poetry


work day

Sun rises lazily against a background of haze as if severely fatigued by the weight of the slow commotion on the highway

A single train propels forward on the flat iron track swinging sideways trying to turn its passengers into a deep sleep

The numbing soup of music come from people’s ipods with a considerable amount of volume escaping into the still chill air

Everyone looks on with blank faces pondering the significance of the day searching desparately for worth and meaning but finding none

Now the season has set in deep with the air getting cooler and thinner, leaves brown and yellow rustle, desperately hanging to dear life

 

the journey

the train rocks back and forth,

like a hypnotic trance.

people sway from side to side,

a little girl stares curiously at everybody.

 

what is the next station?

when is the next stop?

 

the air-con hums its way through the bodies,

odors of perfume and sweat mingled on and on.

the random fragments of music escape,

through a young boy’s headphone, blaring

 

the next station must be it,

when all these people would herd off like a stampede.

the little girl now licks her lollipop,

she turns her head from side to side,

her hair shines, and she just stares at everybody.

 

now the train jams to a halt,

with a school bag hanging off his shoulder,

the boy with the loud headphones disappears into the crowd.

the suits and the skirts strut off the platform,

goes with them the scent of power and pride.

 

now the little girl just looks on,

her journey goes on,

but we must leave her here,

now everybody is running off,

but the little girl stays on,

and she just stares at everybody and smiles.

 

Not one word

There are no poems, no prose, not even a line,

even the Haiku would have more words than this,

but this, this is something else entirely.

this is not even one word, maybe not even a letter,

this would have nothing to it at all.

 

yet this is the most precious.

this is the morning dew when the light reflects through it

this is the first kiss at 16 behind the bus stop

this is really whatever you want it to be,

yet it is really nothing, nothing at all

 

this is in everyone, but belongs to no one,

this is on everyday, but you can never catch it.

this is everywhere, but you will never find it.

this is heavy and light, this is great and trivial,

this will crush you and then lift you to the clouds.

 

the thing about this, is just it.

this is it.