I have been switching off the lights, closing down
Staying aloof from the world
And this picture comes
Of Omran dug from the rubble
Of a bombed site.
Oh Lord he looks like our kids
He is so baffled
What befell him?
It is haunting me the face
And the 29 children
By a 12-14 year boy
Vengeance of those who hate.
The devils of our society
Gone mad in Syria with weapons now
Of mass destruction.
His face jumps out
Late in the night
I can’t sleep
Till this blind hatred persists
In the world. I don’t
Want to sleep. I’m asking
What can I do?
How can I help?
What should I repair?
Who should I talk to?
His face will haunt me on my deathbed
I thought I would say then ‘Oh Lord forgive me’
Now I will say, “Oh Lord forgive them
And take care of Omran.”
Sukhna Lake is a very popular tourist spot and a favourite of Chandigharians. Weekends see people arriving in groups to pass the time at this great lake.
The remote control that you need at the moment will always be the farthest from you when required.
He is a stinking fish; a bad apple. Throw him in the trash. Trash the Trumpet. Donald Strumpet, The Donald Trumpet.
An untasted fresh cup of tea holds so much promise. Tea is also a great opportunity for camaraderie.
Toronto Poet of the Subway Train
I’m thinking double space it all
And send it to the Sun.
I’m writing on an envelope shard
The perfect pensive bard
The wise-girl opposite in a skirt
Gives me a smirk.
Me that has seen the Hidden Onagri at Pearson,
Throwing fat metal darts at the sky. Pierce Sun,
That other gal opposite is reading Thomas Mann.
I am Lord Denizen of the Underground-
Toronto’s digestive tract or
The metro–Toronto’s womb disgorging people
The swaying and the braking of the moving metro
Stirring our lives into existence
The common folk.
Stations being called
The train brakes and takes off
A wild man’s wail.
Someone sharpening a knife on a grinding wheel.
A babble of minds is here
It’s rude to stare I’m staring
Under cover at everyone
The man reading; a grin on his face
He’s missing his glasses and grimacing in
His effort to read.
The mp3 (Sorry,this was way back before the iPhone) players in
All shapes and sizes
Prized crystal balls
Consulted and reprogrammed by various listeners
Wonder? The new immigrants and aliens ponder
This strange amulet with earplugs?
Fancy pants and the Matrix coats.
Two school girls oblivious to this fashion parade
Eat huge burgers and talk loudly
About Jim’s new date.
It’s rush hour and the sardine packing begins.
The train is rollicking
And everyone hanging on to the top bar.
Some innocents are exposing laborers’ underarms
To the professors and dons.
“I’m sorry they mumble for working all day
It was hot and sweatshirt is all wet
There was no changing room
So if you want I can take it off here and now
And perhaps change my shoes. Caked with mud.
Don’t look affronted by my smells.”
Torontese, repartee near the door
‘Cool down man, Take a valium.!’
Look away; now those ads above your head
The map telling the stations’ fable
A modern Peutinger Table.
Labyrinthine exits go left or right?
Stairs for smoking, hot dog stands
Free newspapers, bouquets for your sweet.
Turnstiles, tollbooths and tickets
Tokens, transfers and passes
Old men ladies and lasses.
Take a streetcar if you desire
Or a bus if it transpires.
The train brakes and then takes off.
Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen
Come climb down
And meet the world
In the TTC.
Some writers long ago said
And everyone scoffed
People shall live underground
On the moon, an entire nation.
This is Moon-Station.
Everyone a reader
Karl Shakespeare, Wells Pearl and Tan,
Proust, Salinger, Bradbury, Agatha, Wodehouse
Dan, Joyce and Wilde.
You name it reads like a guide.
An unsung poet I trudge
The railed corridors I judge
Canada beauties and mums
Coffee cups; chewing gum
Kids off to school, read their text
St. George is next.
I’m wondering why do they even not send a rejection slip now?
They just ignore it?
How does a writer get printed? How?
Poems, novels and stories?
(Aside–He was not yet a blogger, it seems.)
That lady there is busty in her crossy -word
Come on look up
Show us your beautiful eyes (shades of Paul Newman)
(And Paul said ‘Lady I know you have beautiful tits(breasts he must have said) but I am not asking you to show them.’)
Come on look up give us a look.
Alas grand ignore
Its music, paper or book.
Sometimes you search for that ultimate question
The primal pick-up line
Have I not met/seen/that book is great/
Ah the coffee; yes its very cold; no I’m not married.
It’s hard down there
To be an innocent observer.
How Lord O can I be a part of their lives
Forever riding these trains?
Turbans, toupees and Togas
Meet Fernandez, Tula and Degas
Bells, buckles and tongue pins
Going to Church or for your SINs?
Buskers, Chinese and Slav
Banjos, accordions and guitar
And yes once I did see the sitar.
Hues and dyes of hair
Tattooed legs stockinged and bare.
Could I please get the title?
Of official recorder of deeds, fashions and mores
In the year 2005 CE
The poet le? La TTC.