Bus Guru – A Poem

He sat on homeless-shoes

bus in the

front seats. He

had his legs

crossed, and thus

he had three

seats to himself.

He had long,

shaggy black hair

and he wore

sandals on his

feet that were

falling apart. Even

from my seat,

he smelled of

something akin to

rust and dirt,

as if he

carried the scent

of earth and

grass with him.

His hands were

together as if

he was in

prayer. There were

a stream of

words coming from

his mouth that

I couldn’t fail

to overhear from

my seat. I

leaned in a

little closer while

everyone else kept

as far away

from him as

was humanly possible.

“They say God doesn’t exist, but I know that God is many things, he’s the ground we walk on, the clouds we walk under, the sky they are painted on. He has many names, so many names.”

A woman sitting

closer to him

than I was

let out a

snort of laughter.

He didn’t stop

flow of words.

“See how they laugh at you, how they choose not to know you. Even the most un-religious person must agree that our home came from someone. The angels tell me you exist and so you must, my faith is that strong.”

He kept his

eyes closed, but

still managed to

look peaceful as

if he were

talking to a

friend. Perhaps he

was. Maybe there

was a link

between him and

a higher power.

The woman laughed

this time instead

of snorting. The

man turned his

head towards her,

though he still

didn’t open his

eyes. He pointed

a finger at

her and she

almost shrunk into

her seat.

“You are married to a man who you do not love. Love him or let him go.”

She gasped and

put a hand

to her mouth.

He pointed to

a man sitting

behind the woman.

“You are too angry. People are afraid of you. Let the light in to chase the darkness away. Only then will you be happy.”

The man made

a sound like

he was clearing

his throat and

coughing at the

same time. He

turned his head

and pointed at

me. I wondered

what he would

say, what wisdom

I had to

learn, what God

or the angels

had to say.

He was quiet

for a moment

but then spoke,

ever so softly.

“Sparkle on.”

He said. It

was as if

the whisper came

from someone else,

sounding different than

his normal voice.

I wondered if

one of the

angels spoke through him.

“Sparkle on.”

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About Jamieson Wolf

Jamieson an award winning, Number One Best Selling Author. He writes in many different genre's. Learn more at www.jamiesonwolf.com
This entry was posted in Poems, Talking Poems, Talking to the Flame and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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