# Passengers



## SilverMoon (Apr 19, 2016)

My mother could afford a cab,
a limousine, even a time machine
where we’d travel back to times 
when life was like the space between
Victorian lace, smaller and quaint.

I swore she had this kind of clout that day,
she wearing a tweed coat and I a berry beret 
riding the subway in New York City to somewhere I forget
when I was five and I think most alive with questions I forget.

I still wonder if she was teaching me a lesson -
that no one is less riding underground or shunned
by the sun, not even a tropical one.

But all I saw was the woe of winter in so many eyes lined up in a row.

She watched me watching, never telling me not to stare 
and I think that’s because she wanted me to see the sea in dreamers – 
the vastness, depths, tides and hues of the no less penny persons
pretending sand dollars could buy the sky at their leisure.

My mother the poet, never without pad or pen, began 
diagraming fever; crooked lines, ink spills sweating down the page –
 nothing orderly like my ABC’s. But not so much of a mystery to me.

I’d always known the black of her behind the white of her smile. 
She knew this - and saw leaves in large books behind my eyes 
she'd turn for me someday.

Now I ride the subway alone believing she’s underground with me,
that maybe by now we’d speak of that which we must have thought together.


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## Hairball (Apr 19, 2016)

SilverMoon said:


> My mother could afford a cab,
> a limousine, even a time machine
> where we’d travel back to times
> when life was like the space between
> ...



Wow, I loved that, SM. I wish I could write like that! It's beautiful.


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## Firemajic (Apr 19, 2016)

SilverMoon, I love the complexity of this poem.. you have expressed to me [jmo] the strained, difficult nature of a mother and daughter relationship.. I picked up on a subtle tension between the two... You have some fabulous imagery that draws me in and makes me more than just a spectator on this grim ride... Thank you....


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## SilverMoon (Apr 19, 2016)

Thank you both! I embrace "the beautiful" and "more than spectatorship". This means allot to me as I'm always wanting to bring persons into a scene.

This poem is based on the true event of my mother introducing me to the subway system (I was in awe!). I clearly remember this ride with my mother. My taking it all in, she writing on a pad atop her purse. It is really all about the bond we shared, one ever present.  I've always said "We had language of the eyes". As an adult working and living in Manhattan, I'd do allot of my writing on the subway and would often times think of that day.


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## Hairball (Apr 19, 2016)

SilverMoon said:


> Thank you both! I embrace "the beautiful" and "more than spectatorship". This means allot to me as I'm always wanting to bring persons into a scene.
> 
> This poem is based on the true event of my mother introducing me to the subway system (I was in awe!). I clearly remember this ride with my mother. My taking it all in, she writing on a pad atop her purse. It is really all about the bond we shared, one ever present.  I've always said "We had language of the eyes". As an adult working and living in Manhattan, I'd do allot of my writing on the subway and would often times think of that day.



It reminded me of my dear Mom; just seeing stuff, looking at each other with total peace and understanding.


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## SilverMoon (Apr 19, 2016)

Are we not lucky? To share such a memory, the days of peace and understanding with our moms...


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## Hairball (Apr 19, 2016)

SilverMoon said:


> Are we not lucky? To share such a memory, the days of peace and understanding with our moms...



Absolutely!


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## midnightpoet (Apr 19, 2016)

SilverMoon said:


> Are we not lucky? To share such a memory, the days of peace and understanding with our moms...



Yes, you were.  My mother was 48 when I was born - and I never really knew her until I was grown and married.  She was dominated by my father - who I never knew either.  She was a teacher, though, and taught me a love for learning so I think of her fondly for that.  While I really can't relate much, I do appreciate your way with words.  Keep writing.

Tony


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## CJL4307 (Apr 19, 2016)

All i can say is, wow! The way you were able to capture this imagery of an experience you had and then bring it to life for all of us is incredible. I thoroughly enjoyed this. A picture of curiosity and wonder. A reminder that we are no better than any other person. A glimpse into the cherished memories we should all take time to treasure more. I look forward to any future contributions you might decide to share. I'm a sucker for poetry.


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## SilverMoon (Apr 19, 2016)

midnightpoet said:


> Yes, you were.  My mother was 48 when I was born - and I never really knew her until I was grown and married.  She was dominated by my father - who I never knew either.  She was a teacher, though, and taught me a love for learning so I think of her fondly for that.  While I really can't relate much, I do appreciate your way with words.  Keep writing.
> 
> Tony



Thanks Tony for your appreciation. My mother was 42 when I was born but lied on my Birth Certificate stating that she was 38. Back in the 50's many women were up to no good this way! My mother was indeed a writer. I have her small book of published poems, all very structured. Mostly she wrote about love, lost. A Romantic.


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## SilverMoon (Apr 19, 2016)

CJL4307 said:


> All i can say is, wow! The way you were able to capture this imagery of an experience you had and then bring it to life for all of us is incredible. I thoroughly enjoyed this. A picture of curiosity and wonder. A reminder that we are no better than any other person. A glimpse into the cherished memories we should all take time to treasure more. I look forward to any future contributions you might decide to share. I'm a sucker for poetry.



CJL - I will take" wow" any day. Thank you so much.



> A reminder that we are no better than any other person.



The beauty of her was that while born with the silver spoon in mouth she never deemed herself better than a beggar. Here's an excerpt from her poem "The Wildflower" saying just this so beautifully.

_In such a way must some love-flower
Love, which cannot gain admittance to
a more formal bower.

And who can say the fragrance given
Be less pure, less dear or rare
Because it is not allowed to share
A place among the careful, stately gardens
From whence it's driven

No less rare are they, my love,
surely no less rare.

_She was with me so short a time. This memory I write about and her poetry I hold close to my heart.  Thank you for reading and your wonderful comments.


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## Nellie (Apr 20, 2016)

Silvermoon, thank you for sharing once again. Your life is full of ups and downs and your way with words is extraordinary. This poem has wonderful imagery, very gratifying. I'm sure your mother would have loved it.


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## Darkkin (Apr 20, 2016)

A finite snapshot of understanding suspended.  Growing up in the snowy northern nowhere, we don't have mass transit systems.  So this was an especially vivid read.  One thing I really appreciated was the play with color, those small hints, coming into focus, then drawing the reader deeper and deeper into the scene.  A very tricky thing to do, let alone do well.

Excellently wrought.

- D. and T.


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## SilverMoon (Apr 20, 2016)

> Silvermoon, thank you for sharing once again. Your life is full of ups and downs and your way with words is extraordinary. This poem has wonderful imagery, very gratifying. I'm sure your mother would have loved it.



*Thank you, Nellie*. I love working with imagery and know that my mother would be pleased. And writing does ease all that of the ups and downs we certainly all have to contend with! And your haikus! How is it possible that the reads are more and more enjoyable for me - so many, thought provoking. You've nailed the genre.



> A finite snapshot of understanding suspended.  Growing up in the snowy northern nowhere, we don't have mass transit systems.  So this was an especially vivid read.  One thing I really appreciated was the play with color, those small hints, coming into focus, then drawing the reader deeper and deeper into the scene.  A very tricky thing to do, let alone do well.
> 
> Excellently wrought.



*Darkkin, thank you.* You know I think much of your work so hearing from you is more than a pleasure. Yes, exactly. My aim was to "slowly" draw the reader into what eventually go beyond a snippet of a scene. And I do love weaving in colour.


 Gad to have introduced you to the racing underground of mass transit! You are reminding me (note to self) that a poem will spring. The underground world of Grand Central Station where the homeless live. A fascinating, very hierarchal sub-culture. This will be one tricky endeavor! Again, thank you.


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## ned (Apr 21, 2016)

hello - a terrific poem - a narrative on a relationship, and, maybe, how perceptions change over time -
well put across.

rather dense in places, for me, and could be a bit shorter and sharper-

She watched me watching her, 
never telling me not to stare 
wanting me to see the sea in dreamers – 
the depths and hues of the no less penny persons
sand dollars buying the sky at their leisure.

but, perhaps, the drawn-out style suits the mood you are evoking.

enjoyed
Ned


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## SilverMoon (Apr 21, 2016)

Thank you for reading and your comments, ned.


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## dannyboy (Apr 22, 2016)

lovely work on this SilverMoon. The flow and the language especially.


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## SilverMoon (Apr 22, 2016)

Thanks, danny. An honor. Recently back and glad to see you're still here and loved your book!


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