what is't?what is't about public transport that setsMore Like This
this poet('s mind or muse or spirit) free?
once i've paid the -cough- nominal fee
and taken my seat, what is't that then wets
my stylus' tongue for the rivulets
of syntax and rhythm that rollingly
flow until my trip's end and carry me
swift past the shores of my joys and regrets?
could it be the white noise of vibration?
the idle time of travel standing still?
the patterns in the chatter i'm a-midst?
i seek, from the bards, illumination;
i'm hoping that this answer they'll distill:
"of poetry and transport; pray what is't?"
TracksThe tracks went on and on. Cold and hard,More Like This
in sharp contrast to a bundled heap
of colourful warm winter coats.
In the blanket of snow: tracks
of forty-two tiny booted feet.
Through the whirl of flakes: outlines
of twenty-one tiny mitted hands.
A wave back from behind the frosted glass.
An image floating by.
Eternity condensed to a moment
before breath fogs up a window.
What stays: not the snow. Not the train. Not I.
What stays: tiny smiles through the cold air.
You're not a failure for failingHer small, anxious handsMore Like This
grabbed the cup, a bit too large
as it slipped down and tumbled to the ground,
the milky mess covering the carpet:
her mother let out a disapproving sigh
and rolled her eyes,
“Will you ever do anything right?”
and that’s when she began
to limit her aspirations,
so that her dreams would never be too large,
so she’d never make any mistakes
she’d never again drop the cup,
but she’d never have enough to drink.