The Poets’ Bus

This is another attempt to push me out of my comfort zone, inspired by Billy Collins’ style. I’d love to hear your thoughts 🙂

The poets take their places,
Row by row, window seats and aisles,
And begin their meditation.

Words are worked, re-worked. Conversations replayed.
Ideas fizzing after the event, safe,
No arena to test them.

The poets sit. Stare dull out of the window,
Blind to nature’s beauty, focus internal,
Among but not with.

No eye contact. Eyes lie.
Better to retreat, cast that critical gaze inward,
Than to risk rejection.

The bus stops.
The poets file out courteously,
Knowing nothing. Learning nothing.



Picture credit:

One Day Death Will Come (poem)

One day Death will come
She’ll lead me by the hand
Across the threshold to the Never
And in her light I’ll stand.

Do not mourn my passing
For She must come to us
Whether we rot from cancer
Or are struck down by a bus.

I know not how I’ll pass
That is the price of living
Knowing that what lives must die
For She is unforgiving.

I hope you’ll light a candle
Remember me once in a while
I have loved, and been loved.

I can greet her with a smile