It also slithers
sometimes and shakes the fabric of Mr. K's life.
Like when the mountains break way for the river.
But one K. dies, and another takes over. And so
it goes on. Irāvāṇ is laughing impaled on the pole.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
At six in the morning when the inches
of snow are still holding the sunshine
off with their vacant swelling hills
and troughs, I hear the passing traffic
a block east. Will the traffic stop?
When I say traffic, I mean the rumble of coal
cars two miles distant. I mean garbage
trucks full of yawning men I don't know
and garbage I've known for a week.
I mean the women leaving hospitals
bound for sunbathed sleep habits
and more long days of night. When I say
traffic, I mean the adolescent fox foraging
through the Baptist churchyard. I mean
the line of metal carriages trailing
from checkout line 10. I mean the blood
racing to my arm after we spent the night
holding each other.
When I say blood racing I mean the multiplying
and dividing of cells, beats in a symphony built
up, crumbling down by an ancient arithmetic
pulling us in, broken gravity we fight by holding
onto it, clutching it to our hearts as we step into
the earth.
When I say blood racing, I mean the tiny
blind lives bustling under flesh overpasses,
blood cells commuting perpetually even after
years of smoking cigarettes, lungs an oil spill
butterfly resting in the chest. When I say
six in the morning, I mean the dark hour,
my second wind, when I rise to clear our
tables and stack the dishes in the sink.
I mean the hour you finally went to bed
after we fell asleep on the couch, again.
I mean the hour I crept into the hall
to take out the trash, tight hand-rolled cigarette
patient on my lip.
When I say six in the morning, I mean the time
between the milk man and the sunrise, I mean
the minutes falling around the decaying beauty
of gold and scarlet leaves prostrate on cold
sidewalks.
When I say decaying beauty, I mean the wizened
grey tree, standing naked, no, stooping
over the fence by your road.
When I say stooping, I mean the man draped
in a scarlet vest and goldenrod button-down
wincing himself upright on the stool, unconcerned
with the dark pub behind him or the faces bent
through his glass in the dim refractions of the Open sign,
faces bent over mostly empty glasses, empty faces.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
On a good day…..
I love you more than cheap gasoline
Even more than winning a dollar on the extra
I love you more than a pocket full of quarters
And more than finding the last roll of toilet paper
I love you more than finishing the milk before it sours
Even more than using up the bread before it molds
I love you more than Saturday morning cartoons
And more than a rerun of my favourite program
I love you more than getting revenge
Even more than instant Karma
I love you more than watching *** fights
And more than a drag of my cigarette
On a bad day….
I love you more than commuting on public transit
Even more than luke warm bath water
I love you more than a pocket full of pennies
And more than changing my cat’s litter
I love you more than wine that resembles vinegar
Even more than tasting carob when expecting chocolate
I love you more than finding a fly in my soup
And more than a trip to the emergency room
I love you more than taking out the trash
Even more than doing the dishes
I love you more than waiting in long line ups
And more than receiving change from a five for something that cost $4.01
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
no talk
i was with my mate going to work
when i saw the couple on the bus
they were young and in their 20s
he had mousey hair and she was blond
they were taking time out
and travelling in the philippines
she was finishing her teacher training
and he was a soldier between deployments
while i was commuting to work
in the city to my bpo job
we talked in my head
not in the real world
they were innocent and untouched
she wasn't abused by her students
he hadn't seen his mates blown up
all that was to come
should i of warned them?
be vigilant and strong
but no no no
they had to learn for themselves
the london couple on the makati bus
they reminded me of my old mates
when i lived in essex and london
years ago...
...3 were soldiers
where are they now?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
I ran a red light today, and god that's so mundane
but I thought some thoughts I think are worthy
of putting on a page.
I saw the car to my left, the slick road glowing red.
I thought, just for a moment, what it might be like to be dead.
I ran a red light today, and god that's so morbid,
I thought that if I died, I'd never
finish something I started.
I felt my lungs twitch and my heart freeze,
signals shooting from my head.
Just what would I be missing, if I was cold and dead?
I ran a red light today, and god it's not that big a deal
but my mind went still and I didn't know
how I should feel.
I still need to lose a few pounds, meet someone new
all those petty things
we people go through.
I ran a red light today, and god I don't know why I care
but I guess it's because I like it here
rather than nowhere.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC