Protective ways, securing wisdom

I get a lot of inspiration from bus trips, I do. It's one of these great, convenient opportunities to observe people closely - how they lead their lives, how they treat one another, the little things they do; the gestures and mimicry and communcication - without being branded a loonie stalker or aggressively staring, or whatever, and what's better; it's all for free. Well, you need a bus card of course. But at least it's cheap. I cease every such occasion to inspect folks unnoticed; to watch - and be watched, I'm sure - and draw conclusions that I fortunately don't have to present out loud. Not that I intend to put my experiences down in report form, either, these are no direct person attacks or any crazy urge to depict real people in an overrealistic sense. This is, quite simply, a way to make use of one's imagination, to ensure that it never goes idle, and to spend long hours on the bus doing something sensible rather than just sit there and look daft. Also, my brain functions need a bit of challenge every day, I suppose, and creating fictious life stories seem to work perfectly. Only problem is, I must never let myself get carried away. Even observation might turn into ludicrousness after a while. And there's a very thin, fine line between looking at and gazing at and gobbling at and straightforward gaping. Speaking of the tendency, though, this very inclincation of mine, here follows a tiny piece of poem that was written purely out of such personal constructions, within my own mind, based on a 30-min ride back home from the University on Monday, when I happened to sit behind some woman and her son, and I didn't have anything else to do, so I began to study their behaviour. There is a reason why I stressed the non-personal/no-report-issue, for this by no means a critique of anyone, ar anything, in particular; the whole situation became a source of inspiration to me and lead me on a train of thought, which had me ending up at a completely strange place, and that's about it. In the end, I actually forgot the small family, and made up one of my own. Hence, and so, works the mind; that's what I have come to believe. And I reckon it's enjoyable. Further distractions from the tolls of daily life - never rejected, always appreciated.

"Parental guidance" - being an angel to a child
By Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, pleased to write some English again after a wee bit of break, and extremely in love with the opening line I (eventually) managed to come up with and, well, the entire first stanza. To be honest. First three lines, anyway. Rest is more of a draft, not quite perfected. But finished, somehow. Moreover, I like the last part in italics, but it's more of an epilogue and not really a part of the poem itself. It became part of it, by pure and utter coincidence, but then again - if one should listen to people like V (of "V for Vendetta") - there is no such thing as coincidence, and thus the last three stanzas should they where they are and be a kind of random addition that suits the main composition in ways I cannot explain but which are probably due to some connection between thoughs. 'Nuff said.

The little boy who sits upon his mother's lap
and stares within the blazing bricks
of these her starlit eyes
Reflected in his neck and peering through
the fabric of his every garnment
herding him from sins
The apparition of a foregone, lonely time
now layed to rest inside a tiny shell
of heart-shaped boyhood frames
How he belies whatever circumstance or wonder
without words, but by his gestures
simple as they come he proves
Protected by the guardian's arms which wrap
around his skeleton in one embrace
to link them into closure
Whilst often also meeting other points of contact
as he must find to learn, to seek, to mend
be taught as he's envisioned
Hence in his looks the sole, unveiled persistence
stretching out on random for a touch
absorbing everything nearby
The world, to him, is always fresh as dew
beneath the shield of human warmth
to melt communication's tears
He picks the chocolate paper from her pocket
coils it in his hands and tweaks
the corners to a sharpened edge
His face then turns and turns again to face
the features whereto he is long accustomed
never be mistaken for unsure
That he shall know and constantly remember
every minute of a memory and sight
and of the rarest art there is
To figure is to fail and yet regain, recover,
stroke the loosened stray of hair back,
firmly, there behind the ears
Of little men who may seem crafted perfectly in shape
be seated in their velvet place; they should
remain forever where they now belong

and all the while the angels' wings will hold them up
and be a back to all their backless chairs
foresee all moments they might fall

and all the times and times again the angels sing
and cross their praying fists for those
who have not yet been crossed

as all the days and years go by and further on
the angels watch and shelter all of them
who raise their palms not knowing what they'll feel