The earth below fades to a distant haze,
As I ascend beyond the rush of days.
I catch the current, seamless, cool, and strong,
Where skyward rivers pull my path along.
I stretch my wings and tilt into the bend,
Where draft and motion effortlessly blend.
To ride the rushing wind is pure delight—
A boundless devotion to the gift of flight.
No friction drags, no gravity can hold,
As endless skies of sapphire blue unfold.
I love the freedom in this weightless stream,
Forever soaring high inside the dream.
He flops at rest stops
hid by other sleeping truckers.
He likes the loneliness
as the cab windows gradually mist over
with smokey stars.
Rolling on,
cities of light flare upwards
and beneath them
are the unseen, the dead eyed
that hide under a metro-glare.
Amarillo, Detroit, Tacoma, Richmond,
places packed and stacked
with broken dreams and loose ends.
Just driving; hauling and honking.
No one looking.
Launderettes and liquor stores,
five finger fandangos in the back,
chicken wings and Jack D.
Atlantic City, Apalachicola,
soaking in the slipstream
while America looks somewhere else.
What are you watching America?
Sometimes he thinks
only the coyotes are paying attention.
Roads thread through his fingers.
The Great Lakes shimmer,
Rockies rear-up and ripple,
all those dust painted
played-out rural towns,
the roads are his tunnel
through both beauty and depredation.
Old men on roadside benches
stare unphased by his air horn blare'
as if he himself were an 18-wheeled
rolling exhibit of America itself,
yet no one looks long enough
to care.
The store has an otherworldly glow
in a starless lot.
The few parked cars
have leagues of loneliness between them.
No one comes or goes, they merely slipstream
through a personal invisibility.
Beyond the electric slide of glass doors
the anchorless roam
between the high stacked
and glitter wrapped.
Anyone that matters in the daylight
is not here.
At the check-out he sees her,
dark moons slung from each ear,
she with the dragon tattoo arm sleeve,
her small, half-cupped breasts
daring anyone to be kind.
He wants to be near to her,
yet he is only an itinerant broker of bad news.
The few that are here will leave separately
to tunnel into more makeshift hours,
and he must drive far enough away
to be some distance from himself.
Oily sky, weightless portals
of slipstream bubbles in a fluid -
superhighway of a different means.
Effortless, my travel, everywhere at once,
like a cat after a string.
A scattergory of movement in instant summation.
Summoned by the reading of uncategorized belief.
Where what is possible is aspired to will,
like "Tom Sawyer" in a Rush song.
Looking for
that Sprite of Strange Wings
under moonlit skies.
She
will evade me no longer
in her Black Mamba mean streaks
of hide and seek.
She has singled me out to double since before the beginning of Time
and this pervading trouble she holds aloft.
I feel like ten feet thick lead,
laden with the now,
and quickened like an inertial flow
in which we trough.
In her presents -
she is leading with carrot to know, for sure,
That I will love her forever.
Then, she will show,
her smile reuknighted
to my soul's oath of capture.
Trees are still different
in form and detail,
arboreal identity may occasionally
float like a falling seed
into recollection; a mismatch between
a willow and a redwood for instance -
nevertheless,
trees no longer stand, rooted
in specialness just oneness.
I drove through a river of cars,
my mind shearing away
from citing models and make.
Inside the cars and trucks were faces;
again thought refused to cling
to these passing things
but left all such
pass-by
in a slipstream of anonymity.
The world of the named
has exhausted itself,
it is now emptying out.
The seen washes itself
in a boundless rivering.
Mind looks through faces, trees,
and all the traffic of life
as if newborn.
Clouds in a turning sky
know not what to call themselves
or even what they turn within.
Chiseled bone fibre silences white noise water
Shiv splits through throat, jugular scissored
Flung spray fusillade's lain flat slaughter
Bluster bullseye stabs canvas concave
Albatross follow our sharp slipstream
Wind vane spins blur invisible
Dolphin pod adjacent symbol
Ludicrous becomes our lucid dream
Green glaze wake calms crazed waves
Plunge smashes panic, pindrop pools surface
Instinctive dive into icy effervescence
Jolts flailing heart buoyed purpose
Castaways tack to breeze's best advantage
Seahorse spawns, cloud coral hammock
Hull pointed toward demand
Relentless racing hour hand
Gathered globe gauges chances gigantic
Skippers puncture tides, shark agile voyage
20th February
Triumphant Felicity
"The Slipstream Captures"
He speaks of donuts
I see right
through the (w)hole left...
Left side
window wide open
one eye on you
the other opines on
strange stars that pulsate
and the nebulous horizon
empathy rests
right side of mind's bed
everyone dreams of Nirvana
what is Left?
Beginnings
always commence
with an End
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
llb-gvlm
Beginning.
"Don't Give Up" / Gabriel, Bush
https://youtu.be/VjEq-r2agqc
End.
"Why?"/ Lennox
https://youtu.be/FYFUqxypkbA
Slipstream.
noun.
1. a current of air or water driven back by a revolving propeller or jet engine.
2. an assisting force regarded as drawing something along behind something else
verb
3.follow closely behind another vehicle, travelling in its slipstream and awaiting an opportunity to overtake.
Empathy.
Beginning.
End.
The air has its familiar, creature
of comforting whisper.
Electricity communicating in some strange form.
I know it is you, come to complete
our destined home, come from far away.
Come to change my waiting chair to throne.
I have pinned you down in my recurring,
bathe in the ritual dream.
Setting: things aright,
aligned alignment colors the sky.
Even at the feet,
it is draped like a hunter's prize,
before the heart's Feast.
Fleeting domiciliar, my Will's
imagicking,
thrown like meat to a cruel slipstream.
Not strong enough to hold.
Not worthy enough to behold.
Please don't separate from my wake.
Mirrored familiar.
Turned to Cone of cold.
That you cannot stay.
Leaves a hole in an existing abyss.
The dew is the tears of the dawn.
My witness.
The clouds are fake.
The air withdrawn.
Across my cheek it ebbs with departing kiss,
sings silences song.
"My Eyes"
Green glass
broken and polished
washed in on a storm
from a tempestuous Ocean
briny and
stinging
deep deep deep
as a journey
has ever been
cool to the touch
transparency
contained
within the smooth jagged
worn by icy tides and
buried in burning passages of jade
Reflection,
their sea eyes
your seas
green calamities
on straight lines
your words
strung and
slipped
around their sees
through the eyes
of a sharp needle
Sewing stories
in the
Short Slipstream
patchworks
for a blanket of
Love
ocean forests
closing clams
gathering pearls up
watching
through windows
other souls write
sage Delphi oracles
green shamrocks
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
I flop at truck stops
hid by other sleeping truckers.
I like the loneliness.
Amarillo, Detroit, Tacoma, Richmond,
places packed and stacked
with the bad and the good.
I scoot by paying no heed,
to features, just forms,
how bodies once glimpsed
sometimes return inside of me.
Cities of light, death-heads hidden
no one is looking.
I’m not looking either — just driving through,
hauling and honking.
No one looking.
Launderettes and liquor stores;
five finger fandangos in the back,
chicken wings and Jack D.
Atlantic City, Apalachicola,
soaking in the slipstream
while America looks somewhere else.
What are you watching America?
Sometimes I think
only the coyotes are paying attention.
Roads thread through my fingers.
The Great Lakes shimmer,
Rockies rear-up and ripple.
Moving along not looking,
just driving.
Old men on benches stare
as I hammer on by, and blare,
as if I were an 18-wheeled rolling exhibit
of America itself.
she sleeps at
nights edge
in garlands of gravity
swaying in the hammock
of life’s uncertainty
swordmaster surrounded
by a body of delight
there to be held
in my arms through the
night
slipstream dreams
tapestries of light
sometimes torrid
occasionally
out of sight
a hungry heart
feeds desire
cold breath sparks
the longing for fire
too much of anything
no longer inspires
while my grasp
will not loosen
it’s desperate
conspire
until I squeeze the
moment
thin and dire
to awaken
at the edge
with no one to share
a space once full
of longing
now empty
and bare
I will pour
mySelf
into You
til breath
is done
flowing
thru your
giving
drawn
to your yielding
my waterfall
smoothing stones
in widening streams
passing through
secrets
I’ve never seen
I will dance with you
long after
these legs are gone
and sing the words
of our favorite
songs
cleave canyons
in your
sandstone
leave footprints
upon your soul
sink into
your heaving
a drunken traveler
beyond your reach
hiding in your
slipstream
awash within
your breach
small moments
of unforgettable
meaning
that traverse
this illumined room
chanting
while angels
swoon
and etch desires
upon the reflection
of the moon
upon tussled sheets
and conjured dreams
lover’s themes
timeless scenes
enfolded sleep
cradled in a
heartbeat.
Life’s Buses Never Run on Time
Life’s buses never run on time
so I wait, in stoic supplication,
for a god who has no schedule.
Coincidence decides the crossing
of our paths, spontaneous reunion
of faith and practicality disappearing
in the dirt of city streets, nameless
sojourners jostling for “personal”
space, waiting to be disgorged
into those awaiting passage.
Illiterate traffic signals give
us hand signals – WAIT!
WALK – DON’T WALK.
Pavlovian elevators “ding”
signaling those waiting
that the door is about to open.
The waiters fall away
silent contrails left behind
in the slipstream of life’s waiting.
1/24/2016
Submitted to – Becca’s Inspiration “Waiting” – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Craig Cornish
She was frozen out in the cold
Blocked out by the blaring calls of sanity
She couldn't move,she couldn't think straight
She was on her own. Alone
Her silence amplified by her inner most emotions
Disassociated from her conscience,she groped in the darkness for some answer,a key
To any way out.
But everything she held onto crumbled under her fingertips
There was no leverage nor any compensation for the fall that followed
She hit the floor hard. Caught in the slipstream of rhetoric questions
Momentum carried her over the edge
Her defences,she put so much faith in, disappeared.
The silence was deafening.
She was Alone!
The revelation was a blow to her ashen mindset
The realisation took what little strength she had left
The fight was over. She let go.
The air left her lungs.
She took the punch. Held onto the hand of death
Her life meant nothing now.
She was finally free of all the convoluted lies
Her life was o'er . She could finally let go.
Geniuskin
addiction and descent
tears absorbed in cold cotton
finite and trembling
slipstream lives lost forgotten
wilted blood red gin blossoms
soiled love, tattered gown
hopes wrung out as a bar rag
whiskey ring, vodka crown
far from home, foreign air
frost proof and dark hearted
broken mandela dreams
a life ended, then started
mountains patiently wait
sultry shadows at noon
cool down meadow breezes
my soul warms to the tune
softly, now wander
muffled oars slowly dip
drifting up crystal rivers
losing ego, loosened grip
infinite sadness is shattered
joyful trumpets resound
ragged curtains are mended
serenity sought out...
and found.
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