Commuting

It starts earlier than you imagine.

Look at all the motor cars, like sardines in a row,

mostly playing stumble start, hardly ever go.

But it gives me pause for watching

little creatures as they play,

in the hedgerows and the verges,

the rich and verdant clay;

where they frolic and they ponder,

just why we spend our time,

in pursuit of the pointless,

lost to slow, corrosive greed;

not looking to the left or right

as we scorn the greater need.

And against the morning sun we drive, 

to where the skyline greets our day,

where smokestack, steeple, brick and block,

chart natures slow decay.

To hour on hour of vassalage

far from the ploughmans' tread,

where none ought tell you join them,

although 'tis often said.

Then it's back beneath the evening sky,

to chores and apron strings,

to memories of a joyous past

when we played on slides and swings.

When our world was one of make believe,

and our delight was still to run,

fast as the wind, then faster still, 

beneath the sky and sun. 

Where all that ever counted, 

was the set and shape of things,

when we flew in sunsets scattered gold,

testing our fledgling wings.

Drank deep the draught of childhood,

feared naught but friendships lost,

assumed our right of passage, 

never thought about the cost;

that we were being programmed 

by those desks set in a row, 

to enter into servitude

not reap what we might sow.

But still with tireless shoulders bare

we danced and danced, light as the air,

our shadows running swift and far

and eyes more bright than any star;  

poised on the path as if beguiled,

until in silent interlude, the moon

slipped lost behind a cloud;

and time was called... 

though never called aloud.  

Oh; just look at all the motor cars, like sardines in a row,

mostly playing stumble start... Hardly ever go.

Oh, look at all the children, already tamed and trained,

'tis the school run quintessential, less the melody unchained.   

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

we are so busy going back and forth in life....impatient to get to the next place we are going...we forget to enjoy where we are...
way back when time seemed to slow to a crawl....we didn't drive, we were driven...to enjoy our days and they lasted a long time.
but rush hour appeared in later teens....and we rushed through college, then profession...driving ourselves at high speed...now in older age...i find myself slowed down again...trying to enjoy where i am...saving gas...and living more...
this is such a cool poem...we serve the commute...it does not serve us.
j.

[Terpsichore]

Beccy. Aside from the absolutely wonderful rhyming, (as good as it gets in my view,) there is an important message here, a message which you have so cleverly reinforced with your last stanza.

The first part of the poem gives no great clue that this is as much about lost childhood, as the cradle to grave mentality that now seems programmed into our species. The point you make is subtlety delivered, but no less effective.

'It starts earlier than you imagine.' Indeed it does.

T.

[andrew mitchell]

Superbly written, some fantastic lines and spot on rhymes.

[Sami Khalil]

So wonderful to have commuting expressed so validly like this with beautiful poetic verses. You mix all of that with nostalgic feelings, with some romance of the night. Wonderful Beccy...

[Sami Khalil]

"And against the morning sun we drive,
to where the skyline greets our day,
where smokestack, steeple, brick and block,
chart natures slow decay."