Tag Archives: kids

Bus from the Past

In a posting on January 04, 2012, in my poem “The Kid’s Yellow Bus,”  I reminisce about the years when our two girls rode a yellow school bus twelve miles to their country school,   our son, who was born twelve years after the birth of our last daughter, stood and watched them go and come everyday.   Years later, the threesome rode the bus together briefly.

The fact that the bus still passes by the house brings back those memories which I refer to in this poem.   Life gets up and gets going for all of us and this is just one of those remembrances in the wife’s and my heart.  Thanks for dropping by.

 

Bus from the Past

 

It comes from the south every morning at six
screeching as it slows in the leaves and the sticks
that cover the road from the fall’s brisk winds.
And with front beams on high and its red lights aglow
through the fog the bus hustles to the stop sign below….

at the bottom of the hill where it meets the east road,
though it turns to the left and west with its load –
youngsters all asleep on their long ride to school,
still immune to the revving of the school bus’s whine
and the innumerable stops that it makes ‘on a dime.’

There once was a day when the bus stopped here
and picked up the kids and all of their gear
and hauled them away to that ‘place’ for a while
where they studied and played and spent the whole day
and learned what to do that would take them away.

And it came to a point that it was just a routine
and we took it for granted like the sounds of the scream
we heard down the road in the darkness each morn’
and listened for the screeching as it came to a stop
as we hurried the kids out through the screen door’s  plop!

After all of these years, we still hear the ‘screech’
on its approach from the south in the dark and the reach
of the early morn’s silence as we ready the day.
And pausing, momentarily, we listen for the past
the stop and screen door’s plop…. knowing blessed…. at last.

copyright 2013 t. j. gargano

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Filed under kids, Love, poetry, Yellow Bus, young girls

The Kids’ Yellow Bus

In my post, “To My Betsy”, in the introducing paragraph where I say, in part, –

“….  they (my poems) may run aground of certain rules about poetry writing, they may be crude in their construction, they may be awful to those with rigid guidelines and they may be boring….”   –

– well, that sentiment might be invoked here with this poem I wrote years ago.  But if you have had a similar situation, maybe you’ll enjoy it.

I am sure that this ‘ritual’  – the yellow bus – would have gone by unnoticed and taken for granted, if our son hadn’t been born twelve years later than our last girl, Betsy.  Amy and Betsy are approximately fourteen (14) months apart.

In a future post, I might address how wonderful it has been to have had Matthew much later than the girls and the effect it has garnered in the life of my wife and I.   But for now, here is the Yellow Bus.

The Yellow Bus

I’m watching out the window at the road down where it crosses
over the bridge that crosses Sugar Creek.
Though the road is hard to see because of the trees that have
grown up along the river’s edge, I can see the tops
of the cars as they move across the bridge.
And since the clock on the wall tells me it’s time, I, thus,
stare a little more intently for the school’s yellow bus.

The school’s yellow bus has been coming for years to pick up
the girls with its loud grinding gears.
And Matthew has watched and waved all along, with a heart full
of secrets and a bag full of  songs, that he’s sung to himself
a thousand times and more while watching the girls on the bus,
through the door.

But the years have gone by and the school’s yellow bus picks  up
not two girls, but two girls and a ‘plus.’
The waiting has passed as the three stand and wait  for the sound
of gears that pierce the morning fog;  it moves ever so
closer towards the farm and its dog.

The situation’s quite similar but the players have changed like,
instead of Jenny, Rusty or Kelly waiting, it’s now Molly’s
range as she faithfully and eagerly says her good-byes to the
girls and Matthew then lays down with a sigh and watches as the
bus pulls away and heads down the curve, out of sight for the day.

And so I sit and stare at the bridge and wait for a glimpse of
the school’s yellow bus bringing back what is mine that it took
hours earlier and thus, on goes the cycle that has gone on
for years except, now I am older with noisier gears.
But my heart is still yearning and misses a beat whenever I”m
thinking of little girls and boys and big yellow buses
and all of those seats holding our dreams, isn’t it neat?

The buses will surely keep rolling from sight long after
I’ve withered and gone on with my life.   For buses are
hauler of all of our dreams in polka-dot shirts and washed out
blue jeans.
And I’ll always remember when I look at a farm and pass the
yellow buses stopped at a lane;  I’ll remember the threesome
that left out our door, each morning in sunshine and
sometimes in rain.

“The bus is here, dad.  I’m going to school.” so said Matthew, the last of our
kids to get on the bus.

copyright © 2012 T.J. Gargano

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