The F Train #6

 There remains, then, some poems that seem to want to be included in this work. I did eliminate a fair number from the original book that I felt no longer worthy of seeing the light of a book or website [not that there aren’t a number of other ‘survivors’ who should have probably suffered the same fate]. Anyway, some of these are fun and span many years.

 I Can
They say
If I look into the Sun,
It will hurt and
I may be blinded.
But . . .
What an attraction!

Early morning,
When light
Scrapes its fingernails
On night’s shell, and
Shades of rose
And milky caramel
Wipe away night’s
Pin-streaked brilliance.

Behind my eyes
Beats a pulse –
A crazy throb . . .
An opening
To what could be
Is rent into my perception:

I can;
I really can . . .
(I think)
Into that Sun.

White-maned horse
Ridden up and down.

We sit,
Holding onto the life
In our hands
And under our seat –
Riding it, all round.

Music and bells,
Raucous noises,
Merry’s own
Tower of Babel
Fills the ears,
Rising and falling
With our ups and downs.

Wind flows as pace quickens,
Around again – and again.
The blurry whirl,
Scenes and faces
Once thought known –
Stretching and bending
To drive senses inward,
Screams in delight,
In fright for our plight.
So close on the right,
There you sit
Glowing bright.

Merry-go-round –
I reach in the whirl
Before it slows;
Can I grab
That illusive pearl:
The golden ring
For which I reach out
To see if I can
Get from life
Another whirl.

Another fling,
Another chance,

On your horse
As you fly
Reach and seize
Whatever dream
You want to try.

The ‘F’ Train
NYC’s subway system is an interesting puzzle. I think I never mastered the map or what line would take me where. Once I got which train would take me from here to there, it was hold on for the trip and pray this really was the train – there were ‘locals’ (stop at every station) and ‘expresses’ (usually flying by your stop). The manners (or lack thereof) for getting on and off and for travelling in the cars always left me curious. And then, compared to other cities (e.g. Tokyo), there was and is a whole new story. Here comes your train, get in.

The F Train #6© Mary Lou Quinn

Crowded spaces,
Empty faces,
Masked together,
Talk is about the weather,
Souls all alone –
Where is home?

Turns in circles,
Issuing chortles
Hither and fro,
Coming and go,
Any destination
Throughout the nation . . .
Where is home?

Out in the field,
Joy-forcing we wield,
Romp and play,
Stretching night into day;
Forget the trend,
‘Til crashing it ends.
Where is home?

Descend into the hole,
Steel-hardened moles,
Rush to ennui,
Cry: Notice Me!
Doors open –
Cares never surcease.
Where is home?

She enters . . .
The day is now splicing –
Each on a side
Of the pole
Seeking to become
Just one whole.
Now, cover that pout –
Her stop . . .
She is out.
Where is home?

Day’s end,
And, again, we wend
Through the masses,
All classes,
Each seeking to lay,
To rest
For the next day.
Where is home?

So in the underground holes,
Holding onto the poles,
Is it O.K. to try
To catch someone’s eye?
To say to a new friend,
I hope your day’s end
Will get you to peace
And the joy of your home.

There are so many places,
Infinite spaces
Nooks and crannies –
Spots to be.
Each is a setting,
Time used for letting
Me to be with you,
Sharing life’s hues.
Our mortal anchors;
Our daily hankers;
Tie us too tightly
To well-defined spots.
It is our task
To free ourselves up,
So we can drink again
From Universe’s cup.
That sip will open our sight
To being all and nothing,
Expanding to light.
I have caught that feeling,
I am ready to go reeling,
Head over heels,
To forever and NOW.
Patience be with me,
Each day and each night,
For that mortal vessel
Anchored so tight,
That spirit of light
As weightless it flies,
Cavorting, intertwining,
Filling my sight.
I sit and I ponder,
Sending Spirit over yonder,
Knowing it may never return.
Perhaps, that’s the end
The goal that we tend,
So devotedly desired.
It is scary,
Weird, crazy absurd.
Mind wanders,
Deep thoughts
Do I ponder,
Looking out the window
Of Mill Hill Road.
Whose Dream?

I like to read the last page or pages of most any book recommended or that I pick up. And, it often drives friends crazy when I do so. “you will find out the butler did it!” or “you need to go through the whole argument to understand the conclusion.” O.K. So, I am writing a novel: “The Ultimate Author.” I want to bring to a wider public (or better understand for myself) the world of Life Between Lives that Michael Newton, Ph.D. and those he has trained how they have unveiled and continue to unveil through the use of deep hypnosis to get their subjects back through past lives to understand where they go and what happens when they die. 

One would think that this field would be of GREAT interest. And, it seems all the work done (perhaps thousands of people who all seem to come up with the same ‘stories’) should get more play, more publicity, more examination. 

 Anyway, the end of my novel – when and if it ever gets done — is a scene where the two main characters are having a deep conversation and the jist comes down to: “O.K. we agree that all this ‘stuff,’ all our experiences, the Universe, consciousness, EVERYTHING, everything in the end is all a dream. So . . . the ultimate question then is: . . . whose dream is it?- Yours or Mine?


A glow
From the void
That is every thing
And no thing.

It wooshes through space
And consumes
Calling, singing, entwining.

I am light,
Almost weightless;
Buoyed by a laugh;
Encaptured, enraptured,
Yet free
To whatever BE.

The glow has ignited;
Membranes are excited;
You can feel –
Without touching –
Reach out from within.

Soaring on currents
Of our own creation,
Propelled by juices
Of our own elation;
Crashing the cloud tops
Of dewy-spun threads;
Lying in splender
On nature’s mossy beds.

Time is on vacation,
NOW becomes ALWAYS,
Partaking of NEVER –
Brain melds into head.

Real becomes fairy;
Mountains are for leaping;
Truth is our plaything;
Impossible – merely a word.

Whose dream
Is this dreaming?
Whose pawns are we?
Who is it scheming?
Is it a game
Of hide and seek?

So I fly o’er the mountains,
Soar through the valleys
To unite my Being
With that glorious
Golden glow.

I am touched
By its presence,
Filled by its essence –
Renewed, directed;
I know . . . and
I grow.

Still On Course

Early in the beginning of this ‘book’ there is a poem: “On Course.”

Having now gone through these pages, these thoughts, these attempts to share ideas, visions, descriptive words, my optimistic self – the part that knows it is ONE with all else and is busy experiencing so that it may enrich its return to The Eternal Sea – that droplet still feels [and here I get lost as to what is the ‘right’ word – how does a holographic piece of the Whole react – what would be the right term?

THINK, BELIEVE, FEEL, DEVINE, CHANNEL, INTUITE, – WHAT? Anyway, join me in this discourse about being On Course:


In this I call my life,
Nothing ever went wrong;
Each heart lived to love,
Each voice gave song.
I still believe that
We are ‘here,’
Spread out,
Smooth, not knurled,
Spirit’s manifestation
Experiencing the material world.
A part of the Creator,
A chip off the sublime,
We are energy existing
In space and in time.
In this I call my life,
Nothing ever went wrong;
My soul lived to give,
My brain made its song.
Each time I awakened
From the eternal soup,
I went off a-questing
And returned to regroup.Unconsciousness creates our reality,
Consciousness bears her fruit
It is for us only
To conceive
As we would suit.The new quantum physics
Teaches how we exist,
More studies will show us
(If we persist)
That souls and energy
Have a synergy,
So very clever
That we exist . . .
Forever!So, in this I call my life
Nothing ever goes wrong,
Each spirit lives to unite,
Each voice to give song.

Let us ‘sing’ together!


The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay