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Haiku: Gathering of the People

The word traveled fast.
All would meet in the sacred
hills for one last stand.

Down Memory's lanes

Roaming through life a vagrant
Chance upon your fragrance
Know not what came upon me
Filled me with delectable ecstasy

Ah! I felt life did nothing give
Until I met you, I didn’t believe
Soft grace, belief and confidence
Could tame souls of belligerence

Wonder if I’d ever be able to repay
For stopping my anger’s steady foray
The moment when your soft eyes spoke
Livened up my life, rich colors replete

Look into my eyes now to clearly see
What your love has bestowed upon me
Thank you dear, for touching my soul
And reawakening a heart, frozen cold

As I sit here and our pasts contemplate
You stand tall, my memorable soul mate
Even though we now only each other see
Upon the vanishing walls of our memory

That's all he knew.

"It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive" said DH Lawrence wittily.
All I can say is, he must never have driven on the Autostrada in Italy.

This poem was inspired not only by today's prompt, but by the previous prompt asking us to take inspiration from a famous poem.

Song of the Open Road (With Sidekicks)

Afoot and light-hearted, we take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before us,
the winding path before us, leading wherever we choose.

Henceforth I ask not for jubilee, so replete
with joy am I. Henceforth I do not tarry,
waver, or expect solitude. I gather my child comrades,
and strong and content, we take to the open road.

My delicious burdens beside me,
they go where I go, they cannot imagine
a journey without me, and I cannot imagine
a song without them in it.

You booster seats! You packs of snacks, Goldfish and crackers!
You juiceboxes and Uncrustables! You coloring books,
crayons, markers and notebooks!
You Little House on the Prairie on CD!
You make the journey possible, and therefore
I celebrate you!

From this hour, freedom!
Not the liberation that rises when unconstrained,
but instead, embracing the holds that would hold me,
because I have chosen them, because they
are dear to me, because without them
I could not inhale great draughts of space,
because without them, I could not
take one breath.

Now I see the secret of the making of great persons,
it is in the tenderness we have woven in the air
between us, it is in the grins that bounce
from my face to yours, it is in the soft chubby
hand I grasp in mine, in the freshness
and sweetness of mother and child, sister and daghter.

Afoot and light-hearted, we take to the open road,
because we know, as ever, that home
is wherever we three are forever.

If Only I Could

If only I could, I’d plug my ears
to the start-gun shot that signals
the rat race run. I’d flap my wings
and sail smoothly over the rest of
the rush, in by 7 and out at 5.
Or beam me up, Scottie, unless,
once again, the transporter is out.
I’d untangle the knot, the snarly,
gnarly mess that’s more of a
hangman’s noose than silk bow tie.
Or just perhaps, I’d turn around and
drive back home and sip peach
blossom tea in an easy chair while
the rest of the world tries to make
sense of the whole unholy mess.

What A Wonderful Day It Has Been III

What a wonderful day it has been.
I sat with Peter, Jayne’s husband,
lunching with Kate, Jayne’s friend,
and Aaron and his Richard, Jayne’s son
and son-in-law.
Jayne was somewhere, painting.
My Barbara, too.
An accidental meeting between us,
way, way, way high up
in a small Tuscan village.
The food looked fabulous.
I wasn’t hungry, so I passed.
I wasn’t thirsty, either,
but I drank their wine.
We talked,
then we walked,
and talked some more,
about nothing, mostly.
Not even about Jayne.
Or Barbara.
We rode down
to our hotel town
in a bright red funicular
and never once thought to
sing Volare.
What a wonderful day it has been.

Sad Moving

Please don’t cry
You know why
Pack the truck
Wish us luck
We have to go
Economies slow
Travel we must
Kick up the dust
From here to there
Say a prayer
We have to go
Economies slow
We’ll find a way
A place to stay
A job for me
You’ll see
We have to go
Economies slow

Travel

It started here
at home
I lay in the sun in front of the farmhouse
When I got the call
I can have an interview
But I must be there tommorrow
In New York City.
No big deal.
We have an airport two hours away.
I throw some clothes in a bag
And a magazine and a book
I get there before midnight
I spend the night at a friend's apartment uptown
Bright and early
I ride the subway to Canal Street
Walk through China Town
Here I am
Right on time
I get the job
HURRAY

as i leave...

as i leave, please wave at me
but shed no tears, don’t cry for me
sing no sad songs, do not frown
this is not a reason to feel down

when i’m gone, don’t forget about me
think of me, do think of me fondly
remember our moments, those that are happy
and smile, smile, as you think of me

remember me while i am away
think of me each night and day
but do not cry, don’t cry, please
though i know, each other we’ll truly miss

yes, i’ll be gone but that’s not forever
in a while, once more we’ll be together
we may be apart, but i promise i’ll leave you never
so let’s not say "goodbye!" --- just "see you later!"

Return to the Cities

Creeping steadily like ants
awaiting the hand to expel us,
We enter the deep man-made canyons
choked with fugitive plants,
Sumac and crab apple
Our like-size companions.
Sudden sections of road are bare,
Clean as yesterday's dinner plate,
Where ground is unbroken stone.
But our eyes do not linger there,
where gnarled roots desecrate
metal signs and boxes overgrown
Like dice clenched in wooden knuckles.
No, our eyes only dare look up
grinding our neck bones, straining
until our will buckles
We can not see enough to feed
this new need deep with us
To stand next to that which is
So much greater than ourselves.
Catching the glance of our cattle
who we brought with us, patiently
chewing grass that breaks through
centuries-old brick,
It seems a vulgar joke
It's as likely their ancestors
built this.
--

What A Woderful Day It Has been II

What a wonderful day it has been.
After a long, long, long flight,
filled, filled, filled with Tahiti-bound Parisians,
we awoke in our own bed,
clean sheets and familiar pillows,
Roxie and Brutus purring
between our legs.
We heard the little golf course mowers,
softer than Italian Vespa’s.
We drank Starbucks coffee
and ate Cheerios with soy milk,
hard bread and Nescafe a fading memory.
No tour bus,
no tourists,
no special scenic side trips.
Traveling is nice.
Being home is nicer.
What a wonderful day it has been.

Reverie Obscura

I dream I am on a bus,
the mountain road steep, precipitous,
flowing water below and no railings.
The bus stops, we get out.
I am with someone else.
It is a man, perhaps a lover.
We walk above the trees.
There is a desert below,
cactus in bloom, green lizards skitter.
I can see for miles.
Clouds are purple and blue,
sky painting dissolves to pink
and orange. Then we are
on a train, going backwards.
The world goes by upside down,
a camera obscura, through
pinhole windows
reflecting on black walls.
We sit upside down
to see the world
right side up.
This is poetry, he says
and I am falling now,
falling out of the poem.

April 24

Awake to warm sun at the Comfort Inn
after several days of cold driving rain
water rises swiftly on the Saint John River
along the broad river front workers scurry
to move greenhouse plants up high on shelves
farmers carry fertilizer bags to upper barns
people move all they can up from basements
pile it high and messy on second floors.
We stroll along Prospect Street in the sun
up on the hill in the high part of town
wonder about the cat back home on the island.
Hugh

"Going Home"

You pack your bags with determination and will,
Anxiety and fear are present still.
It's been quite a while,
Since you've seen her smile.
A trip you must take,
For the family's sake.
While deep inside,
Childhood fears reside.
Arrival proves to be,
A bitter, sweet memory.
One look into mother's face,
Knowledge you've come home to find your place.

Tectonics

From a thousand miles under the ground I tread
You come rolling towards me, you
Who have been approaching for millennia,
You at last sense your birth is near, only a few decades away--
You, eyeless, whose feminine features
Resemble those of the young Mozart,
Though of basalt carved;
My feet feel you walk beneath me--
Sometimes our soles are nearly touching.
When your birthday dawns
You will at last arise to greet me
And eye to eye, brow to brow,
Mouth to mouth, thigh to thigh,
I will dissolve in your igneous.

Our Last Weekend With Alan


Flashback to
that last weekend we spent in Franklin;
you and me and Alan.
He was our best friend.

The three of us slept on a bare floor.
We played scrabble on a splintered deck,
carried cold spring water up a steep trail
to the back door of our unfinished cabin.

At midnight, we witnessed the spirit dance,
and chain walked a rope bridge, holding hands,
laughing drunk on Coors and moonbeams.

He was our best friend.
Just a short month later,
we were dropping roses on his grave.

And you never knew,
how he kissed me sweet
in the North Carolina sunshine.

My Missing Hope

We have transferred modes so often in so many locales
It has become a subset of memory: places I have stalled.
The Cincinnati airport circa 2:00 am where we made up
Stories, hilarious to only us, about every one eating ice cream.
Bombay, where I draped over the bags, passed out
From exhaustion. My dead weight, sleeping; successfully
Protected those bags from theft. But at one Indiana bus terminal,
I lost my antique veiled hat because you pushed me to rush.
Despite your fleeting features, I did not foresee
When you would leave me behind abruptly, raggedly -
Too soon to follow where friendships decay;
I evolved into a wretched traveler after your defection.
Got busted at the Burbank airport for a tube of toothpaste -
Which I did not see as either a “gel” nor a “liquid.”
I thought of paste as more akin to glue,
The kind of thing that might have kept us together -
If it hadn’t been thrown out.

Playing Cards

A deck of cards.
Kings of lands.
Queens of wards.
Jacks with swords.

From 2 to 10
my playing cards
were floors, walls,
ceilings, doors.

My house of cards
were black and red
rooms, with jacks
guarding the doors
for kings and queens
inside, until

too often, the house
fell down, a breeze
from an open door,
a mis-step, a breath.

Now a deck of cards
means so much more.
Now I am 34, I must
care about bets, chips.

I want to travel back
to innocent days, when
a house of cards meant
nothing but what is was,
when I didn’t lose my house
with a bad bet.

Poetry prompt word “travel-related” (The greatest travel experience of all (from one who knows) after traveling to 75 foreign countries on assignment as an intelligence officer---going HOME)

HOMEWARD BOUND TO MAINE
© Richard-Merlin Atwater April 24, 2009

The sand and the sea, companions to me,
And the rockbound coast and the waves;
'Tis the crashing tide, and the surf's subside
That keeps calling me home again.

The tangy salt air, and the seagull's prayer
Which is echoed across the beach;
And the scent of the pine, and the fisherman's line
Are the dreams that capture my reach.

There's the lighthouse too, with its' foghorn,---Blew,
To the schooners and ships asail;
With islands afloat near the lobsterman's boat,
And the seashells that rest by the snail.

But the old brick school of my childhood days
Has a different and changed clientele;
And the sights and the sounds seem so different now
To a wandering traveler homeward bound.

And the kids in the park are strangers to me,
For I lived in another time;
Though the place is the same, at least by its' name;
But the players and the action are no longer mine.

I walk through the park and wrustle the leaves,
And think of those days of yore;
How at Deering Oaks at my mother's side
We watched the swans glide to and fro.

And on Congress St. during Christmas time
We would look in the windows delight;
The electric train in the palm of my hand
Would circle around in the night.

And walking along the busy sidewalk
Came Mr. Peanutman,
With bags of peanuts, like candy to give,
And willing to shake my hand.

And down on the corner of some side street,
And half way beneath the ground
Was the little store selling honeycombs,
And 'The Teddy Bears Picnic' record song.

And the church that I visit is new to me
From the one's that I knew long ago;
But the hymns resound to the organ's sound
And I capture the spirit of my childhood throes.

But lost to me now are those family days
When Daddy and Mama were one;
And twelve of us kids laughed and cried different times,
While the seasons and places in Maine were fun.

Yes, gone are the days of our family group,
Now scattered to distant lands;
But the mem'ries live on of my native Maine
Whenever I'm homeward bound.
=========================================================

Thanks "mamayut" for your kind words yesterday on my poetry, et al, Best Regards,
R.M. Atwater--"the Man from Maine" (a 6'2" Longfellow!)

done

once again I sit at the computer
fingers moving here to there
A to K, typing away
while one son runs up and down stairs
the other prepares to leave for school

I need to get in the shower
but i can't seem to move
can't seem to get up
can't seem to get me from here to there
Ready to be anywhere
but here

the train
to Erie PA
is always
late

it passes through
the center of
the New York State
twenty minutes
to two hours
after the
posted time
of departure

instead
of sunset
dusk has come
and gone
full dark
settles like
a scarf
on the hills
slides down
toward
the lower
spaces
into
the valleys

Erie PA
feels
further away
in the dark

Best Way to Travel

In my head, I travel the wilds of Africa, though
maybe they aren’t quite so wild now, tamed as they are
by Land Rovers. Not dwelling, I move quickly over the Nile,
onwards to the Taj Mahal. Sitting before the massive monument
to love lost, I ponder the lack. All to soon, I’m in Australia,
and the sound of a didgeridoo bellows low like the cattle
I see in the distance. And now, in the space of heartbeats,
yours and mine, I am standing on the Golden Gate Bridge,
high up in the clouds, watching the morning commuters, hurry
on their way, oblivious now to the depth and breadth of the view.

Homebody

While I thank you for the offer,
I’m afraid that I can’t go.
I have excuses all stored up.
Here is a blow-by-blow:
I have to work. I have to play.
New air might make me wheeze.
The destination is too cold,
And I don’t like to freeze.
Too tropical, or too remote.
Too many things I’d have to tote.
I cannot fly, for fear of height
(An alibi that is “airtight.”)
I can’t today because it’s late.
Tomorrow is no better.
I have too many checks to write;
Don’t want to be a debtor.
I cannot go. I’m not prepared.
My bags aren’t even packed.
I need to wash my dog tonight,
And that is just a fact.
In case you haven’t noticed,
I’m not the Roaming Gnome.
My favorite destination
Is my cozy little home.

It's anarchy
Cars three-wide, but only one lane
Dominican roads

Flying High

My son flies from California
for Mother’s Day.
May last I flew to him.
In Florida
love bugs arrive in May.

One Step at a time

One before the other, let my feet carry me
into each day, with peace and harmony.

Travelling – By Jane Eamon 2009

I hit the road
With both feet running
Breathe deep
As the landscape rushes by
I cannot pause
To smell the blooms
Though their cast-off skins
Carpet my feet

I hit the road
Heart pounding
Feel the fluttering
Of my senses
As I run on
I cannot stop to rest
There is no place
To lay my head
I must keep moving

I hit the road
No thought for the destination
They say a traveller
Has no care for the end
Only the route travelled
Is important
I cannot think about
My trip ahead
Only revel in the joy of
Travelling this route

I hit the road
Fear my constant companion
Chained like a beast
In a cage
My right foot caught
Tight in its grip
I cannot stop
To unlock the chains
So I drag them with me
On this journey

I hit the road
With head up
And heart open
Though I know not
Where I will go
I cannot see the future
Only feel the wind
Rushing past me
As I run

ON Vacation

From Maryland I drove
on the wide open road
in the pouring down rain
past rivers and trains
To Wisconsin I went
My mind was hell-bent
to visit some friends
Now our fun never ends
But there's simply no time
to make silly rhymes
There's to much to do
with our whole motley crew
My time here is shrinking
And now I am thinking
This poem is done
I am off to have fun!!!

Bad Vacation Relations

Who said vacations are fun?
Growing up, my family wasn't
the kind that took a lot of
fancy vacations. Whenever
we did venture out on a trip
to the sandy beaches or
rustic mountains, the whole
time we stayed at the hotel
to swim, while mom and dad
sat in the room, drinking
booze and arguing over where
to go for dinner. My sister
usually had a terrible stomach
ache. She and I would fight like
cats and dogs, clawing and
kicking each other under the
covers in the bed we shared,
until we invariably would have
to be separated for the rest
of the night. I was always so
glad when our family vacation
was over so I could go out
and play with my friends.

Laurie K.

Note to all: If you haven't read Linda Furby's EVE post from yesterday's prompt, check it out. I guarantee a chuckle!

It's very late this side of the world (or very early in the morning actually). I just had a look at the prompt before going to bed, so I can sleep on it and wake up and think about it tomorrow, but seeing there were only 25 entries so far, I thought I'd grab a quick read - and oh, oh, oh, roflmao, banana-the-poet, you absolutely made my night!

Message to Earth

To touch the face of another world
that is all we dreamed about
there were so many barriers to overcome
that we are fighting still
in our nightmarish sleep

What if we awake
only to find we are still dreamers?
And what we left behind
won’t leave us?

What angry red birth mark
did the Earth press on us
that we can never wash off?

Will we fall like a plague
on this new bright world?

We carry the Earth with us
We carry it in our blood.

The Road to Nirvana

When I was born,
I was given a map to Nirvana,
A short cut to inner peace.
The Zen master
Forgot many things,
Excluding many
Points of interest
Like how
to survive adolescence,
How to find the perfect job,
How to transform matrimony
Into happiness,
Where to find
The instruction manual
For each child,
How to find peace in a crisis,
Where to find
My purpose in life –
Or even how to get out
Of the mess
I just got myself into.

The map felt
Incomplete,
Defective.
As I zigzagged
In frustrated confusion
Along life’s back roads,
But in the wasteland
I found love and beauty,
Thoughts worth thinking,
Red herrings worth chasing,
Friends worth keeping.

Maybe the Zen master
Gave me a good map after all,
Since life is in the journey,
Surprises are
around every corner,
Each destination
Becomes much more interesting
Than going
From Point A
To Point B.

"A Dream Journey Revealed - Fear"

Night was closing in;
Dusky dark
upon the mountain;
We knew the way
but only if we kept
along the path.
The snakes had lain
their poisonous heads;
hundreds,
twisting, writhing,
coiled and waiting
upon the way
that would take us home.
We screamed in panic;
running in different
directions,
but knowing
we were near
for we could hear
each other's shouts.
Unable to see
in front of me;
limbs and twigs
scratched
my face
and arms;
I fell,
crying in pain
and groped the ground
in front of me.
I touched him;
an arm,
a face,
some hair
and I knew
a dead man lay
upon my hands.
I shrieked
as I jumped
to my feet
and ran
but not far
before a tree
stood in my path
and knocked me on
my back.
I must make it home,
I thought,
before the darkness
swallows me.
Then,
to my relief,
I saw a glimmer,
a light beyond,
below the hill.
"There's home!" I shouted
to my sisters,
to the left of me,
whom I could not see
but could hear their sounds,
their quickening footsteps.
"Keep your eyes set
upon the light," I said,
"for it will lead us home!"

LOIRE RIVER CHATEAUX (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 24, 2009

Loire River Chateaux, Chateaux; Loire River Chateaux.
Morning in Paris, Tours afternoon.
The road will take me to Langeais soon.
Searching for mem'ries, and hoping to find
My dream, my dream---
Loire River Chateaux, Chateaux; Loire River Chateaux,

Azay le Rideau, and Chamont too!
That famous castle the Fountainbleau,
Chateaux de Chambord, and Amboise,
My dream, my dream---
Loire River Chateaux, Chateaux; Loire River Chateaux.

Ain't it a dream, a memory of
All of the things I'm hoping for.
There on the plains of central France,
To find my own Renaissance.

Morning in Paris, Tours afternoon,
The road will take me to Chenenceau,
Usse, Villandry, with flowers in bloom,
My dream, my dream---
Loire River Chateaux, Chateaux; Loire River Chateaux.

Morning in Paris, Tours afternoon,
The road will take me to Blois in the moon.
Searching for mem'ries, and hoping to find
My dream, my dream---
Loire River Chateaux, Chateaux; Loire River Chateaux.

Ain't it a dream, a memory of
All of the things I'm hoping for,
There on the plains of central France,
To find my own Renaissance.

Morning in Paris, Tours afternoon,
The road will take me to Orleans,
Searching for mem'ries, and hoping to find
My dream, my dream---
Loire River, Chateaux, Chateaux; Loire River Chateaux.
========================================================

Marie Elena: "I've been EVERYWHERE, man, I've been EVERYWHERE" just like the song says: BUT-----I see that YOU share my very same sentiments whee it comes to a final DESTINATION. Even for the weary traveler the best trip is GOING HOME!I loved YOUR poem!

Moving


I woke up this morning
Swimming in a good space
The sheets were soft against my skin
The air was gentle
Blowing scents of flowers
Over me
I had to move
Finally
Had to get out of bed
I had to call you
You know what was said
Hiking down off my mountain
Into the here and now
It hurts and it sucks
Now so full of dread
These serious talks
Can’t we move on instead
But then we were done
And a swan song began
In the back of my head
I strolled on again
Whistling my way
Back into
My blissful state
Of awakening

Travel Opportunities

I always thought I would do more
but I’ve made choices that preclude luxury
and work-related isn’t the same.
Also, I don’t want to travel like some
with a few notes in my pocket, and an address
of someone on the other side of the world
who may have a spare room or a space on the floor.
I once travelled home on the train
with seventy cents,
enough for a cup of tea
I was happy for that, but I was, after all, travelling home
with my sister due to pick me up at the station.
My niece wants only to stay in a four star hotel
once in her life
That’s too easy, I want to say
Harder is to live daily like a traveler to foreign shores
Eyes open, anticipation quivering every sense
As if the old fellow with the gray beard
was not someone you see crossing the street everyday
As if the market you buy beer at
had exotic, mysterious smells
instead of old meat, grime and mold
As if every trip into town
was an open road
Destination intended, but never reached.

No Man’s Land

The meadow, succulent
from a season of alternating
storms & focused sun lay an ill-yellow;
strange European flowers struggled
to beat the whims of a heatful sum-
mer. I didn’t speak the language,
but was aware of the male-talk
on the flimsy decking of a working Alm—
thick beer, rough bread & spiced cheese,
shots of schnapps, like drinking ice.
Full of the rigors of the turbulent countryside,
we scaled intricate portions of Alps
in boots, strung in backpacks, forded
that blabbering river, looped from Bavaria
to Austria & back. Limbs spread in sun-
light, my companions talked as if I was no lady,
or so my translator suggested and certainly
I was the only one of my kind for miles
that day. Straddling a gate of pine
branches. I urged them to act natural, bitte!
as if they needed prompting, arms linking fitness,
identical grins flashy as the glacier valley
in a mix of sunshine, of shadow. Despite
the thrill of a challenging new clime, I
found my friends arrogant, slow-bullying,
annoyed by the tourist keeping her-
self up; cow bells clunked through sweet
grass like lazy, indifferent alarms.
Later, like the true codependent I
was, I accepted the outrage
from the man intolerant of new truths.
Verboten! Submerged in the host’s Bavarian
guestbed--unable to summon
the tiniest force
of a nature yet to come.

Thank you, Mr. Atwater! I'm not really quite as bad as I portray myself here, but pretty darn close. Thankfully, my husband is as much a homebody as I am. I must say though, your poetry makes travel quite appealing! You have truly lived!

Bravo, Daniel Paicopulos!

I am a suitcase master
49 pounds a piece
evenly distributed
I can go anywhere
Tokyo, Boston, Panama City
my whole life in
these bags
Empty hotel room
empty apartment
fuller farm house
my heart is out to sea
but my soul
is airplane shaped

Day 24: Travel

Planning a trip
is half the fun.
Poring over
websites and
calendars and
debating between
hotels,
motels,
B&Bs.
Congratulating myself
on finding
the best routes with
the least traffic
and the straightest
roads.
Determining
that this trip will
be the best one,
that I’ll find the house
where my father was born,
uncover documents
that will enlighten
and meet people who
will do the same.
Planning a trip
is half the fun.
Getting there is
the rest of it.

The Race to the Dawn of America



The sun already down,
slumber in the town
of Cambridge.

The Charles River gently flows
Just as any night,
The British are sure that no one knows
That there will be a fight,
As they traverse
The distance of the universe.

Appear, two lanterns
Three men behold.
"One, if by land, and two, by sea."
They were told.
Horses ready, saddles steady
Dust smoking behind,
Racing through the city,
By the ocean, timed.

They shouted for America,
For their liberty,
Riding through the town
“The British are coming!”
And they were determined to be free.


-Nakita Bickle

Time

There she is
Sitting
Reading
Writing
Meditating

There she is
Baby in her arms
Nursing
Caring
Bodies as one

There she is
Singing
Dancing
Running in circles
Playing with her shadow

There she is
Sitting
Reading
Writing
Meditating.

Tavel to the Twenty-Fourth You

He was my first kiss
at the creek, then pairs
of boys skating to school,
hiking in summer,
studying all night, driving
with a fever, painting it white,
the redheaded demon, the black-
eyed saint, recreating everyone
culminating with you in the
tub soaping on TV.

Cousins

Riding the orange
to the moon
through a summer night

Looking down on the earth
green earth
brown earth
all in squares

Blue squiggly rivers
round ponds
and lakes

Finally an escape

The orange and the moon
are cousins
so the orange
knows the way

The sky is her ocean
washing away her fear
keeping her safe

Tavel to the Twenty-Fourth You

He was my first kiss
at the creek, then pairs
of boys skating to school,
hiking in summer,
studying all night, driving
with a fever, painting it white,
the redheaded demon, the black-
eyed saint, recreating everyone
culminating with you in the
tub soaping on TV.

It's not Linda, but BELINDA Furby. (So sorry for butchering your name TWICE, Belinda!). Do check out her Eve submission on yesterday's prompt.

Every night my heart
flies thousands of miles to beat
whereever you are.

As passengers
disembark
through the gate, voices
sneak up on me, talk
behind my back
about tomorrows,
yesterdays left
sleeping in
musty overhead bins.

In their passing,
I see only backs, wrinkled
pants and shirts,
headrest hair matted
in directions not found
on a compass,
as they set off
to find land legs,
tagged bags, a ride
with someone
who waits just for them
at their next point
of immediate departure.

The one where signs
are clearly marked,
announcements
of what to expect
handed down from on-high
clear-cut, unlike
our tastes for fog
and smoke.

Who will feed the dog
or water the plants
more distinct, more
legible than a pencil-scrawled
note on the refrigerator,
the erasures
matching
scribbles on a postcard
I hold, waiting for you.

"Travellin’ through"

I was just travellin’ through this life of mine
Not really taking the time
To figure out what it is that I want
Now that I’m at the mid-way point of
My travellin’
I figure I should make it worth my while
So now I am writing more poetry
And taking piano lessons
Having sex with complete reckless abandon
Travelling to places I have never been
Drinking more wine
Now really enjoying my time
No more just travellin’ through

PAUSE BEFORE TAKEOFF
I a butterfly
rest on the couch
my soft breath
carries thoughts away.

Cross legged, cat tucked
in my lap, lean back on the couch
Survey treasured memories,
foot prints left in brains carpet.

Here I am peaceful
before I go out the door
to fight monsters and demons.

Following Directions

It feels like déjà vu
all over again
because I think I’m lost –
at least, I think I’ve passed this way a few
times, but then...
is this street the one I just crossed?

Three lefts and two rights?
Getting lost really bites!

So which direction do I pursue
which gets me to the restaurant?
They’re expecting me. I’m long overdue.
Right now, just finding it is all I want.
But wait! I’m here? Oh gosh! Who knew!
“Who needs a GPS? “ I shrug, quite nonchalant.

We’ve All Got ‘Em

You’d think with all of
Clark Kent’s talents:
super-human strength,
speed, sight, health,
hearing; he’d figure out
his best friend is hiding
a monster in her
basement. Keeps to
herself. Prepares a
big meal and doesn’t
invite him to sit down
to eat. Appears sad
and nervous. Anxious
for him to leave.
Perhaps a rustle
in her basement.
What? Dose he
think she has mice?
For all his gifts,
detective work
isn’t one of them.

My client, a childlike
man, holds his Tigger
toy out to me. I
squeeze its tail. He
bounces along with
Tigger. I laugh. We
all have weaknesses,
we all have talents.

On a 4:45 Am Trip to the Bathroom Summer

The day’s in an incubator,
a time-bomb moon ticks.
To the side a demon in red pajamas
dashes behind a bush to hide
paints its leaves red.
The possibility of opening my arms
Far too remote, un-promised.
I yawn, eventually squirm back to bed
where I fit less easily than a round-ish peg
in a round hole.

The Perfect Setting

Just two millimeters of needle is never enough;
as soft as that feels, the whole payload can seep out unused.
And at eight, pick your spots -- that deep pin-prick can leave you all bruised,
and dear lord, stay away from the thighs! It won't make you look tough

to have spasms and cramps from the moment the tip hits the muscle.
Even belly-fat, ample and soft, won't ensure deep success.
Hit a blood vessel, bruising you up; it will leave you a mess.
Jury's out on six millimeters of razor-tipped nozzle.

Almost anywhere, anything more than the "four" will unravel
my most sincere efforts to follow the plans as laid out
by that sweet, sincere middle-aged nurse who was sent out to scout
just how deeply my once-daily miracle-giver should travel.

Iceland is so gorgeous
*****************************

Iceland is a country most gorgeous,
Personally I think it's the loveliest place on Earth,
The beautiful landscape and nature wonders are so marvelous,
I give my thanks to ETG for the hearth.

Einar's hearth is so cozy,
The internet connection there is so quick,
Staying there really made me lazy,
I really adore the Arctic.

travel light

the plane is ready
it's somewhere else now
taking someone else to some other far away city
soon the plane will be waiting for me
and I'll lift up
with the vessel that will be my nighttime home
I'll be taken far away
from early morning coffee with my father
from talks with my mother about how to buy a car
from New York cafes
soon in Lisbon I'll be watching others
in their morning routines
wondering how their fathers drink their coffee
one sugar or two

Making Fun
By Judy Kneprath
4-24-09

Oh how she loved to travel
Dreamed of it, thought of it, pursued
It every chance she could get
Then came back and shared it all
Slide shows, printed pictures, lectures
At church and local groups
Poured it out of every pore of her
Get her started on a conversation about
Travels and where she had been and
You were in for a sit-down, time-taking ride
Of your life

She could describe it all well
Make you wish you were there
Get you laughing with her
Scared for her with some of the
Situations she found herself in
Make you reach out and hold her
For how glad you were she made
It back

And so when her knees gave out
And her feet gave out
And her strength gave out
And she lay curled up in her
Nursing home bed
And she couldn’t travel
Any more at all
One day when we came to visit
My husband said with honest grief
Oh I’m just so sorry you don’t get to have
Much fun any more

Bright eyes snapping open, she turned her head to him
And said oh no, you’ve got it all wrong
I have fun in my head!

JessinChina: Great job. Marvelous Haiku on a wonderful sentiment. I'm a sentimentalist and romanticist at heart. Rich Atwater

INTERNATIONAL MAN © Richard-Merlin Atwater 1985

An international man,
I carry Master Card,
I always work so good,
And then it's understood,
That I play so hard.

An international man,
I carry VISA too!
And when it comes to life,
At least after 'five',
Do what I want to do.

The girls in Taipei,
Say they like to play,
And in Hong Kong too!

The girls in 'Parie',
Say they're after me,
And in Berlin town
They work harder to please.

French girls, German girls,
Turn me around,
Up town, down town,
Spinning around:

An international man,
I have a 'Passport' now,
I roam around the world,
Just looking for the girls,
Who send me 'round and 'round.

An international man,
I have my traveler's checks,
I spend my money then,
You'll see me back again,
Chasing the opposite sex!

The girls in London town,
They follow me around,
To Sydney, Australyoo.

The girls in Tokyo,
Are really on the go,
And they dance and prance in Rio de Janeiro!

British girls, Asian girls,
Turn me around,
Up town, down town,
Spinning around.

An international man,
I have my dollar bill,
I fly on jumbo jets,
I roll the dice on bets,
And spin the wheel for a thrill.

An international man,
I drive a Porsche car,
While speeding down the road,
I break the secret code,
To be a 'Super Star'.

The girls in L.A.
Wait for a sunny day,
And dream of Mexicoo.

The girls in New York City
Really capture me,
And they turn me on
Down in Italy.

American, Italian girls,
Turn me around,
Up town, down town,
Spinning around.

An international man.
An international man.
An international man.
===========================================

Forgive me, all, for succumbing to the need to include this one TODAY on travel. I composed over 100 songs, mostly POP-ROCK for my band "Rich Atwater and the Astronauts" and this was my "Theme Song". I composed it while flying a Jumbo Jet across the Pacific from Taipei, Taiwan to Los Angles on a return trip from Japan, China, Singapore etc. Available on MUSIC CD titled ASTRO-ROCK at www.cdbaby.com , or www.3swanspublishers.com a real hot rock beat with flashy electric guitar licks. I sing "lead" and play rhythm guitar on the recording! I'm sure Walt would love it to keep in tune with his Faux-Beatles tour group experience!
Marie Elena/Hannah Bowles---let's DANCE! Trudi Jarvis I liked your poem today!
================================================================

Missouri

Blank as a field,
Huge as a whale,
Lonely, boring,
Ever not adoring,
Can be fun,
Hot as the sun.
BHLECH.

A Proof for Divine Intervention



The creature struggled to gain purchase against the rugged surface,
its life force withering in the heat,
the razorblade pendulum of the white glow sunlight
desiccating it with a methodical,
sharp pain which was slowly dulling from loss of sensation.
It had wandered onto this paved clearing
seeking to find a new oasis within to flourish.
A journey to a new realm. Passage.
Yet, as all confident and hopeful minds know,
more can be accomplished than not being so,
alas,
the voyage was greater than the vessel.
The road too long to travel,
there would be no crossing today.
The hardened ground made movement an energy draining weigh.
The sizzle and burn of the great ball above
seared into its being from the outset,
penetrating heart and body.
Too far commited, too far away.
Oh! Oasis, where are thee?
Floundering, twisting,
a thirst crazed soul reaching for a mirage it knew didn’t exist.
Knowing this slow death,
realizing it,
then being altogether too scalded and too depleted and too draught to care.
It approached, from within and without, rapidly now.
Fading.
Away.
It wouldn’t be long now. Not long at all.

The boy got restless and switched off the video game,
having just finally reached the level he wanted to attain,
(and by sheer luck that).
He jumped up, switched off the tube and went outside to play.
He jostled down the sidewalk, whistling a joyous melody.
He hop-skipped to the side to avoid stepping on a……

Something had it!
A pressure on all sides, squeezing,
not enough to be fatal,
just so much as to teach and tease it of what was to come.
It felt itself being lifted.
This was it. The end.
Its spirit hurtled upwards,
gleaning the air that rushed by, it saw everything and forever,
exhilaration,
but yet, wait!
now descending,
descending to the ground.
Dirt. OASIS!
How could this be? Was the end over and now this?
No. This was home,
back where it had started
the fated flight across the cement desert.
Its oasis.
Life again.
Its Eden.
Alive again.
Moisture. Tears. Alive.

…worm.
The boy didn’t like to squish them.
He saw it was struggling in the sun.
He picked it up gently
and laid it down in the plush, green grass next to the sidewalk.
And went to go look for fun.

Road Trip

Because your back gave out the day
after we slept on the ground outside
Chattanooga, we spent the next
three days in a hotel beside a hospital
in Kansas City. After too many drugs
(and a lost Denny's breakfast), family
in Denver, a comfortable bed, we hit
Wyoming, where your back loosened
and you cartwheeled at the rest stop,
the Sinclair dinosaurs watching.
In Utah we took pictures of sandstone,
juniper, tried to buy beer and failed.
We hit a roadrunner outside Tucson
on our way to Biosphere Two, slept
on the ground again in Las Cruces,
tried to cross Texas in a day. Failed.
Had boudin in Sulphur, dinner at
Tujague's, drinks at The Famous Door,
slept like hedonists. We'd planned
to hike in Zion; instead we reeled
from meal to meal to jazz club,
soaked in summer heat, in smoke,
in a city deadly with love.

At the Middle of the Earth

Ascending from sea level to high altitude:
Sleeping in the shadow of the Virgen de Quito,
the terrible angel of Revelations,
awakening, gasping, with air hunger.
A Gothic cathedral reaches skyward
spires adorned with gargoyles,
standard gnomes, morphed into
leering iguanas, scavenging condors.
Jolting up ruined roads, stepping higher
among indigenous markets where
stick-sodomized guinea pigs roast,
load-bearing women trudge,
dogs lie listless on cobblestone, and
bare block homes fly the colors of drying laundry
on clotheslines strung from rebar to rebar
Eating meals of quinoa soup, yucca cakes,
wide-eyed trout and coca tea to ease the breath.

Descending to Darwin’s isles:
Snorkeling among fish schools, rays,
lurking reef sharks and sea turtles.
Treading precariously on volcanic rocks,
careful to avoid thigmotactic sea lions,
mating boobies, and creeping crabs.
Disembarking dingys,
washing off island trace DNA.
Frigate birds fly shotgun,
hitching unauthorized rides
from protected island to island.
The last rays of evening sun
floating on the Pacific like a scarlet jellyfish
Slumbering in the wave-rocked cradle
of catamaran comfort.

Joan Huffman © 04/24/09

Late Night on Rt. 519

From afar, a flame – beyond the black
expanse of this field where corn
will tower in the fall, long after
I’ve sped by and imagined two boys
hunched still as cathedral gargoyles,
roasting marshmallows – their wings
tucked beneath hooded sweatshirts.
Perhaps Yahweh rests near a glowing
shrub, waiting for His will to lasso
a passerby racing home with hot
pizza and a choir of beer. Maybe
He waits for me – a poet who, like Moses,
assures the Maker, I’ve not the words – the words.

Okay, oops, but this is better.


The Race to the Dawn of America


The sun is already down,
Slumber is in the town
of Cambridge.

The Charles River gently flows
Just as on any night,
The British are sure that no one knows
That there will be a fight,
As they traverse
The distance of the universe.

Appear, two lanterns
Three men behold.
"One, if by land, and two, by sea."
They were told.
Horses ready, saddles steady
Dust smoking behind,
Racing through the city,
By the ocean, timed.

“The British are coming!”
They shouted through the town,
For America
For their freedom,
The echoes did resound.



-Nakita Bickle

Scenic Journey

I want to take a trip in our car,
go on a scenic drive in the mountains.
I want to enjoy the clean fresh air,
while traveling on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
We will stop for a picnic by a stream,
take a quick hike along the trails.
Then we will climb back into our car,
and continue on our scenic journey.

Darla Smith(c)April 24,2009

flown to many miles
driven even more
been a pedestrian
and on a skate board

i struggle with forward motion
but even more when standing still
as the world moves around us
not stopping until were killed

Every year it is the same
Planning starts in the dead of winter
Lists are made
The reservation was made last year as we left
You can feel the excitement as we get closer to the day

We migrate to Minnesota in the summer
There is a lake there where our friends gather
Family is there also.

Mother lives for the one week, then two and finally three
weeks amid the pines and birches
on the shores of Leech Lake

You can see the far away look in her eyes
as she contemplates sleeping on the porch
raising up to look out at the lake
listening to the loons.

I collect a lot of books to take. Paperbacks and
there is a visit to the library to take some more out.
The car is prepared. Sometimes we take a friend along with us
but it is always my mom and my sister and me.
(Once we waited until sunrise so my sister’s girlfriend could see the
scenery – she spent the entire trip reading comic books)

We have the route memorized but I still get a Triptic
I need to get some benefit from my AAA membership.

We drive past farms (with white cows that my mother and sister think are sheep)
and a myriad of lakes (but they are not “our lake” )
Through the twin cities – that is the time Mother always starts to mess with the paper
and read it. Thus making me even more nervous as I navigate the always heavy traffic

The closer we get the more excited. Mother starts to sing “We’re on vacation, in the summer time!” She is happiest on the way up to the lake

and at the lake

Then, all to soon it is over and we have to retrace our trip.
This time the scenery is viewed through tears.
Except for me. I am usually ready to get back home.
Gradually we thing about the air conditioning we have done without
the comfort of our own beds
and the friends we have left behind.
We “post-mortem” the vacation all the way home
and for weeks afterwards. And yes – the reservations were made
before we left
so we would be able to do it all over again.

It seems like it is always the same
but it isn’t. It is warm and comfortable and cozy
just like an old slipper
We like it that way.

Do You Know What It Means

driving down through the piney woods
mississippi gets lonely below hattiesburg
i-59 turns into i-10 just above slidell
turn west and the flatness has salty air
the long bridge over pontchartrain
stretches impossibly but invitingly
back on almost solid ground katrina’s
wreckage begins to predominate
and the radio is humming phantom jazz
even when it’s not tuned in
top the ship channel bridge
highest point in miles and there it is
the big and easy lights beckon
with aromas that are both decayed
and newly sauted in cajun spices
flag stone sidewalks in the quarter
echo endlessly into some of america’s
most ancient sub-sea level air
we will leave after three days
which is the most a body can stay
without going native and forever losing
one’s heart to this soiled and luminous city

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
24 April 2009

Travel Day

Funny, after a lifetime
of hitting the road,
seeing the world,
today’s travel feels
like a big thing.

Fifty miles to Redding,
have the broken wisdom tooth pulled.
Fifty miles back home
and hope I make it.

Nobody’s idea of travel,
certainly no vacation,
but I’m hitting the road again
and the wildflowers bloom.

It was supposed to be

a gentle spin.
A new Specialized with a
clip-on basket.
All shiny and clean.
By the time she had mounted
and rode through the puddles
to the end of the lane
it was sullied.
Her jacket tightly fastened
now unbuttoned and
slung aside.
As breathing faster and pedalling harder
legs aching, burning with sensation
she was compelled to stop.
She sucked thoughtfully
on a mandarin orange segment
in hope of new vigour to continue.
She rode by the church where she'd married-
a symbol of moral discipline.
Her endless delight
and agitation, heart beating
racing down the crest
for the thrill,
stirring butterflies
within and without.
She knew what was waiting at the end.
She was the paper lotus of the village.
Growing in mud
but keeping clean and elegant.

Do you Know Your Friendly Neighborhood Biker?

The 70-something dude, white sox, ankle zipped boots
who drives the loaded Honda with the US flag and the stuffed gorilla strapped tight-
leaves his dowry wife at home, and.... blasting Hank Williams, zzzzooms down the road.
When he stops by, he winks and pinches the girls, tells dirty jokes,
brags about his money, his prowess and his escapades
asks to use your toilet, dribbles urine on the floor.....is he your friendly biker?

That 20-something kid, screeeeams the road, never notices unleashed dogs...or kids
has the latest Suzuki, shiny boots, new helmet, room for enamored girls
wiiiiiinds it out to niiiiiiinety any chance he gets,watches to see who's watching
When he stops by, he smiles and stares at breasts, brags about adventure
asks to use your toilet, steals your pocketknife....is he your friendly biker?

The man who looks ninety, a vet from Vietnam, brown sum-er teeth,
greasy, thin long hair, unkempt beard, scars, thread-bare jeans
green blurrred tattoos, glassssy eyes, smells sour, looks gray--
hey you gotta beer? Gotta joint? Got any painkillers man?
When he stops by, he talks about hunting, fishing, 'Nam. He talks until he doesn't make sense
Till you have to help him up, till he makes animal noises...till you have to let him crash in a hEAp
wherever he FAlls...till he can walk into your bathroom
snoop through your medicine cabinet...is he your friendly biker?

The guy next door, military hair cut, self employed, new son
a fair hustle, productive, clean cut, articulate, friendly, owns
a rescued dog that leaves toys in your yard and begs for biscuits
you store his bike, watch his back---yard, share beers and jokes
...is he your friendly biker?

You. 55, vintage on vintage. Lifetime free rider, repair, rebuild, rewire, remount, restore
foot callouses from gears, your scrotum vibrated into leather, you watch it all and
don't say much. your buddies are named Beak, and Fish, and Goon, and Thumbs.
you always have beer, and pot....and time for your buddies
...are you the friendly neighborhood biker?

DESTINATION

Broken compass,
burned map.
Intuition fails.

The highway
goes West.
You do not.

I want
to sing
for you –

a song
that only stops
when we kiss.

For the needle
in my heart
is always

pointing
toward
you.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

A Gnome in Rome

I went to travel one fine day,
What did I see along the way?

I saw a gnome
caught under a tome
and a weighty tome it was,

The Rise and Fall of the
State of Rome
had taken a toll
on the lowly gnome,
had crushed his hat
and levelled his home.

This homeless gnome,
by the State of Rome
unseated, unsettled
disheveled, dis-hoveled.

I gave assistance,
met with resistance
as I lifted the weight of
the musty old tome
Right off the back
of the helpless gnome.

Then picked him up
and dusted him off.
He straightened his clothes
with a mortified cough,
this poor old gnome
with no way home
now free to roam
through the fields of loam
round the state of Rome
to St Peter’s Dome.

Poor tomeless, homeless
Roman gnome.


Carol A Stephen
April 24, 2009
PAD Challenge poem

Through Time

Doctor Who?
He travailed through time,
And travelled through space,
What magic!

The Longest Journey

It was only two hours
by plane, but sixty
years back in time.

There is no road from A to B
They sit alongside, never touching,
Whatever the case.
If there is yearning between them,
It does not show
Even in the cursive
Kerning keeps them moated from each other.

On and On like Rivers and Roads

When I was young, I tried following the flying
insects of summer just to see how far from Bloomfield
it'd take me— they'd lead

and then leave me, laughing
under their breaths at me for believing
that I could keep up. Being human

isn't everything they buzzed
and the flowers, blooming with freedom,
testified with hushed mm-hmms.

They had no one to answer to if they
wanted to pedal all the way down Blue
Hills Avenue to see how far it went just because

a friend swore up and down it'd take you all the way
to Portugal, where she is from, where some
of the natives have whole names so long and sing-song

that when they write them in the sand,
the letters go on for miles and miles
like rivers and roads.

CRACK!

The summers of my youth
fill my mind on clear fresh
mornings such as this.
I shied away from many things,
but I was drawn to baseball.
It filled my days until dusk.
When I hear the crack of a bat today
I am taken from the here and now,
and back to my Babe Ruth League days.

CRACK!

As I stood, I was rather puny,
a lightweight of minuscule proportion.
My fielding skills were pathetic at best.
Any alchemist would have told you
that my golden glove was surely made of lead.
But, put a bat in my hand
and I could affect the outcome
of any game we were in.

CRACK!

My arm was fair to non-existent.
It was amazing to me
that a kid with no muscle mass
of which to speak,
could find power with a bat in hand.
All I craved was a nice piece of ash.
My long ball found the fences with regularity.
But I cannot remember a single one of them.
Only one hit has remained
in my fifty-three year old coconut.

CRACK!

The Puerto Rican Club was the opponent
on that sultry summer evening.
Great ball players, all.
In particular, was the first baseman,
“Pocho” by name.
Tremendous glove, one helluva stick.
And a mouth bigger than the Grand Canyon.
The pitcher threw all kinds of heat,
and I could catch a piece of everything
that left his rapid right arm.

CRACK!

But it was “Pocho” that intimidated me.
He could rattle smack and heckles
Faster than my ear could keep up with them.
He was pissing me off royally.
Bottom of the third and I was at bat again.
It was hard enough to understand
his gattling gun English delivery.
When he went Hispanic on me, I lost it.
I wished I had paid more attention
In Spanish class.

CRACK!

In his tirade (and my poor Spanish skills)
I caught what I thought was a disparaging comment
about my maternal parental unit.
My grip tightened and my knuckles whitened.
My resolve was steeled and my grit was coarse
and getting nastier by the second.
“Pocho” shot a comment to the second baseman
and cackled like an old hen.
The pitcher delivered the next pitch.
My eyes narrowed and I drew back my bat.
I swung with all I was worth.

CRACK!

The time it took that little white pill
to travel that ninety feet down the first base line
was less than the blink of an eye.
It surprised the crap out of me.
But “Pocho” was even more stunned
as that bullet caught him squarely
on his right shoulder.
I heard the first crack, the sound of my bat clearly.
The second crack was sickening to recall
as it shattered his collarbone.
Ninety feet. The distance it takes to change
a nickname from “Pocho” to “Lefty”.

Thanks for the prompt Robert. Sorry, spilled three today in a great rush. (Is that verboten or just annoying?) This is what happened…

From Wall Street to Main Street
By R. Chazz Chute

I have seen America,
tortured, torturing and complex,
America the Good
writing large charitable checks.
I have seen America,
the place cancer will be cured,
the country where opportunity
was once confidently assured.
I have seen America,
its landmarks, beauty marks and flaws,
its mountains and monstrous might
flouting national and international laws.
I have seen America, empire and ideal,
lose it way and begin to find the way back
to what is right and what is real.
It was a great country. It could be again.
Its authors have known justice
and respected the power of the pen.
I have seen America, what it might yet be.
“My country right or wrong!”
is not the lesson or promise of history.
I have seen America, “Love it or leave it!.”
It’s is still the world’s hope, but only
if it keeps the founders’ vision
may Americans achieve it.
I have seen America, the place where building
is valued over destruction,
where hope and intelligence can meet
in pure and prosperous conjunction.
You have to love a country where happiness is
actually written down as a goal.
We all want America back on track
matching state actions with stated roles,
fresh and forward with a compassionate view.
I have seen America.
Soon I hope to see America anew.

-


What Might Last

I walk through rooms, first one small one,
and then their number is suddenly innumerable.
Many are so alike, they might as well be a prison cell.
I remember the hotel room with a balcony
over a blue sea.
I remember the rooms my children were born in and
the room in which my mother went about
the furious business of dying.
I have walked through so many rooms,
(most as unremarkable as me)
leaving microscopic traces.
I am everywhere
on some small scale.
unknown and forgotten on every other.
Only a few words may survive us
once we leave these rooms.
We have no more wars to make history,
only battles we dare not brag about.
Words are the only immortality now.
Write them strong.
May be written in granite,
read by generations
until no more rooms remain.

-

Move, Move, Move!

Bananas, plums and copious apples.
Exotic unnamed fruit and lots of Snapple.
I hunt and gather and travel just to eat.
There’s so much to see and too much time asleep.
Search out new people. Take in great views.
Watch you don’t take root, get crusty, dusty
and die wearing boring, too-clean shoes.

# # #

Bienvenidos a Florida

Twenty-one Venezuelan polo ponies
die in April in Wellington after staggering
off the vans, in cardiac arrest and dizzy.

The team was favored to win, their bony
legs a blur in finals past, fans wagering
on the twenty-one Venezuelan polo ponies

of Lechuza Caracas, one third the team. Felony
suspected, an inquiry begins into likely poisoning.
Off the vans, in cardiac arrest and dizzy,

horse after horse falls on the lawn in agony
as onlookers, helpless, shocked, begin clamoring
for the twenty-one Venezuelan polo ponies

to be saved. Who knew vitamins, improperly
compounded, could be so lethal, bodies thundering
off the vans, in cardiac arrest and dizzy?

They’ll take at least ten years to replace, say
the press, as Vargas cradles head after quivering
head of his twenty-one Venezuelan polo ponies
off the vans, in cardiac arrest and dizzy.

Sir Richard Atwater- I'd love to dance with my fellow home-body buddies! Really exceptional description of Maine, really captures the heart of my own home state(as well). Marie Elena your excuses made me chuckle, sounds like me. I haven't had the chance to read on Belinda's poem yet but I surely will Thanks for the mention. And also I agree with you: Daniel nice poems today! Well I have only gone through quickly to read a few and now I need to brew up a story of travel for you!

HAPPY WRITING EVERYONE!

April 24, 2009 poetry prompt: Travel poem

Affair Game

He’s heading in the same direction,
trembles like some guilty thing surprised
as she climbs in to sit beside him,
sizing him up as he drifts
across the center line –
proceed with caution –
dangerous curves ahead.

––Julie Eger

"The Journey" By: Melinda Elmore


The elder sits as quiet as can be
As the mountains tower above

His vision to release the owl
For its quest ahead

He says a prayer
As darkness approach

The mountain layer
Descends the mist

As the spirits roam
Now being released

The owl takes flight
From the elder’s hold

For now the owl
Knows what he had been told

His sacred journey was about to begin
But he knew it would never end.

By: Melinda Elmore

My best Trip

You had been gone
For Months
New husband
In training IN Georgia
I missed you
Finally
You flew to me in Chicago and we took
Off on an Amtrak
Late at night to go HOME
To Ohio
So you could graduate High School
With your class
The night was streaming by us
Outside the small window
But I couldn't take my eyes off you
You were skinnier than when you had left
I was spread out like a watermelon
And you touched my stomach and smiled
And I leaned into your shoulder
Your hand
Stayed there on my stomach

“Everyday Travel”

Have to travel from morning
to evening, from physical
tension toward the thought.
If thought is fruitful it’s going
to be the destiny. From point A
to point B, or better going back
from B. B-night falls and crawls
forward to A-morning, that
yearns to end up at B-night.

( travel )

***
eidolons
***

my mother’s jaw

for it
to become
my mother’s jaw

for it to fit
both hoof
and hell

had to drop
not in awe
but dead

and demon

as a sack
of sticks
in a hunter’s
heart

and for the deer
to free itself
that womb
of glass

had to bridle
its hoof
that human bit

with which
it barters
now
and limps

past small men
touching
stick to stick.

Day 24

Lunge, lurch, jerk — such
is the fate of the hacker.
We seem to lack the touch.
Practice only makes it blacker

Well-known is the sliced,
the bladed and the fat shot.
Seldom does it go, twice,
to the same spot.

Losing weight, an easy feat —
I would never make
enough to eat.
Birdies are a mistake.

I seem to be thinking in impossibilities...


COMPROMISE


You would think that they might meet
Halfway.
No one would be satisfied.
Still, from the center,
Each could see the other's
Side.

But it seems the journey
Toward minds meeting
Has a Silk Road share of perils:
Bad climate for compromise, ambushes, harsh terraine.
Too much baggage.

To reach the center there are chasms to cross.
Deep chasms.
And the bridges are the flimsy, swinging kind--
with loose planks.
And the paths toward understanding
Have more switchbacks than a grand canyon donkey trail.
There are loose pebbles underfoot,
Roots,
And gnats.
The smallest things can be the hardest to deal with.

The road to compromise is not short,
It is not easy,
And it is most certainly not paved
In smooth and mellow gold.
It's rough.
And the closer to the goal, the rougher.
And the more obvious the mathematical truth
That the final hair of difference
Can be split infinitely.

I wasn't prepared for the emotion.
traveling memorial for Vietnam.
aptly named The Moving Wall,
half-sized, full impact,
it arrived in town on a
dull gray day.

a veteran guided me,
Panel 11E - Line 76.
he asked me who he was.
my dad's best friend.
he gave his life,
gave me his name.

just one among 58000.

long journey

the journey starts here
with a thought
a memory of dark eyes
a beard, neatly trimmed
a glance

the distance? 25 yards or so
doesn't sound much
but

you're a very, very
long way away right now

I want you to come closer

Resume

I won’t know my objective
until I get in there and nose around.
Here is my typical procedure:

First I dismantle you stone
by stone, digging out the moss
growing around your edges.

Lifting of your soil with a spade,
a pickax to slice the roots,
arriving at your inner jungle.

From my leather tool belt
I unsheathe a machete
to clear a swath of land,
or if I’m lucky a clearing appears.

After wandering a few feet,
a patch glows like a hundred
candles gathered in the dark.

This glen of sunlight and flowing
water might be in your chest,
at your throat, or behind your eyes.

I thump the side of my hand
like a masseuse against your earth,
put my ear to your ground, listen
for the pulse beating at your neck.

Here is where I’ll find your questions.

I will never forget

You took me with you to the lake
and this trip
I will never forget
it was reigning
but the sun was shining
and you kissed me
in the rain
and this kiss
I will never forget
we run down to the water
and then we kissed in the water again
and this I will never forget
the smell
of the summer rain
the water lake
and your hair
I will never forget
the taste
of the rain drops
which I kissed from your face
I will never forget


Bozena Intrator

Through 1 house,
8 apartments,
2 states,
6 schools,
and 15 years she has lost
family,
friends,
familiarity,
toys,
movies,
video games,
books,
pets,
and money.
I guess that's why she still sucks her thumb.

I posted the poem and did not realize that the spell check in my Word did correct raining into reigning, so I am posting the poem again but I don't know how to delete the wrong version. This is the right version:



I will never forget

You took me with you to the lake
and this trip
I will never forget
it was raining
but the sun was shining
and you kissed me
in the rain
and this kiss
I will never forget
we run down to the water
and then we kissed in the water again
and this I will never forget
the smell
of the summer rain
the water lake
and your hair
I will never forget
the taste
of the rain drops
which I kissed from your face
I will never forget


Bozena Intrator

link

i first travelled towards you in an empty hall
then voyaged determined
with the thirst of exploration.

til i rode the rails of your skeleton
tracking the stops
ankles, knees, hips --
the stops were brief
or not.

i traversed your hair
your eyes
your face
like a foreigner
i visited shrines
unknown to most
secret sites
i discovered
and now make known
only to the
visitor
who is
myself.

WOODS WORTH
By: Hannah Bowles

Trails wind through the pine-needle padded wood,
legs and arms move in unison and I knew that I
should, try and keep up with the rest of the team
although to me it seemed that running for fun and
not competition was what brought to fruition, this
feeling of freedom. With the seeds of fall fresh
and fallen to pad the path beneath my feet. My
cheeks kissed pink with the crisp air, my lungs
filled to the brim with nary a care. This is where
I liked to traverse, not a soul around, except maybe
a squirrel or a bug in the ground. Just me and the
woods breathing as one, between tree branches the
sun warms my shoulders and takes a glimpse of fun.

Spring Fling

Riding through the country
Wide green pastures do I see
As cattle, horses, sheep and goats
Dot the landscape
Far as I can see.

Mountains loom afar
Majestic ‘neath the sky
As the sun shines down
Upon the Earth
Chasing shadows,
Spilling light
On my quest
For spring-time fruit.

Strawberries red and sweet
I arrive at the farm
And choose my tray
With child’s delight
Longing for first bite.
Plump and juicy
Spring has come
As I barrel down the road
Berries on my lips
Sun on my face
On my journey home.

The New America

Is fat.
And sits in a box of metal and
Fiberglass, screaming at other boxes
Of metal and fiberglass
That are deaf.
LOL! (Laughing out loud)
It listens in five second jags
Contoured for young minds
Who only want entertainment-
Not art, but transvestite grand-
Mother’s who sleep with mountain goats
And like to slap people
While flashing their breasts.
BTW (By the way),
How close are you to keeping up?
With an average 89 prescriptions
for ailments
From nail fungus to sleepy colon
Disease, can you compete?
IMHO (In my humble opinion),
Side effects are mild and only
Result in death occasionally.
It is the madness,
Manic and blurry
That is catching.
It creeps like a dull spark
Into official and
independent analysis.
A world made for burning
Immolation the last,
The ultimate
Fix.

How Far Is It Really?

How far is it
Really?
From your heart
To mine?
A few hours?
A few days?
A few lifetimes?
Or
No distance
At all
Between
Our
Two
Souls.

Endurance


One woman
was never enough for you

I asked you to leave
so you left

You quickly went on with your life
remarrying as soon as the divorce papers were signed

I slowly treadd through each day for a year
immersed in Sheryl Crow's GLOBE SESSIONS CD

Listening to the songs
Living the words

If it weren't for music
I don't know how I would have survived those days

Transitioning from the two of us and our son
to this life of being a single mom

I have finally arrived
and I am content

Journey From Point A To Point B



One test’s blue-circled,
The other’s striped pink
It’s true! We are pregnant!
Too excited to think.

Insomnia, haemorrhoids,
My head’s in a whirl
It will be a Boy –
I so wanted a Girl.

Nuts and spinach –
How stultifyin’
But... unborn baby
Needs his iron.

Beached whales, yoga
And breathing drills
Old wives’ tales
Versus Parenting Skills…

This morning’s sickness
Is yesterday’s news
Must really recap
On Doctors Spock and Seuss.

My waist has vanished,
My toes have disappeared.
I’m the Michelin Lady –
Just as I’d feared.

Anxiety, crises,
Doppler scans, ultrasound
And I catch every bug
That’s been going around.

The gym shoes syndrome
Now reveals
Oedema’s put paid
To stiletto heels.

Smocks and sacks
And dungarees
No ski-pants or miniskirts,
Or hot pants – please.

Bad acid reflux
And varicose veins
One day all this will be the stuff
Of Memory’s Lanes.

Dark Centered Pansies

and momma hangs our quilt today
over the fence that gates our yard
and the velvety blocks of color
equal our pansies
as they breathe
our fresh northern air

and enter our pink house
through slanted storm shelter doors
step slowly on our spidered stairs
don’t smell the dankness
of our cement basement walls
come into a place
where no color
can live

and here our hands
if given courage
can reach into nowhere
through a hole in the darkness
created where concrete
fell like Jericho
in a crash
seven nights before

and imagination
takes a white child
off on a haunting journey
where black men snuck
into basements at night
on their way to freedom

and in the halls past rooms
where little children sleep
our shadow walkers roam
and dreams become
the tales of day
in a place
where no color
can live

OOPS- I have a typo. Line 11 should read mothers, not mother's.

From Point A to Point B

Why go to when you
can go under or around?
The shortest distance
is a straight line
but she can never
do it that way except
for the stairs.
At two, when you are
learning locomotion
everything is an adventure
especially the stairs—

"DOWN!" she shouts
as she bumps along,
"and Down! and
Down!"

pausing on every step
to laugh and identify
each picture—the framed
horses and horsemen—
to comment on cracks in the wall
and her progress.
From top to bottom
the journey is an escapade
to revel in and share.

The Ukulelist

Tappy trod the vaudeville boards, serenaded the doughboys,
shook hands with Elvis. So many duffels, trunks, and Gladstones
fallen off the train since he picked up that uke.

Now all he carries are the nitro
and that pressboard case. Were he to forget one,
he’d prefer to drop the pills.

Still singing, still playing at one hundred and one,
his voice carries a perpetual sob, as if, despite his best intentions,
he mourns all he’s lost. But his fingers gather from strings

skeins of joy, ache, laughter.
Everything but anger. There is no anger in a ukulele.
He thinks, then, that heaven will be like the home
he’s carried for nearly a century.

Migration

They left on foot or on horseback
or in the backs of wagons, boarded
ships with the clothes on their backs,
coins sewn into skirts, seeds hidden
in coats, a Bible, a letter, a locket.

They were sick on the ship, and scared,
their children cried. They made friends
at sea, and enemies, some of them fell
in love. Some fell overboard.

When they arrived in the new world
more travel waited, another migration
west, Cleveland, Chicago, California.
It was hard to stop moving, hard to believe
they had arrived. Some never did.

Some of us still travel, still seeking
that something better our ancestors
bequeathed, the American Dream
that is never satisfied, never still.

Stuck inside at work
Taking a short lunch vacation
Traveling through Webshots
Walking a green maze of tea plants

Taking a short lunch vacation
I look out at a rainbow framed beach
Walking a green maze of tea plants
To escape to ruins, columns of fallen gods

I look out at a rainbow framed beach
Needing spaces without people
Escaping to ruins, column of fallen gods
To sit and contemplate a solitary yellow lotus

Needing spaces without people
Travelling through Webshots
Sitting contemplating a single yellow lotus
Stuck inside at work

Geese

Above, circling
the periwinkle sky,
a scatter of geese
look for thermals.
Entreaties, one to another,
is a sounding being taken.
At last, the skein settles into
a V and continues south.

Sayonara

I’m off to Lotus Land
No computer will be at hand
Although I leave tomorrow
I want to share the sorrow
of leaving a band of poets
in cyberspace

While I’m gone a week
These poets will reach the peak
of Mount Poetic Asides
This challenge has been fun
I’ve enjoyed each and everyone
I plan to finish when I get back to Prompt Place

(I hope this continues into "once a week" prompt as it did last year! Great job again Robert!)

Queen of the Road

head high, chest out, back stiff, she crosses,
radiating confidence, you will yield right-of-way

behind her waddle seven, no, eight, tipsy-tiny ducklings,
barely bigger than the eggs they emerged from,

their quick, crooked steps retrieve a pale memory
of herding toddlers down a narrow-sidewalk, smiling

I watch as, green-grass safely reached, she turns,
begins the counting-rite performed by all parents,

satisfied, her breast heaves, we are relieved, she looks
me in the eye then, bestows a barely perceptible nod,

I hear the un-quacked “you may now proceed”,
in the rear-view mirror, the journey continues

A Different World

Words create the carriage
Sentences carve out the highways
Climb between the pages of the book
Disengage the world
Ease off the stresses of the day
Press down on your imagination
And steer towards a different world

Retirement time was soon approaching
What do we want to do I began broaching
Do we keep the house and continue to work
Or do these responsibilities we shirk
Well, of course, we agreed
The call of the road we would heed
So house was sold and RV bought
To give us the nomad life we sought
From Florida to Texas we did ride
Then on to Las Vegas side by side
Turning back east to visit friends
Time in Tucson we did spend
Then in New Mexico we did stay
Las Cruces and Old Mesilla were the entrée
Followed by Alamogordo, and White Sands
Carlsbad Caverns were breathtakingly grand
Again to Texas we returned to hike and view El Capitan
Then on to Marfa where the Lights made me a fan
Corpus Christi’s winter stay
Led us to gate guarding for pay
Now our travels were from site to site
And each one gave us fresh delight
Abundant flora and fauna gave us joy
Though mice and spiders did annoy
For vacation to Niagara Falls we did ride
And on the Erie Canal in a boat we did glide
Back in Texas, Palo Duro Canyon was a treat
That made our anniversary journey complete
Back to work so we could earn
Money for the life we yearn
For visits to dino prints and caves
To desert, canyon and shore we crave
Mountains and prairies we will roam
In our traveling RV home.

Day #24: Travel poem

“Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville
Searching for my lost shaker of salt”
Jimmy Buffet


A group of Moms
Sitting at the table
Celebrating the birthday
Of one of their own.
Chips and salsa,
Frozen margaritas, laughter.
During lunch they leave the
Chores behind, the bills,
The troubles at home.
They air their dirty laundry,
Listen, cheering each other on,
Transcending the grind as
The conversation transports
The women to a place
Only happy hour
Can lead them to.
Then when the time
Passes too quickly
Each return to her home
Rejuvenated and smiling,
Knowing she has been loved.

DON'T TREAD ON ME

A stair tread worn
most forelorn,
I curse them since
the day I was born.
They serve no purpose,
well, maybe one,
I'll be breaking something
before I'm done.
A flight upstairs
is most genteel,
I guess that's just
the way I feel.
I do my business
and when I'm done,
I turn around
and down I come.
Until that wretched
tread-worn tread,
hitting it
I surely dread.
This step indeed
is most inferior,
it sends me crashing
to my posterior,
down the stairs
in seconds flat,
for once I'm glad
my ass is fat.

Imagination

From axon to axon it floated
Flashing dreams and memories here and there.
It came to rest on a kayak.

She was paddling down a lazy river
With the sun on her face
And blood pumping through her heart.
She felt so alive.

It suddenly stopped traveling.
She sighed, a little sad to see it go.
But was happy for the experience
Of the favorite trip
She never took.

Black Tulip Brogue
Once there was a way to get back homeward; once there was a way to get back to the ranch,
Meanwhile, the tulips are curling into themselves against the chill. Meanwhile, I am not going
to Scotland anytimesoon. I am not going to Anytimesoon for the swanky beachfront bacon boys,
nor the souvenirs that appear along the esplanade glued hastily, their tartans showing a swath
of plastic thigh that appears quite nearly obscene in this light: neither Scottish nor tropical.
I am not working on my Gaelic, and not priming my bikini bod for the view. I'm missing my planes.
Maps upset me, as do globes, spin them, scan them and what you'll find are the million places
where I won't be tonight. I sang a solo to the radiator and it sputtered a sick reply.
Someone asked about my whereabouts then so did I. So did I.

Time Travel

I traveled to the past.
I traveled there quite fast.
I traveled to the future.
That one was more a chore.
I saw our new president.
I made sure of that when I went.
It was a woman!
But then she made a time travel ban!

Jump away and leave behind that baggage
that sits deep inside your mind and says
no to your impulses and creative leaps
Bring instead your pen and paper and
your pastels and paints, your wand and
all that stardust you packed away back
when you were twelve and Timmy mocked
The Blue Fairy Book and said “You baby!”
But you knew the magic was still there
in back of your closet in the shoebox
where you could count on it.
So now, go and get it out and put it on
gossamer, invisible to others but so
strongly redolent to you and powerful
bursting with springtime force
take it with you on the trip
have the trip of a life time.

Hello and Good-bye

In Newfoundland, I

Found

Beautiful landscapes

Exquisite wildflowers

Soothing waters

Delicious food

Friendly hospitable people

Haunting historical settlements

Whales and dolphins and jellyfish

Sandy beaches

Rugged coasts

Forests and rocks and trees

Moose and caribou and and squirrels and chipmunks

Peaceful moments at a campfire

All captured memories to bring back to Ontario.

Poetry Challenge 24, 2009
Travel
Sandy Dickson

A nomadic life of adventure,
Gallivanting for exploration,
To see earth's corners both near and far
Of our God's majestic creation,

Is the preferred way of life for me,
That I may know and experience too,
Not only the beauty, but cultures
And things elsewhere that those people do

That thrive in some distant locations;
Their customs, joys, burdens and life's ways;
What they deem important or pleasant,
How they work, exist and spend their days.

Hard labor, not uncommon to some,
Work-worn hands exist in most places
That, by the standards of modern world,
Lack our familiar social graces,

Where our fine restaurants and theaters
Receive us in our fanciest clothes.
While myriad cook over open fire,
What they're preparing, God only knows,

Oft nothing we'd find pallitable,
But that's what they'd say about ours too.
Yet it's fun to venture to their world
And appreciate ours when we're through.

"Solaris (Space Travel)"

From out of the blue
comes the vert
and verdure
and the purple that I pour onto unsuspecting pages
and stain them with dripping sentiments
from my ever-bleeding sleeve.

today i'm trying a shadorma, linked. (i think.)




limbo


she sits here
in between places
erases
all traces
of the journey behind her
to find a fresh start.

she sits here
baggage cast aside
free to ride
abide, but…
why does hope take so long to
get from head to heart?

THE JOURNEY BACK

We enter Barstow with a sigh.
The bus slows, wheezes to a
Stop, The street is empty
No one gets on or off. Late clumps
Of yucca lift green arms to wave
Farewell. Soon they will be coated
With dust. We are heading towards
Mountains shielded now in clouds.

In the novel I am reading
The bride is journeying to the country
Of her husband. She wears a wreath
Of flowers in her hair. At the end
She will return to her home in sorrow
And disgrace. Her husband will be
Killed by her lover. Her children
Disinherited. The castle will crumble
And fall into ruins.

Barstow slips away and joins San Bernadino
In the places I am leaving behind. Half
A continent lies ahead. Clouds
Of a warm front hover above us.
This is the gift I will carry –I will
Bring spring into the heartland.

Now the desert is slipping away.
Evening mountains shroud Nevada’s
Dusty plain. I let myself be borne along –
Captive – like a raindrop in a cloud.
Somewhere beyond the plains and mountains
Reality lurks in ambush. What has been
Written will not be undone. The bus
Rolls on.

THE DRIVE HOME

An afternoon among the mall-rats
“helping the economy thrive.” And now,
with a trunk-load of treasures, here you are
castaway on a country road
miles from anywhere, no call-box, street signs,
farmhouse lights,

but just the Dipper, Orion’s sword-belt,
and Sirius the dog-star gazing at you
from above – does he begrudge the timing
of mechanical breakdown, no bars
on your cell phone,
and not another car in sight?

No, he’s quite at home in his dark
heaven. Might as well
open that book you bought for a nephew’s
birthday. Start reading. Imagine
a starry dynamo in the machinery of night
to drive you home.

A Taste of France - Non mon sewer!

Never miss a chance
to drive in Northern France
on the lovely roads marked N
They were designed
with you in mind
by understanding men.

The places through
which they take you
are beautiful and green
with gentle undulations
and many a sparkling stream.

And often as you
are driving through
a tiny French village
you are greeted by
yet another reason why
N's are better than payages.

The smell of food
from somewhere good
reccommended by Les Routier.
A place to rest
and taste the best
maybe try some nice charcuterie.

But please take heed
whatever your need
no matter how hungry you get.
Don't be led astray
whatever they say
Never try Andouillette.

And if you do
you may well say 'Poo -
that's something I'll never forget!"



This is a genuine warning. Andouillette masquerades as sausage (saussicon) but is in fact made from the small intestine (in other words the bowel) and retains the smell (and possibly the taste - we didn't get that far) you would associate with such a body part.

First Steps

The tender flesh of a child’s soles
Tread deftly on the sand;
Its gentle give and abundant support
Allow a child to stand.

But far too oft’ a child’s forced
To run among the stones,
And then through life the scars remain
From the child’s broken bones.

I changed the line breaks. These make more sense to me. So here is the poem, again, in a better form, I hope ...

DESTINATION

Broken compass, burned map.
Intuition fails.

The highway goes West.
You do not.

I want
to sing for you –

a song that only stops
when we kiss.

The needle in my heart is always
pointing toward you.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

He traveled through my head
And landed in my computer
I never guessed
I never knew
He took over my mind
And gave my life meaning
I never guessed
I never knew
He told me his tale
And allowed me to document it.
I never guessed
I never knew
He would make me change
And it would make my life new.

Snail Trail

I shelter from the rain,
listen to drops patter
against the greenhouse roof.
On the path a snail,
disturbed by the sudden squall,
sets out from behind the potted arum
and over the course of an hour,
to the greenhouse door
enticed by the sweet scent
of lettuce seedlings.

I admire his tenacity
and lob him over the fence.

WALKING INTO THE SUNRISE
(My morning constitutional.)

A nice two-mile jaunt
on a half-mile track.
I do it for health.
I do it each season,
I do it for
no particular reason.
It gets me out.
It keeps me moving,
my iPod in tow,
I truly am grooving.
At the crack of dawn,
on the way to work,
getting this walk in
is my daily quirk.
Still, as the sea gulls
pick in the field,
marking the pavement,
making me yield.
On the horizon,
a hint of a glow,
when it will get here
I never do know.
Lap one I’m just warming
the sky is serene,
it looks like a good one
I continue routine.
Lap two’s a peeker
“Kilroy was here”,
waiting for the rest
of the sun to appear.
Lap three I’m sweating,
I clip on my shades,
I give it ten minutes
for the solar escapade.
The fourth time around
she’s in her full glory,
a beautiful start
to this day of my story.
I’m glad I could greet her,
it was truly a pleasure,
a walk in her brilliance
is my greatest treasure.
I head off for work,
but hey, hold the phone,
I do two more miles
On the way back home.

Where Is There?

I stare at and study the map in my auto.
According to the coordinates, it is just as I fear.
Where I’m going is right in the middle of the nowhere
and I can’t get there from here.

Driving Home from Wilkes

We feel a frisson of danger,
driving home in the dark
along back country roads
where deer are known to dart
out into cars, in some
primeval death wish.

And we sat for hours
in camp chairs, people-watching,
marinating in the scent of coffee,
funnel cakes, and barbecue;
after sunset, from beneath our blankets,
the music playing out on stage-
fiddle, banjo, mandolin-
felt like our own theme song.

Now we head home, your tenor
ringing clear against my country alto,
singing snatches of the tunes
still reeling in our ears; we roll
the windows down and laughing,
lean out so the chilly breezes blowing
in our faces keep us both awake.

Nancy Posey

Beatriz Fernandez, wow. I'm planning to steal one of your lines and using it to riff of off, if you don't mind?

Again, wow. Love your "Message to Earth"

"Nesting"


Back and forth,
forth and back,
leaves and twigs
branches, and pinestraw.
Methodically, she creates
a home for her new
arrivals. Waddle here
waddle there
a swans work is never
done.
Today she is
proud parent to
be, for all of
her work has paid off!

Huachucas

We drive south down Arizona
to Ramsey Canyon and
then we’re on foot
with our gear on our backs.
We head south into the mountains
Almost to Mexico, but desert
gives way as we climb,
Prickly Pear and Agave
to hardwoods and firs.
When we find the fire,
there are millions of lady bugs.
We have stumbled into their annual orgy.
they coat tree limb and trunk
thousands upon thousands
the ground is carpeted with them,
All frantic to mate and irked by our intrusion.
their bite is like a tiny point of fire
they boil like fire ants from a kicked nest.
For two days, we fight fire and bugs
never sure of which is the greater enemy.

Two for the Road

Your Moon guides my soul to safe waters
My Rain softly washes the weariness from your heart
Your Stars twinkle through my gossamer dreams
My Wind tenderly whispers to you my deepest secrets
Your Sun illuminates the darkest corners of my being
My Midnight Sky gently cradles the flame of your Love

Endlessly we travel the Motherland of time and space
Confidently following the course of Eternity

A Journey Home

the car is filled
with the dust of days,
and we are
not yet halfway home.
un-showered bodies are pungent
with the sour smell of time,
but we soldier on
regardless of our dirt
and grime. Early morning,
another day of dirt and fumes
and stinging sun
and summer rain.
We'll get there
if it kills us,
a place to call our home,
and when the journey ends,
we'll strip ourselves
of the grimy road,
lay naked in the humble river
from which we came,
clean the dreary smog
from our retched faces
long enough to mourn our loss.
And when the body's lowered
into broken ground,
we'll remove our suits,
replace our dress shoes
with broken sandals,
and return to the dust and grime
of the open road, a journey
in reverse.

"A meditation on the illusion of place"


What we think of as going here and there
is really only the juxtaposition of cross-sections
of our single time-space existence.

Think of yourself in four dimensions,
in time as well as space.
Your self is something like a snake,
a long, tubular thing draped across and through
the landscape over time.

What you think of as moving
is just your three-dimensional thinking
comparing you-here-now to you-there-then.

These multiple yous are
one you in fourth-dimensional reality.

So you don’t travel--
you lay,
once and always,
where you are,
where you have been
and where you will be.

You occupy your timebody
all now, all at once and always.

Your timebody zig-zags
through time and space,
covering ground, exerting will,
twisting around others,
changing what you touch.

Can you doubt that causality
is a vast, complex tapestry?
You are a thread in it,
tying it all together.

Look at your front end:
how it begins as two microscopic headwaters,
synched with the motions of your parents;
how the headwaters join and move with your mother’s timeself.
Your timebody’s front end bifurcates from mother
to occupy its own lay,
woven and dancing with hers.

Look at your tail-end:
how it concentrates in one timespace,
then dissipates into the care of others
and then back into its pieces of earth.

Look further in either direction:
your timebody is made of infinite threads
tying together and coming unraveled.

Look at our timebodies:
how we range through infinite space right here,
thinking that A is not where B is,
enjoying our three-dimensional emotions
of nostalgia, anticipation, regret…

Remove from your perception
the sense of time as a flow,
and you experience the Big Bang:
Here now is Everything.
Infused with the Nothing,
here now is Everything.



DA

Trapped

The tamest of animals
will lash out when cornered,

stuck in traffic I imagined
feet swinging from cells, bullets

freed from cubicles, cars
insatiable and cannibalistic,

I don't wonder what Jesus would
do, I wonder what He'd do in a can.

Pack up Move on

Boxes of photos
books and binders
some for storage
some for travel

Clothes on hangers
clothes in cases
sort and decide
take it or leave it

Look forward
look backward
two countries
one life

Call us snowbirds
call us fortunate
winter is summer
summer is winter

Just too hot here
Just too green there
Time again
to pack up
move on.

To Great-grandma's House
We started from our
home in a small town,
the five of us packed in
a small car.

We passed through a
handful of towns, and
passed by a lot of farms.

We stopped at the cheese
factory with the mouse in front.
Fresh cheese curds to hold us
over.

We finally made it, after
what seemed like hours.
Our great-grandmother greeted
us at the door.

Travel Worn

by Therese Haberman

The runway was steamy and blurred.
Planes sped one way and another.
I sat in silence, watching.
A woman in bright pink pants
Sat with an old gent,
His Mets cap slightly askew.
Samsonite luggage in gray tweed
Matched their hair
And Silver rimmed spectacles he wore.
They looked tired and weakened
By the long journey to get back home.
Her huge canvas purse matched taupe sandals.
Her bracelets jingled like Santa bells.
Birdlike arms clawed into the depths
Of the tote for a hanky.
Tears fell from old wrinkly cheeks.
Tears for a sister who had just passed.
In Fort Lauderdale, she said slowly,
Shaking her head from side to side.
The unforgiving C-word went unspoken.

PARC GÜELL

I am an American allergy:
inspired by this old city
and caught, insignificant as
an indolent scrap of ragweed,
by her daily breathing;

here, in her blossoming lungs,
the sweep of powdered lanes
that curl up the sides of hills,
and ancient Balearic breezes
whispering through my hair,

they push me onward past
old men and their backgammon,
parakeets talking in the groves,
down across blood-vessel bridges
that arch and twist and twine,

the sharp tap of my foreign feet
on her delicate leafy tissues,
the sounds of heady Catalan
rushing through mosaic veins
at the frequency of joy;

I am an American allergy
storming through these spaces,
and begging for one more moment,
before the respiration of the city
casts me out again;

don't let me go, you blessed body,
don't expire me back onto
those ancient Balearic breezes,
don't show me that pathway home,
don't let me go.

THEY CALLED ME “CHURCH KEY”
(or "Force = mass times acceleration")

On my two wheeler, I was a terror.
Skirting and scooting
up and down our driveway.
I’m sure they said, “There goes Wally”,
But all I ever heard was “WHOOSH!”
That was until the day I took the turn
a little too close to the privet hedge.
My wheels went left; I fell to the right,
face first into an iron marking post.
I cracked my front tooth.
The pain of the exposed nerve
Made my eyes water.
“You’ll learn” my father reprimanded.
But I was ten. I didn’t learn.

Two weeks later, my brother and cousin
were camping out in our yard.
I tried to scare them
so I crawled to the door of the tent
and slowly pulled back the zipper.
I peered in just as my terrified cousin
threw an Atomic Fireball Jaw Breaker
toward the end of the tent,
catching me squarely in the mouth.
A projectile thrown at such velocity,
and at such a close distance,
would surely do some damage.
He cracked my other tooth
which formed a perfect “vee”
where my two front teeth should be.
I looked like the pointed end
of a can opener every time I smiled.
They called me “church key”

4/24/09

TO GRANDMA’S HOUSE

East through Fort Scott, Kansas,
over two-lane ribbon of highway
beyond the state line,
through Nevada, Missouri
to Walker.
One mile east
on dirt roads;
one mile north
in deep ruts;
east another mile
across the railroad tracks,
to the best apple pie
west of the Mississippi.

If a Man Comes to Your Door Claiming the Truth Is Out There, Hand Him a Light Jacket and a Shovel, Tell Him to Come Back After He Plants It in Your Garden


You know, but do not tell
that it is like this everywhere.
The trees walk toward the house
when no one is looking.

The cats are monkeys
when we are away. They fly
over the roof dropping leaflets
when no one is looking.

We manufacture a holiday
to clear the ground of indecipherable
literature, men in shirt-sleeves
wearing gabardine pants torn

in hieroglyphics—the address
on their driver’s licenses questionable.
At best we call it "where we live day."
Witness the crowd moving toward something.
The beautiful people in perfect linen
deny their wrinkles, claim residence

on a different ship. I know,
but do not tell my children
that it is like this everywhere.
Daddy says it’s a money grab.
Someone has rtheir hand in my seer-

sucker shift. I miss my friends
when I am with them. Alone, I blink
and the lilac buds—once pointing skyward--
form a choker around my bare neck.

Lead a life, without strife
Loss of self
Without pleasure, without treasure,
On a shelf

Looking back, life’s long track
Joyless found
On to glory, without worry
Eternal bound

Leave behind the unkempt mind
A dust collector
Fill the space, hate erase
Eternal protector

Wrinkled brow, wishes now
Road less traveled
Unknown destiny, seed of joy
Life unraveled

Magic Bus Ride from Oxford to Cambridge

A soft fog fell on Oxford;
The porter loaded my suitcase full of treasure
Onto the bus, the magic bus
And my dance-slippered feet skipped
Onto the bus, the magic bus

The spires of the city of dreams
Slowly sank away from sight,
But still stand firmly in my heart
As away went the bus, the magic bus

And through the window, friend beside me,
Danced the barley that would go into my ale
And the lush forests that would go into my dreams
And the bus, the magic bus
Approached a stately castle surrounded by a garden
Too beautiful for words,

And once upon a time in that castle
Lived a queen
Whose stepdaughter spent the rest of her life
In hard grueling labor,
As one of the world's greatest leaders,
Bringing England to eternal glory-
And my friends and I
Explored the castle and went back on the bus,
The magic bus,
Taking some splendor with us forever.

Soon we came to the River Cam,
And on that river stood wild and radical Cambridge-
Where powerful thoughts are created every day.
We disembarked from the bus, the magic bus
And settled into our dorms for new adventures,
Still full of vigor, we ran down the streets
Stopping for an ale or two,
But still full of vigor,
We merrily strolled along the Cam,
Being grateful that the magic bus
Was how we came!

I see with wonder
the adventures ahead

The beauty of a child
who’s heart dares to believe

A dream
A challenge

A life well lived

At the threshold of
destiny

She reaches for the stars

By Lynn Potter 4/24/09

The Climb

...and he himself carried the fire
and the knife. Genesis 22:6


So off they went
with Isaac in the lead,
the path up Mt. Moriah.
Abraham climbed slowly,
leaning on his cane,
his left hand in his pocket,
touching handle, touching blade,
fingering two smooth stones.
Visions swam inside his head
of heifers, she-goats, rams,
turtle doves, pigeons
and first-born lambs.

Why go down
Memory Lane
When the damn thing
Is infested with land mines.

THE LONGEST TRIP OF HER LIFE

At 6:28 pm
Christmas Eve
just after she had come home
to her cold, dark apartment
after a hectic day of work
the phone rang

the voice at the other end told her
she was needed at the hospital
because her sister had been in an accident

she wanted to know more
but the voice would not say anything else

She grabbed her purse
quickly locked the door behind her
and ran towards her car

eyes misty with tears, she told her sister -
hang in there, I'm on my way

Traffic was terrible -
people leaving work,
going to parties,
leaving parties
bumper to bumpter most of the way -
red light after red light

She kept whispering -
she will be okay ... she will be okay

She parked her car in the first spot she could find,
further from the hospital than she would have liked
but it didn't matter
she ran from the car towards the main entrance
carefully dodging the patches of ice and snow
that freckled the parking lot

She was led to an area outside of the emergency room
and was given the news
that as a result of injuries sustained in a head-on collison
her sister had died

The world collapsed beneath her
She felt jilted
her tears and prayers had been in vain
and in that moment when she heard the horrible news
she knew her life had changed forever

She pounded her fists in the air
an eternity had passed since she left her apartment -
if only she had gotten there sooner
if there hadn't been so much traffic on the streets
if she had only been able to park closer to the hospital
she might have been there when ...
when ...

Her tear-filled eyes saw the time displayed in bright red LED numbers
on a clock over the ER doors
6:58 pm

Word Arc

I pull your lyrical
rant from my burning ears.
Each ribboned phrase.
Each run-on mass.
Each simple letter.
Then swirl them all together in
the air and pop
them into my mouth and
chew.
This literary cud.
I chew and chew
rearranging your peppled words
until they dribble out
dressed in
satin prose.

Elizabeth Nunley - I really like your poem. It's so true, what you wrote about Memory Lane!

Postcards

Wish you were here.
Exactly what is the meaning
of that? It is as though
you have chosen a mistaken
phrase from the guide book,
trying to speak a language
I will remember and understand.

Perhaps you will think to bring
souvenirs: three silver bracelets,
a silk scarf, a gilded purse;
a memento of the night at
the opera I didn’t attend.

Here it is cold.
The wind has been urgent
all day, the gate loose on its hinges.
It is evening; you are sleeping
in a landscape not of our making,
the silence imposed.

NO MORE GAS

He was so steady, his hands relaxed
on the wheel, his voice an accompaniment
to “King of the Road”. He liked to drive
with the windows open, cigarette poised
on his lower lip. No road deterred him,
no destination too far to pack up the car
and head that way. When I was old enough,
he let me get behind that wheel myself,
guide his sedan down the vast network
of roads beyond the edges of our Midwestern
city, learn to make the quick left turn
just to see what was there. We talked
about where we had been, where
we would still go, about life and all
its confusing choices. I loved sitting
in my father’s place. Years later
he moved out of the driver’s seat
for good, his hands gnarled, his hair
white, the tender back of his neck
wrinkled as he stared out the window
of my car. It was my turn to be steady,
to be relaxed as I drove him wherever
he asked. I didn’t expect the tears
that pooled in my eyes as I heard
him sigh when we passed that last
left turn in favor of the shortest route.

Ideal Vacation

Sand and sun.
Tan and fun.
Water’s warm.
No snowstorm.
All day long in a swimsuit.
Munching on some tasty fruit.
Anytime of year is great.
To find a place and relocate!

Day 24
***************
The Other Road
***************

Robert Frost took the less traveled road
And it made all the difference to him
The road I've taken is much less bumpy
no turns or twist or bends.

I must have taken the other road
That Robert didn't choose
Where the leaves are brown and trodden
And many people stood

I turned around and retrace my steps
To where the two roads fused
Like Robert Frost, the poet once did
I took the road less used.

Leslie -April 24, 2009

Travel

Sliding along
that unfurling
ribbon
smooth slipping
toward a
sometimes sparkling
horizon

moving from place to place
never feeling at home anywhere
making friends
then breaking them
to move on to the next town.
traveling all over the states
dragged beyond my comfort zone
like a pet
like an animal.
I can't make friends now
they just go away
they're not for keeps
they fly away too soon.

Drifting

Drifting through
clouds, this speck
feels complete
just floating.

No mission in
mind or heart
replaces this
peacefulness.

Do souls need
a body to feel
fulfilled? What
is so important?

Why did I choose
an earth existence
again? What is
relevant this time?

My journey starts
with siphoning me from
tranquility and being
placed inside a human shell.

Will I succeed?
Who am I? What is my
quest this life time?
My mission clouds.

Shirley ... how lovely is your poem...and the sweet kiss felt in that Carolina sun.......

Obi-Wan and Hannah, let's dance like nobody's watching! :) Mr. Atwater, you are a true renaissance man!

Visit with Mom

I’d love to come see you again
We’d sit and talk a while
I miss those great big hugs you gave
I miss your laugh, your smile

We never got to say goodbye
Too quickly you weren’t there
So many things we didn’t do
So much we didn’t share

Sometimes I sit outside alone
where peace and quiet abound
I think I hear you on the breeze
It’s such a lovely sound

You love the blooming dogwood trees
their white catches the eye
So too the many shades of green
against the blue of sky

Your favorite is my lilac bush
Just like the one your grew
I told you that I planted it
to remind me of you

We sit and listen to the birds
We both so love the Spring
This time we spend together, mom
is such a special thing

In fact, I have come to realize
when I feel drawn away
longing for a visit with you
you’ve come to visit me.

Walt, Walt, Walt ... I see you are in true form today! Loving it!!

Cards

It makes you laugh, it makes you cry,
Some have riddles you can try,
Hallmark ones are most well known,
Or so the many studies have shown.

Mother's day many are bought,
And to mom the mean a lot,
The best ones always mean so much
because your heart they gently touch.

Though as a mom I must say
the cards that move me any day
My favorites, I save every one
were made by hand by a son.

No Need for Rick Steves

Someone I know has a birthday today
and when it comes to travel
she is quite the gourmet
from Seattle to Florida
New York to Cali-for-ni-ay
this gal’s been around
she loves to getaway

Her travels have taken her
far, far away
to England and Ireland
and sunny I-tal-ay
where she’s been more than once
‘cuz it’s sunny and bright
and the food and wine?
mamma mia! such delight!

And when she comes home
we all love to see
the wonderful pictures
and hear great stories
about her adventures
you know she’s had many
and shares them with us
who haven’t had any

travels to places
in far off lands
but we hear all about them
from her…first hand!
and relish each tale of
her wanderings with glee
so we get to enjoy them
vicariously

Keith

Fingering
the slight curl of your hair,
Tarrying
a moment there.

Drawn to the crinkles
of smiling eyes,
Now only a memory,
Satisfies.

Two tiny scars
by the side of your nose,
Part of the memory of you
I compose.

The line of your jaw,
stalwart, yet smooth,
And cleft of your chin,
Combine to soothe.

The width of your shoulders,
Which capably bear
Heartbreaks in life
Which we cannot repair.

Laying my head
Once again on your chest,
Where I always gain comfort,
Reassurance, and rest.

If ever my sight
Is taken from me
You are the pathway
I’d walk comfortably.

You are the lane
I’d choose freely to roam.
For you are my love,
My comfort, my home.

"No Good Deed Goes Unpunished"


The Good Samaritan I
Helping out this monoglot
Stranger in a strange land
About to board a plane to England
When Italy was his destination
I became his traveling companion
Seasoned traveler to his maiden voyage
I got him to the Ancient City
And sent him on his way
Before pitfalls occurred
I fell prey to Daylight Savings
And therefore suffered a lack of funds
Causing me to sleep outside
Of a train station in Naples
To curse in Italian in Salerno
And to gain intimate knowledge
Of the miniscule station
Of Castiglione Cosentino.
Were that were my only horrid ordeal
In a life full of travels, I would count
Myself fortunate
Unfortunately it only becomes
The top experience
In a list of expeditions
That have not gone as smoothly
As I had hoped

“caterpillar”

flash
of day wings
yet to come,
the crawling creep eats leaf to leaf to leaf until
the farmer snuffs out
feet
with his thumb.

“No Direction Home”

We don't use maps anymore;
not compasses or the North Star –
just Googles and printouts,
full of missed turns and wrong mileages.
The signs on Route 3 are rusted,
fallen beneath uncut grasses,
and trash thrown from cars.
Still, there is one way home -
past the brick school and stone church,
by the wild forsythia, the baseball field
and the ice-cream stand where long ago
my grandfather bought a gallon of vanilla
and brought it home for supper.

I like your piece, Ann Malaspina. The simplest of homespun memories are the best.

Thanks, Pearl.

Work Commute



I have to be at work in an hour.
I have to write this poem
take a shower
iron my clothes
put one dollar in my gas tank
and make it there without
any cigarettes to smoke.
How am I doing so far?

A variation:
Lemmings

We're going there,
He's leading the way,
We're going there,
He says we can't stay,
We're going there,
He says not far,
We're going there,
Follow his star,
We're going there,
He decrees the old ways shed,
We're going there,
He says nothing to dread,
We're going there,
Right to the end,
We're going there,
He's our great friend,
We're going there,
He has the reigns,
We're going there,
Oh! Look! The chains!

Paris at ninety

It takes ninety years and four months
for you to get to Paris. Your vision
is blurred by macular degeneration
and your two hearing aids do not
help as much as you’d like. Still,
you choose to sit on the windy roof

of the tour boat for the best view.
Your heart works harder
than it used to, so we stop
after a long walk through a subway
tunnel and a climb of fits and starts
up a thousand stairs to the street

near the Arc de Triomphe.
You drink in the city
like you always drink in life,
fully and from public transportation.
A bus and taxi ride later, you lift
your magnifying glass

from your beige vinyl purse
determined to experience
your own menu in a language
you do not know. I want to be like you.
I want to ignore limits, sit
at a café across from the fuzzy

Eiffel Tower, listen to conversations
whether I can hear them or not.
I want to sit back and breathe deeply
then smile, lean over to my
granddaughter who is here
because I’ve always known how

to save, and laugh
If you live long enough,
you get to see it all.

Linda Voit

Are We There Yet?


In Germany you said
I was a great navigator
we sailed through the villages
and never got lost

I knew the language
you knew driving
and we both knew
this might be our last chance

In Japan you said
you’d been there before
and I didn’t know the language
but we were still in love

Back in the States
we both knew the language
you grabbed the map
so we swerved off the road

It was no accident
but I knew then
we weren’t lost
and I’d been here before

Oops. It's reins not reigns!

Lemmings

We're going there,
He's leading the way,
We're going there,
He says we can't stay,
We're going there,
He says not far,
We're going there,
Follow his star,
We're going there,
He decrees the old ways shed,
We're going there,
He says nothing to dread,
We're going there,
Right to the end,
We're going there,
He's our great friend,
We're going there,
He has the reins,
We're going there,
Oh! Look! The chains!

Kathy Booker- You made me cry...this has always been a fear of mine with my own sister, she is my best friend. Very well done, Thank you.

Oil Slick


Have we spoken ourselves into silence?
What can be said about this latest sunset?
Trees branch into the sky’s brilliance
like cracks through inverted bells,
which simply means that nothing
will call attention to its beauty.
It shares God’s unutterable names
and deafens us city dwellers
to the car’s wheels clicking
against sections of Route 222,
while the sun that before blinded me
tempts the eyes away from the road
as it pools in the clouds
like a pink oil slick sliding away from us
no matter how fast we go.

“A to B”

A straight line
No turns
No right angles
Or 180s
No loop-de-loops
Just straight
Endless
A horizon
The gray interstate
Going on and on
It should be simple
Going that straight line
A to B
You get there
But its never that easy
I’m always distracted
By the road signs
Turn here
Caution
Attraction up ahead
Slowing down
Stopping
Turn around to look
Over the shoulder
The rearview mirror
A to B, is never just A to B
Sometimes I find P or Q
Occasionally even W
Before I get back to B

Travel Plans

Nobody needs to go anywhere else. We are all, if we only knew it, already there.
-Aldous Huxley

Newfoundland and Labrador
The Outer Hebrides and Iceland
The Canadian Rockies
New Zealand and Australia
Tibet and Nepal
The Himalayas and Denali
Hudson Bay and Greenland
Finland and the 8,000 islands
Along the Swedish coast
Between Gothenburg and the Norwegian border…

Though it is hard to believe,
When I look at my list
Of places that call to me,
I know I do not have to
Arrange for the cat sitter
Or pack my bags.
All I need to do
Is walk to my garden
And water the asparagus.

“Driving to Points Unknown”

In a tail-end head-spin
Through the 65-mile-an-hour rush
Deafening the hum of a closeness
Sealed in the fate of the crush
Taking home a newborn survivor
Memories to relearn and make new
When family is something to shrug at
It gets hard to sit tight and make do
A need to break free from demanding
Ones so close needing who they once knew
A great need to break free and go driving
This second chance was just passing through

Marie Elena- That is true love...and beautifully written.

Cyberspace Casanova

Suave and debonair,
he flits from blog to blog
flirting lasciviously,
leaving bits of innuendo
for each lovely maid.

He tenders verse in
one size fits all,
insulting ladies
left and right
in commonality.

Sublimely unaware of his offense,
he recoils in surprise when confronted.
Oh how it pains him to be labeled
feckless and insincere; he leaves,
proclaiming himself betrayed.

Of course he knows,
she still loves him;
how could she not?
He is a legendary Lothario
in his own mind.

CLA

Travel

Of all the places there are to see
Home is the most beautiful to me.
No mountain high or ocean deep
Can match the homey comfort I seek.

Bright light seem to grow dim
When in my own bed I’m snuggled in.
Crowds rushing in busy flight
Can’t compare with the quiet of the night.

I’ve been here and I’ve been there
But there is one place beyond compare.
The cozy nest I call home
Convinces me never to roam.

**********************

*heaven's path*


to this frequent flier,
airports are never foreign;
even on planes, above clouds,
it does not feel like travel;

just this monday, arriving
in amsterdam from london,
stepping onto the belt, her body
pulled along with the numbed crowd,

her mind does not prickle
about the one country and the next,
but pierces higher, through strato, meso
thermo - all the -ospheres -

clean across meridians, bending,
arriving vast distances without departing;
this journey in every moment
oriented by star-maps, mandalas

navigating spirit: her only part
that ever truly travels
to its only real destination:
you.

and then, she waits
at customs, flashes her passport
and aligns her smile
with her photo;

zipping her bag,
exiting the international
zone, she wonders:
when will her spirit gain entry?

and thinks: even when
you and i are flesh on flesh,
my soul won't stop
reaching unmeasurable

trajectories home to you;
about geographical distance -
infinite or ticklingly
infinitesimal -

heaven's path knows nothing



**************

Susan Boyle

moved from a small village,
a cottage with sick mum
and a cat to a castle
on YouTube. Today more
than 42 million people
have been moved to watch
her gob-smack the cynics
and all of us too.
She will never be an
unknown drab again.

Carrier Pigeon


She has message on her way and steady
Direction home beating wings night through day
Built-in device around her neck a weight
Satchel note determination heavy
Whoosh, whoosh stride and strong wing beats aplenty
Sealed waxed ink pigeon post message to say
Wait for your hands tease the edges away
The message revealed when you are ready

Breathe in scent on paper written in mind
Words without delay--make haste, make haste then flew!
Busyness whirlwind and travel in-kind
Ribbon to mark gray-necked feather slated blue
A bird compass to follow ties that bind
Journey long though she’s in route home to you

The unknown places

Our traveling is always join-the-dots.
Where are our friends? Where is our family?
Take a train trip out west, a Greyhound bus,
an aeroplane, and see the folks we love.

What if we just set off into the blue,
without a planned agenda? Board a train
and never know just where we might descend?
Like lonesome cowboys we could mosey off

across the range and when it got to dark,
why we’d just plunk right down and go to sleep.
Instead of surfing couches or spare rooms
we’d surf some beaches, and instead of friends

we’d meet with strangers who speak unknown tongues
in different alphabets, cook with different
spices, or sing long, slow, laments to
unfamiliar tunes. Out there’s a world of wild.

Connecticut

She couldn’t say it at first,
Connecticut. Her young tongue so use
to the sing-song place names
she was leaving behind: Tuscaloosa,
Andalusia, Opelika— more like people
names rather than names of places, much like
girl names with their vowel endings. But
Connecticut, she had to take her time
with it— was told it was best said fast like
Mississippi. Kuh-NEH-tuh-kut, she repeated it
until her tongue fell in love with it, until
it turned beautiful, then ugly, then back
to beautiful. Kuh-NEH-tuh-kut, she wore it
out until she got it right— right enough to say
it properly should the nosy northern-bound
on the Greyhound ask where she was headed.

Susan Boyle

moved from a small village,
a cottage with sick mum
and a cat to a castle
on YouTube. Today more
than 42 million people
have been moved to watch
her gob-smack the cynics
and all of us too.
She will never be an
unknown drab again.

Emma Rose - love "my soul/ is airplane shaped" - what a great image!

Steve Morrison - ooo "Tectonics" is lovely. Love the personification of vulcanism and that sex/death edge. :D

CAIRO, ILLINOIS
Our life goes on too long here
without any answers.
We toss an anchor
on the Kentucky shore,
laugh at each other
for saying things like
It will all look
brighter in the morning.

The anchor disappears
beneath thick mud.
Night closes in
along with the
choking stench
of paper mills.

Time has forgotten
Cairo. The town
clock was stolen
years ago. People
sit on curbs and
wait for something
surrealistic
in their desolation.

The Ohio is lazy but
the Mississippi is wide
and full
of baffling vortexes.
Forget what you have learned.
The earth is flat.
The Mississippi flows
over the edge of the world.

Under an ancient moon
a strange animal
crawls among the rocks.

Hurry Home (Sung to tune of “Aura Lee” i.e. “Love Me Tender” -
by Jeanetta Chrystie)

O my darlin’ where are you, for I miss you so.
When you’re trav’ling I’m so blue, ‘neath the pale moon’s glow.

Hurry home, hurry home, back into my arms.
Hugs and kisses you’ll enjoy, along with other charms.

09-0424

Swallows go to Capistrano
Whales swim across the sea
Geese fly south for the winter
and I come home to thee

Monarch butterflies go afar
on an insect flying spree
Salmon swim upstream for love
and I come home to thee

Animals follow their instincts
Some wild internal decree
And so it is with you and I
I always come home to thee

From A to B to P

snoozing soundly in bed
Suddenly I awake
gently shake my head
eyeing the path I'll take

on shakey knee
I travel in a fog
trying hard to see
the cat and dog

Quickly I navigate
from point A to point B
Excuse me I can't wait
I really have to Pee.

Ah thats better
off to dream anew
Catch you later
err who are you

Day 24 A Travel Poem


I think you should know the story of the perfect peridot
chosen by my father to grace my mother's hand.
I heard it was mined in Ceylon but I do not know the jeweller
who uncovered the beauty in transparent green stone
or the smith who created the simple gold setting,
who knew that the wonder was in the peridot.
The elegant Birk's ring box was probably not even wrapped
on her twenty-fifth birthday when he gave it to her.
She wore the ring proudly, not every day but when it suited
until, on my twenty-fifth birthday, she handed it to me.
I chose to wear it daily, even to work
where I popped the stone and thought it lost.
Tears accompanied its return. It was hastened
to another jeweller to be remounted, again simply,
so I could wear it on a chain. It graced my chest,
resting warmly near my heart and when it was put away,
it was stored in my mother's old velvet jewellery box.
I wore it for my mother; I wore it for my daughters;
I wore it for the honor of a gift from my father.

But you stole it, in its velvet box, from my room,
from the place where it had rested for twenty-five years.
Now it's just a story for my grandchildren.

THE COMET

For obvious reasons, they called it "The Comet"
since riding on her would cause you to vomit.
A high-rolling streak of yellow and green
would make you take notice whenever it's seen.
A wooden behemoth, one of the last of her kind,
this old roller coaster was my very "first time".
It sat on the shore line of the Crystal Beach Park
in Ontario, Canada. I rode on a lark.
A field trip from school had supplied the occasion
that brought the young group to this Canadian station.
I eyed her from a distance, she held no allure,
she beckoned me softly, that son-of-a-cur.
But I just wasn't biting, I don't roller coast,
if I even got on her I'd surely be toast**.
I had the thing beat I was filled with elation,
I was proudly avoiding a bad situation.

Enter the girl. Her name was Terry.
She didn't think coasters were the least bit scary.
She glanced to the top of this treacherous slide
then looking my way she asked, "Go for a ride?"
My plan had been thwarted, I started to panic,
(as sure as my name was Wally Wojtanik).
My machismo kicked in and it said without shrinking
"Sure", as my brain screamed "What the HELL are you thinking?"
So we stood in the line for the cars to come 'round,
(or we stood in the queue, if you're true to the "Crown")
And often she'd smile every time she would glance
while I stood there quietly pissing my pants.
We boarded the car, strapped the belt, crashed the bar,
as the pulley grabbed hold of the very first car.
Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack, the Comet did rattle,
we were just half way up, this was purely a battle.
Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, she came to a stop,
Perched every proudly at the very top.

And then it happened. The pulley released.
(This was the part that I liked in the least.)
With her arms in the air, Terry gave out a scream,
which was just louder than mine (if you know what I mean)
It looped and it turned as it made a few passes.
And at the top of the next drop, I dropped my glasses.
My mother would kill me, and on top, I can't see.
She was having the best time there ever would be.
I almost lost lunch as tightened the strap,
and by some crazy miracle, the glasses dropped in my lap.
The ride came to an end and Screaming Terry turned meek,
and she leaned up and planted a kiss on my cheek.
But just as it seemed I had made a new friend,
she said, "That was fun, let's go do it again".


**(Or french toast, in keeping with the bi-lingual laws in this fine Canadian Provence!)

"The Travelling Bee"

The rotund bee,
With its fat yellow and black
Stripes,
Buzzes its gossamer wings to power itself
Into the sweet centre of the
Cerise rose.

It snuggles and drones happily into
Gold globules of pollen, flecking its stripes and
Furry legs before bumbling off
On the wind and the power of its buzz
to the next irresistible
rose.

A TRIP UNTRAVELED
By: Hannah Bowles

Time exists only in measurements
of frog utterance and gull cackle.
The grass between my toes reminds
me that I'm grounded. The string
concerto is played well by the
cricket and the locust. The sweet
juice of a whole raw carrot and
rich meat of almonds is so basic
and so perfect. Sunshine has graced
us with its presence, my skin is
thankful, hums with the resonance
of warmth. Brand new luggage sits
with a new car smell, a gift for
the many trips I shall travel. But
for now I will remain, the comforts
of home I will with gladness obtain.

Marie Elena, I do love a love poem, and yours is as loverly as it gets

Mother’s Furniture

The walnut bureau, her cedar chest,
the Windsor chair, the ladder back—
there.
I’m here.
When the problem is getting me there,
or there, bringing myself back again,
that’s easy:
the distance measured in hours,
the hours in pages turned.
A sandwich, an apple, three coffees later,
I’m home again.
But the furniture, that’s different.
There it sits and there stays
until one day I turn the key in the ignition
and start the trek toward Barstow,
through the pass:
Needles, Kingman,
across the barren flats toward Flagstaff,
Gallup, Amarillo,
into the heart of the country
where the furniture waits
immobile, stolid.
I see myself loading mute pieces to crowd
a space too small, padding vulnerable edges
with blankets, beach towels, what serves.
Then, burdened with the patient grief of rungs
and drawers, I cross the weary plains again,
coming home.

Driving through Ireland
on the opposite side;
the roads were often narrow
the vehicle seemed too wide.

The air was so fresh
the land was so green
the friendliest folk
That I've ever seen.

We drove miles to visit
the steep Cliffs of Mohr
the air was cold and misty
and rain began to pour.

The best view they said
was way up top of the hill;
staying below, ( Heights hurt my head)
with dreams I did not fulfill.

After an hour,it seemed to me,
he returned,and I asked,
"So! What did you see?"
"You didn't miss much.
It was too misty"

Suddenly,the dark mist rose
Then the sun came out.
Across the Cliffs
were two rainbows.

It felt as though we were reborn
In that enchanted land of the Leprechahun.
The air was so fresh, the land was so green
and the friendliest folks that I've ever seen!

M.E.
Yes, that was exquisite, as far as I can tell. But what the heck do I know about love poems? Really. Nothing better than love through the eyes of a poet's heart. Give Keith a big smooch. I think he earned it!

Day 24 From A to B

It was a long, long journey to the foot of the cross
where I threw my burdens away
and I learned to count as loss
all I had done until that day.

We will travel together for eternity,
my gracious Lord Jesus and me.
My joy will outlive my body
when His truth has set me free.

Thanks to Hannah for Fibonacci Awareness Day
********************************************

Man,
in
the city
where I live,
it’s best to not drive
on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday,
or any other day, if you want to stay alive.

Infinity and Beyond

Five, four, three, two, one... take off into outer space!
We head into the vast heavens in our own spaceship,
Gravity pulls us, while we float in in the air like balloons,
For we penetrate clouds like birds or airplane going through.

While we bypass each atmospheric layer like an ocean,
Peeling back the skin of our planet to the sunny blue sky,
While our land, country, city, state, county and continent,
Shrinks in size of a dot on a inter-galactic map to view below.

No sun to blind us by its hot ultraviolet rays of warmth,
While we soak up the glows from a passing full moon,
A journey to the moon is a dream, to infinity and beyond,
Hoping no collusion course with asteroids or with meteors.

A thousand stars shine bright into mythic constellations,
While one supernova electrifies the night alive as a guide,
Via the lens of a telescope attached to the shuttle for sure,
Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Mercury nearby.

Once we reach the majestic galaxy and the Black Hole now,
Our destination to the moon's craters lasts a week or more,
And when at the space shuttle to do experimentation or repairs,
As finished, we'll descend down and back to solid ground on earth.

I think it's true...the Fib is the new Haiku
***********************************************

True,
in
the town
where I live,
it’s best to take flight
in the morning, or late at night,
for the middle of the day can be a tangled sight.

shewatchesthegreenlinetravelfromlefttoright,nolongerfollowingthedistancebetweentheirheartbeats.

OH Walt Wojtanik Riding the Comet was much fun!
Do you have on on fort Erie race track?
How about the Hamburg Fair?
Oh the memories you are awaking in me
from wonderful life in old Buffalo!
Did ya ever have Pompeo's Pizza?
Love the view from the old sky way too!
Even went under age drinking down on Chipawea(sp) street!
I so enjoy your view of my old home town!
And Memorial stadium and Hennipen park and the old
PINK apartment buildings on Main and Best! We lived there once.
And Front Park for submarine races and Ted's hot dogs
and the Peace Bridge and the Buffalo Zoo and the Art and History museums, Elmwood Ave and Beef sandwiches with soul sauce and the Anchor Bar!
The old library and the nice cop on the cornor of Main and Broadway!
Got my tatoo on Allen St!
Dancing at Club Commodore!
It was a great place to grow up it was!
WOW you've brought back a bunch of my childhood to me.


THANK YOU!!!

shoot. cutty-pastey gave my poem a title-ectomy.

title is 'vital signs.'

The Journey

Mission control
We are now at
Twenty seconds
And counting down
Four three two one
We have lift off
Clearing launch pad
Systems are go
Throttling up
We have achieved
Full altitude
Surface spotted
Starting descent
Maintain attitude
Keep it on track
Lower lower
Almost made it
Mission control
We have touch down
Ass is in seat
Commence writing

Student Transport

The ritual begins in the morning,
groups cluster on the corner
ready for their journey.
The yellow transport
on black rubber donuts
boxy windows in a row,
stops where they stand.
Red lights flash,
the folding door opens,
the group is absorbed.
They are little rays of sunshine,
bursting with energy and life,
every minute a thrill,
and that is why they talk
so much and in their seats,
cannot sit still.
Later in the afternoon,
the yellow transport
reappears. The creatures
spill out onto the sidewalk,
scatter and disperse
throughout the neighborhood.

How Did They Get From A to Z?
By Diana J. Baker

How did they get from A to Z?
This has always been a puzzle to me.
And who was the one who figured out words—
Millions and millions of them I have heard.

And who was the man or woman of fame
Who gave our alphabet its name?
I guess I could take the time to look,
But I’m too busy enjoying my book.

Whoever determined how words would be formed
Should certainly have been with accolades swarmed.
I wonder if he or she knew all the pleasures
People would receive through vast word treasures.

I, for one, am thankful and glad
For all of the joy that I have had
Pouring over the pages of books and books
Drawn right in by great authors’ hooks.

Books for me are a tremendous hit.
So if I really come right down to it
I really don’t want to get from A to Z;
Just give me a good book and let me be.

trying this again...


vital signs




shewatchesthegreenlinetravelfromlefttoright,nolongerfollowingthedistancebetweentheirheartbeats.

Road Trip

I feel my wanderlust beckon
Head out on the road, I reckon
It's two lane pavement I like most
Down 101 on the Oregon Coast

I travel through the coastal towns
That cling to cliffs so not to drown
Restful stops wherever I will
Wond'ring what lies across the next hill

The time is my own, I really don't care
I refill the tank and check tires for air
Fish and chips by the dock o'the bay
Wishing my life were always this way

Seaside's proud of its grand promenade
My West Coast version of Old Cape Cod
Cannon Beach calls from just to the south
Saltwater taffy goes into my mouth

Tillamook waits with wheels of fresh cheese
From contented cows in grass to their knees
Long Lincoln City is not far away
A group of five towns so citizens say

Stopping to frolic and pausing to play
Jack Nicholson might recall Depoe Bay
Lighthouse crews remaining undaunted
One in Newport is said to be haunted

Sandcastles abound, kites keep aflyin'
Farther south is a cave of sea lions
If I were able I'd sure like to share
The rest of the coast, but I've never been there!

HABIT TAKES A HOLIDAY
Hurled from feather pillow heaven by screeching demand
From the tennis ball alarm clock, I fling against the wall
Stumbled through mindless morning ritual
and poured steaming vital green tea into my favorite mug
Sipped while catching up on the headlines
Unable to face another unbearable day of tedious repetition
under fluorescent glow, before realizing I’m on holiday
Raced to the window and gazed at gray threatening clouds
Checked my daily weather text for the latest report
Hoped reading the grounds in the bottom of my cup
Tealeaves might know something science does not
Ventured outside to walk, bravely facing the icy drizzle
At four o’clock, skipped a flat stone across ski jump shaped surf
When the weather turned to unrelenting squall, I turned to go
My reward a twinkle of sun through the clouds
Bathed the damp sand golden
Reflected a pink, green, blue arch into the sea
Believed what could be even when reality seemed to say, “no”

a
dream
fell
out
of
the
sky
today
just
d
r
o
p
p
e
d
crash!
down
to
earth.
i
was
out
for
a
walk
so
i
picked
it
up
dusted
it
off
and
voilà!
my
own
heart’s
birth.

Teddy Goes to Florida

crying baby
2am in a Destin hotel room
tomorrow teddy arrives fed-ex

moving, always onward
one place to another,
i am never stopping.
won't see the same place twice..

since i left way back then
i've never retraced steps,
i've never looked backwards:
why'd i ever want to?

nothing there but mem'ry,
that only holds me back.
aint no way i'm staying -
aint nothing to hold me..

forward ever forward,
next place on my journey,
always somewhere further,
somewhere i might find it..

what? now if you don't know,
aint my place to tell you!
but don't think one minute
that i've no idea!

but there's just no time for
me to really name it:
join me if you want to;
company would be fine!

Escape Route

He fantasized about hiring a sailboat
and heading out to sea in a straight line
and never coming back.

He dreamed of walking into the Amazon jungle,
hiking deeper and deeper,
never stopping to rest
and never coming back.

He imagined getting into his car
and driving until he ran out of gas
and checking into a motel
until he ran out of money,
never coming back.

He visualized sailing
and walking
and driving
toward
better days,
happier dreams.

“Letter Drawer”

Cards and letters neatly
stacked on their spines.

“Happy First Birthday, Cuz,”
A five year old scribbled his name,
Now his e-mail address is
Grandpa3

“Congratulations on twenty years
With the company.
Here’s to twenty more.”
My dad died five months later,
Forty years ago.

“Sue, we have such sad news.
We had to put Willie in a home.
I’m sure you’ve heard how
Kids with Downs Syndrome get
When they are teenagers.”
Written 35 years before Trig Palin
Was held by his VP Candidate mom
At the GOP National Convention.

“It’s a Boy!”
Beamed the birth announcement.
Now the boy is a lawyer
On his second marriage.

Barely an inch along,
I rest from my time travel.

April 24 – traveling
(my attempt at a villanelle)

Pullin’ the Pop-Up

Pulling our pop-up down the road,
finding a secluded place to camp.
Traveling this way is our chosen mode.

Food and fishing gear – what a load!
Almost there, we leave the Interstate ramp.
Pulling our pop-up down the road.

Among all campers lies no secret code.
Relaxed, refreshed, through woods we tramp.
Traveling this way is our chosen mode.

Many miles have we this camper towed,
getting set up by light of lamp.
Pulling our pop-up down the road.

Pancakes for breakfast, fish our dinner mode.
A hot campfire dries clothes that are damp.
Traveling this way is our chosen mode.

How much fun we would have, we never knowed!
Flyfishing the Salmon wins our approval stamp.
Pulling our pop-up down the road.
Traveling this way is our chosen mode.

I wrote one poem, but then the next one came so here are both.

Across Europe in 1970

That summer we touched down
in Amsterdam I was a virgin traveler
excited over the foil covered butter
from Denmark served to us on the plane
Eager for the thrill of walking on
a European street, dining at a street café.
The little hotel by the canal where
we were told to wait until the owner
swept and washed the steps delighted me
though I longed for sleep and would have
stretched out on the cobblestone street
while the suds were rinsed. The staircase
inside to our room so steep it was more
like an amusement park ride and I marveled
at the mind that invented this. Later going
down I remember my only thoughts were
do not fall, do not fall, do not fall.

We visited Ann Frank’s attic restored for guests.
Standing in the middle of the
room you wonder how she could have existed
for so long. As I looked out the window I remembered
they had no view of the outside world. They were
behind the wall and behind the curtain. The beauty
of Amsterdam eliminated for their eyes.

What I remember most are the breakfasts
with hearty bacon and thick slices of Edam cheese,
eggs and crusty rolls.
The Dutch put breakfast on everything.

Traveling from there to Brussels by air.
My first glimpse of the Gran Place edged in gold.
It gleams in the sunlight. Moules marinere,
my first taste of mussels never to be duplicated.
Pomme frite served in white paper cones. Opening my
mind and heart to a world I’d only dreamed existed.

Paris bore into my heart. Her rain soaked streets
will forever by etched in my brain. The soaring
Eiffel tower, seen before only in photos
and Audrey Hepburn movies.
This was the city of lovers and we shared in the joy.
Here you were my guide as we walked through
the Tuilleries and visited the Louvre. You took
a picture of me at the top of the staircase
like Audrey Hepburn in “Funny Face” when
Fred Astaire tells her to pose and she moves
all around, finally saying, “take the picture,”
Browsing through the Impressionist Museum
I saw my favorite paintings from, Monet, Cezanne,
Manet, Toulouse Lautrec, the colors running
like the rain forever present in that city .

Then as if in a fairytale we traveled the roads
to Orleans, to the military base where you
were stationed and officers drank champagne
with us from brand new glasses to celebrate
your return. Seeing “Joany on a Pony”
as the Americans called it
the statue of Joan of Arc. Me in my Paris hairdo
upswept and elegant. Posing in front of the statue
against scenes of the torment she endured until
in the end though she never capitulated they burned
her as a witch for daring to be a woman in a man’s army.

Later ordering in a bistro they mistook you for a native.
Your accent was from Orleans. The waiter sharing
a private joke in French how Americans always order
Camembert. Me clueless,until you translated and still
I ordered Camembert. Our trip to the castle and secretly
carving our initials in the stone. The beautiful chateau
in which we stayed with the giant furniture and breakfast
in bed with huge cups of café chocolate in the morning
on a tray with freshly baked croissants

Traveling on the tree lined road we visited
the cathedral at Chartres. You stayed
in the car while I walked
into peace in the form of stained
glass windows. Sunbeams shone through
the rose window at the front
of the cathedral while the rest
was shrouded in medieval
darkness. The spiritual splendor
a blow to my Jewish soul
and it opened for a moment
to encompass the beauty of Chartres.

It has lived forever in a special place
of my heart along with the photo
from our window in the hotel
in Amsterdam of the cat on the roof.
Memories so real I can still taste
the mussels on my tongue.

I forgot to post the other one.:)

Road Temptation

On the road there is no time
As the pavement passes, you
concentrate on your needs
Hunger gnaws and tempts
At the rest stops where chips
wink and candy begs
you shove
bags of it into the car –
Forbidden snacks like Hostess Twinkies
appear in your hand, You grasp the
wheel and a Twinkie thinking could life
be any better?

This one sort of showed up - so I thought I'd share it...

On the Road – By Jane Eamon 2009

I met Mohamed on a bike
He said in passing
Carry no stick, good woman
And you shall pass
He smiled and winked
I swear

I met Jesus on a bus
He said in passing
Praise the lowly
For they are you
Carry no grudge
And you shall pass
He smiled and walked on

I met Gabriel on a ferry
He said in passing
Smile often and laugh hearty
Carry no grief for it does
Nothing for the dead
He waved and gently patted
My shoulder as he walked on

I met the Devil in an alley
He said in passing
Heed not the words of the others
For they know not of
What they speak
You are only human
And a woman
You cannot help yourself
And he climbed on my shoulder

I met myself in a mirror
My other said in passing
Choose your battles
And fight them well
No one can tell you what
Is for you
And I smiled and walked on

Day-Tripping

Out in my yard there’s a traffic jam
at the corner of Gate and Palm St.
It could happen out there any time at all
but most likely on days that are balmy.
It’s bumper to bumper (or head to tail)
and it looks like the line never ends.
But, somewhere ahead there’s a bold u-turn
and the ants hurry home again.
Just what they came after I really don’t know.
It all seems so useless to me.
Perhaps they just wanted to bask in the sun
and today all the toll roads were free!

Get Me Out of Here

Give me a ticket to somewhere
I need to get out of this place
Get me a seat on the shuttle
I think I would like outer space

Take me along on a journey
To tropical lands I will go
My suitcase is ready and waiting
I need to get out of this snow

When it first arrived it was pretty
While coating the landscape with white
But now it has lost all the wonder
of that long ago silent night

Nobody writes about brown snow
Nobody finds it redeeming
In the days between winter and spring
the sand of the beach has us dreaming

Give me a ticket to somewhere
I need to get out of this place
Get me a seat on the shuttle
I think I would like outer space

(Note: I was thinking back to feelings I had about a month ago before leaving Minnesota for a Caribbean vacation.)

Leaving Home

Leave your houses, your square walls,
your sound-proofed rooms. Close the doors
behind you. Forget your dictionaries, thesauruses,
judsonjerome books on how to become
a writer. Turn off the blue lights
of the great god, Television. Silence the screens,
the million maggots of the flickering set.

Find a place to say here
I can hear again, no longer surrounded
by my own noise. Find a place
where sentences don’t wait for commas, stop
for periods, where words ignore the margins.

Then listen to the sounds of trees, limbs
pulsing with sap, stretching to the sky.
Listen to the annunciations of trumpet-woodbine,
Queen-Anne’s lace curling like birds’ nests.
Listen to water words, the traffic
of streams, clouds rolling spitballs
of rain on their tongues, seeds popping
with life, your own skin multiplying
shamelessly. Listen to the 10,000 years
of mountain breathing in this one moment.

Then let the words drip from your mouth
like pink saliva and know it is too expensive
to live in your own home. Such comfort
comes at a cost you can’t imagine.

Between Here and There

The highway is where it happens
With the windows down
The wind, like a familiar lover
Making such a lovely sound

I left you far behind
After so much though and care
But my heart still aches and twitches
On the road between here and there

This journey has its moments
Some lonely and some of glee
I’m in it for the learning
I’d like to discover what’s left of me

You say I’ve abandoned love
But it’s my freedom that I spare
It’s not about where I’m going
Just how I’m getting there

Finding One’s Place

He just wanted a place to settle down
Raise a family
Maybe some small town
With a white picket fence
Where things weren’t so intense

He left the big city
Not out of shame
No, it was out of pity
To many problems with to much blame
He needed a simpler way of living
in a place where people were a little more forgiving

So, one day, he left the job, got into his car
with little to day, just started to drive
he had driven pretty far
Then all of a sudden, he just felt alive
In a way, he’d never felt before
He knew he could not return
to a life of nine to five, he wanted more
what he did not know about the country, he would learn

So, he drove into the first small town he found
The town was quiet and dead silent
Since no one was around
He thought, he would have a cold one at the local bar
but, all he found was a red flashing light
So, he decided to sleep in his car
Yeah, this just felt right

The next morning, he went to the local eatery
For the first time ever, he ate and enjoyed his food
Now, he had to find a place to stay,
after all he couldn’t just enjoy the scenery
He was finally happy, nothing would change his mood
After all, he was not alone
Nope, he had a town full to help in an emergency
He was finally feeling like he was home
A feeling he never had in the city. . .

Ralph J. Fitcher, April 24, 2009, Travel Poem.

part of me

I travel through their lives
for just nine months

they open private portholes
one by one
emerging souls reach
for a hand to hold

I remind them again and again
they carry their own wisdom
watch as they grow heavy with love
at last let go of insecurity

I travel through their lives
for just nine months
but part of me
will always go with them

PROMPT: Travel-Related

YOURSELF, INSIDE
Many are wont to rage
At the numbing mindlessness
Of the stillness of
Rush period traffic
No longer an hour

But think about that time
That you have all to yourself
When you are stuck on the
Expressway going nowhere faster

You think about life, your job
Your choices, your loves,
Your tastes, your faults, and
Rethink your values to see
If they still hold up after
Many years of being stuck in
Traffic to go to work

You can swear at the
Top of your lungs
Eat bagels and donuts
You play the music that
You like most without
Anyone making lame suggestions
Or laughing at your tastes
You also realize that you
Have a great singing voice
Alone in the car
Where you have everything
You need for the moment
Shelter, AC, bottled water
Or an iced latte, a cell phone
For company or complaint
A book to read, a magazine or
Newspaper to expand your
Knowledge of the world

It is only when
We pull into the
Driveway, do we
Realize, how loud
The music is, how any
One can reach you any
Time thanks to your
Cell phone, and
How much trash the
Bottles and cups
Create and that
You would rather be
Inside your home,
Apartment, studio
With your family,
Your lover,
Or your pet, even
Your plants, than
At the wheel of
Your car after a
Long day at work, still

While there is no
Place like home
You do find you
Enjoy, being your
Self in the confines
Of your car in
The middle of traffic
On the way there
On the way anywhere


Ernest M. Whiteman III

“A daily trip”

I’ve been around the world
More times than I can count
But the hardest trip I’ve ever made
My courage, I can’t mount.
It starts in early morn
At the break of every day
I climb out of the bed
And instantly I pray
To make it down the stairs
And to the kettle hob
To make my Irish tea
Before I start to bob
To and fro and fro and to
My eyes I barely peep
It better steep so I can
Drink or fall right back to sleep.
I’ve got no bags to bring
Except under my eyes
No security to check for
Guns, no silly, sad goodbyes.
Just Barry’s and my cream,
A sugar cube or two,
Don’t talk to me until
I’ve had a chance to drink it through.
Now I’ll start my day
Just one thing to make me blue
Tomorrow I’ll arise again
And make this trip anew.

PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Travel

The Black Seal Skin Coat

When grandfather steers
his old station wagon
all night in bitter snow, with
no stars to navigate, you
dive into the dark and
bury your cheeks and lips
deep in grandmother’s
black seal skin coat, landing
half asleep with seal pups
under the ocean and then
like them resurface for
air without waking.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

Today's challenge began
as the usual journey of the mind:
which book to pick up
a mystery? science fiction?
until the inevitable call
from 3000 miles away
he's in the hospital
needs to go into
assisted living pronto
his journey into the unknown
suddenly paralleling mine
forcing new halting steps
past guilt
past anger
past sadness

Hooray! My extra poem is no longer extra. On April 20 I wrote the poem below, thinking the prompt was to write a villanelle rather than to write a poem on rebirth. Today's poem about travel is a perfect fit.

This is based upon some notes I took years ago when I saw a group of very disorganized birds trying to decide whether to migrate or land. I thought they needed some help.


The Irregulars

Where was their director of flight
that morning in Jefferson Park?
The birds wondered where to alight.

Formations were not very tight;
they flew on a whim or a lark.
Where was their director of flight?

Should they go to the left or the right?
Were they on or off of the mark?
The birds wondered where to alight.

Their committees met on more than one site.
They pondered, but were still in the dark.
Where was their director of flight?

Always keeping each other in sight
they landed somewhere in the park.
The birds wondered where to alight.

They ate while considering their plight,
needing leadership before it was dark.
Where was their director of flight?
The birds wondered where to alight.

Dreams

I want to see the Canadain rockies
And Alaska’s mighty frontiers
Go on down to Texas
And meet some friends for beer
(Margarita’s are good too!)
Then onward over to Florida
To meet the mouse and crew
Then perhaps down to the Keys
To play hop-scotch on the islands
Once the tropics has been complete
I’d cross the little pond
And go over to Barcelona
And talk to my friend John
(really his name is Iain but that didn’t rhyme)
Then perhaps over to greet the Sphinx
And then upward to Venice
Before it sinks
And then I think I’d like to see
In the autumn of my years
All my friends together
For a poem
And one last
Drink

Night Traveling

I flew up in the sky
Without any wings
Went to different planets
And heard the angels sing
But it was all a dream that ended
And now my alarm goes ring-ding

Prompt: travel related
April 24, 2009
Day 24

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

life
by faye e. arcand


there
are
few
straight
lines
between
here and there…
distractions
and
revelations
along
the
way
are
lessons
to be learned…
lest
we
take
the
same
journey
yet again…

Leaving Harbor

In the stealth of night, hands
imbued with unsung pleasure
liberate the bow line.
Leaving safety
wind moaning like ghosts
he captains me
beyond the trembling
slip.

Petrified Noise

Silence heard from a ledge on ancient sediment
above the Colorado rushing towards its dams.
No talkers, breezes or birds there to lament
silence heard from a ledge on ancient sediment
of petrified trees, uranium yellow ribboned
between once fluid drones of sand and clams.
Silence heard from a ledge on ancient sediment
above the Colorado rushing towards its dams.

Measuring Space


Sometimes the distance
from my hand to the wall
seems very large.
I do not know how I should
bridge it. There are people
standing on the other side
of the wall, and photographs,
and small white petals. And I
am standing with my arms
at my sides, and I only remember
how to be still. My body
was not made to reach,
to walk that terrible isthmus
between my silence
and your echoing house.

Travel...here goes

On the way home
in the car
the babies fell asleep
So up the stairs
on tippy toes
Sure not to make a peep
If this attempt
is not in vain
My free time I will keep
I gently lay them
in their beds
out of their room I creep

Stinson Beach

Need to get away
See ocean, a beach.
Found where to stay.
It’s almost in reach.

Weekend details are set
Only one bag to pack,
Job worries to forget
Drive off – don’t look back.

Crisp air, exotic food
A much slower pace
Relaxing feels good.
Bliss glows on my face.

Last day comes too soon.
Say one final goodbye.
Back home, afternoon.
Contentment still high.

telepathy

it's not that a thought travels;
it's rather we are all living in the same
amniotic fluid;
always breathing the same air;
taking the same dare
to be alive
at the same time.

we all have a sense we are going somewhere,
or trying. but all this striving is so
unnecessary. I know we will arrive
in due time.
and what else will carry us there
but love.

c 2009 by Madeline Strong Diehl