Best Interstate Poems
Unrelenting rains
Tap upon these window panes
Swerving through these lanes
Roadside stop...
Activity...
Humans go...
Ellip...
Unfinished thoughts or coping from another but not finishing
Ellipical is periods or decimal points placed to show that has happened?
CHiPs are on alert.
My pedal's to the metal.
Just too fast for them!
long lines of lights lining up and lighting up
the midnight asphalt that drives me
in shear exileration I accelerate
jocking for position like in a steeple chase
blurring images of lost faces
as I pass you by on my 8 cylinder high
wind whipping around no cop to be found
pushing the limit to warp speed
to fulfill my urges and needs
giving away to all my lust
caked on with highway dust
rolling thunder tway to quick to ever rust
as I turn it on filled with lust
high volt energy pulsing through
pounding faster than my heart
leaving you behind from the very start
better luck next time
hear them wind chimes
that's the sound of my sonic boom burying you in smoke
your ride is so pathetic what a joke
I met a nice fellow from Nebraska
Talked about his sister in Alaska
Said she was still single
And ready to mingle
“If available,” he said, “I’ll ask-a.”
June 13, 2021
It was a stressful drive
Up north I-seventy-five
The rain came pouring down
Water, water all around
Semi- trucks carrying loads
Vie for places on road
I was in middle lane
Trying to remain sane
Suddenly, a cloud burst
In the gray, rainy mist
The car in front – me at rear
Seemed to disappear
The burst yielded splashes
Obliterated dash-
To keep one’s facing nerve
Thankfully, there’s no curve
All traveling at least sixty
Unable to drop to fifty
“I’m in trouble” thought aloud
Then, God quietened the cloud
The falling rain continued
I moved to outside lane
And did drive home safely
Thankful for my bravery-
Such is life, we move along
Dreaming, singing our song
When a challenge comes our way
Then,” Dear God guide me today”
Now, I praise Him, my Protector,
Still feeling as unnerved victor
I pause to shudder and reflect
About His goodness to protect.
-Evelyn Pearl Anderson
09/23’2021
It was a stressful drive
Up north I-seventy-five
The rain came pouring down
Water, water, all around
Semi-trucks carrying loads
Vie for places on road
I was in middle lane
Trying to remain sane
Suddenly, a cloud burst
In the gray, rainy mist
The car in front - me at rear
Seemed to disappear
The burst yielded splashes
Obliterated dash-
To keep one's facing nerve
Thankfully, there's no curve
All traveling at least sixty
Unable to drop to fifty
"I'm in trouble" thought aloud
Then, God quietened the cloud
The falling rain continued
I moved to outside lane
And did drive home safely
Thankful for my bravery
Such is life, we move along
Dreaming, singing our song
When a challenge comes our way
Then, "Dear God guide me today"
Now, I praise Him, my Protector,
Still feeling as unnerved victor
I pause to shudder and reflect
About His goodness to protect.
E. Pearl Anderson 2021
Redding Poem 4
“Flying Down Interstate 5”
We departed Redding at 3:45,
In the dead of an October night.
Those tumultuous streets were morgues then,
As we raced to the deserted Interstate 5,
Zooming across the snoozing Sacramento River,
Going at a constant speed of 85,
Passing the snoring cities of Red Bluff, Chico and Yuba City,
Slicing through the darkness of early morning,
With the tule fog scratching over the countryside,
Shrouding the distant lights like blinders on a roan.
One city after another, my speeding treads arriving
In dark sleepy Sacramento in two hours.
With the sun not waking yet, but stirring,
The internal beast passed Stockton as a blur in time,
With other speeding drivers merging onboard,
As insistent captains of their own landlocked ships.
Then looming before us, the San Joaquin canvass;
A devouring flatness five hundred miles long,
Of faraway farmlands sleeping overtime,
The majestic surreal banality of Central California,
Magnetizing us, hypnotizing us to the hastening flow,
Of southern currents and windy traipsings;
This caravan of one, this golden fueled protrusion,
Of the nomadic heartbeat; the inertly-moving soul search;
This final journey to the rapids of my youth,
Where undead ghost boys still climb the rebar rungs,
Atop the old tower on the water’s edge,
Still spit into the blue, slow-paced river below.
TWYLA THARP AND
INTERSTATE 81
I had been watching a documentary
about a white-haired woman, a legendary
master of creative processes whose intensity
of focus was a cautionary tale of explosive ideas
at the expense of deep love directly delivered
and, in spite of myself, I liked her anyway
The force of her will was overwhelming
and seductive, ten minutes in – I loved her creativity,
twenty minutes in - I was floored by her focus, forty
minutes later I began to understand why all whom she
touched wanted desperately to know what she wanted
next and that even their wills, their intellects and skills
were extensions of hers, their presentations of dance
a spiritual sorcery beyond discipline and hard work
Several days later, I saw design presentations of an
almost impossibly difficult project by an extraordinary
team that included two gentlemen who had been students
of mine
No spiritual sorcery, no extension of iron will, but they
danced through the realms of urbanism and landscape,
engineering and aesthetics, their spirits so dedicated to
the needs of humankind that I almost needed to cry
And my dream for these men is that they serve until
they can’t and that all their creations just shimmer
and dance in the spiritual milieu of humanity and
place, in environment and community, extensions
of their skills, dedication and desire, and just
a little inspiration they might have once
received from an aging professor
who taught them long ago!
commuting
fast highway
teeming with traffic
morning and evening jams
exasperating
Written July 28, 2022
I am sure Interstate 94 is on that map!
My husband is getting impatient now.
I have been telling him for an hour.
I am not good at reading maps.
He is finally paying attention.
“It is NOT ON HERE!” I yell.
He finally pulls off at an exit.
“This is an Indiana map! We are in Michigan!”
That would explain my confusion for the last hour.
If you want to drive instead of fly in a plane,
your trip to Florida can start north in Maine.
The quickest and most efficient traveling way,
is via the Interstate-95 highway.
There are plenty of motels and places to eat.
A journey along this thoroughfare is something neat.
Pass New England and New York down the New Jersey Turnpike.
You will see so much scenery to like.
In New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland, you have to pay.
However, from Virginia, it is free the rest of the way.
After crossing the middle of North and South Carolina,
you motor along the coast of the Peach State, Georgia.
Before you know it, you arrive in Florida.
The trip in gasoline costs about four tanks.
However, when arriving, you will give thanks.
There are numerous places to have fun.
All year long, there will be warm Florida sun.
Down the Interstate Lickety-Split
By Elton Camp
What folly, on the Interstate, it is to try
Driving as if laws of physics don’t apply
To travel in some high-speed wolf pack
A modicum of good sense does lack
Driving only feet from the vehicle ahead
Results in a whole bunch ending up dead
All it takes is for one driver to slow down
For the principle of inertia is still around
Before the driver can even begin to react
It’s slam in the front and bam in the back
A dozen vehicles destroyed in the crush
Though most had no real need to rush
So if I find that I’m tempted to tailgate
I ask, “Had I rather be dead or late?”
So when I see a wolf-pack begin to grow
I carefully slow down and let them go
For if down the Interstate, lickety-split
They’ll say, “Beautiful car, wasn’t it?”
Oh strange, strange land.
The physics do not fit.
The cord of interstate wends,
Through this place of upside-down rocks.
I climb down from the truck,
And wind and sand and sun and secrets
Run over me like dancing children.
I feel spirit course through me.
My soul sighs.
My vision narrows, broadens, backward, forward,
To all places, all times.
I stand among the hoodoos.
I suck in the seared songs of shamans.
All ancients connect at this place.
I am your druid sister, standing sacred, still.
Some put on their blinkers.
Others do not.
Some are listening to the radio,
Hopefully something tasty and hot.
Some pass on the left,
Others pass on the right.
I am down the middle,
Watching the traffic, oh, so bright.
Some are looking at the cell phones,
The vivid colors, dancing sweet.
They may not make it to loved ones
They were so anxious to meet.
Some are honking,
No one waves.
It’s the interstate dance,
where all socialization caves.
Some try to act like they are polite.
They smile or wink.
Causing me a fright.
The only humanity here should be the occasional blink.
Blink. Blink. Blink. Tell me what is your plan.
Swerving left or right, a difference it makes.
I need to know, so I can be ready
To stomp on my brakes.
I leave seven car-lengths, as is the rule.
Then I feel like quite the fool
As six cars fill the space ahead,
Assuring me in one second I could be dead.
The dance goes on,
All morning long.
I am at my destination,
And so glad I was wrong.
I thought today might be the day,
The morning that I would slide, the last day of play.
They did not mangle, maim or kill me today, I do bemoan,
However, there is still some hope, as there is the drive home.