Poem By Helen Wilson

Car doors slam.
Children pile out.
Train doors shut, no seats,
Grim faces, eyes downcast.

Work looms
Raises of sound
Ricocheting off
Walls of anxiety.
From whence does the sound come?

Sit with it.
Carry on until
Self engineers
Adjust the acoustics.
What is real and what is not?
What feeds the soul, what causes rot?

Do not succumb
Before arrival.
What feeds the soul is its
Own survival; journeying
Through the space-time continuum
Habit and will are the padding required.

Comments about Commute

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of WILSON


Rainbows transform
Angry sky to revelation;
Highway to hope-lined avenue;
Ordinary day to the dawn of time.

Burn Out?

Alarm bells ring; rats are racing,
Dressing, eating, children-chasing,
Driving, talking, fixing, bunching,
Meeting, typing, number crunching.

How Do You Do?

How-do-you-do, It?
It with a capital I.
I’ve been longing so to meet you,
Now I wonder why.

The Monster Within

An amorphous monster lurks within
Hidden from your view.
I used to think it lurked without
In ‘him’ or ‘her’ or ‘you’.

Lizard Listening

A lizard ironed onto a rock,
Lissom limbs loaded
With cells that feel the earth’s pulse beat…
Lazy lizard; goaded.

Hollow Hearts (Monday Morning)

Heart groping a hollow chamber,
Conscious of what is not,
Taking stock of what is:
Despair? Absent.