ROAD SONGS

ROAD SONGS

NORTH COUNTRY EXIT

Steady woosh of tall pines
bending
easily victimized by even moderate gales,
somewhere waves lap against slipping shores
wearing away
relentlessly disfiguring to a degree
based on the strength of both poles,
somewhere souls struggle,
footing slipping slowly away
crying for the serenity
of a stand of stout maples,
tall oaks
and mighty walnuts...
Ah, for any peace
anywhere,
in such lament ends the world
as caring men know it,
crying out to know it matters
or means anything
to anyone.

ROUTE 503

Old farm of Midwestern Gothic
homestead and old man obviously alone
through forced desertion American style

God, the pain of empty nests
poignant beyond breaths

Sweat stained hat, gray
shades sad eyes,
morning sun weary eyes,

God, what of old times forgotten
old farms and older songs
like loves gone but not abandoned.

TALL PINE COUNTRY

Tall pines assaulted
and winter winds a comin'
said in spades,
   it's comin'
chill wind prelude
you knew from the jump
it wouldn't come cheap...
as fog closes in,
   cold air dripping
its discontented discomfort...
it's comin'
and no one no how
will slow the dawning
...the day long siege,
   the cold despairing.

FLIGHT OF FANCY

'cause man
ya gotta dig these days
they ain't never gonna come again
so late we learn the lament
   and today I learned
        another fact
most all the birds...
   they don't make a full year
and here I sit
    expectin' immortality
an' I can't even fly.

TO JOLT THE SUN AND STING THE MOON

Just a man playing the old tapes
   grinning to the sounds
bold discovery,
the tapes will play alone
    solo acts for an audience of one
    a repertoire theater of the mind
applause and appreciation,
a rolling thunder acclaim
expressed in soft grasses swaying
and driving winds blowing,
some things are
because they ought to be.

A pilgrim limps on
victim of cruel disorder...
truth and those who deny it
conspire,
lighthouse beacons,
viewed in thick fog
or sensed.

And to thine own self...
jolts the sun and stings the moon...
stars too, illuminate memories
and fields of view.

And to thy own self...
the cure of all that ills,
keys to the kingdom,
a performance for the one who counts
act one and finale...one and the same
no interlude...
it's right,
that for which the heart labors
that for which the soul spills tears,
mirrored thoughts and mirrored images,
the pilgrim feels the truth...
he knows his
and his know him,
unbelievable sunset...
incredible solar show,
relentless
like tomorrow's dawn.

NIGHT SHOT

Working flooded fields of darkness
valleys of and for the shadow
misting rain soaking the spirit
    late winter coolness in the soul
woodsmoke in the air...
jasmine and sandalwood soothe no better.
Cold and damp
a triumph of what survives
   when all appears lost
one's very cells draw together
a turned up collar
hands in pockets kind of night.
Survival of the fittest says the clown prince
I'm tryin' says the survivor
and wind blowing through tall trees
is echoed in faraway sounds.
The survivor does what he does best,
   with a smile,
he leans into the wind and walks
   with finality that says forever
so clearly,
with every step.

ALONG PURPOSEFUL HIGHWAY

The sun ain't near settin'
   yet I'm stoned
badly
and I'm supposed to be on the road
to somewhere
to some time
with some purpose
that now wanes 'n' pales
   yet the sun
ain't near settin'
and the road beckons
   the road cries out
   'n' seduces
still,
   I ain't nearly able.

LATE AUTUMN ON THE ROAD
BRIEFLY

On the road
in the country
and in my mind
reality
Sunday journey...
on the way to the agonies.

Hawk, free and gliding
works a harvested field
and possibly...
for the will to believe,
it being strongest in the morning.

An owl returns late to sanctuary,
Sunday morn and all is well
and good
and clean.

Geese aligned
and late to their goal
sail in their fashion,
graceful
and unhurried
patient.

Cornfield feeding deer
a doe,
small but unafraid...
the fear is mine for its safety
for I know of this world.

Rabbit,
stay off the road
and watch for shadows...
I like the raptors and care for their needs,
but this morning,
I need life
and not the truth of death.

Sunday morning
on the road
on the way to the agonies.

IN THE PROVINCE OF THE PAST

Tried to go home today,
a pilgrim ignoring the warnings.
Tried to go back
to a little town and another time.

Mid American boom town
unrecognizable...
sacristy raided and defiled,
a sacrilege
because of what was taken sure,
but more,
because of what was added.

Briefly lost before I found
a tiny house on a tiny lot,
smaller than I remembered
but I'd expected that
small child played in my spot
by my tree
tinge of envy...
wish he weren't so blond.

To the big woods of my youth
parked to hike
but ached and stared instead,
had expected it to be smaller too,
worlds and things were bigger then,
and more mysterious.
It was the apartment building,
the parking lot and pool
that hurt,
hadn't really prepared for that.

Decided not to see the school
or the old night spot.
Didn't search for the special places
where steamy window secrets were revealed
under starlit skies that promised
the scary excitement
of worlds to conquer and worlds to see
of freedoms and seasons untold
and no limits in sight.

EMPIRE BRACED IN SAND

The rolling fog comfort
of being alive and alone on a beach
a symphony of crashing waves
naturally timed
crescendo after crescendo
relentless for all time
And still I have to ask
...the old sweet question...
What's it all about,
is it about anything
or nothing,
does an essence await revealed
just around the bend
lacking just one more weary effort?

DEMON RUM

Night flight
gliding close to the ground
as it must be
me an ol' John Barleycorn
neither with the answers
the younger partner
still struggling with the questions...
ten thousand questions
in range from the worldly to the eternal

as if there was a difference
I'll make it, I must
I always do
anything less doesn't play
and is impractical
...even on the edge of the incredible,
borderline impossible
night flight...
I'd have it no other way.

INTRUSION

Winter morning frosty cold and clear
stopped to watch a Kestrel on the wire
Spotted an old man
limp walking toward an old farm house
Sunday paper under his arm
Old man
veteran of the suspender era
stepping toward a weathered structure
,,,a paint peeling old gray house
partially deserted looking
a house that would see
no more carved pumpkins,
a house resting on floors
that won't ever again feel
tiny feet padding on Christmas morn
a house entombed by lonely walls
with no more living,
nothing but
the waiting out of time.

Damn Kestrel

SUNDAY NIGHT

Tough session for the soul
a time for self inflicted wounds
and no places left to hide.
How can something begin so well
and end so mean?

Longings tear and tease
foggy dream images of impossible returning
to simpler times, simpler spaces
but loves are lost
and loves are scattered
and the night's so much worse
when you can't forget the day.

Radio plays the memories
while faraway places sing of agonies,
solid night sky emits steady rain...
near perfect staging
lacking only a lonely train whistle...

THE DANGER THIS TIME

Sometimes I get high
   most times just by the power
of the mind
but always just right
that place in the nether world
not incoherent
but on the free side of truth
seeing into reality
no restraints binding
it's these times I'm dangerous
   and it's for such danger I yearn
Freedom
Truth
all that is...
the I Am personified
   from hell triumphant
   from heaven exalted
You see,
sometimes I get high
just enough,
to see the light
on distant horizons,
sometimes you see,
I get dangerous.

SLIDE SHOW

Slidin' and hidin'
and afraid to hope
trapped back in the Sixties again
You know it's time
and you know the line
when the eyes don't lie
and the mirror deals morbid truth
trapped back in the days of yore
trapped back in the Sixties again
Gettin' higher
than the depths require
ain't no longer possible
when you've been along too long
trapped back there again
In the vine there is truth
in smoke there is light
ain't no longer
more'n another trap...
a disaster makin'
...for the wine
never bought time
and the smoke's a haze
a foggy daze
when you're half way there
and you ain't nowhere
slidin' fast
trapped back in the Sixties again
The words flow easy
when you're slidin'
just along for the ride,
hidin' now,
back in the Sixties again.

ALONG FOX RIVER

Tall pines and wonderin'
peach brandy from a plastic cup
nectar of the gods
A glimpse then
   into the unreal realm of reality
What it is...for what it's worth.
the essence being painted by perception
So if you want to be measured
   ...to be judged and painted...
don't tell of what you've done
   ...the awards gained 'n' such...
tell us only of what you wished
and how you'd like it to be.

A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR THE PAIN

So you sit around looking
for a patch of blue sky
maybe even a gentle warm breeze,
a little something for the pain.
What you get are truths
...clanging fire truck in the night realities,
glimpses of beasts and burdens,
broad sweeping brush strokes
   dripping in gray and black
and other hues of despair,
   shades you learn to sidestep
       ...to live with...
when you know ugly hollow truths
truths that aren't happy truths,
and 'cause they aren't smiling
wrapped in laughing welcome thoughts,
you keep 'em to yourself.

ROAD SONG

Tell it then
to the road and wind
whisper it to a star scattered
diamond night sky.
The truth is out there
somewhere
behind a rock, behind a tree
maybe just in the breeze.
And the purpose of it all
the grand secret,
is buried so deep in the heart
that only a walk in the wild
can ease it to the surface.
The meaning is there,
hidden for all to see,
in the trees and rocks
an crystal mountain tops.
Nature's gods have it all to see,
the images you seek,
they're staring back
from pine needle padded trails.