riding shotgun

 

 

 

I stopped for Turkeys

but They would not

stop for me---

 

they gathered

in the middle

of the highway for

a very important meeting

 

no doubt

 

they went This way

and That

perhaps trying to agree on

Why the Chicken crossed

the road---

 

and did she go to That side

or This one?

 

What was her Motive?

What was she thinking?

 

Still they waggled

back and forth

like a ladies' church committee

trying to decide whether

to serve chocloate cake or

white or lemon

 

and should we have peanuts

on the side

because you know Ms. Jones

has a severe allergy

 

meanwhile

Traffic Stops

Children Go Hungry

Terrorists Bomb

Congress Can't Agree

Willing to Shut Down

the Whole Damn Thing

take their Toys and Go Home

 

and I can't help but laugh

as the turkeys are all aflutter

on the double yellow line

 

over which side to be on

while in the opposite lane

a Hound Dog is Riding Shotgun

in a Red Covertible.  

through the mist

mist over
     unharvested corn
cloud descending
     swallowing the land

I drive forward
    trusting the straight road
won't bend

that the path I know
     will be faithful
as I move blindly

aren't we all
      just one bend away
from madness?

does the sky-blanket
    protect us
from seeing too much?

we put names
    on things we cannot
understand

build boxes
     and containers
for clouds
      wind

trying to lay claim
     to the grass
          the water
                 the sun

and the trees
      just laugh

the waters flood
      the wind destroys
            the fire consumes

we shake our fists
      at the impersonal skies

we're all dancing
       on the edges of insanity
           and wonder why

someone falls
       taking hundreds, thousands
               with them

no one wants
     --after all--
          to perish alone

but I whisper a prayer
        to the Morning

move boldly
      toward the mists
           enveloping cloud

trusting the wind
          giving thanks for the sun
                embracing the mystery

all is calm
      all is bright
               today

I am alive
         I go forward
               against the fear

lunch break

cool breeze
tousles my hair
through the car window

like a lover
caressing my face
focused only on me

a young boy
sits across
from his father

at a picnic table
playing a game
stealing a moment

to make it matter

for now
this morning
the boy can be

a boy

the father
can be
his Dad

no pressure
to be cool
in front of the guys

no need
to play a role
that's expected

for now
just
beauty

we're all
escaping
to the park 

to be
what we really
want to be

I breathe in
I breathe out
I float

on the fresh
summer breeze
of sabbath

children screaming
laughing
a song of abandon

living, receiving
the sheer joy
of being

no thinking
no wondering
or fearing

I smile
in mischief
in gratitude

that we're all
getting away

with it. 

to the morning

(When I was in middle school, my parents owned a little house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  We went there to get away when we were able, and I spent hours wandering in the woods, writing poetry and picking up orange salamanders...)

 

 

the path

is spongy

beneath my feet

from morning dew

 

moisture enclosed

by walls and a

ceiling of trees

housing the dawn

 

it's as if I

crossed a threshold

between

here and there

 

a field of dreams

and an ordinary

backyard

or

 

an antique wardrobe

that opens out

onto

a snowy pathway

 

in the woods

 

but it's not winter here

the trees whisper

their greeting

a chipmunk says

 

"good morning"

 

I sit on a rock

brush my hand

over the carpet

of moss

 

catching a salamander

organe and soft

its tiny claws

bearing no weight

 

on my hand

 

I dip my toes

in iced water

flowing over

slick, mossy stones

 

fishes darting away

from my giant feet

distrubing their

morning routine

 

it is quiet

still

a world innocent

and fresh

 

a place

to believe again

in new beginnings

in goodness

 

and a God

who keeps it all

together

 

it is here

as a child

I became a poet

a connosseur of beauty

 

where I learned

to meditate

before I'd heard

the concept

 

it is here

among the salamanders

chipmunks

and feet-numbing brooks

 

that I learned

to worship

sing silent praise

to the morning

 

and

be

whole.