"restrooms" poems
There is a
Threat
Outside of bed.
Beyond amber red
Sunsets
People of the night
Come out.
Awaken by the smell
Of repugnant restrooms
And *****
Last memory of
The inside of
A toilet.
Brought alive by
the frightening
sunrise.
Blinding all
who hid.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
her silent monologue inside the cage of her mind
leaves fleeting expressions catapulting across her vacant face
like a strange circus act
the pasty face clowns in silent repetition
weakly grin as they grind through the dance
the lovely high wire girls seeking the perfect tuck and roll
her expressions move through this deranged carnival
of the mad again and again
never releasing its warped players to
the solace of privacy's ease
over and over they dance and roll
her lips stumble through misbegotten phrases
ten word haiku's written by the voices in her mind
written in lipstick on the mirrors of gas station restrooms
and truck stop shower stalls
haiku's of loves desperado warring against loneliness
the heart dose not actually make a sound when it breaks
her hearts deeper waters
like tidal pools in moonlight
the surface reflects the beautiful sky above
but in its cool depths other things live
some have no name
her silent monologue slows and fades away
the exhausted clowns of her madness laughter crawling
to lay their pasty white faces in reflection of sleep
the high wire girls to dressing rooms where they moan
for long departed heroic villains
who were last seen folding up diabolical schemes
and her silverware and making for the sun coast
where you can find them on beaches of paradise
sipping cool water under a neon moon
she slips into slumber
and dreams sweetly of all these players
in her silent minds story
she loves her madness
as she loves the rain
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
My grade school
burned down
twice.
Once in the 1930's
then again in
the 50's.
They rebuilt,
there were two
large black and white
framed photographs
of the school houses
before both fires
hanging in the
main hallway.
At some point in
the reconstruction
someone had decided
on two boys
restrooms.
The one at ground level
was always clean.
There were small white
tiles and fresh blue paint.
It always smelled like
pine cleaner,
never ran out of
paper towels.
There was always
sweet smelling
liquid soap in the
shinny silver dispensers.
There were doors with
shinny silver
locks on the stalls.
It was a timeless
space,
pristine and somehow
preserved.
Free and unscathed
by the ugliness of
the world.
Then there was the other
one.
The restroom below
ground in the basement.
There were ground
level windows
with round wire cages
over them.
The view of the
***** untied
tennis shoes
attached to
saggy socks and
scabbed knees.
The children
ran about
with purpose
over every inch
of the playgrounds
hot black top
as I'd try
to guess who's
feet were who's.
There were no doors on
the stalls,
yellow stains beneath
every leaky
******
Smears of rust around the
faucets ,
a coarse hand soap
in the often broken
dispensers.
More fit for prisoners
than students.
It smelled like
**** and was always
cold.
I don't know why
one was always cleaner
than the other.
Maybe it was an
unwritten janitor
law.
Maybe they seen it
as somehow lower
than the other.
I always chose the
basement restroom.
It just seemed more
natural to me,
it made me feel strong,
made it all feel more real.
Now after so many
hardships as I sit with drink
in hand or lay down
while high on some drug
I can't seem to help
but look back and
remember.
Then ponder the question.
"Have I always been
meant to live in such a *****
harsh environment,
even way back then?"
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Here comes the sun in all its glory
tracing the hemisphere in its slow
rise over rubble, but first the tallest
steel and concrete dedications to
the lives living high while their
green shadow casts below over
the desecrated. I see bright night light
shining blue. I see wide, wild light
only high noon. Morning, all day
veins are caving under the rubble
under the tallest.
Here comes the nasty truth, suited
in belts clasped with wealth for
well being, beating the lies with
a dollar sign, until the ugliness
of the first story presses like
meat into the underneath, under
the detritus concealing lives in
the dirt with the needles.
I see bright night light shining blue
in the park restrooms. I see wide, wild
light only high noon from the under-bridge,
waiting for trains to come crush.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Tonight is a bad kind of nostalgic.
The music started reminding me of all you guys.
Thrift shopping and cooking in your stockpile kitchen.
And puking in public restrooms,
And late night fifty dollar tattoos
Are some of last years memories.
And those songs don't feel to good either.
And even last week's music
Makes me feel bitter.
And I tried to flashback from earlier in the 2000s.
But that was music from when I was fourteen.
The angst years will now be left alone.
Jesus I have the shakes again.
Bad night.
Bad night.
A splash of coffee in my whiskey.
It's not alright.
It's not alright.
I'm not alright.
Alright?
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
1 in 12 transgender people are killed every single year.
1 in 12 i can't walk the streets alone at night.
1 in 12 public restrooms are a choice of being yelled at, or being beat up.
1 in 12 i hide behind my hoodie and keep my head down when im in "shifty" places.
1 in 12 having to wear the incorrect school uniform because "kids can be cruel"
1 in 12 you're not a "real man" if you don't have a ***** and if you do have one, you cannot be a woman, like there is a set of rules.
1 in 12 i can't get i job because if they find out i'm trans they'll use slurs in the place of my name.
1 in 12 living a lie because i want to be alive.
1 in 12 but am i truly alive, if im constantly hiding behind a mask?
1 in 12 is it too selfish that i just want to survive?
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 3:17 AM UTC
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.
Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.
We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.
We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.
Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.
A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.
Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.
And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.
Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.
Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?
Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.
I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
Tease me with your words.
Let.
Each.
Syllable
Fly.
Free.
And when you drift
away,
I hope this happiness exists,
that you find
to be beyond
your fingertips.
You put the L
in Lust,
and the Loss
in Love.
But let me not forget
my own imperfections.
When you force yourself
to smile all of the time,
you ready yourself available
to restrooms.
Who am I to say what your smiles mean?
Just as I would not expect you to know mine.
The quirks and the relevancy of
daily life
cloud the fact
that progression
is essential,
and that the need for development
is the reason for closure
and travel.
Emotional baggage is only
goodbyes that aren't finished.
And sometimes they will never
be salvaged; relationships are like that.
But it's important to remember
who you explained a few
smiles to.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
Crossroads are a particular
kind of place where mythology
and actuality combine,
mix and dance with your shadow.
Limitlessness has a name
and social security number
in your restlessness
and your ambitiousness.
I've performed in cafes and on street corners,
In bookshops and depots,
woods and public restrooms
with the junkyard profits
desperately clutching to my clothes,
refusing my money
but begging for my love.
But now I am at the crossroads.
The smoke from my soul
comes in, forces me to turn around,
turn around turn around,
and see the faces,
so many different faces,
all those who have
loved me,
mocked me,
befriended me,
mentored,
hated,
changed
maimed
spit in my eye
called me what they thought I was.
So many faces.
So many eyes full of dreams and ire.
How many would I come to know again?
Who would become fortune tellers
blues-men
teachers
cops preachers
mathematicians builders destroyers
soldiers of fortune
businessmen liars or junkyard prophets?
Who will become like smoke in the fog,
slightly hazy lost-boys
off to never-never land,
never to be seen or heard from
except for the cries that whisper
the time?
So many faces.
What will I be to them?
A companion
friend
liar
hater
lover
brother
sideshow
an I knew him when
a face that looks at their back
at the crossroads,
a wisp of smoke?
I turn again,
turn turn,
a cymbal shot
pushes me forward,
left and right,
but I can never go back behind.
Johanna whispers
Even salvation must get old.
I know she must be correct,
at least as far as I can turn my head.
The right is barred,
the left is guarded by the beasts,
the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby,
I straighten my jacket,
pack my self into a slip bag,
and blow away with the smoke.
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
Why try when ya can buy?
I made like seventy comments.
Yeah he donated tweenty bucks and has more
points than I.
Respect dont come with the side of a card.
It's not totally broke.
But to demolish it were trying hard.
Mr Robbins can you just please keep your
mouth shut.
we'll buy ya a case of wild turkey
you drunk *** pain in the but.
Point and poetry really dont mix.
what is this nascar?
Nothing that some strong drinks cant fix.
The doors are locked lets semd in a spy
to see whats going on in that joint.
Hey i just won at beer pong
did that get a point?
Were all about exposer so get your beads.
Avoid the restrooms at the Pub.
look in the red light district of hello
cause everyone's got needs.
I gotta point for logging in and one for
coloring within the lines.
And got no license for like
few thousand dollars in unpaid fines.
Heres a point for me.
And heres a point for you.
With the middle finger a few
fellow poets did point and said they were threw.
Yet here i stay slightly sober
happy to stir the ****
That i refuse to play the game.
Hey how many points do i get to quit?
Drinks are always on the house at HPs
number one joint.
And if ya waste time getting anry with
me then ya really didnt get the point$
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 8:39 AM UTC
Real questions I've been asked by the 3 year old I care for
Dia do you have a mancave
Dia did you get new toilet paper
Dia are those antlers for the cheese
My answers respectively are fairly straightforward
No I don't but I sure wish I did
Yeah I got the really soft pillowy kind thanks for noticing
I have no idea if those antlers are for the cheese but I don't see why not.
I am generally confident with the answers I provide
However once in awhile she asks me
Dia do you have a ***** today
And I'm stumped because the answer Josie
is so much more complicated than no
Because I want to say someday you will learn how that no matters every single day in more ways than I can tell you
That no has everything to do with the way I take up space
That no is my mother's refusal to buy me bow ties in favor of silver necklaces
That no is the cringe in my heartbeat when people call me a lesbian
That no is the source of fear I carry as a shield when I *** in public restrooms
That no is what I use to bind this chest to prove something I can't prove with a yes to that question
A no is the answer that sales person gives when I ask for those shoes in my size
That suit in my size
That body in my size
The mirror in my eyes
I've had a home in the lies I've told instead of no
The world asks that question every single day and I never have the right answer
It would be so much easier if the world asked if those antlers are for the cheese.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
I heard you wanted to give up
I heard you were tired of fighting.
I heard that you were going to stop trying
Just throw away all the effort.
OK
Why should I care, I doesn't matter
It is your decision
But...
Years ago did you know that
Gandhi gave up too.
Yeap, he did and now his home is still being colonized by the British
And Martin Luther king As well as Mandela
They gave up after a bunch of policemen came after them
And now in their own homes they are servants
They use different restrooms
They enter through different doors
They are treated like aliens from outer space.
If the wouldn't have given up their homes
would be a peaceful place for them
They would have proven justice.
Now think of what you can accomplish
How are your friends going to see you,
when you tell them Don't give up
But you were the first to give up
Just say you were weak,
Well what if they are weak too.
Maybe even weaker than you ever were
Tell me what change is there for someone who doesn't keep trying
Tell me what will you do later on?
Regret it, feeling bad for not keeping a fight
The haters, the neighbors, the enemies
want you to turn weak in a fight
But it is your decision to fall
Or show them that your weak moments
make you even stronger
If you need a wing-man here I am
I am here to help you
But don't give up
Follow Gandhi, Martin, And Mandela
They never gave up for what they believed in
They were threatened to death
but the still stood up high
for the desendents and their follows
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
I guess this means its over.
I told you not to contact me
if you were haply and happily seeing someone else.
I haven't heard from you,
so I guess you are making a go of it
wherever you are in that big District.
Does she know your affinity for public restrooms?
Does she love your little hands like I did?
(Maybe mine are just big?)
Do you call her darlin' when you hang up the phone
and does her stomach fall out of her bottom
when she catches even the slightest glimpse of you
in that dashing tuxedo you're so proud of?
I still have your cuff links.
Those stupid pieces of silver mock me on my bookshelf
next to the copy of your favorite book I still can't
bear to pick up and read.
You said to read it to understand you, but I don't know if I want to-
understand you or read it, that is.
You told me to return them when I was ready.
I'm ready, but you're nowhere to be found.
What happens now?
I'm convinced you're the one I'm supposed to
put all of my money on, and
You've always been a betting man.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
She wears blue rubber gloves
Middle aged, with light, brown hair
She pulls it back in a pony tail
Her eyes match her hair,
Brown, but dull and dried, uninspired.
With her hands, she holds a cart,
with a container of trash, black trash bags,
two wooden poles, and her disinfectant just below from where she holds.
She pushes it, and it rolls over the floor.
Her parents promised her a good life,
that she would attend a college.
She has made it.
She has late nights like every student
Like them, she visits the second floor of Wells, tired,
but in her brown custodian attire.
The lady makes her rounds every four hours
every day of the week.
Her legs and feet slow down every time she returns
And her worn out shoes decay even more
When she looks in the mirror in the restroom she can see the wrinkles
around those eyes of hers.
In a different time, she would have covered these areas with makeup,
but now she wonder, 'is there any use in that?'
We ignore her, we've seen her too often
She is like an invisible ghost,
you don't see her, can't hear her.
She's is leaving now, after cleaning the restrooms, pushing her cart.
It's now 8:16pm, she'll be back at midnight.
I will see her then, before I leave
It's a date that we have, but only I know
but I'll ignore her, I won't smile nor talk to her.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Dear, all other men who use public restrooms.
Why is it, that every time I go to use a stall in a public toilet
there is **** on the seat? Lets set aside the fact that there are urinals
on most every wall for those of you who only need to take a quick
leak and would like to do so in the upright position.
Let us also set aside the question of why you did not bother to
lift the seat into the upright position.
Let us instead talk about aim, now I am a man myself so
I can see this issue clearly. Unlike a vast majority of you guys,
I don't think I have ever watched a full game of football, and
I am confident I could sleep through the entire baseball season
without batting an eye or asking the score.
Surprisingly, this does not hinder my aim
it is steady and true. Would a bullseye
at the bottom help the rest of you?
Now there are times, I know, that are more difficult
maybe you're drunk, or tired, or just having an off day
and you happen to miss. In these cases there is a simple
saying "If you sprinkle when you ****** please,
be neat and wipe the seat". The saying is juvenile
the meaning is not. For those of you who are now confused
There is this nifty paper keep on easily accessible dispensers
inside every public restroom. It usually even has perforated
edges, in order to help you tear it Hercules. Woman use it
always and you do too, when you **** I hope. So now is the time
to grab a *** of that stuff and wipe away your insecurities,
for the rest of us.
Sincerely, a Fellow Man
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Once fully liberated, she rides her antique, three-speed bike down the small hill from her campsite to the: RESTROOMS – SHOWERS – PAYING CAMPERS ONLY. She dismounts and goes into the well-kept, recreational facilities and takes a hot, 50-cent, seven-minute shower, arching her soapy back against the white tiles, rubbing her soapy front in the same spot, up and down and up, and then, rinsed, she stands, dripping wet in front of the first full-length mirror she's seen in weeks, gyrating her hips, mocking pin-up poses to herself and all god's good-looking men with a sense of the absurd, then she wraps her towel around, tying the knot between her ******* She stands outside in the sweet, Santa Vidian air, finger-drying her hair and imagining, unabashedly imagining, guys in the campsite above, eating fresh-cooked meat and ogling her. Then she takes off down the road, pale green nightgown fluttering against the rear spokes, past Bonnie's trailer where from sundown till 11pm you can hear the best country music: Randi Travis, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Sr. She pulls up to her sweet “Bleu Belle,” shushes the dogs reflexively, hops off the bicycle, and turns, eyes closed, face upraised into a rare shaft of redwood forest sun.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
The old ones seem haunted
even with ole Presidents
making their whistle-stop
campaigns.
Blacks on their exodus from the south,
streaming into them, one can visualize
with their souls and
spirits accompanying them as they seek
a decent life.
Imagine the shoeshine stands with their shoeshine “boys” and black attendants in the restrooms
which was probably as far as some of
them got.
The newsstands with their variety of
newspapers and sundries alerted
the lonely travelers to Wall Street
and elsewhere, businessmen
who would stream in with a sophistication
the common traveler feared.
The smells of leather baggage,
the cleanser that porters used
to keep the coaches clean wafted in.
The smell of cigars and wrinkles
of old men’s skin let us know
that the porters would be appearing
with a bevy of special guests.
History speaks in these stations
as well as some bus stations
around the country with their
dangerous drifters who would serial ****
and the ambitious young talents off
to the big city to seek success who we would
later never hear of.
The local Union Station in Champaign has been
turned into businesses, but I can
just see Abe Lincoln arriving
speaking from the caboose and making
his way to a horse and buggy
outside to go to the local county courthouse.
Long live ghost-filled train stations
everywhere, and don’t let us forget
the homeless and destitute street people
who need to use their restrooms and
sit down in the waiting area seats
to take a needed load off.
They’re that important in the general
pictures of things, at least to me.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
nothing i do will you bring back;
not the shoebox of purple hyacinths
watered by the i love you's
i still wanted to say.
not the prose poetries i wrote you
whilst caught in a mania
in the restrooms of dying gas stations.
not the caving in of the see-through walls
mixed with static humming of the payphone calls.
not the pillow telegrams that smell like
bourbon and my mother's cigarettes;
darling, my bed has become a post office
of the letters i never had the chance to write
and of the things i never
had the chance to say.
and nothing i say will bring you back —
not even this poem, and i know that now;
i just don't know
how to live with that.
still, nothing will ever bring you back
and darling, watching you fall out of love
feels like the only thing i can do right now.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:33 AM UTC
I looked over, and by chance
I saw you
You came to visit our school for the day
Because you were thinking about moving there
I thought you were pretty attractive
But I knew you would never think that of me
I started being nice to you, because of the kindness in my heart
Like when you smiled at me, I smiled back
And even when you couldn't find the restrooms, I showed you
When J came up to say "hi", I introduced you
Little did we know that we would become best friends
Let a year go by, and I'm in sixth grade with J
You were in seventh, but we still had class
You told stories of how you came to this world, and saw J
A little poor boy on the side of the river, his eyes a light blue
You said you adopted J, then went out for more exploring
About a month later, you said, is when you saw me
A little imp, lost and confused, with gleaming grey eyes
You said that's how we became family
J and I, brother and sister,
While you were the father holding us together
But you knew that wasn't true
You knew that it was really I who was the glue between us
Holding together the girl who acted like a boy,
The kind and gentle Californian-looking boy,
And yourself, the obnoxious but sweet new kid
But we were inseparable, no matter the differences
Skip another year ahead, when J and I were in seventh
And you were in eighth, the last year of the school
We tried to make it work
But alas, we were doomed to shatter
I was a girl
J a boy and you a boy
It would never last forever
We were still friends, but no longer "the trio of classmates"
No longer best friends
And as you graduated, I could hardly keep my tears from flowing
J squeezed my arm, too sad to have sanity
Before you left the building,
You engulfed us in one last group hug
Before walking into the future
Leaving J and I behind, forever
The year after, it didn't feel the same
There was always a hole in my heart,
Yelling because I had lost a part of me
I had lost one of my best friends
Forever
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
I'm a little too familiar with
gas station coffee
(and restrooms)
I know all of the roads and the mountains
that line them
I have known every cheap motel
stared at every continental breakfast
(burned coffee and rubber eggs)
and I can pack for anything in ten minutes or less.
I have known cities lit by the night
and passes comfortably fringed by fog
skeleton trees on dead beaches
gas-station Cheetos eaten at 3 am
sleeping on a friends shoulder
or listening to another iPod playlist
alone in the dark
the casual immodesty between traveling partners
and wearing 3 layers of sweats
to ward off the cold of the journey.
I re-read poetry by flashlight
while ghosts of headlights flutter
as I leave everything behind me
again.
I love the road blazing by
because it takes me a way from everything I remember
away from the family that is not mine
away from the cages and bars and lies about my beliefs
about my identity
the oppression of mandatory religion
the self-destructive hate
who I used to be.
I wrote poems about my knives because they were my comfort
they were beautiful to me
I romanticized my pain because I was a romantic at heart
but a romantic without love
and so I turned to blood and knives and tried to make it into poetry
thought that it could somehow be beautiful
and the sad thing is that it was
it gave more comfort than my family,
it was closer than my friends,
more reliable than any god.
The road scours that all away, reminds me
that I can leave, I am free, there is more to the world
than what I grew up knowing.
More than Rush Limbaugh and misogynist preachers
more than latent racism and open homophobia
more than my shame in my acceptance of these as normal
there is a whole world where
people don't live chained to bibles
and that gives me hope.
I have never known home here,
but driving and driving and driving
shows me that the world is larger than I know
and maybe I can find it somewhere.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
He stands in the washroom of
Restaurants smelling people's ****
When he hears a wet bowel movement
he concentrates and inhales to sniffs
He doesn't explain why he embraces
these different smells and succumbs
To a brain that keeps many smells on file
like a world trade show of dumps
Cause everybody poops
So he wants to find a way
To manipulate smells so one day
everyone's **** will smell great
And hell go down in history 4 making
**** smell like lotion 4 baby's
THEN Hell be called brilliant!! for hangin
around restrooms and not crazy
like some thought So maybe.....
who u think or call crazy should stop
cuz they could be a genius who's times
to precious to explain his planned plot
And the main message in this
poem is the judging just needs to stop
So....Stop calling me CrAZy CuZ
I'm BrIlLIAnT ........BuT CrAzY I aM not
...cause I'm brilliant!
Like a **** smeller..... You...
know what I mean... lol
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
you were always beautiful
from the time you linked together
the stars into new constellations
and the moment you broke
yourself apart just to mimic them
some would’ve called it insane,
others art
the time you inhaled angel dust
in the car parking lot
and kissed the first boy
who came close to you
and had some kind of warmth
I remember seeing you in
the school restrooms swallowing
pills you said helped
all your problems
you never confided in me
I tried not to take it to heart
I felt like no one could ever
understand the lovely way
you used to fall apart
some days you disappeared
and never replied to me
other nights I would wake up
to you calling me
I would find you on the street
like a letter that never
made it it to it’s destination
a mysterious manifestation of
a stranger’s thoughts
your beauty never came
with understanding
I was always left in
the dark
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Ignoring a full bladder,
I walk briskly,
towards Gate 8.
Where is she?
People await the snake
to wake
with luggage
carried along its rubbery spine.
Hands reaching. Children tugging. Bodies hugging.
Suits racing. Some pacing. Others stopped.
Still no sign…
But there,
the column moves aside
to let my sister wave hi.
As I rush towards her
(closer,
almost within reach
to touch
and reassure her that
I am no mirage)
Her lovely smile distorts
with the salty taste of relief.
I wrap my welcome around her.
A year away,
“So happy to see you”, I say.
All is at ease, including…
I pull her off
“I love you but –.
Restrooms are where?”
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
America’s Bicentennial from 1776 – 1976
Tracing back to America’s roots having history Oh what a fit
I will highlight only a little bit
But you will get the foundation of American history being the tip
The America Freedom Train that travelled across the country
The train had a people mover, and artifacts that appeared as one would move
History a waits, there was enriched history to prove
I witnessed the whole accord personally at Belmont Race Track in New York
It was history during the signing of the Declaration of independence
Every elected official observed at Independence Hall
All eyes carefully saw
America became the American people’s promise
The creed, “We the People for the People”
Truly history was made
Words formed into a constitution
Yet statewide establishing into an institution
Abraham Lincoln’s speech at Gettysburg
It was a time of the Civil War
It was a long battle for sure
Soldiers died and fatigue, but in order to win, the soldiers had to proceed
Abraham Lincoln’s speech within the ashes of a dimmed sunshine
Cannons having admonition smoke all combined
Words into tomorrow, but an emptiness full of sorrow
Yet Abraham Lincoln’s discerning words with leverage
But standing in solitude was a privilege
Battle cries having eyes
But inspiration from Heaven that keeps us all wise
An Icon became known to America’s roads
The name, Greyhound Bus Lines with Headlight blink and the stretched out Greyhound Dog to all in behold
A company started in 1914
Greyhound started as a car and continued in technological advances that took it into a future of their ride
The company was also took part in the Freedom Riders
Greyhound was the first motor coach company to install Restrooms aboard
Well Greyhound is still traveling coast to coast from West to East
The company continues to bloom
The American Freedom Train
There is much to remember and to look back
The American Freedom Train had the right track
Salute and applaud
Yet the accomplishments were strives made possible through our Lord.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC