Prayer for Omran and all children suffering from War repercussions!

http://www.astucesdesfemmes.com/2016/08/omran-before-and-after-may-god-be-with-omran-and-all-the-children-of-syria.html

 

Omran

 

I have been switching off the lights, closing down

The shop.

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

Killed yesterday

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.”

Toronto Subway Poem/Poet-TTC Rider

IMG-20160717-02695

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

Its Catacombs.

 

The swaying and the braking of the moving metro

Stirring our lives into existence

The common folk.

All inscrutable.

Eyeing surreptitiously.

Stations being called

The train brakes and takes off

A wild man’s wail.

Aooooooooooo!! Like

Someone sharpening a knife on a grinding wheel.

A babble of minds is here

Inaudible Babel.

It’s rude to stare I’m staring

Under cover at everyone

The man reading; a grin on his face

Really!

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

The uninitiated

Wonder? The new immigrants and aliens ponder

This strange amulet with earplugs?

Classy bags,

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

Front Street.

Free newspapers, bouquets for your sweet.

Then again,

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.