Driving

What the hell. Everybody else is hosting a competition. I might as well add my oxen to the teams driving the trophy mills.

Any number of poems related to cars, driving, travel... etc

New poems only, but you have a whole month to work some stuff out for it.

...

http://i425.photobucket.com/albums/pp333/LisaM0214/IMG_1773_zps805a5758.jpg

(Photo taken in Acton MA, abandoned railroad in woods off Great Rd.)




Slowly Saying Goodbye

My name is called,
Whispered on the wind—
Go to them
The tracks,
The places where time forgot.

I press on,
Driving, entranced,
To each spot I’m drawn to
And told to go,
The Spirit of God, pulling me on.

Observe—
Preserve—
Take it all in,
Remember,
For I won’t pass this way again.

With each photograph taken,
Brings my world
Closer to finality in its present state;
Each stop along the rails,
A slow closure and goodbye.

Their calmness is being stored up,
For the unsettling feeling
That a storm is coming,
And I will need all the  will I have,
Before I drive away.

http://www.shoeblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/6901-915449-p.jpg



DRIVING


I have been traveling all my life
Lived all over the place
Moved a husband seven times
In six years from one part of Canada
To another Traveling Kitty is my name
We drove from Guelph to Montreal
We drove from Guelph to Hamilton
The seven year itch
Made the marriage a glitch
Now Rambling Kitty
Had to move again
From Guelph to Toronto
Commuting to Montreal
From Montreal to Ottawa
Filled with Canadian hoi polloi
Nothing like politics
To make my blood boil
From Ottawa to Toronto
From Toronto to Montreal
Thought I settled down a bit
When along came a Yankee
From Detroit to Toronto
From Toronto to Detroit
From Detroit to Montreal
I have driven it all
And now all I want to do
It find my permanent home
WTF Detroit is going broke
It is written on the wall:
Be prepared to drive again!

"Sam who? (Sammy Hagar)"



1.
reached within a cunt hair of Samadhi
while driving along the highway
in an eighty six Ford Econoline

worked the flea markets on weekends
while the week was spent painting
in a studio sanctioned on student loans

theosophical discussions
with synthesized ergot
cliff notes on mysticism:

93 current affairs
418 laws to rewrite
6 million ways to die
1.61803 ways to live

two thirds of this made perfect sense
the other bit became automatic

the almost oneness was quite frightening
driving I 95 at 85 miles per hour
the robot responding to radar

the reboot was almost complete
when the robot regained the wheel
before the holy unity of guardrail


2.
The long thin silk thread of space
just before Samadhi
curled around the funny bone
of my skull, last night
while driving home

The last thirty miles
is open road
five or six traffic lights

Our old Camry knows that stretch
well enough to fall in love
and eases into her own
when the last big town is passed

I have been burning books on mysticism
to inhale the exhaust as intoxicant
but also, to give a proper epitaph
to the long dead actor
in a more simple language

The doors to the theatre
blew wide open
when the wishing wells
were worded as a banishment
to the rhetoric of ritual

Set on north 611
at 50 miles per hour
the four dancing bears
on the bumper
kicked the curtain open

The drivers side window doesn't open
so the wind from the opened others
spiraled in the encore of the big unity
before the performers separate from stage

your wind whipped words
were pulled from your lips
i had to turn the radio down
sometimes it's nice not
going anywhere
just along for the ride
stopping at a roadside fruit stand
they had blueberries
just picked firm and ripe
i got one and we shared it
we kept going for a ride
you wrote me little notes on
napkins and stuck them
in my glove box. told me
to look at them later
when you had left
i took you to my favorite spot on the lake
near where my grandparents lived
then we went back for the ride
that song played and we sang along
sometimes i just like to drive

“The Sting of Solitude”
http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5179/5449716065_b752444b73.jpg
(Crotch Rocket Joy)

At times,
the black-ribbon calls for me,
it beckons for me to strip her bare,
to throw away all my worldly-cares,
get out of town and lay
my rubber-side down.

Oh, what thrills,
those majestic hills
just past the city-limits!

I live
for these moments,
to disappear-supersonic,
to touch  the horizon and the sky,
meet them simultaneously
in a colored-blur,
faster than sound,
a speeding bullet.

And there,
I find my reprieve
from the racing-rats,
go to that place where
I’m in complete control,
feel my real soul.

It’s so joyful
to live in speed,
such a nirvanic-feeling
in that special private-place,
where nobody knows me
or really sees me
as I jet past them
anonymously
in fifth gear,
my throttle pegged
in rapid glorious splendor,
melting into the tank and
feeling the sting of solitude
on my happy face.

Driven


My foot is weighted
bearing down
on the peddle
of my liberation
cobwebs disappear
in the high speed rush
it feels so good
empty roads ride my veins
and race through my heart

metal and flesh
tearing through the wind
flashes of the world
catch eager eyes
death hoping to trip me up
on the next bend
shift down
gliding like a bird of prey
I belong here

horizon bound
roofless
I touch the air
breath catching freedom
I taste adrenalin
it shines on my wicked grin
passing the curve
picking up the pace
with a daring throttle

wings on my feet
controlling my destination
direction to nowhere
I just want to lose myself
on the winding roads
that end at the sky

Country Driving: A Way to Relax

http://farm9.static.flickr.com/8442/7984793209_b0cd9d6aee_m.jpg

Driving down the country roads
passing time…
trying to race the slow moving clouds
above the cerulean skies,
trying to escape the city traffic grid,
trying to race time itself—
to somehow ease my pain.

I’ve been driving down
the same country roads
every now and then:
to relax
and release my tensions,
to free myself from worries
away from the rat race
even for a moment.
The cold morning breeze
as it touches my face,
the green scenery along the way,
the verdant hills with blooming
wildflowers – their fragrance
filling the air with serenity,
occasionally broken
by the chirping birds,
and the bubbling brook:
a perfect blend of symphony -
Nature’s own way of harmony
Ah, what more can I ask for?

Driving down the country roads
just passing time,
simply driving…

Driving
It's a blur
Speeding cars
Run each other down
Gravel
Flies
In all directions
Cracking windshield
Causing swervings
Horns blare
And obscenities are yelled
Fists shake
Tempers quake
On such a lovely trip
As this



I actually wrote this last night after a twelve hour drive!

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http://braggman.com/images/bump2.jpg


Likely to be my last bump.