morning commuter

he was earth-skinned and sky-scarred

with his dark brown jacket, black beanie,

dark jeans and black shoes

he got in the transit train to Toronto & stood

with left hand cupping his ear, conversing about

rides, station stops for the entire 30 minutes ride

was he talking to God?

because his jacket elbows & sleeves were

frayed & tattered, as well as his jeans & worn shoes

his fingers keep pointing to the train subway

map, marking his destination to the west, further

than my stop.   he did not sit down but stood pacing

and talking by the exit doors.   his voice - 

a lost wind, a lone bird without a flock -

swearing & mocking to the invisible party

was he talking to God?

because his hands were empty

because his pockets were empty

his eyes, the black sun

or was it a black pearl?   or was it my

eyes reflecting back, wanting daylight to arrive

& banish the darkness from the tall stranger

 The False Mirror by Rene Magritte

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Wings

you stride with your walking stick
left to right, left to right, along corners
up the stairs & alleys
along subway doors

i can't imagine what you may not see-
not this winter season full of greys 
but the magic of spring
you
young gazelle, 
raising your face to raindrops

i know you believe in angels 
though
you see, i see not one, not two but many
hands, including myself 
reining you from falling onto the tracks
guiding you along
wishing you nothing but good
tidings 
along your journey 

white hawk on tree

silent sentinel on the watch-

my morning, a gift-

Posted for dVerse OpenLinkNight.   Happy Thanksgiving to our US friends!  Thanks for joining in when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

scattered needles//subway//

your silence is bell
ringing rust in my ears
swarming buzzing 
                             bees
my sunken eyes, lost pages
of a book
i stumble, fumble, 
                              mumble

i hold my lighter 
but i can't see my feet
the cut on my right hand
a growing fire
i am falling, 
                   falling
faster than autumn leaves

your silence is drug
drowning my veins in darkness
do i dance with dirty needles
in all my days
until i, i 
                   that nobody 
become a sterile sheet
you pass by on the street  
               -somebody, help me-



Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - A first hand experience watching a young man in the subway train, addicted, high with drugs, in our regular commute.      After our ride, someone reported him for help.   

a man asks for directions

he is seated across me
         in subway train

in white jacket and pants
         he is lost cat
standing out
in sea of black and grey winter outfits

the woman beside him
         puts away her phone
gestures animatedly
         where to go, what bus to take, etc

her hands are whirling dandelions
her face is a lighthouse

the man leans in, 
        listening intently, clarifying information
he is pleased with the conversation

so much so 
that he bows his head slightly
        smiling delightfully
as he slides out of subway doors
        elegantly as a swan

his hand is holding a corsage 
his face is first day of spring dance 




Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Thanks for the visit.

(what music was this_train ride)

everyone else would mute 
     or numb their faces & bodies
     still as snow full moon
     while listening to music
     in their headphones

but not you
     you fold your arms 
     crosswise upon your chest
     thumping in synch with your heartbeat
     your fingers light as air

if only you could
     strip away your heavy
     drab 
     winter coat & boots
     & sing it
     sing   
     with butterfly wings



Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Hosted by Lillian.  Thanks for the visit. 

Murmurs in the crowd

I move with the crowd, stepping forward, stepping back, as if in a familiar dance. My facial expression is reflected in the faces all around me.  My hands are curled in, protecting my space, so thin it is an invisible distance.   Am I unique and special?  Against the sea of humanity of every skin and hair color, I am but a speck, perhaps a leaf falling unnoticed to the pavement.  Commuting does this to you - a perspective of the other's heartbeat, a bigger world.

On the upside, there is comfort in the shared journey, even for a short period of time.  Wherever we came from, and where we are heading to, here is a communal space - a base of touchdown,  a point of reference.  There is safety in numbers, as if it is a validation that I am going to the right direction.  Even the clothes  and shoes I am wearing is validated by the crowd of commuters.   We are all mirrors of each other, glazed by city dust.

Outside the train, the windows tell a story of our changing seasons.   The maple trees have turned to pumpkin yellow, mellow orange and brown hues. Grey clouds and mist hover most of our mornings.   A chill nips the air and the geese have taken flight to warmer shores.    We huddle in our seats- coats, sweaters, boots- waiting for the doors to chime, opening to another flood of faces.   

murder of crows 
on power lines and street lamps-
sunset recedes, falling leaf-





Posted for dVerse Poets Pub, Haibun Monday:   Murmuration with guest host Qbit/Randall.  Theme:  One's self, En-Masse.  Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

(i) click

my eyes dream of tea cups
with cranberry spice,
goji berries and red dates

as subway train zips and thuds
with familiarity along
wheels, bumps, skids, tracks

city stations are chimes of bells
as tunnel doors click, clack
and announcements reel, pause

no more do i fret, shudder
or tarry but sleep through all the
chatter and clutter of train commute

outside, the sun sets off
in raspberry and orange hues
our daily departures, green-timed

by swiping of shiny cards
cocooned in our pockets-
{silence yawns...stretches 2 secs} 

boom !!!!  blast of sounds zoom in,     i   
walk outside the station
where raindrops are murmuring 
                                                      {shush}
                       


Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Playing with sounds - Onomatopoeia
Thanks for the visit.            Picture credit:   Here

Right under our feet

young man boards a full train
   holding a small pot of green, sapling-


sparking color in room of grey scarves,
   black coats and winter boots


i daydream of sleeping seeds
   & blankets of sunshine & cups of tea


a white-haired couple stands near me,
    talking animatedly, as if they are


in their own garden, reading the
    same book & she has stars


in her eyes as he leans in to
    kiss, lover in the intimate space--


their twining hands remind me 
   that spring does not vanish at winter's breath


but is blossoming
   everywhere-

By Sharon Knight

Credit:  SunEarthSky

Posted for dVerse Open LinkNight - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visit.  

monday's train journal

subway train rumbles on
        doors open, chimes

people hop in, and out-
         scarves, hats, jackets,

turbans, shorts, slippers, shoes-
         a sea of hues-

a woman with black veil- 
         pale girl with tattoos- 

an old man, with dirty cart- 
         lad with headphones-

i trace clouds & blue sky
         against gray steel

i am not colorblind,
         there are shades, tints

beyond my sunglasses, 
         borders to scale

in my mind, fenced by words,
         beliefs and faith-

i check them everyday-
         measuring depth,

levels of acidity-
         i seek relief in green

forest, calm acceptance 
         of mother nature-

i pray for roots of empathy, 
         seeds of kindness

to rain whatever hardness 
         is left inside-

slowly, surely, i work
         chipping corners-

here comes my station stop-
         i fold my edges

under red cardigan- 
         the crowd surges, 

giant waves, blurring our
         faces with sands-

Posted for D'verse Poets pub - Border Poetics.  Challenge:  To write about border theme and include the word "border" either in your title or poem. An extra challenge would be to write about the invisible border theme e.g. mental borders or imaginary boundaries.   The form and structure is your choice.

Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visit.

When the white-haired man didn't skipped me in the subway line and-

Asked me for money
"I'm hungry-" 

my heart,
hardened with pseudo-beggars
hanging out/side

said No
Then, recalling single
banana in my bag
& while grappling with in/decision

my train arrives
(no-skipping-nor-playing-hooting)

the moment 
like
      teardrop,
             flashing bird-wings,
                      falling cherry bloom
                                                          is lost-

Credit here

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Quadrille - a post in 44 words exactly with the word SKIP.   I am back after a short break ~  Thanks for the visit ~ 

Train of my thoughts while riding one

Picture credit:   Pierre Folk

My head is plateau of unfin-
ished stories 
I wriggle with ideas, wet
with sudden downpour

Houses with secret doors 
& streets, unmarked
I thread fallen petals & keys, 
a necklace of lost hours

I marvel at the couple
standing face to face in crowd
their faces blooming as first
day of spring, sweeter 
than a sugar cup

My shoes are melting
with laughter from gossiping ladies 
& cooing with toddler strapped
in the stroller, wriggling his socks off

Though each train ride is a chameleon,
it's a constant clock in our city life-
Here comes my station stop
At click of door chime, I fly away-




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub -  Wheels of Steel, hosted by Bjorn Rudberg ~   I take the train everyday on my way to work so I see many kinds of people riding it.  
Thanks for the visit ~

Shades of autumn

A young woman takes a seat besides me on the train going home.   Her left arm is heavily inked, while she gingerly looks over the right arm, cased in sheet, covering a new tattoo. Across me, a group of young teens in their uniforms chat animatedly while sipping a cool drink.   They remind me of spring season, fresh as tulips.  Passengers pour in at every train stop; it is a never ending tide of faces. Yet I am at ease with changing current as I am always taking the same route going home.  Outside the blur of maple trees are turning orange rust and deep brown.  Autumn is a shade of color in my eyes.

by the drooping vine,
butterfly cocoon sways
its empty tendrils

Macro Photography of Butterfly Wings by Linden Gledhill

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Changes hosted by Kanzen Sakura ~
Thanks for the visit ~

Two trains, two worlds

I commute to the city, considered the hub
of financial world, by riding the Toronto rocket 
Its metallic hiss
long spine measuring 6 cars, fully opened
rapidly follows the tracks
Cool, clean & modern
with computer generated lights & voice over
Commuters carry gadgets, phones & games
All polite & courteous
Though once in a while, a shirtless man
breaks the chained monotony
& dances carefree as
blue butterfly

The lake beside tower
shimmers blue of summer -
Swans burst, pure of light

Back in the old town, the train

is a workhorse

piping wearily along mud-tracks

You ride along with

boxes of produce (rice & vegetables)

animals in cages (pigs & chickens to be slaughtered)

baskets of fresh fish & shells

It is noisy

Smelling of sweat & musky earth

Dirt seeps into your skin  

& you pray that it will not break down

before your destination.

Sun browns your face

while palm trees keep snatching 

to play with your straw hat 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Trains Hosted by Bill
Picture credit:   here

Spring train journals

Photo by Fabien Bravin

He's a loudspeaker, holding back train doors longer than needed 
She hurries in, cool in long black hair wig
Pinned between thick black arms, his oyster
But her smile is faint, pinkly propped as a doll

~0~0~


He is shouting, Espanol, Por favor! along station platform 
Then he marches from one car train to another, a lonely hull of a boat
Crashing against train's whirlwind,  his voice drowns in our ears
Oh, teach us to fish and love


~0~0~


They share a Laura Secord chocolate bar 
Between words tumbling as fire red ants on sugar hill 
I see her collar, skin thickly patched, above blue summer dress 
But he's besotted by her words, caressing his wrist like dragonfly



Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Quatrains inspired by Marilyn Chin  and Poets United ~  Thanks for the visit ~

My train journal

Photography credit: Totomai

The woman across my train seat mumbles to herself.  I imagine letters jumping out of the windows.   The man in winter coat leans to read a book, A Reverence for Wood.  I visualize his fingers smoothly playing on piano keys.   At the exit door, a young mother carries a baby, while holding the hand of another child.   I wonder how many hands & eyes does she really have?    The train runs slowly as caterpillar waiting for spring sun.   Before the next station stop, I  say a prayer for my office mate who will undergo her second breast surgery next week.  She has sent me a note, thanking me for joining her for lunch yesterday.  I can still smell the lingering Indian spice on my coat.

as rain clouds hover 
budding white-pink cherry trees, 

i catch a bird's caw

Posted for D'verse Poets  Pub - OpenLinkNight - A haibun on our cold spring season ~
Thanks for the visit ~

Early March morning

First Sunrise After Daylight Savings
Credit:   Michael Leek of BlogTO

A man with a dark coat waits by station exit, his eyes bright as child holding a red balloon.   His face, oiled by sun, is not stiff starched with indifference of everyday commute. The crowd stretches as elastic bands along train tracks.  I yawn, hearing the cars floating by on the expressway.  I smell coffee, stale bread and dried paint on someone's shoes.  The ads above me, blink in blurry lines. Somewhere, I plant a fist of seeds.

against blue washed sky
moon is a white bud blooming 
        in the melting snow 




Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - A haibun for our new host, Bill Webb~ Thanks for the visit ~

sketching//the stranger in the corner

Photography by my daughter, Sofia

A shaggy white-haired man,  stooped
with age & black leather jacket enters the train

His red cane, flint-scratched & wind-bitten, side steps
the crowd while balancing his uneven gait as one hand

firmly grips a clear plastic bag fluffy of papers-
It looks like trash or maybe treasures, depending on one's

lens.  One young man gives up his seat, while another man
leaps out of the way.   Gallantry is alive, like a lilac, waiting

to slip out.  The old man takes a seat & closes his eyes
His unshaven face, white-inked like well stamped book

slumps in rest, bent to train's rambling duet with wind-
On his lap, he carefully cradles his clear plastic bag like his

guts spilling out for all 
to count 

There's an empty seat beside him
No one takes it, no one comes near.  Time

crumples between my fingers & palm-
A woman in stylish winter coat boards the train

She moves towards the empty seat, but one look at the old man
& she backs off.  She doesn't hide her disdain, swift

as bullet.   The old man's station arrives & he gets out
limping with his cane, while holding on to his plastic bag

Our collective breath is shallow, empty of recoil
& the cracks in our mask move with us

As we speed past blurring tunnels
into a small world


Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub - Pick a line - and get that joust started -
The lines in Italics by Brian Miller's poem, If I Stay
The title is inspired by Claudia Schonfeld, Sketching on Portabello road//the clock//is body-less

Searching for lavender

Lavender Fields in France

I search for words sweet as pink tulips 
fragrant lush from fields of lavender
their colors blossoming under summer sun
weaving calming spell of quiet lake
But alas
I am standing, squashed sideways, like
a fish
caught by early morning pandemonium 
hardly breathing, as trains stalled in tracks
Outside, winter snow piles on and on-





Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - 
Transforming Friday with Hannah- Lavender and 55 Words following Robert Herrick word stanza- 
Shared with Poets United ~

Notes:   Last Thursday morning, my train commute took an hour longer as trains were delayed due to emergency services ~ Normally it's just a bearable 30 minute ride ~  
Have a good weekend ~

Working at city's hub

we keep our faces blank as we ride the subway train.   i call it the herd mentality posture: heads and shoulders slumped meekly, hands and feet curled inwardly, waiting for the next stop.   books, magazines, music and even sketching pad entertains us, makes the waiting bearable.   one time, i saw a young woman knitting a pink doily.   she had a passionate look on her face, engrossed with her loops & needle.  there is an unwritten rule on the metal walls - don't stare too long or too brazenly at each other, even when one is talking to himself.   be courteous even during mayhem.   i listen to train speaker, apologizing every 5 minutes due to the delay in the train schedule.

crouching low

dusk turns my spine to cat shadow
trying to slip out

beneath the veneer of clothes and city work, what lies beneath our skin?  what words i wonder would brim forth our lips, outside of weather conversation?   when i went to the dentist the other day, he asked me if i was biting my tongue as there are marks on both sides.   i tell him, maybe when i am sleeping. 

watching fire in your hands
desire leaps from me, an arrow
bent at the tailspin

Crouching Woman

Sculpture by A. Rodin

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~

Sorrow

I catch your amber eyes across mine
Between subway stops & grating wheels
Your braided long-grey hair is
          A hornet's nest

Everyone shies away from your shadow 
Your dusty sandals & clothes showed 
where you have been -
         Scorched by sun

The train track greases by river bend
Gentle as slow butterfly
But nothing moves you, not a flicker       
        Sorrow is a bird

Hiding in your pouch
Too long, it has not flown
Too long, it has not eaten
       Yet it sings, hardy as cactus 

Leafless, spiny & spiky
Coloring your weathered hands 
Lost as your native land.        
       I wonder what grief 

has torn your eyes to silt & mortar? 
I wonder at the sound of your voice?  
Loud as gunfire?
       Or soft pebble falling in rain?
   
All too quickly, the station stop comes
The afternoon sun wrinkles
our faces as we all spring to our feet 
       except you 

       man with dead-stone eyes.
  



Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Inspired by title Sorrow by Claribel Alegria. I have not experienced a personal loss of my own family so I thought of viewing sorrow from a third person point of view.
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~  Happy weekend ~

Picture credit:  here