at the mouth of the city

can you imagine it 

the world stops spinning

loud music simmers slow,

ice of a hard winter melts;

soft rain arrives

quiet and unannounced

we lay down our warring words,

set aside the practiced rhetoric.

streets remember safety 

calm descends

a river's mouth curling in

we breathe the cool air in

what was fogged lifts, clears

we are flowers

thorns

weeds

rolling down the sidewalk

it doesn’t matter

you have to imagine this-

strangers, briefly kindred,

visible amid a polar-vexed skyline,

walking

crossing streets

without flinching

for once

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Inspired by the poem, Proof,  By Cornelius Eady, and with the line, You have to imagine it.   See you at 3pm EST.

coward

you lied

when you brazenly told the new group

that you are wild & adventurous

one person took your word

& tested your boundaries-

he knocked at your hotel

door at midnight

you are new <here>

strangely, this city is brimming of cloves,

nutmeg & spicy hot peppers-

you are writing a new page

in this exciting theatre stop

your head is swimming with beer & crackers

enamored with the lure & lore, you

are making a a bold move

(in your head with clouds)

you plump up your plumeria-

misted pillows

& settle down deep in your bed, ignoring

the knocking at your door-

the phone ringing with urgency-

you recall that you are just a visitor here

& must go back to your home 

base later in the day-

your luggage & plane tickets are ready-

there are some doors that you 

need not open-

there are some bridge planks 

that you guesstimate is too short for you 

to land firmly on shores-  

you just prefer everyday life 

to be boring 

as a dissected frog-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics:  A View of One's Own, hosted by Dora.  Thank you for your comments and visit.

a one-day business trip

the train brings me

back alleys of the city buildings

graffiti walls of neglected streets

wheels bound to the south roads

i revel  at the open spaces

of fields green & yellow

of trees lording it over the

rolling empty landscape

the train brings me

to new city with different

highlights & views

the towns are small packages

to be unwrapped with care

the folks who live here

know the folks who are just

passing by, who is 

watching whom from the windows?

the train is a moving bridge

or am i the train

moving foward

and moving backward

after business is done

i note the small stores,

narrow roads, even narrower lanes

wildflowers greet you

as time slows down

my pulse mellows down to rest

the train brings me

perspective the colors of autumn

a nostalgia of the simplicity of life

in a small city & towns

but also a realization that i am

very much a big city person

i calculate the distance from home

in terms of verses i 

pen waiting for the final 

station stop

 

Posted for the dVerse Poets Pub, Poetics, Travelling by Train - Hosed by Punam.  Thank you for your visits and comments.

mind the gap

i step into the subway train

as the wheels grind & groan

the comfort of routine descend

from passing buildings & trees

my thoughts wander

wayward as dandelion fluffs

over the skyway of cars

over bridges of street art & protests 

this space is unbothered by time

this dark tunnel is a fog of poems

this window overlooks gravity

& spots a majestic bird of prey flying

carrying me

over faceless passengers glued to screens 

& hurried texts & to-do-lists-

how far do I go?

what unknown stops await me?

my eyes rest on the valley of blue

where the lake calms & cajoles

a murmuration of birds 

until a whistle breaks

rudely intrudes my train of thoughts

my subway stop is here,

my seat is cold metal & plastic

my backpack weighs a ton

mind the gap (subway sign)

footsteps & faces crowd in

the city, whose clock hurries by

                                        Rick Amor (Australian) “The Agent,” 2019 Oil on canvas 81 x 117 cm

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry in Liminal Spaces, hosted by Dora.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

Sounds

There is an itch in my throat

Dry cough, ugh,ugh,ugh

Bubbles up my cheeks

I gulp it down with water

Trying not embarrass myself

In an open space office with cubicles

All around me, the office buzzes

of tapping of keys and busy fingers, 

Snapping of headphones

I catch snippets of small & serious talk

This is nothing compared to

the summer construction outside-

Snarling buzzing of equipments

Clanging chinging of metal on metal

Whizzing of sand & dust & pollen

Screeching brakes of trucks

Beeping horns from impatient drivers

The city is a hive of buzzing energy

I sigh

At the end of the work day

After being enveloped in 

The chug-chug-grating of train wheels

I step into the garden

Splattered with light and flowers

Chirp-chirp goes the birds

Zip-zoom for the bees

Ringing laugher of children from the park

Humming, tinkling from trees & leaves

My plants are greening & grinning

It is a good summer day

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- MTB by host Bjorn Rudberg, where we are incorporating sounds in our poem, Onamatopoeia.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for your comments and visits.

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.

the beats of the city

this city is a chameleon

one day, it is silver granite with shiny buildings

one summer dusk, it is festive & noisy with tourist buses

one October night, it is artsy, soulful with balloons & stage lights

one winter night, it is pristine snow & mud, booming with silence

 

blue-draped by Lake Ontario

this is an entry port for immigrants, 

a nook to find one's space & voice

a stairway to higher ambitions & studies

yet this city can be a deathbed

indifferent to the calluses of one's labor

a rusty knife to those needled arms

hazy with alchohol addiction

a bitter soup to the lost & homeless prowling

the train stations for coins

for all that it is, colorful & flavorful 

a blend of many cultures & languages

a peaceful bounty to the endless flow of refugees-

it is a steady rock

to the hopefuls-

this city is filled with second & third chances-

there is redemption 

that is, if you didn't knock yourself out

in the first round

-accept the gifts of failures & learn from it-

over time

for me, this city becomes a boat 

laden with coats, blankets, music sheets, silk

& spices from all over the world-

you ride along its sails

& draw & redraw your own map

& when you are sick of the city lights,

there is a road up north, filled with apple trees

-perfect for star-gazing-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics:  Allen Ginsberg and The Beat Generation, Hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Tea at 5:00 pm

 

i leave this familiar abode

in the morning, time moving fast-

the train

noisily chugging across tracks 

behind city streets, underground

tunnels

in the dim lights, my mind wanders

to summer nights when blue rules - sky 

and lake -

slow the sunset tides, slow the burn 

of sands & fading music - bell

rings - stop! -

her fingers are now tapping time-

billable hours, accounting

minutes-

she becomes the clock in the room

tallying with her purse until 

it's time

to head west, passing by strangers-

time moves slow as a sweeper's broom

slow as 

stitched tulip.  trees are calling.  house

is warm tea, inviting.   i meet-

myself

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form is Synchronicity.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

i am

the word & phrase you write in every poem
the pathway, streets and city you live since you were born
the plate, cup, brew, spice, food you eat 
the hat, purse, coat, shirt, shoes that you wear
the wheel, hub, spokes, transmission that you ride
the book & tenets you read at night

the only key in your pocket
you carry wherever you go
not pricky, not heavy, not strange
just comfortable weight in your hands & eyes

i would have love to peek at other people's windows
& admire their paintings, chairs, photos, bookshelves
but alas 
i remain
your blind spot




Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- OpenLinkNight - Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.  Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   dVerese will be in summer hiatus and will come back on July 13, 2020.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

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. 

at the mall

a young man sits beside my table
          in food court, without ordering
          just twirling & examining his 
hands, as if he is reading
          private letter, sacred
          to himself
          while everyone else eyes are glued 
          to their phones

i think of delicate glass
          bubbling underneath
i think of colors swirling on canvas
          as his hands clasp, unclasp & fall
raindrops
on sea of screens & french 
           fries & plastic 
           cups

he leaves quietly
          nonchalantly, one last look
          (before disappearing with the rolling crowd)
eyes       
          of lost bird



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