Best Turnpike Poems
SILENT ROOSTERS SLEEP
Dads don’t sleep. They drive over-packed cars, and sip coffee from a thermos cup. Kids in backseat mull over grandma’s home ~ roosters never move, cuckoo clock never quits, and grandma’s always at the door, waiting. Front passenger divvies out cheerios and chips. The turnpike yawns with well-worn pitstops. All seats salivate for grandma’s homemade coffee cake. “Are we there yet?” echoes, bounces, plays with the driver’s nerves. Dads get revenge, transforming the auto into a tour bus. Pointer finger flashes toward a birthplace, a high school, and a park, and finally a hearth in the suburbs of Depew.
silent roosters sleep
moonlight auto unpacks dawn
crowing door exhales
7/14/2017
Haibun Form
Days of poet motivate calm compassion.
Sheer injustice evident—every turnpike
manned by soldiers’ wild unfamiliar passion
planned around harsh Strike.
Summonsed lamb to slaughter, but still respecting
burning bush—obedience lit by daydream,
Ares now advance with his pride, suspecting
alter in regime.
Bending truth to suit the occasion’s essence,
whispers coil in shadows of veiled renitence.
Glow of waters lap at the swirling valence.
Ebbing of sentience.
Psappho wept—her dream has dispersed as token.
Rose-fingered moon’s face will exceed all starlight.*
Silence now descends tableau muffled, Brocken
Spectre of moonlight.
Replace this heart of soiled sedition.
This junkyard filled with ugly treason.
Forgive, o Lord, embattled reason,
at the turnpike, chosen left ...off course.
His smoke went up with no remorse,
where my jealous hate, my brother slain,
branded brow the mark of Cain.
Now thoughts are choked by desert sand,
I beg reprieve with blistered hands.
Stolen youth in a game of chance,
Just took off, no backward glance.
Blinded by the blaring sun, aided by the caravans,
endless miles through wispy sands
My zest for water I forgot to think,
At night a mare that steals my drink.
Dancing girls in searing heat,
with hooded eyes and flaming feet,
a swimming haze, in a river there
towards I run -they disappear.
With Abel gone the ghost of Cain,
tries to talk but can not say,
Who howls at night and barks all day?
Blood of my brother, source of my pain
Your soul still wanders on a deserted plain
Yo Lauren,
From faith, to fugees, to fantastic lyrics against abortion and the senseless
extermination of black babies under the guise of family values making slave prisons for
profits.
I know your heart, as it spoke to a young brotha with a baby on the way, with way too much
to say, tryin’ to save the world, but still got bills to pay, trying to save souls at the
expense of his own sanity, crushed by the weight of Christian vanity.
Yo, Maybe Rasta,
Claimin’ Jersey, 20 minutes down the road on Columbia Turnpike, actin with sistas and
singin’ with saints.
My wife wants you back, but yo, wherever you are, I know your content in the bliss of
knowing that you raged against this machine that crushes dreams and when called by God to
live out of fame, out of the hip hop game, and into the sane sounds of worship. YOU
FOLLOWED!!!!
Snow Falls.
The street is loosing its battle from the skyward white invaders.
It steady quite rain,
White blankets its white, fluffy, frozen cleaner across the hardened frozen road below
punctuated by its crisp air and consistent advance.
Millions of little invaders landing at once, dampen the normal days account of screeching tires and honking horns.
The Junk yards out side the port are turned into snow covered mountains, as if placed there by glacial force a thousand years ago.
Hidden are the rusted out dreams of youthful independence, corporate ladder climbing and sun drenched summer racing days down the New Jersey Turnpike.
The world is transformed into a snow globe and I am the star inside its delight,
standing front and center
watching as the snow falls all around me.
Tickling my face, sticking to my eyelash, freezing my beards hair as I breath out the cool fresh air.
Illuminating all I see
its bright disposition announcing its acceptance of the winters invitation to stay awhile
As the snow falls.
He turned twenty-one on that beautiful fall day
Driving to his home from college, he got an early start on his way
The father who raised him since his mother died at his birth
Wanted to have his first beer with him that afternoon after work
He reached the Jersey Turnpike at about a quarter after nine
The lady in the toll booth looked as if she had been crying
The music from his cd player continued from his speakers to blast
People seemed to be intently listening to radios in every car he drove past
As he got closer to his home on the New Jersey Hudson side
Fire engines with their sirens on in a procession went rushing by
He noticed the smoke rising from the towers that they call Twins
Knowing that his father’s office lays somewhere there within
He found the spare key under the mat outside the house front door
Cautiously he walked inside seeing Happy Birthday signs and more
He turned on the TV set while trying to call his father on the phone
As that day turned into night he continued watching all alone
With the sound of his Dad’s voicemail echoing in his ear
That newly turned twenty-one year old boy opened his first beer
His shirt front was soaked with the streaming of his tears
No news did he receive that day to alleviate his fears
Anesthetized by alcohol he slumbered on the floor
Not knowing if he ever could pick himself up any more
He was awakened by the rustling sounds of keys fumbling at the door
His father had walked the whole way home covering twenty miles and four
Turning twenty-one is a day that he never will forget
Seeing his soot covered father was his best birthday present yet
They shared a beer together without speaking a single word
In memory of those who won’t come home in a world now turned absurd
There were two
Acting role written as ‘cool’
One from the first state
Other an empire whose façade outside looks great
Table chances inside the beachside resorts
A drive through free federal highway really short
Rest in peace trip place where it ended
Airline industry needed young American Donald as a defendant
Amusement Pier now a gambling game
Bridge span has Delaware’s Memorial name
A simple river is the gap
Historical fiction worthy for an enemy to be trapped
Sports book came to Joe
Why go to Trump Taj ? “I don’t know!”
Beauty pageant on the seashore NBC Peacock streaming reel
Financial whiz kid authors “Art of the Deal”
Atlantic City Polo League benefit little chukkers
Casino charities benefit from twenty four hour suckers
Joe married University professor
Second Lady Title was how the people address her
Eight years Joe neighbored the White House
Back up commander using the rhetoric computer mouse
Reporting to General Public
Who basically replied, ‘good luck with it’
Today our leaders inform ‘wear a mask’
If going out to do our daily tasks
An invisible bug
Graves could be dug
While POTUS in a war of tug
Wrestling issues
From citizens needing tissues
Trying to survive 2020 summer
Socially honestly is a bummer
We listen to them
Reflecting on freedom invented by Franklin Ben
Hopefully it won’t be as cold
As the winter Valley Forge turnpike toll
Sit back let the revolution scene play out
Then in four years everyone will be able to shout
“GET OUT”
For this pair works for us
And we drive The American Independent Rock Star Bus
MY FIRST OF WHEELS
Remember that sense of freedom?
Your keys, you free, in your very own teen-aged kingdom.
If older, like me, seats then, were made of fresh new leather.
Oh, that scent just tickled my young soul like a peacock feather.
You graduated from the bicycle crowd, now.
How regal, you waved like a queen, not having to kowtow.
Able now to choose the radio stations that you really liked.
As you grinned in pride in the mirror driving on the Turnpike.
Boys winked and waved, thought I died and went to heaven!
We all flirted shamelessly and had Slurpies at the 7-11.
Brain freeze, yes, i got many from these.
But really loved boys digging my very cute,dimpled knees.
What a training for the ravenous flirt I grew to be.
Come now~ this was far more fun than any library!
No more crowded buses and dropping books.
That red and white convertible had me totally hooked.
I can still hear the soft sound of the rain on the convertible top.
I wanted to drive my new white-wheeled dream and never stop.
The steering wheel was big, loving and round.
I know I hugged it with love, yet it never made a sound.
This brand new car was a present from my parents, more than kind.
I can still drive it, if only in dreams...it is still utterly divine!
June 24, 2020
11pm PST
Poem # 1,314
The chilly North Pacific:
we build a fire for the moths,
a lamplight. Their wings, angry
with flames. Sky: dim and small.
In your standing stillness, you are
an old clock
that has run out of chimes.
The small hours of the past,
a fossil, a nerve. I hand you a flask.
You say: ‘August is dying.
The stones are cold.’ In your hand,
a dead sea star. Summer bronze
burned into your skin. Your eyes,
moist black pearls.
Along the horizon, dark fog
is an oil slick floating against the sky’s
gray wall. Your silhouette, solitude,
the wind’s nimble stitching of your hair.
You say: ‘Memories are wounds
infected with melancholy,
that push the past deeper into ruins’
—the old houses sold, the Village
demolished. To dust.
You ask: ‘Why did you leave?’
I answer: ‘There is nothing left
to remind me to remember.
After the bricks fell and shattered,
the villagers became anxious’
You reply: ‘Trepidation is God’s
offering. Listen! There’s no rush
to reach the future’ — a turnpike
of unraveled lives, sun-bleached ghosts,
pale, tired.
All night long moths fly into the light,
into the stars, the flames. The wind stirs
their powdery ashes.
Body against body,
there is deep silence between us.
The waves break. The future rolls in,
disconnects the past.
The sea star falls from your hand.
Make a wish.
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from my fourth book:
‘The Translator’ (Transcendent Zero Press)
“Rattle” was first published in ‘Orion headless’
It's raining I look at my window and wonder is it wrong to think so fondly of my youth,
Is it wrong to keep on looking so tenderly back to younger days to my ‘once upon a time,’
An old fool, a sentimentalist thinking so perseveringly, looking and lingering behind me,
I love the joy of my gentle pastime I would do it anyway despite whatever people may say.
I love the fragrances gone, these days, of flowers in the spring tide of my old past life,
Before the blooms were ruined by the dust of the hard turnpike road where life changed me,
I have many tender memories of years long gone, if they have been gilded, it’s my own gilt,
My memories are my memories, they are more precious to me even than the air I breathe today.
Remembering locking hands and pressing on the grass on which I started to learn to walk,
And my early school days where an eager mind soaked up knowledge and never discrimination,
Understanding words little ones at first and feeling good with a gold star in my workbook,
Making friends, learning while playing games on sweet green grass in a wonderful innocence.
So who cares if I fly high upon the wings of my memories souring over good days long gone,
Back to the earliest scenes of my innocent boyhood days when time was made of purest gold,
The pictures in my mind hang before me colorful moments carved into the hardest of stone,
So can you see why I must recall these days, if I turn my head they will be snatched away.
Driving home for a visit long overdue
along the NJ turnpike, the Delaware, straight away I flew,
down to Baltimore once more while leaning on the horn
scenery consistent and familiar with the road weather worn.
The exits looked unfamiliar, tolls now increased and gained
the road a little wider than before, the tally upward of insane
and backed up to the tolls and bridges - a bevy of traffic
causing wonder, what, where, when, why spoke vocal graphics.
Then three hours in I finally spied
the exit missed, in my surprise, I cried,
I ached from the journey, the drawn out highway slide
back tracking, at last, I again became home fried.
At any rate, there was the house at last
and out of the car I hurried fast,
greeted at the door, we hugged, we laughed
watching my parked car slide down the driveway path.
The short visit planned was now an extender
bumper and car creating a fender bender.
At any rate, there it was, fast moving,
speeding car, driver and insurance disapproving.
Julia Ward's contest - At any rate, it was fast moving
I remember the thaw
when I headed South to crawl
through Carnegie's tunnels
in a Saab that would stall
in the mist or the rain
Spring, Winter, and Fall--
O I remember the thaw
and the chance of a change
if I could move what I did
from New York's north grid
down through the range
filled with hard blue coal
where I'd run as a foal--
O I remember that thaw
and the chance-of a job
in a town near the Mon
named for the General
George Washington
who'd surveyed the vast land
and survived the deft French
and I felt my fists clench
on the wheel of that Saab
as I drove through each trench
in a car that might stall
while I attempted to crawl
over the P A Turnpike
to a job I would like
and knew I could do
with less snow, ice, and flu
and a new car in the Fall
one inclined not to stall
if the weather turned raw--
O I remember the thaw!
Stepping through its beaded door
was like walking into a time cloud,
whiffs of marijuana and hashish pipes
lined up by color in the cabinet
to the right, behind which stood
a hippie and his girl, with beads
and long hair, who lived in the VW van
parked in the rear, the one
splattered with colorful peace
signs like the psychedelic posters
on their store’s walls, glowing
under the hidden black light.
Nirvana was a safe haven,
offering a calm which transcended
my fifteen-year-old my psyche,
magnified by the freedom
to wander through without shoes
or purchase, unlike the neighboring stores
on Union Turnpike in the heart of Queens.
The place exuded the potent energy
of my love generation. I wish
there was a store like it here
in my new neighborhood, but I suppose
I’ll have to settle for the natural health
food store, which offers the same sort of claim.
A hound bus in the maintenance garage
But it was the thief thinking in his own barrage
When the workers weren’t around
The Thief stole the bus without making any sound
The Hound’s slogan, “Leave the Driving to us”
The Thief’s slogan, “Steal the Hound Bus being a must”
That is just what happened
Hound bus 7888 was driven from the yard onto New Jersey Turnpike
I-95 bound for anywhere
The Thief’s thought, I-95 was my escape route with no jive
Yet Helicopter Newscast were reporting high above I-95
The Hound bus was chased entire length of the turnpike
But if the NJ Turnpike Police don’t act quick, the Hound Bus could cross the Pennsylvania state line
The Thief knew how to drive that Hound bus, I guess in his prior life, the Thief was part of the company’s us
Yet the chase continued to go on, but not until the Hound bus ran out of gas
The Thief’s driving fast that didn’t last
Well the Thief forgot the gas tank up
The Thief became his own Maxwell house to a finished cup
A Hound bus having its own bite in crime
But justice was served with the Thief doing time.
So after I told the crowd
in the store that I was
not Dolly Parton,
they quickly went away
disappointed and forlorn like,
going over to the dairy
to pick up some milk,
tried to stay calm as I
noticed pictures on
the back of the milk cartons
of my former self,
then I quickly drove home
and put the groceries
on the shelf,
thinking this disguise
isn't doing me any good,
decided to wear a
long red wig around
the neighborhood,
thinking now I can
finally relax again,
until people started
thinking I was Naomi Judd...
Then I noticed the
amish mafia guy
at the local 7-11,
I quickly drove away
to the local police station,
where they put me up in
a convent for
witness protection,
where Mother Superior
gave me my habit to wear,
and with it some long underwear,
calling me by new name
which was now Sister Rose,
she made me feel inferior,
as she was always looking down on me
with her big holier then thou nose,
the routine was to wake up every day at 4 a.m.
going to the chapel to pray
and say a lot of amens,
then having a quick breakfast of
coffee, bread and water,
then onto the cleaning
which lasted several hours,
washing and ironing the nuns
and priests clothes everyday,
cleaning the floors and toilets
with a tiny toothbrush
to my dismay,
dusting and vacuuming
all the rooms,
maintaining the large
farm using an old broken down mule…
At night I'd go to bed on
the lumpy old mattress,
feeling exhausted, lonely and famished,
hearing nothing but my stomach
complaining and grumbling,
thinking to myself
this is worse than the amish!
So tying some bedsheets
together I jumped out
the convent window,
ran all the way as
fast as I could and
started to hitchhike
on the turnpike,
it started raining and a
car finally pulled over,
quickly jumped in
only to discover,
the amish mafia guy
who looked
like Al Pacino give me
a big wide grin…
thinking to myself
not again...
Addendum: She finally escaped again and settled in Timbuktu where thank God nobody recognized her and where she made friends with the natives there who just happened to be so primitive they got her at spearpoint to make all their clothes and food from scratch, clean all their huts, make baskets and pottery, be the nanny for their tribal kids, hunt lions and tigers for meals……….