Short Motels Poems

lovers
happy,warm
hiding, rushing, explaining
hotels, motels, cars, rooms
wanting, needing,cursing
cold, empty
enemies


contest Diamante...

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sun.
vacations.
winters cold delay, is faded.

waded through the luggage.
motels swell with vacationers.

golfing , swimming.
scenic tours, fishing lures.

guides to the sights....

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Night time is their day,
as they hurry and find,
someone to comfort,
then leave them behind.

Motels, and hotels,
and sometimes a car,
trying to survive this day,
some wish on a star.

Rhinestones that sparkle,
they stand on the street,
some are just children,
wanting to be free.

Can they go home,
why did they leave
too old for their years,
but not for their tears.....

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At the very most tip of Long Island
Lies a sleepy New English type town
Crammed with restaurants and motels,
In the summer it's population swells,

The most beautiful beach you can find,
On which our majestic sun has shined,
Rolling hills, world class
fishing docks,
And fresh fish it always stocks

It's a paradise to me,
And oddly if you could see,
Was even better once before,
So many discovered this lovely shore....

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So much easier to pack the car,
no litter box, no carrier -
space for other things.

So much easier at motels,
unloading it all and
no hide and seek at morning departure -
less stress and time for other things.

At home, no litter box in the hall,
a space now for shoes and boots and
in the cupboard where the "Fancy Feast"
and "Temptation" treats were found,
space now for, I don't know, other stuff.

So much room, so empty,
that space within our hearts ......

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There is a town in Austin
they call "the Roach Motel,"
for many a poor roach that entered there
a sticky fate befell.
Now roaches, you keep our of there
whatever may entice,
for any roach may enter once,
but never enter twice.
My father as a crawler,
who crawled from dive to dive,
but he steered clear of roach motels,
and therefore did survive.
Guests of the roach motel, I vouch,
roach mother, tell your son,
need no   long-term pension plan.
Alas, I know,  I am done....

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It’s Thursday evening, almost nine,
foot-tap, fiddle, and banjo time,
with juke-box tales of love’s romance,
the county jail, a second chance,
for bourbon belles or backroad trucks,
mail-box motels, living on luck,
from one horse towns to city bars,
acoustic sounds that drive guitars,
harmonicas with prairie dust,
Americana, steel mill rust,
cornbread kitchen, joy, and sorrow,
songs that long for bright tomorrows,
it’s Nashville on my radio,
Bob Harris and his Country Show!
...

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