"swatches" poems - Hello Poetry

the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.

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Sep 29, 2017

Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC

bus-poet-stop

The Bus Poets

the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.