There is an advantage
travelling on a corrugated road
From the bumpiness, a body massage
stimulates every lymphatic node
Many slow miles across narrow corrugated potholed tracks
that's the way we had to travel
All these country roads
with the surface constructed out of gravel
Not so good for family car rapidly worn out
before too many miles, made it hard to sell
Now these roads are smooth and sealed
a different story now to tell
Some have Siri,
others have Alexa;
but my GPS
I call it Robert;
for it seems to always
take the road less travelled by.
I see the highway on its little screen;
while I meander
down some potholed lane
that somehow seemed to
have the better claim on Robert.
I swear I typed in ‘fastest.’
but Robert is pre-programmed,
so it appears,
to always take me via ‘scenic,’
perhaps he’s keeping fastest,
for another day.
U-turns are his specialty,
along with narrow lanes
with red signs;
bent in the undergrowth
‘Beware Heavy Plant’
with no room
for the passing there.
Two interviews;
and both that morning,
I’m sure some time, ages hence
I will arrive;
late;
for Robert
took the route less traveled by,
which has made all the difference!
J'aime la vie…I love life, with all that it brings
Alleviating the jarring pain of potholed roads
Labour uphill, thankful for easy descents,
Observe the rules, most watchful for red lights
Plagued at times by ailments, wear and tear
Yet, like a defiant aging car, I chug on and on.
------------------
11th July, 2023
Bake the world a cake and wear your shimmering crown of perfection.
Gorge on pure bites of unearned kindness to feed your grievous bodily farm.
Your dignity is a sight unseen.
Like a spider in mucous your predicament is set, your progress smothered.
We all know your street of benevolence ends in a potholed cul-de-sac.
Vanish down your own sinkhole.
Tears on a fat cheek bleed a needy trail that screams for holy reverence.
A path carved in righteous marble yields nothing but jeers from the gallery.
Consider yourself considered.
Interactions that pass like a kidney stone from bloody stream to toilet bowl.
All is mimicry, all is disgust, and the smile is ill, the smile is façade.
Your smile needs a trauma clean.
When I was but a boy
in the small village of Cold Springs,
I lived near a cantankerous old witch.
At least, that's what the gossip implied she was.
Her name was Almeda Hamilton, and she was a hoarder.
Of course, we knew nothing of hoarders back then
and most everyone thought she was plum crazy.
She'd trap and skin groundhogs and squirrels,
salt their hides and stitch their raw pelts into fur coats.
Pew, you could smell her coming downwind for miles.
She lived off-road in a patch of trees
in a dilapidated cottage crammed with garbage.
The irony is, her father once owed the whole county,
and she was an heiress,
suffering from a severe phobia and mental problem.
Years back, or so the story goes,
her fiancée had left her at the altar,
but her father had built them that house,
and so, she stayed there a recluse.
It was rumored she'd buried hordes of cash,
and when she died, alone in her filth,
her property was potholed by fools trying to find it.
I confess, I felt sorry for her then, and still do,
for the lady got mistreated by the world,
and on its behalf, I apologize.
(Free Verse)
03/18/2020
Today, forced to detour
Last week missed my plane
Blamed it on the heavens
No, not me. I am not one to be late
Gnashed my teeth
Gnarled in these jams
Do these passers-by know who I am?
No, they don't and why should they care
After all, they're just like me
With no time to spare
Fast forward a few weeks later
Taking a leisurely drive
Shouting out to Jesus
Thank God for my view today
Grateful to be alive
Another scene;
Permit me to pencil this one in
Today I made a new friend
When two years ago
My world came to an end
Life takes us places and puts us in tight spots
Predicaments, situations and binds
Not on my watch, you snap back
The Lord never fails us, remember this
He always makes time
For his path is the right one
And he's ahead of us in the game
He's gonna pull you through
Your temporary pain
You might not remember what you had for lunch yesterday
But in the grand scheme of things
Who really cares
Except for our guiding saviour
Who will be there for us tomorrow
He's already there.
No need to be down and out
No need to be in despair
God's driving us along this
Bumpy, potholed road
We create that's in desperate need of repair.
Her story of life, her ups and her downs,
Her story of “Just getting by”,
Her story of doing all she can do,
Of achieving enough to not die,
Is written with belief from her tender heart,
Belief of what she’ll attain,
Belief of all the things she can achieve,
By doing them over again,
And knowing she has character to stand by her word,
Can forfeit her personal time,
And is creative enough to solve any snags,
And doesn’t resort to a whine,
The story of her, her rockiest road,
The potholed path that she walks,
Is her beautiful life of happy and care,
With her happiest, beautiful thoughts.
Forty years of bad road,
a path of broken glass
Potholed memories line my thoughts,
devil waiting fast
Daring me…
“Retrace your steps,
your quickest way back home
“Forty years of shattered dreams
—ahead the millers stone”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
A fast drive through highway
speeds a country landscape.
Music blares loud, gliding on wheels,
with windows down, worries dwindle.
A fantasy flies in a pastel sky.
A bottle of soda opens
a cocktail of champagne,
to drive off that bridge on to that lake...
to slip over that cliff on to that water.
Grip of steering wheel maneuvers
zigzag chasms of adulterated dreams.
Skidding sideways on jagged stones,
lightless lanes, murky headlights dim.
Rules of traffic and chasing police,
fine for parking and driving wrong side.
Potholed roads in ramp of Life's ride,
Love sits close on left and behind.
Journey of survival is a Driver of Victory,
Rear view and Windshield to see along,
till a Red Light says, Stop, you've won it all.
Dated 14th June 2019
Sponsor Julia Ward
Contest -Driver of Victory
I fly wide-eyed into the glinting night,
Along valleys with man-made stars aglow.
Thrills and sorrows on both sides line my flight,
Neon rivers flow restless down below.
Grandiose dreams from serried rooftops crow,
Million-watt schemes fuel every lofty light.
'Neath a sky scraped by monoliths of gold,
I fly wide-eyed into the glinting night.
Avenues wind like serpents of delight,
Sate designed desires that with lucre grow.
Fresh-minted wonders glut to gild each sight,
Along valleys with man-made stars aglow.
Manic hustle hijacks the threadbare soul,
Calls the mind daily to the ring to fight,
Ten baubles purchased for each scruple sold,
Thrills and sorrows on both sides line my flight.
Gray ghettos sprawl to host the loser’s plight,
In potholed lives the city takes a toll,
Broken windows exhale long peals of fright,
Neon rivers flow restless down below.
Yet the sidewalks gleam for all to behold,
The fittest triumph above wrong or right.
Where virtues are haloed, vices extolled,
And breathless energy scales a new height,
I fly wide-eyed.
My road deeply potholed,
with those left behind
Resurfaced with pain,
all casualties mine
A road often fatal,
to family and friends
No roses to line it,
as it twisted and bent
When forced to look back,
I see nothing but blood
From my hands to the cradle,
on those that I’ve loved
If you ask me my reason
for acting this way
With eyes straight ahead,
I’d have nothing to say
With the road getting shorter,
compressed in the light
Behind me those bodies,
that questioned my flight
The deeper I travel,
newer endings begin
This toll mine to pay
—heading further within
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2017)
Night sky: lifeless, dull, chalky gray
Apathetic expressions face one way
Eyelids heavy, long day
Foggy windows, potholed roads
Warm breaths exhaled, the seats are cold
Zombied stares at blinding screens
Infinite autopilot, we're all machines
Idle Thoughts
When I write of a rose should
I add the adjective beautiful
I have never seen an ugly rose. Therefore, all roses are stunning
But we can argue about whether we like red or white ones.
When I kissed her tender lips was
It since she had kissed a lot before?
I held around her waist tenderly- a new adjective- and she gazed
At me likewise well I`m not a Russian given to bear hugs.
Her vulva was like a fairy- tale
I ask you, not a moist ulcer then.
Fairy tales is about sex starved princess`s with long hair in a tower
A prisoner of her father`s idea of chastity and no knitting needle
The curvature of her lower back
Struts out like ski-jump in the Alps
Petals falls of roses one by one and blinded by irrational by love
We see again after an operation cataract and daylight seeps in.
The road surface too potholed
No one asphalts my road anymore.
Forty years of bad road,
a path of broken glass
Potholed memories line my thoughts,
devil waiting fast
Daring me—“Retrace your steps,
your quickest way back home”
Forty years of shattered dreams,
—the future paved in stone
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
Crushed coquina’s pains, salty air consoled.
Mistrusting soul, my heart could not appease.
We met when life was brimming and potholed.
My spoken words were long lost memories.
Relentlessly the past remained in view.
Romantic strolls along the shore soon died.
Again and again past pain stole love’s venue.
Good-naturedly, he listened; my soul cried.
A blemished past, his words could always soothe.
Tomorrows were awakened by his light.
He listened and life’s bumps seemed to grow smooth.
My rambling thoughts soon changed crimson to white.
We walked on crushed coquina’s endless strolls.
The salty air breathed love into our souls.
By Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
2/14/2017
Written for the Contest: Gems for your Baggage.
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