"tram" poems
my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.
walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was a comforter:
demons were embedded.
yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?
one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance
"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams
it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Faces unknown, side by side;
Cooperating and mingling;
Looking for a better spot, and yet,
heading the same way.
Everyone becomes equal,
Everyone pays the same fare,
Everyone has a life,
Each as complex as the rest.
Every face is new,
Every mood different.
holding some mystery,
Each different,
None less or more.
A game of patience;
Waiting to reach the end of one path,
And the beginning of another.
A hurry to get up, and get down.
A bus, a metro, a train,
An auto and an aeroplane,
The modest pace of a tram,
The coziness of a shuttle van.
The stories in a public transport,
Are things I wouldn't wanna miss.
I shall never, for the life of me,
Stop traveling in public transport.
Without it, I wouldn't be me.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Today again I saw a gate in the sky.
Streams of pale light trickled through it.
I no longer looked at the sun, only straight ahead,
My silhouette reflected in the ***** tram window.
I looked farther, hypnotized,
sipping words veiled in the dust of the autumn sun.
Dry spaces. Leaves.
Golden bile sparkled,
And no one saw this wonder in the sky.
At the stop, in the crowd rushing by,
An experiment took place:
A man wrapped in copper threads.
He searched for relief while anger bound his soul.
He fought the air, attacked with words,
Like a puppet moving in convulsions.
Hands clenched, anger in his eyes.
“This will pass, this will fade,” I thought,
Moving to another car.
A primal tremor. A change of frequency.
Someone is turning the **** of our universe.
How many more cells of the body will they spoil
Before it is ground to ashes?
Until all ends in colonization,
A reward for micro-souls from another world.
People sunk in their minds
do not hear the hum of strings.
And I plead in my thoughts:
listen, look, be your reality.
Behind the gate a hundred weeks ago,
a crackling gramophone plays.
My calm relieves someone’s thoughts.
Somewhere, thousands of hours ago,
the past becomes the future.
Next time when you pass by me, indifferent,
the warmth of my thought will warm your
Dry, wrinkled hands.
I will never know You, and I would like to know
what you will say when these trembling words arrive on the wind.
In the autumn glow of the setting sun,
Like a gentle brushing of leaves at the next opening of the gate.
I will be there in the crack like a stray thought
that wanted to become immortality.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 5:59 PM UTC
our tram rides are loud
words spilling out like loose rice
scattered round our feet
bright blue, silver, darkest black
jackets soft and warm
eye contact that lasts too long—-
immediately
overanalysed, I know.
my wishful thinking,
it often gets out of hand.
walking in the dark,
my hands are cold and lonely
our eyes glance sideways
too much, and yet too little.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Diaspora
From the Greek
When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary
I could have used the Internet,
I suppose
But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words
I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh
Oh
We are diaspora.
Am I using it correctly?
We are a diaspora.
Diaspora
From the Greek
From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats
From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany
From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin
From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury
From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs
Oh
From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins
From the desert
Oh
From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.
From the mountains
Oh
From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein
From the white cross
Oh
From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham
We are diaspora
We are a diaspora
Diaspora
From the Greek
How did it end up here on my tongue?
It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora
And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine
Ours
There is no
Roping us back together now
There is no
Home to go back to
There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion
No
White steeple in our old town
No
Yellow slide in our backyard
No
Old folks on an old farm
No
Walled house on a hill
No
Luzernerring 93
No
Familiar riverwater
There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora
Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects
There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora
You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind
But
When people ask you
Where you are from
You say simply
From the Greek
Oh
From the Greek
And
When people ask me
Where I am from
I say simply
From the diaspora.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Pilsner cap switch blade
tie dye and piccolo
greasers and freaks
with platform feet
muscling in
on the bow legged hoofer
tapping
Bursey Hill Tram
Diamond tuft console
mullets n' ****
angels and saints
(unrestrained)
appropriately trimmed
as 3 mile wreaks havoc
on the nickers and
fighters of penn
Bangers and home boys
hookahs and sheiks
hostile geeks
breaking knuckles and jaws
on the caners and skinners
who are locked
and grinding the root
Desert boot foothills
boardwalk jeans
rainbows and sea fairs
and psychedelic dreams
(the platinum queens
jamming it hard
on the jade room floor)
8 tracks
and fender packs
the hottest summer days
psychedelic haze
center hall, graffiti scrawl
(sinister yet refined!)
covering the subtle
yet striking third ****
Brunswick cues
and red man chew
350 blocks
(on a solid Chevy - stock)
monkeys and beatles
and laugh in scenes
pastel dreams
from the long and coveted
velvet scroll
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
Enticing us in, sugar coated doors
for sticky fingers,
Doors of mystery, keep out, staff only
nettled in barbed wire.
Half open doors full of promise,
chocolate soft centred
Exciting doors, silk covered
in lace suspenders
Inspiring doors, Leonardo bold italic,
uppercase only
Lonely doors all shuttered in silence,
cobweb covered
Sad doors, tear stained
and umbrella wet
Happy doors,
candy striped in laughter
Forbidden doors, Pandora boxed,
best kept locked
Revolving doors covered
with the same sticky mistakes
Trap doors crocodile sprung
to catch you out
Doors that slide on tram like runners,
buffered into walls with imprint of face
Secret doors of camouflaged chameleon
Troubled doors
thunder clapped in turmoil
Doors enticing us.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
*where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe*..
Amaya-bai finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot
Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system
Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge
Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie
Aadita, from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on
Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues
Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village
Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty
*might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there*
S T - 27 sept 2013 - freitag
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
If anything should happen to The Hague,
if someday they abandon Amsterdam,
philosophers will take these strange and vague
descriptions, and derive each tree and tram
by mathematical necessity:
should nations shake their fists across the seas
with words of war, it follows there must be
a middle ground, a people loving peace.
And is this scrap alone a netherland?
Not so: we spend our nights beneath the sky,
and every country's low for us, who stand
a thousand miles below the lights on high;
if only I could learn to live as such,
and count myself as kindly as the Dutch.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:07 AM UTC
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-thrust and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Carry me out
Into the wind and the sunshine,
Into the beautiful world.
O, the wonder, the spell of the streets!
The stature and strength of the horses,
The rustle and echo of footfalls,
The flat roar and rattle of wheels!
A swift tram floats huge on us . . .
It's a dream?
The smell of the mud in my nostrils
Blows brave--like a breath of the sea!
As of old,
Ambulant, undulant drapery,
Vaguery and strangely provocative,
Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder--
Is it?--the gleam of a stocking!
Sudden, a spire
Wedged in the mist! O, the houses,
The long lines of lofty, grey houses,
Cross-hatched with shadow and light!
These are the streets . . .
Each is an avenue leading
Whither I will!
Free . . . !
Dizzy, hysterical, faint,
I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me
Into the wonderful world.
2.3k
Roar of the rushing train fearfully rocking,
Impatient people jammed in line for food,
The rasping noise of cars together knocking,
And worried waiters, some in ugly mood,
Crowding into the choking pantry hole
To call out dishes for each angry glutton
Exasperated grown beyond control,
From waiting for his soup or fish or mutton.
At last the station's reached, the engine stops;
For bags and wraps the red-caps circle round;
From off the step the passenger lightly hops,
And seeks his cab or tram-car homeward bound;
The waiters pass out weary, listless, glum,
To spend their tips on harlots, cards and ***
2.3k
A chilling solemn breeze sweeps thru the town,
Down empty streets where children used to play;
The crumbled buildings, many falling down,
A monument to history's darkest day.
The rusted hulks of burned out motor cars,
Discarded bicycles against a wall,
The roads that carry disused tram-line scars,
The poignant remnants of the old church hall.
No more, the children laughing in the street;
No more, the parents in their Sunday best;
No more, the echoes of jack booted feet;
Forever shall ye martyrs lay in rest.
The town will always stand as testament,
To sons and daughters France will e'er lament.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
i. in my dream, you ask me to connect your freckles with my 19 coloured pens. i create the constellations reflected in your eyes. you kiss me. i wake up.
ii. you ask me to play the bars of the same song that made us both cry and shiver on different continents before we knew each other. i leave the airport the happiest and the saddest i've ever been. happysad.
iii. you sing at 3 am at the back of the bus. i sit at the end of the same row. my head hurts from banging against the window while i try to look at the moon, instead of you.
iv. we sit on the tram and pretend to fix all your problems.
v. i sit up at 2 am and cry at my mistakes. i wonder if i make you the happysad you make me.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer
From a recently discovered manuscript
The clapped-out Boeing wheezed to the gate
The ground crew jumped name-tags rattling
And swiftly moored the shining ocean-bird
Behind his plastic shield a Danish official watched
The travelers approach their passports raised
He stood peeking down at the naughty selfie
His girlfriend sent to his bold smart-phone
Shaking his rubber stamp he spoke:
“What is the purpose of your visit?
Business, or pleasure? Hwaet! I’ve stood
At this same gate longer than you know
Keeping our gift shops free from British footer hooligans
No commoner carries such fine matching luggage
Unless his Rolex and his boyish good looks
Are lies You! Tell me your name
And your home address and your email!
The quicker the better I’m off-duty in ten minutes.”
Beowulf answered him Unlocking his smart-phone:
“We are the Geats the mighty, mighty Geats!
Men who follow Malmo FF Malmo FF the great!
And we have come seeking Parken Stadium
Greatest of all stadia Its shining seats polished
By cheering generations of fat-full footer fans
We have come to cheer Malmo FF
While they whup up on Dansk Boldspil Union
Instruct us, watchman Where is the stadium
But first, where is the beer?”
The worthy officer
Answered him boldly:
“A true fan knows
The difference between fighting on the field
And puking in the stands and keeps that knowledge clear
In his beery brain I believe your babbling
Go forward, credit cards and all on into Denmark
Spend your money! Our exchange rate is generous!
And then go home bearing our love while we bear your money.”
(Stamp, stamp, stamp) “Tram stop to the left
Taxis to the right”
(Scholars everywhere will regret that here the burnt and torn manuscript breaks off.)
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
People wobbling in the heat haze like a real time hall of mirrors
Street performers sing & flamenco & mime
The snap of digital cameras & excited chatter outside the cathedral
Sangria cold & fruity as it slides down easily
The tram glides past the beggars & hawkers
Gypsies’ curses in coarse andalucian as rosemary favours are repelled
Excited Asians watching every move Large Americans loudly exclaiming their delight as the light fades into dusk
Now the Feria comes alive all lights & ferris wheels & music so much music
Men on horseback women ride sidesaddle all in traditional dress
A throwback to a time before bailouts & austerity
Sing & Dance & Eat & laugh & joke
As dusk becomes evening the ottoman turrets light up
The cooler night air seems to remove inhibitions as people from different worlds celebrate humanity with cheers & smiles
Muchos Gracias & Bueno & Buena Noches in various accents fill the night as the spell is broken
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
SHORE LEAVE
the sea louder in the dark
throwing off its shackles
walking into town
mystified seagulls
flying over with a caw
a sea no longer there
a tram screeching
on its points
the sea jumps aboard
the sea sat at the bar
somehow getting its vast bulk
perched upon a high stool
the sea enjoying the karaoke
singing along to The Honeydippers
eating bag after bag of peanuts
"Have ye no beds to go home to!"
barks a barman
his belly slopping over his belt
the sea happy
to escape itself
even for the time being
drunk on being
human if only for a while
the sea staggers back to the shore
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
I passed the thronging Gariahat market each day,
There were quite a few comrades on that very road; but only one seemed acquainted to me
A florist; whom I would survey.
He held a basket of red, lucid, hibiscus flowers as I could see for wee.
The drastic smile reminded me of old Grand-dad.
The alluring gleam in his hazel eyes remarked despondency.
I wanted to confide to the hard working lad,
That he isn't alone, and sing him a strain, melancholy.
His smile was blemished.
His bony hand could not hold the basket for a prolonged time,
And I thought his wounds must be replenished.
My contemplative eye would be abstracted by the tram's chime.
Once, on the night of May
When I thought he was endowed with glee,
To him, I lost my way
For sleeping pills vanquished me.
I stood there like a woebegone,
In reminiscence of my inamorato
As the funeral carriages were drawn,
I weeped while that naked smile on me, would bestow.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
I cannot not hear you,
Your voice,
and your paper bags rustling,
full of gifts.
For the season that’s in it.
You will bring them home,
wrap them.
Offer them up with Love.
With Love.
We are all capable of Love.
Even you.
Despite your mouth, your words, your hate.
Muslims.
All of them.
You say it loud enough for ‘BurkaBurka’ to hear.
(Your words not mine).
She who stares out the window,
proud face,
sweaty palms holding the bar with a
white knuckle grip.
It’s a hijab, by the way.
Soft H.
I figure to myself,
if I too, were to indulge in ignorance,
and if I too,
were to go down the broad generalisation route;
lethargic sigh
I bow my head in shame and,
my heart leaks inside,
as I think of your ancestors.
Your Caucasian, European, Christian ancestors.
Your bloodline.
MY Bloodline.
Your line-of-blood.
Our long thick crusty trail of blood.
I stand between you and she.
I smile but I know she cannot see.
It’s us against them.
Just get me off, off, off this tram.
She thinks, I imagine.
And my heart cries for the blood on my hands,
that you reminded me of.
And it cries for the backs of the world’s indigenous peoples
and slaves that my ancestors paved a New World over.
And their children’s children’s children thinking
that their hands are clean
just because
their victims
are
forgotten.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
Sneezing transitions in mass transit routes
Tram rocks underneath the black and blue sky
Ahead of me is infinity
Behind me the past, sticky & stagnant - inescapable
Smells of cat food unintelligible *****
Passed on hopes & forgotten dreams
Cackling whistles of worn out break pads
A man coughs as another rolls up his socks
Next to me a man slumbers dreaming of home
His wife in bed alone, his son's and daughter's
Hide under thin white sheets, waiting for Him to phone
The door creaks open, he'll wait for morning to speak
Hazy recollections across glossy wet cobble stones
Solidarity is the only way to work sometimes
The sting of smoky nicotine flows up my nose
Pushing past the marker of ill-received news
Nights out drinking, talk and talk and talk
More of the same as I frame the outcome summarily
Atop the page is where the life is
A rainfall of experience to purge this ****** emotion
Labeling oneself does not mean defining oneself
That is what the whiskey is for
I hide behind a wall dripping with insecurity
I fear, I love, I live, and one day, I will die
Shuttle to a stop, bewaring of adjectives
I have the urge to stay, but am the last to leave
My eyes adjust to the soft orange glow of the streetlights
And into the night living rather than dead
So in place of the hours I believe I need
Staying awake looking at these pen marks
I need nothing for something only brings more worries
Anxiety being a killer - I try to rid myself of the poison
Humming up the stairs I attentive & aware
There in the elevator savory sweet hickory perfume
Another year away from an old place I called home
Time passes slowly, as I slip in between the folds
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
I love old books—
their smell,
soft and softly mottled pages,
font-faces,
and carefully illustrated frontispieces.
My bookshelves are lined:
old copies of ancient classics.
I love buying old books—
the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
tram tickets,
letters,
notes,
two-dollar-notes,
and scholarly students' scribblings.
I have some books I fear to open
for fear they'll fall apart.
There are some who love old books—
their possibilities,
malleabilities,
and superficialities.
Their bookshelves aren't lined.
But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
(or soft and softly mottled picture frames)
They love buying old books—
not for wisdom,
nor connections to ancestors.
They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
whole worlds are torn apart.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
He ****** me off
I hated him to my core
I wanted to **** him and leave behind so much gore
His head for my mantle
His heart for my stew
His soul for my brew.
But I could not
I've fought
He was stronger
My will to live I had no longer
Many attempts
And damage hidden
No I'm not kiddin'
I tried to **** myself
No one noticed
How could they
For them I was just prey
As unnoticeable as grey
But soon I saw
What I had ceased to notice
People cared
To hang out with me people did dare
I had friends
Who didn't want my life to end.
I stopped cutting
And started to smile
I swallowed my bitter bile
My sadness left
Happiness came back
But soon came the counter-attack
Junior High was a *****
Although I never had to get a stitch
Pain and Injury came abound
And my friends left me all around
I wasn't cool
I was a tool
My happiness left
Sadness returned tenfold
Someone came and made my life well...
A LIVING HELL
Back came the failed attempts.
Poisoning, Strangulation, drowning, asphyxiation
And it all swept across my small nation
I never did have a vacation
From my close friends suicidal and Madness
Least of all sadness
But came high school
New friends
An old end
A new beginning
It got better
I never would have thought
That after I stopped and fought my feelings
That people would come back
Friends who shared my interests
Pessimistic
Yeah I still am
But I no longer wanted to be run over by a tram
People cared
That's all that it took
As if it all were from a storybook
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
Sunday afternoon, Oslo.
Pavements fit for ice skating
Rather than her high heels.
I am crutch.
Sun-goes-down red onto
The solid wetness.
As we reach the tram stop,
She throws a gaze directly into
My eyes, fingertip finding the outline
Of the fresh tattoo on my chest
Barely visible at the edge of the
White tank top under my
Alice in Chains tribute-style
Flannel shirt.
*"I love the way it covers up her
Name,"* I know she
Thinks but doesn't
Say, and I
Agree. Sometimes the temple walls
Of a man's body's skin are no
More sacred than the
Bucket of paint sitting ready
Outside a basement bar's
Gentlemen's toilet cubicle, just
Waiting for
The
Janitor.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC