I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.
The making of peace,
A rejected road,
A crumbled mould.
The making of peace,
The heart yearns,
The body learns.
The making of peace,
The world desires,
The promise of the Messias.
The making of peace,
The recalcitrant rejects,
Tranquil thinly interjects.
The making of peace,
A view that seems far,
A depreciating car.
The making of peace,
Leaders meet to dialogue,
A post-war epilogue.
The making of peace,
The homeless one anticipates,
Hope gradually dissipates.
February 2, 2023.
'Tween winter scenes of sparkling ice
and summer vales abloom
Interjects late Autumn leaf-less trees
brackish ground, dullish skies of gloom
A heart can only bear so much
passion's yearnings stilled
Heaven, let your snowflakes fly
~ remove from us the chill
*Image of Human Wake Up Light by Pixabay.
The Eternals Wake
Afterlifer's believes consciousness dabbles, effecting furtherance,
gainsayers, henceforth, interjects jocularity,
knowledgeable limits mortality nonbeing ... obliviates predominating, quasistationary,
relinquishes significance tasked ultrafamiliar,
vaticinators wanderings xenial,
yearning zen.
2021 October 18
Cantankerous, crotchety, crass, crude, crazily charismatic and confident.
Hold my own with the best of the grumps, forcing them to back down.
Ornery in my abilities to build a door on which you are too fearful to knock.
Long days and night spent doing exactly what I want, bothered by no friends.
Enthusiastically excited about my solid undisturbed pursuits.
Recklessly irritated when the phone rings, or someone interjects a voice.
Iconic in my love for being alone and unperturbed, loving my freedom.
Creativity taking me by the hand and leading me into imaginative sole pursuits.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is a date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
I'm a doppelganger of myself.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you,
she says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
Is that your Buick?
Before I can answer, she asks:
Is that your hat on a rack at the back?
Before I can answer, she asks:
is this a crossroads movie?
I think it's a date,
Only this time you're the pitiful figure, she interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
This is it! I exclaim.
Our second chance.
A withering look.
In my story, you die young on the highway,
in a ball of fire.
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
HER
the chains —
roses tied ‘round hands and feet,
apple-scented la forza del destino.
the buds claw down her back,
send shivers down her spine,
her head climaxed —
delicate, her perfumed breath.
the thorns gently nibble at her neck,
the wine it draws,
the tongue collects.
HIM
his waist, she grips
with everlasting rose-hips,
the crystal chalice overflows
with deliciousness.
full blossoms, of golden pressed
like a prisoner’s garb unto his chest.
he heaves so hard, suffocating
beneath this veneer of tremulous beauty.
Together
they beg to be released,
their vines intertwined
and fate interjects
with wounds of perspiring lips
solicited to one another
in a kiss of bon chance.
liberated to master their winded flutes
of cherry parfait served with
whipped cream.
7/2/2019
Contest: Slave to Love
Sponsor: John Hamilton
La forza del destino - The power of fate
Bon chance - Good luck
Cherry Parfait - also a type of rose
I am stomping mad, tromping mad,
ready to slice and dice the cad,
Angry and a tiny little bit sad
because she was so amazingly bad.
Wait a second.
My sane self interjects.
Isn’t what you heard a little suspect?
What if the messenger is the one
who likes to stir me up because it is fun?
I get to the bottom sweet and quick.
Follow the lies through the thin and the thick.
I do not remember who told me, the fourth one says with grit.
I will wait, I respond. Now I know who, but will she admit?
Love glows within the heart and soul of Man,
yet insecurities shadow its glow.
And in shadow, hate and bigotry grow,
though our conscience interjects when it can.
But, like a child, Man fears the bogeyman,
facing repercussions, He lets Hope go.
Scared of storms, Man finds faith in a rainbow,
convincing himself it's part of God's plan.
When evil overshadows all that's good,
anonymity merges with the dark.
And promoting lies, tethered to rumors,
Man follows orders, as a robot would.
Yet, the love in Man only needs a spark
to cauterize hate's cancerous tumors.
Modern Romantics,
The pattering keys of time
Unfulfilled phantoms of the mind,
Unlit sparks, your desires from life,
The wide spaces between lives.
The short pattering spasms
An onlooker of natural beauty
A wide eyed smile of gleeful times
To quantum logic of unplanned interjects,
Targets of stagnant ears
Powers of instinctive judgement
Placid thoughts and marked sprees
Those alive shall see the beauty
of the Modern Romantic conspiracy.
Udit
In her heart just beneath her skin lays a tin pitcher.
The spout along with it's sides covered with frost from the coldest of water.
Parched lips long for a drink.
But without cup or glass.
I implore that I have swallowed fear of the utmost; Diving in head first.
A slow sip that eases the insecurity of rejection.
Another sip that interjects that you could be everything that I need.
One more to ensure that I would gladly drown to be loved by you
The sweet bliss of silence.
As loud as white noise.
A crowd of imaginative beings bless me with their presence.
When I need company, they never fail to show.
When everyone else fled the scene.
They never chose to go.
I prefer emptiness because I've grown accustomed.
The same way that the darkness never ponders of the light.
The world never interjects on my realities.
I'm like a living ghost.
Transparent to most.
If not all.
I see the world as a vast land of clouded minded beings.
Moments when I reached for the stars,
fell short,
and was looking for clouds to caress my body
and soften my fall.
Even though I'm present.
As if my potential light masked behind casted shadows
actually illuminated my pitch black realities.
The world is blinded, incapable of seeing.
The cloudiness never seems to fade,
so not much of a spotlight comes my way.
Barely just a face in the crowd.
Often I laugh to myself just trying not to succumb to the feeling that I am truly alone.
Usually falling into a conversation with the walls I'm confined to.
Or myself, the only one comfortable.
With my story.
My stare,
? like a statue's -?
not a blink,
? wink?
or twitch -??
Deepened in the history.
??I lift generations to my chest,
?But the frame jealously clamps itself
?Around the black and white haze of years.??
Wet warmth washes the venerable glass ?
That nurtures the dulling gloss, ?
Keeping clean from the dust of contemplations.??
Duty interjects.
?I bare a smile,
?Telling nod - ?
Tacit acknowledgment -
??Then unknowingly place the fading vision ?
Back down on the sideboard??
Until another year
One day I was browsing poetry.com
reading a poem, it was quite fun.
But at the end, to my disgust
I found that the author cussed!
Thoughts of anger rushed and flowed
through my mind, my fingers bode:
'I don't like certain words in this poetry site...if you keep this up action be taken'
Surely this foolish poet is now shaken!
I was quite proud of myself, I was like 'sup.'
And if again this poet interjects, I will construct
a tailor-made reply; with fury it shall erupt
in a chorus of homely angels screaming
'GET F*CKED.'
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