Tag Archives: transit

Pacific Transit

Spare a few seconds to bring my soul back to life

I’ll take the time to grasp onto your slippery thoughts

Go cry me a river, we’ll save it for next summer

For now, we’ll sleep in hazy hemispheres that skies forgot

.

Will this be more than a yawning afternoon soapbox love?

There’s no reason to believe if the whole world’s watching

I guess there’s something in your face, the way your smiles fall short

Beneath your callused fingertips, no such thing as a happy ending

.

Will a quiet embrace convince you to settle down and breathe?

Facsimiles of youth painted on dewdrops and plastic evergreen

If I really tried, can I find an oasis beneath the muddy puddles?

Should we pick up where we left off, or leave nothing but a dream?

.

Take a moment to set the scene; oh it’s fine, we’ll be here all night

From basement lights to firework flights, time’s shrinking with the tides

That touched our gentle skins and left bruises for strangers to count

For now, we’ll laugh like nothing matters, we have the weather on our side.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Cafe Culaccino

Culacinno: noun; an Italian word describing the mark left on a surface by a cold glass.

~*~

In front of me, a brown-tinted awakening potion

Stirring; very slightly, occasionally.

Thick curls of steam, a warm devotion

And a single cube of sugar melting; slowly.

.

Time ticks by. People hastily rush off.

And yet somehow I’m frozen. So mesmerising,

The whirls of kaleidoscopic patterns are

Forming on the surface; so hypnotising.

.

A slight bump causes my trance to snap

Somebody accidentally spilled their cup

Midday scuffle, but simply breaks even

As the hand points its way on the number eleven

.

I return to my coffee, in the cush table I’m alone

By the window, society functioning, passersby on their phone

Nullified existences. Nearly industrial.

Lives of survival, technology and metal.

.

Time’s up. I sip the remaining scalding liquid down

Grab my hat and my case and head off to town

All that remains, a wispy ghost of my visit

A perfectly round mark on the wooden table, a cry of a soul in transit.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry