Road trippin’
What if
Jack Kerouac
met
Robert Frost
on a road
well traveled
but with still enough
cachet amongst
contemplative
vagabonds
to capture the
moments
inherent in
going
‘he went thataway’
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2019
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Growing Gold
People say green thumbs are rare
Because they know not
To coax growth from dirt
Is to labour
Watered with the eye’s diamonds
Shone with topaz and citrine
Fed with air
To grow gold from the depths.
Betwixt the two
I love all things Parisienne and French
Eiffel Tower and flowered park bench
sculpture gardens and oil paints drench.
I dislike snakes and spiders hairy
rainy days and drunkards merry
mostly workdays with splash days flee.
And teacher in London now I be.
-Sandra Johnson, 6/22/19
Silver Hair Replies (prompt 23 and 24, Hour 19)
I want to burn
Not like a match’s golden flame,
Or fiery pixels in an online warrior’s game.
Not lava red or like a blinding solar flare;
Not glowing embers or a sharp prismatic glare.
I will fill my lungs with uncorrupted light,
Intimidate with radiance as my bones ignite.
I will become an unexpected sight
Pierced by a new light fierce and white
Transcending with angels of the starry night
and burn so bright,
and burn so bright.
Dear…
dear she who is about to complete the Poetry Marathon,
Let your nimble fingers dance upon the keys, there are only a few more hours before the sun hits the horizon and nine am comes.
You’ve been through some trenches and come out the other side. This too shall pass.
If you let your eyes rest and they arrived somewhere inside of a Dream don’t fret, your awakening will come when the clock stops counting and so do you.
You are about to have accomplished something only few attempt and even less understand.
Feel proud.
Love,
me
The life of uncertainity
On a windy day I was away
Tearing my way against blow
When all of a sudden a seed feathery
Kissed my face and refused to go.
That was one of the uncertain journey
The seed took to meet its face.
She knew nothing but just flew by
Hoping to get the tight soil to germinate.
The seed of hope was must
To take the final step ahead
In the direction correct
Till the time you don’t grip the grid.
Many times we give up
Because we know not the future
So fear pull us down
Shattering our hopes to shine.
19~17
rushing swirling torments of pain
hurt frustration anger
coursing through my very soul
everlasting?
i don’t know.
information, bits of thought
pummeling my brain
scratching down my insides
crying to remain.
regretful tears fill my toes
why can’t it be me?
naked feelings
set a~loose
despair and anguish
rack my being
~lightning comes~
hope?
much affection
friendship certain
all inside
…nothing makes sense…
does it ever?
~~one thought pressing on my lips~~
(do i dare?)
I Love You.
Dylan at 2 in the a.m.
There’s an hour for every kind
of music, but, after midnight
on a lonely night,
finding the right Dylan songs to play
seems the only way to serve the time.
And sit
with a glass of red wine,
looking at the cover of Highway 61 Revisited.
He still has that tilt to his head.
Hour 19, Clarified (in response to Hour 17, Mystified)
I hover behind the bodies
of traveling friends, at peace
and waiting within.
I am here,
I reassure myself,
buoyed by their blind support.
None turn back,
but their love is pervasive
just the same.
Their attention is focused
on the next stop,
to a place washed clean
and bright, its promise
enshrined in glowing color,
an animate stained glass window
bejeweled with muted headlights
approaching as though
drawn to our gravity,
centered.
Dear Future Lover
I’ll thank you in advance for this.
I appreciate a well-placed kiss.
Small kindnesses aren’t small to me.
Just be yourself and I’ll be me.
With acts that match our loving words.
We’ll create a love that doesn’t hurt.
We’ll find the joy in every day.
And welcome tears along the way.
We’ll be genuine in all we do.
Dear Future Love, I summon you.