I'm trying to run straight
on hairpin turns
on the left side
because they told me
that's where runners belong
Lake Lure I learned by curves
in midafternoon
I don't read the papers
I am happier that way
I know the song
of an indigo bunting
My song is still
a copycat
of a northern mockingbird
enjoying the day
The water rubs the rocks clean
longer than making the best of love
That I was the water, the rocks, the roads,
certain of shape, direction, and time
the orchid lamp burns low against the screen of jade
a silver hairpin pierces the frozen musk
kingfisher quilt lies undone
eaglewood breathes unrisen dusk
dripping copper drains last watch
bronze worn where our first shadows seamed
morning mirror broken bride
embroidered sash unlaces on the hearthstone
the spring silkworm spun its chamber shut
silk wound against a bridal drum untouched
red wax sealed—spent wick weeps into the stele
beside the moonlit sill the brush-knife cleaves the charred core
the seal breaks at midnight
a single scent of eaglewood rises
Kunlun incense
rain on Kunlun has fallen for thirty years
water settles Kunlun-hore
the rain not yet wet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I found an old shoebox today~
not where I left it,
but where time had pushed it,
into the corner where dust gathers
like unspoken apologies.
Inside:
a ticket stub bleached pale by sun,
the ghost of a rollercoaster’s scream,
Mother’s hairpin, crooked as a question mark,
and the scent of rain on hot pavement
before the storm hit.
Funny, how the things I keep
are never the things I meant to hold.
The shoebox is lighter now,
but my hands remember the weight
of all the afternoons I didn’t save.
I close the lid.
The past doesn’t fit anymore.
It’s hard to imagine being born with hate
But having a hairpin trigger for it certainly is.
Having hate after a few decades of life’s ups and downs
Is almost to be expected
In fact may be the exact thing needed
To create an adult that has
No space for hate.
(10/20/25)
hairpin turn
road, verses' wit—
pulse quickens
I start my pilgrimage from unknown spheres.
My paths are filled with penetrating spears.
Clouds of helplessness and hopelessness float
Seas are wave-filled, and I have no lifeboat.
Faith points to the skies. Graves are seen around.
Dead, though said to be saints, sleep without sound.
Vultures and eagles search for flesh and bones.
What else do I find besides rough, rude thorns?
Should I stop yet? Aren't there new lands to find?
With sharp hairpin curves, my ways seem to wind.
I set off, though the trail I tread is shut.
It's not here; somewhere far lies my lone hut.
There were 36 hairpin bends down the hill
Our gentle bus driver had 50 lives on his bill
18th curve had a buzzing biker zoom with skill
Sensible bus driver didn’t budge an inch still
We all cheered like teen girls in skirts with twirl
The biker backed off 3 curves down like worm pill
Of ocean’s roar, dark tales are told
Of swimmers dragged into its fold
Incautious choices, foolish-bold
Ne’er seen again, their bells have tolled
Of hairpin turns on mountain roads
Huge semis bid farewell to loads
Then likely starts an avalanche
Once boulders fall, they can’t be stanched
When life’s not valued, thrown away
To God we turn and fervent pray
~ Iambic Tetrameter ~
I wish that life will provide me with road signs
straight and clear, no abrupt detours, no hairpin curves,
the end so discernible when struck by a lance of sunlight
I can set my mind on cruise control with ease.
But the path to old age is obdurate and unbending,
disillusions and regrets are poised as vultures on a limb.
To liberate myself from dark dreams is simply to wake up,
find I was not dreaming at all but caught in harsh reality.
A real life has its ragged edge, as the sea has many surfaces,
a glint of sunlight on crested waves assures me
I can flourish on a cold and chilling route of trials
find a second wind in the face of adversity.
@jjote021924
Pages I open each day
Under the sun that burns the hay
Verses I read and pray
Over a bun of bread I lay
Memories written below my chest
Strokes of ink I wrest
Olives and thymes of yesteryears
My childhood grinds with tears
Cabinet I saved and sweep
Drawer I loved and keep
My mother's pictures that flash
My heart that blink and blush
Her words enter my mind
Without her hairpin that shows and bind
Her spirit lingers, not hide
Soul that triggers, not glide
A book over my head
On Mother's Day I spread
End of Spring that chide
Mothers of the world I pride
Across the waters I sail
Billions of gallons I pail
Boating on a stormy sea
Smiling with endless glee
She made me strong all along
A spirit who stayed not so long
Now I am alone
But she made me stronger than a bone
A book on my lap
Wet and soaked by waters of gap
Dripping with thoughts of sap
Bathing me in a nap
One book is good enough
To help me grow, not huff
A pound of dry book I met
A thousand pound worth when wet
Her diary...
Happy Mother's Day! :)
(Prosebite)
Cul-de-Sac
Quick steps slow to hesitate
The sudden curve of a straight white line
Into the mists of detour
Lined with haunting facades
Of blurred addresses
And faded street signs
Where echoes of curiosity bluster -
Magic or madness -
In proverbs of warning about blind alleys -
Mayhem or mystic -
Bending the lane
Like the nautilus inner ear
A flat arc where light searches
For the sacred
Past faceless abodes lining this curlicue
With a come-on to remain
Yet the heart knows to follow
The flamboyant contours,
Like angel’s wings,
Into the loop – not a dead end
But a recoiling boomerang
Leaving knots of doubt behind
Arms open wide to inquisitive's marathon
Then ride the hairpin rail out of gossamer inkiness
Leaving behind the rags of repetition
Into a rosy borning road.
2-21-23
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Theme chosen – Cul-de-Sac
~ Let's Have a Parade ~
A Shriner drives his little car
Hairpin turns upon a star
Red-fezzed Turks play guitars
Let’s have a parade…
A marching band is next in line
Buglers trumpet notes so fine
Cymbals crashing all the time
Let’s have a parade…
Egyptian camels with two humps
Maneuver over traffic bumps
Circus dogs through hoops do jump
Let’s have a parade…
Little Leaguers, baseball teams
Young majorettes live their dreams
Confectioners dispense mint creams
Let’s have a parade…
A special occasion is not needed
If my advice would just be heeded
Camaraderie and Joy to be seeded ~
Let’s have a parade…
Life is a roller coaster
No, no, no. That’s been used
O.K. Life’s hard, then you die
Nope. Heard that one too
Alright. Life’s a series of hairpin turns
A little overdramatic, perhaps
Hmm… Life’s a sucker punch to the gut
Anthony Blinken would sue me…
O.K. Life’s a never-ending series of surprises
Eh… Way overdone, don’t you think
I’ve got it now: At today's prices
Life's a never-ending crisis
Some relax by swimming in a pool
Others chill -- hang out, act cool
Some like to go for a walk in the park
Daredevils take hairpin turns in the dark
Whatever puts you at your ease
It could be swinging on a trapeze
As for me, the recipe is tried and true
Whatever comes my way
~ long as I'm with you
We made a trip to town today
And took West Mountain Road.
My friend and I prefer that way
Back there, where time has slowed.
We drove past farms in rolling hills
Where cattle grazed in shade
The creek we crossed wore summer frills
A flowery masquerade
Huge towering trees were thick as thieves
Which hid us from the sun
Still on occasion, through the leaves
He'd tag us on the run
"round hairpin curves, slowed to a crawl
As slow as one would walk
Protected by an old stone wall
Ignored by squirrel and hawk
We reached the summit way too soon
Rewarded by the view
The height and beauty made us swoon
One reason most eschew
It was a roller-coaster ride
We marveled at our luck
A quick descent down the backside
Wind swirling in the truck
We coasted all the way downtown
To shop and grab a snack
Then raced before the sun went down
To take West Mountain Road back.
By Daniel Turner
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