Cold on the Bus

snow on bus

It’s cold on the bus this morning,
Frost coats the inside of the window.
Making my morning commute,
A chilly mystery tour.
Cold breath escapes mouths,
Rising slovenly into the air.
As hands huddle in pockets
While collars are all turned up.
I scratch at the glass,
Wondering where we are.
Cars shoot by, cosy wombs of warmth,
Sparking jealously as I shiver.
My iPod plays summer songs,
Fake warmth into my ears
While my toes cringe
As winter bites hard.
I contemplate getting my pen out
To commit my cold to paper
Thinking better of it
My hands remain in my pocket’s toasty nests.
Cold doesn’t inspire, or does it?
Does nature’s chill not slow synapses
But instead produce
A hot spark of creativity?
Surely without the inspiration of cold,
We’d never have discovered fire?
Lucky ancestors I think
As I wonder when I’ll arrive and feel warm again.

Snow, Snow, Wonderful Snow.

For any commuter delayed today on their journey

( Apologies to the original writers of mud glorious mud ! )

A cold commuter was standing one day
At the bus stop that was near his abode.
He gazed at the snow that peacefully lay
Clogging the paths and the roads.
Backed up the traffic all stood still
Of a bus there was no sight.
The commuter tried to ignore the chill
As he wished for a bus on which to alight.

Snow, snow, wonderful snow
Nothing quite like it to make things go slow.
So follow me don’t stop, down to the bus stop
And there let us shiver in wonderful snow.

Now more commuters began to arrive
At the bus stop that had no bus.
Like worker bees that can’t reach the hive
They began to grumble and fuss.
And still the snow continued to fall
And the roads get more backed up.
As lorries and cars tried not to stall
And still there was no sign of a bus.

Snow, snow, bloody awful snow,
Britain is now on a giant go slow.
So follow me don’t dither, try not to shiver,
As we wait for a bus in the wonderful snow.

We are the Robots.


In unison down the city street
Pavement pounding to the beat,
March the robots, a mighty crowd
Marching steady, heads all bowed.
Marching on and off the train
Brollies handy in case it rains,
Ipods and phones at the ready
Marching forward always steady.
And I quickly take my place
Part of this robotic race,
My feet quickly find the rhythm
Marching forward almost driven.
As robots come and robots go
Pavements crack, trees grow,
Buildings crumble and then rise
Stop motion like before robot eyes.
But the marching never stops
Robots join as robots drop,
Forever marching, forever cursed
Forever back and forth to work.


It will come as no surprise that as I spend a lot of time on the bus going backwards and forwards to work I get a lot of ideas for poems while doing so. As my memory isn’t what it used to be I have taken to generating some strange looks as when an idea flashes across my cortex I reach for my note-book and scribble it down.


As you can see its hard to write neatly when commuting so here is the finished and readable version.

The window seat’s a keeper
For the traveling sleeper
Their head a nodding
And their body lolling
The bus shakes them
But it can’t wake them
As with an iPod on
They’re well gone
Forgetting the rat race
Briefly in a better place.

The Bus to Damascus

History tells of the conversion of Paul on the road to Damascus (¬† read more here ) which for some reason was the thought most uppermost in my mind when this incident occurred today. If I’d had my wits about me I would have tried to take a picture but I was a little distracted !


As the bus skids
As the horns blare
As the passengers gasp
As the driver swears.
The woman next to me
Snaps awake
Clasps her hands together
And starts to pray.
The panic ends
She thanks the Lord
I really think
She should thank the driver more.

Writing Poetry in the Luggage Rack

imageTake a close look at the above picture, can you see the feet reflected in the window ?

Well those feet belong to me and I am sitting in the train luggage rack, what was I doing ? Read on to find out.


Standing on a platform, feeling detached,
I’m not tap-tapping on my phone.
Instead I have pen and paper out,
Writing as I’m travelling home.

Boarding the train feeling stared at,
I have no daily newspaper.
So instead I write down thoughts,
To be edited into poems later.

Riding the train feeling out of place,
Feeling eyes burning into my back.
Because I have taken the last free seat,
So guiltily I perch on the luggage rack.

Aftershave Attack on Local Bus

Victims of a chemical attack on a local bus
Today spoke about their ordeal.

” It was terrible.”
” My eyes were on fire. ”
” I can still taste it. ”

The cause….

” He simply had on to much aftershave.”

Victims said they first noticed an overbearing sweet smell,
Like a bowl of over ripe fruit.
Then the chemical attack began to coat
And even tongues.

Large doses of Starbucks coffee
Failed to dilute the poison.
Passengers were only saved
By a quick thinking lady
Who openend a packet of
Pickled onion crisps.

The accused has been bought to trial
But pleaded not guilty.
He is still in custody
Untill the smell wears off.

It’s Bumpy on the Bus

It’s bumpy on the bus this morning,
My thumb stabs at my phone
And sends my misspellings global.
Passengers jostle each other
As every pothole reverberates
And shudders through our seats.
To make it worse the bus picks up speed
As the driver seemingly late for who knows what
Tears down the bus lane
Overtaking Ben Hur and Steve McQueen.
At last this modern-day pony express
Having ensured the male got through
Allows me to disembark
And find my land legs.

Bus vs. Poem

Good ideas are like buses,
They have their own timetable.
Which doesn’t conform to reason
So don’t wait for them to turn up.

If someone tells you one is due,
Don’t get your pen and paper out.
Instead light up a cigarette,
And be prepared for a long wait.

Once one finally does arrive,
Make sure that you are ready.
Catch it no matter what it takes.
As who knows when the next one’s due.

Panic at the Train Station

There’s panic at the train station,
There’s chaos on the railway line,
Commuters wander aimlessly,
As nothings running on time.
Information screens all blank,
It seems the computers being repaired,
Nobody knows what to do,
At paper timetables they stare.
Red jacketed staff stroll around,
Followed by commuters who beg,
” When will my train arrive sir?
Surely it can’t have gone yet?”
The red jacketed staff only shrug,
And consult nothing but their nails.
As they trot out their usual phrase,
” Don’t know mate, don’t work for British rail.”

Most days I catch the bus to get back and forth to work, but sometimes if I am heading for the pub I like to catch the train as it stops very close to my local and is less likely to be delayed and cut into my drinking time. Now more often than not the train runs on time, OK I don’t use it that much to be able to have any hard data on this other than my own observations, but it rarely lets me down.

However with more and more reliance on computers it seems that if there is only a minor problem no one at the train station can cope.

Hence this old poem of mine of which I was reminded of as yet again yesterday afternoon the electronic platform signs seemed to bear no resemblance to what was actually going on !