Long Turnpike Poems
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She had bought into the dream captivated by the idea of wealth
Given herself no mercy, strapped on those pantyhose like holsters.
Envious of the women she saw on lunch hour who had on light dresses
Manifesting in no way toward her soul self, enslaved in an office
Became a babbling computer, spewing out figures, numbers, math.
Hope and optimism gone, her true essence she had begun to deny.
She became a ghost of her former self, her inner journey now dead.
She had ventured away from goodness, her muse’s strength broken.
The chains were real though self-imposed. She lost sight of God.
Jesus slid into an abyss, unclaimed for years. She manifested nothing new.
Her nine to five became six to six, then six to seven. She was a babbling robot.
Until her best friend died, and she realized she had not seen her for twenty-three months.
All changed after that; she broke the corporate chains,
began to dance down streets.
Threw away her suits, claiming light floral dresses,
wore a sun hat, and comfortable shoes.
Gave her high heels to charity,
and began to reinvent the turnpike of her essence.
Wrote poetry, took ballet, manifested a life
that brought Jesus back, and began to live.
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!!!!
Form:
THE RACE
In a rural
country vale
Aylesbury's forgotten tale
a steeplechase
from memory long gone
the four mile hunt
from Waddesdon
Twenty
weighed in at the White Hart
the old windmill
.. the place to start
riders famous & the well-heeled
racing across
ditch &field.
each carrying
twelve stone seven
the starters flag
dropped at exactly eleven
across brook spinney &
the Thame
seeking the prize pot & fame
in long furlong field
the leaders showed
to the roars
from the turnpike road
the well backed grey
became the toast
winning
by a length
at
the red flagged post
Year Posted 2007
Coming back home, after a long stint south,
I passed the blue sign on the turnpike that reads
“Massachusetts Welcomes You.”
Under the “Welcomes,” some Mayflower blooms,
And a chickadee perches there, under the "You.”
I’d seen this bird busying our woods as a boy,
Seen its black helmet with small streaks of white,
Flitting from thickets to rest on a branch,
Or maybe on mother's stone up on the hill.
From there, it’d cheer the winter woods with a call:
“Chicka DEE DEE DEE!”
Standing as still as a young boy knows how,
I’d see how it puffs out its tiny, tan chest,
Then sends forth the words
It hopes someone might hear:
“Hello!”
“Please be careful!”
“Let’s share what I’ve found!”
Sometimes, my human chest puffs out as well,
Set to deliver my own human calls:
“Hi, there.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, where are you from?”
Still, some calls get stuck on their way to my throat,
And with all of my puffing, I can’t get them out.
Whenever I try, I feel misunderstood,
And the message gets lost from one tree to the next.
Chickadee, have all songs for your feelings been found
Or do some stay inside, never making a sound?
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
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
Interstate routes
Endless road
Highway travel the threshold
On and off ramp
Distances being miles
Listening to music while
Once and a while rest stop
Sometimes rain could fall on car top
Highways to anywhere and any major city or town
The map is showing where you are bound
Highways everywhere
There’s always a beware
Hitchhikers all on the road
Keep driving
You don’t know who they are
They could have a criminal history
Not knowing could be your mystery
Highways are often called Turnpike or Freeway
Freedom to explore
Sightseeing with a observe
Embracing a beautiful morning sunrise
The start of energize
A need to travel
Perfect get away
Journey into relaxation
That’s a way to spend a vacation
Just rest
Soak up the effect
The highways are everyone’s friend
From beginning to end.
In this era of experimentation,
unforeseen boulders form
in the road of progress.
Low interest rates
encourage the right hand to invest,
while the left speculates unnoticed.
Governments spend money before the ink dries,
purchasing assets, forcing lines on economic charts,
following virgin protocols.
Skewed markets seem normal,
kurtosis no longer matters
in this 21st century laboratory.
Social scientists join the parade
with shutdown demands
to end a pandemic.
Boulders become barriers,
traffic crawls,
and anxiety replaces speed.
Fuel runs low,
compensated by steep descent
into a mist blocking the destination.
No one knows where this new turnpike,
with untested exits and unmarked lanes goes,
but drivers follow large road signs overhead.
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!
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
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