Poetry: Of Public Buses and Rainy Days

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Lightning split the sky and thundered,

Electric blue the gray clouds sundered;

The rickety minibus skidded on wet concrete,

Weaving through rush-hour traffic on city streets.

It smelt like wet leather and misery,

Dripping seats and handholds slippery;

The crowd converged as the tires screeched,

They pushed and they clawed till the door was reached.

The rain beat down on fatigue-bent shoulders,

The burnt out faces of overtaxed householders;

Boots stepped on sandals and cheap heels broke,

The vehicle lurched forward, the engine belched smoke.

A briefcase-wielding pensioner came running after,

Waved, shrieked obscenities, bellowed at the conductor;

Hanging by the door, the young men laughed,

Time’s up, they conveyed on the conductor’s behalf.

He yelled, he ran, he lunged for the door–

The steps had been rained on, mud-slick the floor;

Fingers found the handlebar, a boot touched the metal step,

A single slip, lost footing, a tiny misstep.

Run over, roadkill, accident case,

All that remained – bones jutting from mangled flesh;

Crimson rainwater clogged the gutters,

Onlookers gathered, heads bobbing, prayers muttered.

The bus sped away, the next due in five,

The crowd will be ready when this one arrives.

Some flesh under wheels is the price we pay,

For four walls, four meals, and a salary day.

Rainbow Poetry #1

Poetry: Bleeding Through the Year in Verse

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It’s been a difficult year,

You wrote me a song and told me it’s over.

It’s been a treacherous year,

Every conversation’s been feeling like a hostile takeover.

Having dinner on the frontlines,

Sharing a drink across enemy lines;

Across the dinner table I fire a shot

The bullet ricochets, your sigh an afterthought. 

An unforgiving year, ‘cause you won’t tell me what’s wrong;

What to forgive and where to start.

Won’t sing me a melody, won’t write me a song,

That doesn’t end with your pen through my heart.

The days bleed together, ‘cause you won’t answer my calls,

Won’t return fire, but this ceasefire, cuts worse than our fiercest wars.

They tell me to sing, but I can’t hold a tune without your name on it;

Can’t envision a future, and the past is still bleeding where we split.

It’s been a terrifying year, ‘cause I’m still jumping at the shadows,

Of your disappointment, the discontent that you compose.

An inconceivable year, ‘cause God, this isn’t how we were meant to end;

In bitterness and outrage, to the warfront of silence condemned.

But maybe you’ll say something, if I sing loud enough;

Maybe you’ll hold up a shield if I fire another shot.

So I’ll smile and I’ll croon and I’ll twirl, till I’ve come undone

Brought you down or choked on the melody you forgot.