Long Dashboard Poems
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What air I breathe! It’s what my eyes conceive.
And bright with tears and hearty breast’s exhale,
My sheltered mind ascends, to light-receive.
It’s where my heart’s upbeat - unknown, my tale.
I’m snapped into the driver’s seat. I spy
The scenery - I live within these frames.
I pick up speed, forget one day I’ll die.
I linger long behind the dashboard games.
At last, I park. The moonlight stills the night.
I ponder the meaning of all perceived.
In Savior’s shadow, I find my sight.
My tale, reborn, when Jesus, I believed.
The tender scent of life, at first naïve.
What air I breathe! It’s what my eyes conceive.
5/6/2022
Orphan Sonnet
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
HMS and Rhymezone used
Fair is a word tossed between us,
quick breaths across wet teeth—
a fleeting agreement that nothing ever is,
except for our burning complexions
beneath the relentless, arid graze of summer sun.
The skin engaged in a heated debate.
But that was a different fair, much like the weather
which, on that day, was not.
The air thickened between us, choking in the scorch,
on the brink of calling it quits.
Then, we reached for each other's hair,
pleaching the fair fringe into a single French plait,
holding the tension steady with every strand—
a silent pact of reconciliation.
Flyaways re-tamed, we resumed our journey,
a fair sojourn toward the next fiery skirmish.
Over orange peels on the dashboard,
amidst a shared coffee, we lost ourselves—
debating whose turn to sip, which turn we missed that day.
Driving faster past the fairground,
children's screams echoed, tossing fares paid
like quarters ablaze in pockets emptied,
desperate for escape onto the open road.
The tollbooth's metallic throat protested with clangs
as change cascaded into the plexiglass bank,
accepting the expense to propel us forward
along the road until the next stop,
on our fairway.
The van jolts its way into our street.
She hops about in her animated cage
from dashboard to counter
adroitly cardsharping the world.
To her is given a great dispensing,
deftly she sorts
the trivial from the eventful,
flicks the lid of our mail boxes
as dire epistles are bundled with the trite
and the slight.
Each mail box now bears witness
that we are important enough to be persuaded,
pursued and pestered.
for she sorts and sends
and we wait expectantly to discover
if we are recorded within a printed letter,
then wave as the little van chugs away
on its rubber tread.
even though those white envelopes
may hint of trouble ahead.
As you walk through the corridors of life, its highways and by-lanes, the
back-alleys and well-beaten trails, through lush jungles or the arid scorching wilderness you pickup tidbits or sometimes gems of wisdom at the unlikely places, from the unlikely people, sometimes very much alive and present, sometimes from long dead and forgotten.
you learn from parents
and more so from peers and seers,
life teaches better.
One thing I learned from Jesus Christ is that you have to carry your own cross knowing full well that you may be crucified on this very cross – sometimes you have no choice, sometimes you have to do it for the good of the people.
Prophet Muhammad taught me that when a revelation dawns on you, embrace it zealously. If you have enough people believing in your perception, you have begun a new creed.
Moses taught me that you don’t have to tread the well-trodden path. You can cut across the wilderness and still reach the Promised Land.
Buddha taught me that a state of enlightenment can only be attained by renouncing physical and material yearnings.
Mahatma Gandhi made me see the futility of war and aggression. You can bring down a mighty empire just be a wooden staff in your hand and wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
Mother Teresa made me realize that you can live your life unselfishly, working and caring for others and still make your life a success and fulfilling.
not of the heavens
nor of any astral plane,
faith is of the heart.
Nowhere is taught the skills to live a life. You are not born with an instruction manual. No one can fix it for you if you screw it up. And you cannot return it and get an instore credit. You cannot put it on lay-away. You cannot exchange it for another if you don’t like the one you got. You just got to make it work good for you by yourself.
But these bits of wisdom comes much later—at the tether’s end of one’s life,
when we have already put too many miles on and the seats are all worn-out and the dashboard all faded and dusty. When the brakes start screeching and squealing. When the engine starts making funny noises and the radiator begins to leak…
a life-long process
salvation lies in one's self…
seek none but thyself.
Stuck on a hybrid labyrinth race track in undue course
Crash helmet cracked under the raw tempo of stagnation
Chequered flags waving but a motor running against the clock
In reverse and the traffic prohibits pit stops for tyres and fuel
Exhausted depleted high on adrenaline withdrawal
A silent movie plays on tiring spools of grey matter
More like a collection of photographs in faded sepia
An accident waiting to happen ready for another pile up
The gear box strains in overdrive and the pistons complain
Brake fluid seeps into the cockpit and floods the clutch
Hazards are blinking like a stroboscope and prism of pace
High octane acceleration on a road to immanent nowhere
Satellite navigation in conflict with his auto pilot
Cruise control on a highway to hell and beyond
Ejector seat wedged into a half open sun roof
Theodore calls 911 and the Thought Police arrive
Arsonists join the scene in fire engines stalled on the emergency lane
The ambulance doctor injects truth serum with dizzying speed
Body bags remain unopened but sanity is scraped off the road
Repackaged sealed in bubble wrap in case the airbag won’t open
In hospital he wakes off his trolley on a tiny stretcher
So convoluted they can’t find a straightjacket that fits
Confined to another bedlam on the psychiatry ward
And the dashboard flickers on the way to his lost mind
17th December 2019
A body of chipped paint and red rust,
A weathered windshield under the dust
Steering wheel aims in one last turn,
Dashboard suffers from many a sunburn
Her cracked mirrors are still adjusted,
Her upholstery is worn out and busted
Seats tilted since the last time driven,
Still positioned in an adjustment given
Smashed headlights and dull chrome,
Flat tires sunken into her final home
Once a brand new beauty, now, junk,
Only memories fill the empty trunk
The road trips taken across the nation,
Radio's still tuned to a favorite station
She's over the hill and forced to stay,
As yesterday's joyride eases into decay.
People always think one man can burn the whole world down by himself.
They see a president pacing around the Oval Office like some drunken landlord with the keys to every apartment in the building, ready to shut off the heat or smash the pipes just because he’s in a mood.
But that isn’t how this broken-down machine of a country works.
Not even close.
The truth is uglier and funnier than the fear:
this place is so tangled with rules, courts, committees, subcommittees, and men in cheap suits who love procedure more than people, that no one—saint or tyrant—gets to steer the whole thing.
You can try.
Sure.
You can grab the wheel, kick the dashboard, scream until the veins in your neck look like busted guitar strings.
But the car keeps drifting the way the engineers designed it two hundred fifty years ago.
People worry the president will torch Social Security, Medicare, the scraps of dignity we cling to.
But those old programs are built like concrete bunkers—too many locks, too many laws, too many ghosts of past congresses still rattling around in them.
He can swing a hammer, maybe loosen a few bricks, but the whole wall won’t fall.
Not in a few months.
Not with half the country watching, lawyers circling like buzzards, and judges ready to slap his hand like a mother tired of her kid poking the electrical socket.
What he can do—what any of them can do—is make noise.
Kick up dust.
Scare the hell out of people.
Write some order on fancy paper and wave it around for the cameras, knowing the next guy will tear it up like junk mail.
That’s the trick: the damage that feels permanent is usually temporary, and the damage that’s permanent usually took decades to build, long before anyone noticed.
So yeah, a president can throw a fit on his way out the door.
He can shove over chairs and slam the drawers.
But the house stays standing.
The plumbing still runs.
The old programs limp on like grizzled veterans who’ve seen worse than one man with a grudge.
If this country falls, it won’t be because of one president—it’ll be because the whole damn circus finally collapsed under the weight of its own noise.
Until then, the machine grinds on.
Couldn't stop my shoulder jerk
When thrillers bassline thrilled
When moaning teen spirits nirvanaed
When curry's lips curled in anticipation
Chilled in Kalifornia Tupac at my side
Bumped and Snooped by Compton corners
Spent Heaven by a dashboard light
Lost kings
Fallen Madonna
Petite princes cried of purple skies
An all male Queen
will rock you ever still
When George sung of his freedom
When bowie's ashes fell
If you try
slipped Lennon's lips or did i just imagine
Bared a week with naked ladies
Nodded head in respect
to the dr dre of the beats
Burnt toes on sunshine walk
as Egyptian's moon walked by the waves
Sting in every breath
Aerials downed the system
Fighters fought the foo
Ushered in a yeah
Skyned free birds one or too
Eva broke my heart
with rainbows cry
A wreath with such respect
O tis reading of bays where shipping docked
In the wine house
turned my back to black
Seen the oceans eyes through Billie's sighs
Hello boomed through a sky that fell
Adieu from hell
The pilot closed the door.
Taking a brief moment to look around.
Patting himself down opening the door then closing it back hesitantly.
He walked past the vacant seats, inviting himself to the copilot seat in the cockpit.
He leaned his head back, observing the silence that surrounded.
Staring off into the clouds.
His back seeped into comfort. Sliding down a bit further.
His knees touching the dashboard to the controls.
He searched the sky. The chair becoming a more enticing place to catch a Z or two.
The plane landed about half an hour ago.
Still he sat. Constantly opening then closing the door.
Feeling the breeze of air pass across his face.
Stretching his legs from being cramped in a tight compartment for so long.
Watching the other planes come and go.
The constant flicker of port side reflecting off his face.
How easy it seems to go home.
Continuing to nod off into a deep sleep.
Listening to the other planes sail off into the distance.
The luxury of dreams
Jackie
Doing 85 in a 35
Driving my daddy's El Camino
The engine roars like a hungry lion
A creature that would never be tamed
The wheels throw dust behind me
There is a brunette on the seat beside me
Daisy dukes and a halter top
Aphrodite has come to life
Her legs wrap around my stick shift
She takes it from first to fifth
Ever gaining speed on this country back road
Fence posts rush by in a blur
I can hear no sounds except the wheels
Tearing up the road as we fly over it
So many accidents on this road
So many people killed on “Dead Man's Curve”
What makes me think I can make it?
Is the chance worth the love of a girl?
Would I ever get a night with her
Or even a kiss?
The speedometer hits 110
The stars are no longer points of light in a distance sky
They begin whirling they are so beautiful
She moves closer tome
Her skin glistens in the light from the dashboard
Beads of moisture looks like a million diamonds
The song on the radio is pounding into my body
Building ecstasy far beyond what any boy should feel
Stopping would cause the feelings to wither and die
The faster we go the erotic she feels
Her every nerve controls her passion
Burning deep within her ivory skin
Bringing her to the edge of ******
The brakes lock
The tires squeal as she screams in passion
The motor dies with a bang
The wheels stop in total quiet
Then there is just silence
The silence was broken by her voice
She told me her name was Jackie
Then the door opened as she disappeared
Was she just in my mind?
An image conjured from my loneliness?
The motor died next to a tree
A white cross stood before me
Surrounded by dying flowers
One word was on the cross
It was faded because of the falling rain
It was a name
“Jackie” it said
Then I knew that she was gone