ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Can I be like batman, don a mask and wear underpants on the outside of my trousers? Can I hide behind a nom de plume and write of childish things? [September 2002]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (12) Before 6 (Poetry) Long before I could spell the word innocence. [129 words] [Literary Fiction] Blink (Poetry) A snipet of life through a childs eyes. [149 words] Cameo Of My Psyche. A Collection (Poetry) Says exectly what it is in the tittle. [1,288 words] [Popular Fiction] Comic (Poetry) Light hearted poetry. [187 words] [Humor] Devolution. The Box (Poetry) Poetry should never be described, it needs to be read and enjoyed for what it is. I will say, my own poetry swings towards surrealism. Enough said. [247 words] [Literary Fiction] Fin (Poetry) Parting is such sweet sorrow.- Shakespeare Parting is like a chinese a meal: sweet for some, sour for others. - Ulysses Hero [142 words] Hammock (Poetry) For all you writers who scribe away on hot summers day: a dreamy submission for the tired of hand. [32 words] If Dali Wrote Poetry: (Poetry) Odd and totally bizarre. Yes, that's what it's meant to be. [180 words] [Art] My Parents Have The Mania (Poetry) A little light Humor. [177 words] [Humor] On A Napkin At Rialto's (Poetry) Surreal writing. To explain is to say too much. [96 words] [Relationships] Reverso (Poetry) Doesn't need one. [114 words] Satirical Lyrical - Contemporary Poetry (Poetry) - [121 words] [Literary Fiction]
At The Bus Stop Ulysses Hero
At the bus stop
In the shelter of the bus stop
a metal awning captures the rain,
filters sounds as a church choir
with its even tempo and holy calling;
and the clock, in the church tower,
at the end of a mist squalled street,
chimes slow in a teutonic rhythm
adding a rich and wholesome beat.
If one's mind can break into song
with others who now hum the same,
with nod of head and odd thrust of shoulder,
wouldn't it be nice
to turn and face a shop window
and watch your dressage in the glass,
smiling as you tap your feet.
You turn, spin, look diligently for a partner
and find others are doing the same:
a young woman with red jeans and green scarf,
the one with blond hair and a cute laugh,
asks you first, not openly of course
more a delicate raise of an eyebrow
and strangely erotic in its urbane slyness;
and off you go. You don't move of course,
feet are gum to the pavement;
it's all in the mind, in a smile, in the
look,
and you, in your own way [as all men do]
answer with a wink, nod your head, tap a
foot,
then waltz down the street-
passed the cinema and on to the chip shop
spinning dizzy on vinegar rich air.
She, Ginger Roders,
you, Fred Astaire.
To meet in the street, at the bus stop
near a drain, and skip, and dance, and jig,
the soul and mind the same; to sing with throbbing
heart
and laugh with brimming eyes
while suited men clap with a flick of their
ties
is the place to be. Time moves as a tumbling rock
at the bus stop; one moment its half past three
the next another week.
You gaze into the eyes of others, in the
queue
under the shelter, all moving to the drumming
rain,
the beautiful orchestral rain, and the bus,
the number forty two, comes all too soon.
READER'S REVIEWS (1) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"To UH; Hey man, I've been there, and, great stuff. But let me throw you one pointer; Ginger's last name is spelled Rogers. By the way, thanks for the positive review on ''Ghost town.'' But, unfortunately, due to limited time, the final chapters of Ghost Town, Redemption, will be put off indefinitely, and Letters From The wasteland will be deleted pretty soon. For now, I have to stick to short shorts, which Im good at, even though graphic, until my work schedule changes. right on and write on, Doc" -- david ''doc'' byron, vincennes, usa, ind..
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