In the dead of night
the quiet overwhelms
a candle works its magic
her zig-zag flame enigmatic
In the still of the night
a rustle of leaves
scares night-owls 'most to death
uneven, their breath
In the midnight hours
senses hone their powers
feasting on infinitesimal change
defying limits of mankind's range
In the wee hours of the morn
hopes yearn for dawn
only to be dashed against
guardrails of nighttime's marathon
Careful—what you hear
is not truly what mind heard;
bias wears a voice
we sort the world by its sound—
kinship hums in tone and tongue.
Talk sounds funny—strange,
not what you're used to hearing
through your native ears
guardrails narrow to constrain
how you render each word's sound.
Hearing listens first
for cadence, tone, inflection—
truth dressed in accents;
one voice rises, one falls through,
judged before the words arrive.
A child chooses friends—
not for faces, but a voice
that feels like their own;
in accents they speak at home
echoing inheritance.
As youths grow older
their speech bends towards the room,
softly converging—
to belonging in the crowd
with a learned change in accent.
Careful—he might hear
you—not as you fully are
mutual bias
is voiced in accented sounds—
kinship strummed in scope and tone.
For their roar is never heard
Be their roar , be their pride , be their light , be their guide in every stride
Be their strength , be their wavelength
Be their for them to vent ,
A safe space to their hearts intent
Be their frequency , be their rhyme
Be their mime and chime in time
Be their harmony embracing and racing through their garden of opportunity
Be their umbrella , be their shadow,
to their open sky they seek the opportunity window,
Be their guardrails , yet their freedom too
The world feels safe when held by you
Be there to care for they matter
Be there , be there, just be there when their dreams shatter
When broken pieces is all that they see be their vision of art their ecstasy
Be there for their ups and downs as they see saw in mere life’s playground
Be there when you can for time is dear life disappears before it appears
I like to write about biking.
And tangled things.
I like to enjoy.
The road.
Eyes with puffy feelings.
Fingers which have skulls inside.
The all along things.
That hide behind guardrails.
I like to write about biking.
All through the country.
With ghostly wheels and reflective shine.
And other things you can buy at a gas station.
The mush feeling.
Not in my toes,
Just plumes everywhere.
All along the highway.
All along the highway.
Dazzling.
Just like shards or plastic.
A tree or something.
The all along things.
That highways leave behind.
Plucking hairs as I travel.
They are everywhere either way.
I like to write about biking.
I went back and got tangled more.
Got tired and rested behind the guardrail.
Which goes all along.
First they said that our laws were sufficient
and the guardrails enough of a force
that the Courts and their Orders would stop him
keep the country and people on course
But the Justice Department had failed us
sadly frozen in fear and disgrace
and the SCOTUS is soaked in corruption
selling votes, taking trips, filling space
We’re the saviors who we have been seeking
we’re the heroes who we so adore
for when words upon paper lose meaning
it is up to the People to roar
There’s no decorum or respect
Within the White House walls
And cameras let us witness
Some behavior that appalls.
Invite a foreign dignitary
Then berate, insult, accuse –
That’s the playbook for a bully
Desperate to be in the news.
Why would any other country,
After seeing that display,
Send a leader, knowing he or she’d
Be treated in that way?
Every day brings more examples
Of outrageousness and shock
Which, at one time, simply seemed like
Acts of bluster we would mock.
But the stakes have gotten higher
And if all the guardrails fail,
Someday writing such a poem just might
Have me end up in jail.
Just as the word applies to a wide variety,
It extends to a great many portions of our life.
With meanings that derive from its context,
Along with numerous chances to fall off, just ask a wife.
As it seeks to be centered against edges,
Those borders tend to define us in excess.
Not just to zero, but even beyond to the negative,
So they may counter all the positive success.
So while the fulcrum may get all the business,
The direction seeks to clarify and measure.
Since equilibrium demands all the values
Of human experience, between pain and pleasure.
The guardrails in place are moved often,
As if shifting sands form the foundations base.
So what may tip to a side one week, may
Slide over to the other, without a trace.
When we look at all the scales we follow,
With efforts to stay centered or mainstream.
We might recall that risk is ever present,
And needs to be managed to avoid the extreme.
And so it goes. Seated, contemplative. A sudden cacophony abiding. Many floods ebb then flow; good/bad. Memories distilled, truth distorts. Folly found fair ‘gainst fear flames fanned. Shame ignorance opened, book bound veracity logged. Guardrails bent, bowed, betray. Step, then step again, mindlessly tumbling ‘cross lifescape willy, tilting nilly. Ramble shambles consequences unvetted. Year strategy unfolds unscripted. And then once more. The chronological avalanche swift recall swipes quickly to next. Where I have been, never again, yet reminiscent, always. Trails erased and failed anew. Aging days no longer brighter, burning coals dim to ash till heat demise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
erosion attitude
season’s grind edges away
saves stack each upon each
over the Hudson River, its heights
my nemesis. I longed to drive
and stay alive. Highland
on the other side. Mid-Hudson
thrill ride for a permitted driver.
my heart would pound
just looking at the gothic steel
and the watergrave - my haunt.
a teenager’s imagination swims
in an encounter with the dead.
i had a friend whose dad dizzily
fell into the dangerous depths.
trepidation removes its guardrails,
tires sliding into the Poughkeepsie abyss.
bridging the gap - my courage.
i live to tell the tale…palpitations stalled.
8/19/2021
The Seine river banks,
with their lack of guardrails, freaked
me out in fourth grade:
"Avez-vous entendu?!!"
My best friend rushed to ask it.
"Did you hear?! (the news)"
A woman drowned!!
She gushed - the horror tale
punch line delivered.
My eyes were wide with
shock and fear - the monster takes
another victim.
The dark Seine river
slithered, like a green snake
- feet from my front door.
There was no railing
- a misstep would drop you some
12 feet, to your cold death.
No parent could save
you - a terrifying thought for
a nine year old girl.
Walking to school, my
brother would sneak up, nudging
me near left-bank death.
I would scream, amid
cat calls and boyish laughter,
despite our au pair.
My best friend, Chloe, shared
my caution, if not my fear,
and loved to tease me.
That rapid river
loomed large in my dreams - as fears
can - for many years.
Last year we were in
Paris and I still couldn't go
near the riverbank =]
A patch of dried grass at the side of the road
Rusty guardrails crumbling erosion
A patch of berries a diet for deer
Thankful dinner for their born for a year
Leaves now yellow some orange, many dead
Dried veins crumble prepare soil for life
A pothole or two missed by the power
Shall fill with ice and erode what’s blue
Into the future all again will be new
Berries will fall and rot be gone
Stripped to the bone nothing further to give
A repetitive calendar turns pages as we live
All shall go than arrive once again
Death and birth explains this Earth
A Priceless death is what we’re worth
THE MOST DANGEROUS ROADS
i've got the head of a rattle snake
on the front end of my hood
i've got a chilled clorox drink
in my steel-knuckled hand
and we're rolling down I-10
across the stretch between Phoenix
to the Cali border and 85 deaths
a single year makes me quiver
shifting the stick to overdrive
Smiling as I rumble over America's
most dangerous road
kissing the guardrails
flirting with the slops
to side ditches so steep
but not as fun as I-15
from LA to Las Vegas I say
it's all the way or no
it's all the way or no
it's all the way or no
it's me spreading my ashes
across the country I love
it's me treading the coals
with a swizzle stick in my nose
yeah here we go
:: 03.05.2016 ::
I try to establish strong mental footholds
In resemblance to fort knox physical strongholds
Through repentance I lost the spiritual blindfold
So every sentence I mock material billfolds
I seek an understanding of answers beyond the proven
Discreet but demanding how choices response woven
Steep iceberg floating trying to go past frozen
Deep dreamer mind roaming wake to visions unspoken
I walk a new direction to relieve my transgressions
I look toward heaven to receive a better connection
My poetic expressions are close to schools lessons
Not prophetic but blessings do follow these sessions
I choose my own path and I fold up my coattails
So whether tears or laugh others stand behind guardrails
If life is simple math I want some calculus from Yale
No test I cannot pass its like the answers are wholesale
Dry eyes open at counter gambling a quarter at a time, looking up to see beauty out of corner smiling. She says hi, iced up stunned could fathom flight. Sigh slightly, love little known ‘bout her yet inquire as intriguing be. Just nearby cause heartbeat skip three steps, lightheaded. Dream pleasant, perhaps but such, inch forward though slow. Direction key.
~~~~~~~~
Consciousness is relative. What is wake and not irrelevant as mere gravel in crowned game tossed under bus rapidly to slow procession, carriage tips, queen collapses. Another wretched grasp on situation uncomfortable, scribble endlessly to soothe witness tragedy that is existence.
~~~~~~
Fortified in villainous parody drought sought touch send shiver nail through skin. Perched tremblin’ yet gather oxygen balance news prior thought white-dressed canopy temptress. Hold drink, allow consume dreamt of while driving slid far beyond guardrails. Her disturb each moment welcome such distraction, will cease casually. Unsure, still peace though as whisper ease hesitation, destination unknown, comforting assumption.
Rancho la Joya stretches out for miles
the horses are gone--but not the corrals
with a black dog named Boo, who watches it all
from late in the evening to every breaking dawn
one silver horse is all that remains
you turn the key and the thrill is the same
all leathered up in our jackets and chaps
sheltered from the cold, we ride without maps
into the mountains on trails that you know
your hands on grips and warmed by your gloves
my arms around you--holding on tight
the sun sinks slowly now, moon and stars guide
peaceful and beautiful alone on this trail
this scenic path without any guardrails
onward and upward, smooth is our ride
I will go anywhere with you by my side
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