Transit Eyes

Rain beats on the glass.
Trees wave in the wind.
Eyes forward children,
No distractions please.

One day you notice the eyes,
Dull, defeated, tired, dry
From years of misuse;
You see yourself.

But the bus stops and starts,
Down the road. To where?
You know. Get off now.
Smash the glass.

There’s always a weak point.

Destination

On As It Happens the other day, I heard from a lady from an organization of 9/11 families lamenting the closure of Camp Delta at Guantanamo Bay. Her husband was a fireman or policeman, I can't remember which, who was killed in the World Trade Centre on 9/11. She opposed Barack Obama's decision to close the camp. With venom, she called the prisoners there "animals", clearly blaming them vicariously for her husband's death.

I was moved with the degree of her hatred for animals. Reminded of the "cockroaches" of the Rwandan Genocide and George Bush being called a "dog" in the shoe throwing incident or cops called "pigs". When did being an animal become such a bad thing?

So I wrote this:

Power's tool,
A slur, fool:
Raghead maybe.
Perhaps Paki.
But still,
For good or ill,
The fate,
Of life awaits,
Us outside.
To have died,
Above the clouds,
Our burial shrouds,
Fit poorly.
But surely,
A worm's food,
Tastes as good,
From any source,
Without remorse;
In the end,
Compost mends;
The curse forgotten,
We are all rotten . . .

Animals.

Maybe

Inspired by an errant thought (as most creativity is) and correspondence . . .

Elemental forces,
They break like hearts,
Upon the infinite shores,
Of the possible.

We are flawed, confused,
Gambling on destiny,
Lost in the maelstrom,
Ruled by the planets.

Maybe,
Or maybe this is just what waves do.