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.
Sing (or Say) to the Melody of
"These are a Few of My Favorite Things"
~ 'Sound of Music,' Julie Andrews
Roses with masks on
And tulips in lockdown
Purple lilacs aroma
From here to Tacoma
Peonies popping
And daffodils yellow
Lilies of the Valley
Their cups oh-so-mellow
These were a few of my favorite things
'Til Corona stripped off my wings
If the bug bites
On a May night
Pray they don't give
You last rites
For just when they say that it's safe to go out
Those doubts in your head ~ will sprout
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.
Passed all my grades and received a diploma;
Question asked was where is all of the aroma;
A New tactic;
Being aromatic;
Told them was while passing through Tacoma.
Jim Horn
I'll be kissing you
In our canoodlers' canoe
Paddlin' 'round the walrus tank
At the Tacoma Zoo.
Aroma of Harm In Tacoma Area
Of death and harm there was an aroma;
Experienced effects resulting from drama,
Near DuPont;
Many did haunt;
Happened on train ride in area of Tacoma.
Jim Horn
I live atop a foothill to mountains of the Cascade Range
and people here keep to themselves whether on busses or on trains;
from my back porch are lights a big city can be seen;
and the blissful aroma of Tacoma remains endlessly lingering.
Strange men and women drive so many different cars, backed up on I-5;
quiet shameful waste of natural resources and an utter waste of lost time—
Displaced in such crowded chaotic madness;
eyes reveal a hopeful truth behind bloodshot sadness.
I can also see such a sight from my front yard,
where tens' of thousands' drive to work very, very hard;
a not so big surprise when homeless men floating that-their sign,
witness cars turn away cheeks denying wrongs with you and too I.
And hope remains prevalent above all other fear; all alone—
So long as we give all our love every day; too each, we call home...
1-05-17
Milton, Washington (United States of America)
A Sonnet contest about where I live, by Silent One...
Indonesian limelight,
Sweltering Catholic skies,
My burden floats with whimpering puppies.
I’m left with twin sisters inside a giant watermelon.
You never read my dreams like I wanted you to.
I never fit into your brain the way you’d like me to.
Now I wait forever under the strange spinning sun clocks,
While some mysterious justice wisps through the banana air,
Leaving me breathless, and pantless, in Tacoma.
Beautiful mountain
Japan is in my backyard
Tacoma Fuji
The Mountain
Iconic
white peak floats
over the region from Seattle to
Tacoma. Seen easily on clear sunny
days, natures heavily glacially mantled
edifice inspires us to reach great heights, as
we stand in awe of this beautiful sleeping volcanic strato
giant that we have called Rainier, also known earlier as Tahoma.
Written 07/09/2015
Right now, in the Northwest town of Seattle,
Seahawks egos must be higher than the Space Needle.
On the west coast, it was just a little after seven,
when the Seahawks faithful felt they entered seventh heaven.
After what happened at the Super Bowl outside of New York,
numerous fans in Washington are popping a champagne cork.
Others must be loading up on whiskey, wine, and beer.
For what happened tonight, they have a good reason to cheer.
To celebrate, many of them were getting ready
long before that blizzard of green and yellow confetti.
From Tacoma and Olympia all the way to Puget Sound,
I’m sure there are many happy fans that can be found.
I wrote about rain
In Tacoma early on
Sitting in a kitchen
Watching the street below.
Yet today I'm very far South
And it's a different rain
This one is filled with many thoughts
Made of many types.
Drizzling and misting
Hard and straight
Only one sunny break
Easter prelude weather.
Trucking down from Canada, through Northwest America.
Feeling every lonesome mile, you can rest in just awhile.
Southwest of Seattle town, there’s a place where you sit down,
Drinking, trying hard to lose those Tacoma truck-stop blues.
“Better get back on the road, ‘hope your senses are not slowed,
Too much beer is in your head, clear your brain or you’ll be dead.
Drinking coffee when you drive, singing songs to keep alive,
Maybe they can help you lose those Tacoma truck-stop blues.
Make believe you love the life, leave your children, leave your wife,
Leave those other trucks behind, hear that diesel sound unwind.
Waitresses and wives agree: truckers only think they’re free;
Driving fast but you can’t lose those Tacoma truck-stop blues.
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