On starry, moonlit nights
Or those pitch black ...
These are the roads ...
I drive forth and back
My tailights and headlights
Go rolling through the mist,
Scattering newly dead leaves
With a turn of my wrist
Fenders ruffle the wildflowers
That grow high by summer's end,
Brushing them with wind ...
As I go sailing 'round the bend
The fog through my fingers flows
Cool, damp almost eerie to feel,
Sends a shiver along my bones
With one hand on the wheel
Time, it disappears out here
Old songs on the radio,
All around spin tones of gray
Driving as fast as she can go
Between midnight and morning
A lonesome hour for some,
Here you'll find an empty seat
If another soul wants to come.
I see myself far out of reach
on a south seas tropical island beach
piña colada close at hand
playing drums in Bright Eye Band
who knows where the cash all falls
with bills and rent the money's spent
who knows 'xactly where it went
and I picture me behind the wheel
of a sharp new shiny automobile
radio blasting the top is down
cruising to the hot spots all over town
who knows where the funds all go
it don't take long the money's done
who knows where it's gone
who knows where the money goes
it slips through my fingers away it rolls
there's never enough and my pockets have holes
From streak and blur of candle faint
Her whispered breath gasps through dim hall--
That longing haunts without restraint
When a presence twirls come midnight:
Gently, gently she advances
Yet tapered wax fades...bleak the loff
And she aches for snuffled chances;
To meet him ...in world's afterlife
9th place
revenge in a pill
gossip needs skill
conversations kill
from a deceitful shill
her hateful thrill
conversations kill
reputations to fill
lies spin in a mill
conversations kill
I laid alone in the night's still,
a radio to my ear...until
into my friendless mind would seep
the liquid melodies of teenage sleep -
as it would slowly fill.
Inspired by the first song I heard on the radio:
Her breath is bad, her armpits reek -
I try to move away.
I open windows, hold my breath -
her awful pong will stay.
Her silent, deadly gas escapes,
I spray the stinky air.
I wish she'd wash and change her clothes,
shampoo her greasy hair.
I truly wonder how she'll cope
some day if she encounters soap!
A mahogany box with a bright eye,
It hummed to life in the faint, dusty room,
A tethered ship beneath a starlit sky,
That chased away the shadow and the gloom.
Through static seas, a voice came drifting near,
With phantom love and stories softly told,
The DJ spoke, a trusted friend, sincere,
As silver songs turned minutes into gold.
We tuned the dial, a dance of search and find,
A fleeting tune, yet static hissed, and then,
A treasure hunt that occupied the mind,
Which held the magic, now and back again.
Though silent now, the airwaves still remain,
A quiet echo, humming in the brain.
I turned on the radio and heard this country song,
The melody was steady, the feeling sure was strong.
A steel guitar was twanging, like memories in the night,
It painted fields of summer, gold beneath the fading light.
A voice sang about a heartbreak down on some old dusty road,
Of letters never written and love that once had glowed.
He crooned about a front porch, a dog asleep at feet,
A gentle southern sunset and a world that felt complete.
The chorus told of freedom, a truck and open sky,
Of chasing distant daydreams and never asking why.
There was laughter in the verses, and tears within the tune,
Old friends and faded blue jeans, memories gone too soon.
Each word felt like a story I somehow knew by heart,
About losing what you cherish and finding a new start.
I turned up the dial louder, let the music take me home,
In every line and melody, I found I'm not alone.
So here’s to country radio, where memories belong,
And hearts find some comfort in a simple country song.
A Thursday afternoon—rain tapping its fingers
against the glass, impatient, like the aching in my ribs,
the one I could not name.
Write down four small wins for thirty days, the DJ said.
No fireworks, no epiphanies—just the whisper
of something lighter than a promise.
Day One: I watched the steam rising from my coffee,
the way it curled like a question mark. A win for patience.
Day Seven: I noticed the barista remembered my order.
A victory, small as a sugar cube, but it dissolved sweet on my tongue.
Day Fifteen: Rain again, but this time I opened the window,
let the damp air press its forehead to mine.
A win—feeling the weather, not just enduring it.
Day Thirty: The unnamed ache hadn’t vanished,
but now it shared the room with other things~
a handful of glinting, ordinary moments
I’d gathered like scattered coins,
enough to buy back a little of the light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the following poem was written as part of an online poetry class; responding to the image above
We tuned the dish to static,
listening for God’s cough~
a blip, a hiccup in the cosmic hum.
The night shift drank coffee
thick as engine grease,
the kind that left your tongue
tattooed with bitterness.
We waited…
and still, the stars
bled silence.
You said, Maybe we're dialing
the wrong frequency.
I said, Maybe God’s just shy.
Then the power died.
The dish froze mid-sweep,
like a man catching
his own ghost in the mirror.
We stood there, necks craned,
waiting…hoping…
for the dark to whisper
its secrets to us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The static hums like a hymn
between bursts of forgotten songs~
tinny trumpets, crackling crooners,
a needle skipping on a war.
Operator, oh Operator,
your fingers dance on dead frequencies,
sending Morse code to ghosts
who stopped replying in ’43.
Through the snowstorm of dead air,
a voice, thin as onion skin,
whispers the weather for tomorrow:
Clouds like ink.
You know
it's not what you know
or who you know
it's what you know
about whom you know
and I know you know
'You know'
are the most
abused over-used
words today
you know
I'd be happy
if never again
I hear anyone say
'You know'
but wherever you go
there they are
on the lips
of all your friends
and you know
it never ends
they're on TV
and radio
I'm so tired
of listening to
'You know'
you know
I do not watch TV
use it like a radio
listening to it
but rarely looking up
wonder if this is what other baby boomers do
I suspect it is
You had to be there. Literally, there.
Just hearing it removes the third dimension.
Necessity's the mother of invention?
Idea-whose-time-has-come must be the père.
But how can you replace the footlights' glare,
the acrobats' contrived, but visceral, tension?
You can't. So much is lost in a mere mention,
that wings its way to us through colourless air.
They once were princes. Now reduced to strugglers.
What use is wireless to ventriloquists?
Where did their future go? There are no answers.
The dole can never compensate the jugglers,
or anyone whose acumen consists
in sleight of hand - snake charmers or tap dancers.
Listening to the radio tonight
Cubs-Brewers playoff game
I visualize each pitch in my mind
Ditched TV back in 1978
never returned, no regrets
Baseball’s alive inside my brain
the crack of the bat
~ deeply ingrained
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