Well, I will have hit the road to head up to the North country to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter and son-in-law and his family. Haven’t been up in over a year and a half. So the car will be loaded up and I’ll be traveling.
Think of a mode of transportation and write it into a poem. Planes, trains and automobiles. Snow shoes, roller blades. Covered wagon (if you’ve got one). Head to your destination and tell us about it poetically. Even a garden cart to the back yard is going somewhere. Give us a view!
MARIE’S MODE:
Remotely Interested in Travel With suitcase in hand as she leaves, the thought of it drives her to heaves. Oh what joy it might bring but it isn’t her thing, so she now leaves it up to Rick Steves. © Marie Elena Good, 2021
WALT’S MOVE:
NORTH TO OTTAWA
Four-wheeling across the state, the slate is clear. I am here steering this starship, hip to the restrictions in place to keep the world safe from miniscule bacterium, people staving I'm with a smile hidden behind a mask. The task not taken in 18 months. Up to the Great White North to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter and her family. Giving thanks for this gift!
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2021
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Thanks Walt and Marie. Let’s get this ball rolling!!!
Marie, your poem made me smile….
Walt have fun and love your poem…
Hear, hear! And thanks, Mary. Always glad to make someone smile!
Good prompt Walt and Marie, good travelling poems both for a trip of words. Onward!
Thanks Damon! Good to see you here!
Kayak
That far side of this long lake,
where the lee of a cold wind lies,
as an angry storm front rolls
across an autumnal forest ridge
descending to its rocky bank—
I can get there with some fervent rowing,
I can reach that other side.
Here, out on the open fray
the gusts decide to all unite,
conspiring into a steady gale,
spitting spray into my face,
pushing back against my paddle,
straining muscle, heart, and will,
whitecaps forming
as I split them with my prow–
I can get there with some fervent praying,
I can reach that other side.
Lightning strikes, I crouch low,
thunder roars across the water,
there’s electric danger in the air,
then a pelting rain released by rumbling,
water gathers in my kayak and
my bones anticipate the deep–
I can get there with a fervent struggle,
I can reach that other side.
Dark by cloud arrives, surrounds me,
does not calm the torrent’s rage,
flashes of my destination
are my only glimpses of a
bearing I might hope to compass–
I can get there with a fervent faith,
I know there is an other side.
© 2021, Damon Dean
Wonderful offering! Amazing. 👏
Thank you Ben…
👌
I just had a great adventure because I was right there with you…
That’s the response I was writing for Mary!
Superb
Thank you William.
Wonderful. This is a poet’s poem.
Wow, Damon … is this inspired in part by experience? And, do I sense a double meaning (physical and spiritual) here?
You did read it well Marie.
Now I can’t say I’ve ever been in a Kayak! this rocks, Damon!
TRAVELING THOUGHTS
Could I rummage through the folds of your
mind? Take a sightseeing tour to find the truth?
Do you wish the roof of the mountains?
Scale the height of the Himalayas?
Glean the wild for a while? Surf the countryside,
for a whiff of sweet Shasta daisies?
Do you want to palm the peach-brewed sun?
Lather in her locks, comb her golden running
rays?
Do you want to mount up and stroke the skies?
pluck her baby blue heartstrings, sound her dripping
ways?
Catch a ride alongst teal poured raindrops,
race and splatter happily amongst the fields?
Soak the depths of hickory smoked soil grains,
lavish hidden roots, just to see how it feels?
You have traveled heaven and earth,
But now, you have reached my field.
I am craven soil.
You have rained on me—
gifted my root.
Slacked my thirst.
Now they burst deep,
down to find new earth.
I am awakened,
anchored, by your visitation.
Strengthened by your
soaking.
My stalk is vibrant green.
My leaves are wet with
your presence.
Remnants of finely dropped
kisses rest on unfurled
petals.
I am a Shasta daisy.
You are the fire of peach sunrise.
I open, reach toward your skies,
lather in your coming, running rays.
Benjamin Thomas
so much loveliness in this poem… and in that loveliness is power
Thanks Mary.
Wow, Ben, absorbing imagery, rich. Loved the take on the prompt.
Thanks Damon!
I admire this for several reasons, not the least of them a superb opening.
You drew me in and kept me there. Nice
Thanks a lot Daniel!
Gorgeous and drawing, this. WOW.
Thanks!
Love all your colors, especially peach-brewed sun!
Thanks Sara! It’s that time of year bursting with color!
This is an older poem of mine…no church for me… woke up with a fever and sore throat…
Pearl’s Last Road Trip
In memory of Janis Joplin
I lived in the mountains
Where time stood still.
New music invaded that stillness.
I was one who heard it.
I heard a voice one day-
A woman’s voice- who did not sing
Like women I knew.
There was no twang in her voice.
It was wild and freaky and out there somewhere-
A taste of honey out of the comb,
Or a lemon off the tree
With a touch of smoky whiskey, and
The smell of the promises of roses…
Rough as a cat’s tongue
Gliding over your skin…
And yet
She seemed lost and her pain made you bleed.
I was seventeen, the age she set out to sing her songs.
I wasn’t brave like her.
She once said she came from pioneer stock, and that
Need to travel into the unknown was a hunger in her heart.
I understood that pain….
That hunger.
I was not brave.
She dressed like no one I knew…lost
In a style of her own, and tainted with
The drugs that raided her body, but
Kept that pain away- when
She could not sing it out to make us bleed.
She was a tough broad, and sometimes a bitch- but
When she sang and you felt the blood pouring out of you
It was there her pain was sweated from her pores onto you.
In those songs she freed us all as the notes clung.
The air echoes floating it away, but it was back,
In the memories of a place I was not brave enough to go.
It was the drugs that took her.
Hurting to know that there was no one like her- who
Sweated pain in her songs and then for a moment she was back
Singing about a road trip, and love, love lost, and
Though her road had come to an end….
It did not mean mine had…
Many years have passed…
I had a cat named Pearl for her,
And when she died young,
I brought her home listening to that road trip song…
An elegy in many ways to them both.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 4, 2016 Edited January 2020
“…a lemon off the tree / with a touch of smokey whiskey…” Mary, that nailed it. Great sensory phrase.
thanks….
Yes, yes, yes. Spot on!
thanks
Lots of truth and experiences here
Thanks and I still love to listen to her…
I hope you are feeling better! Please do rest!
And, I remember this poem. Or perhaps you’ve written more than one about her, with a similar feel and phrasing? Excellent
No this is the only one… but I did edit it recently. I am a bit better this afternoon.
Wow! You caught her very essence in this Mary. She still is my favorite. I cherish the memories of a concert of hers, which I attended.
THE SCENIC ROUTE OF DREAMS
I travel along the routes
of unconscious lines.
Hidden in the depths
of droughtiness.
I hear the echoes
of the living.
Thick haze
confounds the senses.
There is no fence—
between dream,
and lawns of reality.
The lines shudder,
blur, switch places.
The eyes stir, blink
see distant faces.
Is it the face of dawn,
or another?
An awakening of the
cheer of day?
Or has it been taken away,
fallen asleep…
Awakened into a day
of fear? Dreams? Or living
nightmare.
Benjamin Thomas
Very nice, Benjamin. In dreams you can even travel the universe.
Thanks Mike. Very true! I’ve been dreaming a lot lately.
I love this poem… one of things I missed after my mother died was her telling me her dreams the night before…
😊🙏🏽
Yes, dream journeys. Loved it.
Same here
Thanks Damon.
“I travel along the routes of unconscious lines.” This sets the tone, and is so intriguing.
Thanks
Dream-traveling is a great notion.
👍
The Road Trip I Long to Do…
My father built roads,
Long winding roads
Through mountains
That people ride…
Never knowing the man
Who built them.
I want to ride on those roads…
Before I leave this life.
I want to travel
Across the Smokies,
And visit Cades Cove,
Travel down to where
The road to no where
Was never finished.
I want to journey to Kentucky…
And see Mammoth Cave again,
And go when the moon is full
To see a moon bow
At Cumberland Falls.
I want to travel north one summer,
To ride on the Gunflint Trail.
He spent summers there
Working on that road…
It was there he learned to Polka,
And taught his daughter how to dance
While riding on his shoes.
In winter, I want to journey
To see the Everglades…
The winters he worked there,
And Ma stayed home
Getting her boys off to school
And dealing with her daring daughter
She didn’t know could walk on our roof.
I would need to hop a plane,
And head to Chili
Where he was chosen
To add his expertise
In building roads,
To the Pan American Highway.
I know that some of those road
Will be hard for me to travel…
But if I make this one last road,
It will be one I want to travel most.
That road over four hundred miles,
Travels across two states
Was the road that was my father’s heart.
The Blue Ridge Parkway
Is that road,
With mountains of azure blue,
And wrinkles of hollows much darker.
To see the sun set on those mountains again,
And to see moon glow over them
With the stars dancing close enough to touch,
And hear the music they make in the night-
To rest my head and dream of love,
And where that journey might take me.
To smell the perfume of the balsams
(A scent my father often wore.)
My heart longs to do this
For the man who loved roads.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 10, 2021
Very lovely! I’d love to take a drive along those roads.
They are beautiful roads…and thank you….
Utterly captivating.
thanks and I so look forward to being able to do some of this soon…
You capture so much with your words, Mary. Image, and emotion. Beautiful!
thanks and this is one thing I really want to do….
Sounds wonderful!
THE FLIGHT OF YOUR LIPS
The weight of your lips,
are like petals upon me.
They transport me to gardens
far, far away.
They are fresh botanical
companions. Their burden
of love is weightless.
Light as feathers, yet we take
flight; defying the laws of gravity
between us.
Our talons are locked, wings—
addicted to the agility of attraction,
chase one another to the heights.
Our eyes sing wild, silent charms.
Our hearts tumble, sound the alarms.
As we fall—
in love…
Into the exotic death spiral
of bald eagles.
Benjamin Thomas
Deep sigh here
👌
Definitely.
huge sigh
❤️
This is a unique direction for this prompt. I love it!
Thanks!
My Prius and the Boat
My little blue Prius has taken me
over a hundred thousand miles—
to Pennsylvania a couple of times,
Nebraska, Ohio, Wyoming,
North and South Dakota,
Texas, Arizona and many places
in the Four Corners region
and all over my home state of Colorado.
It gets great gas mileage
and it’s about the only car I ever
owned that I enjoy driving.
The last nine days it has taken me
every day the nine minute ride
across town to my friend’s house
who was recovering from COVID,
helping her with chores and meals.
We celebrated her 69th birthday.
We talked and laughed together
and recalled our many experiences
we’ve shared over the past thirty-some
years since our kids were little.
We each had four sisters, and called
each other “my fifth sister.”
Yesterday, October 9th, 2021,
she got in that music boat,
the one Michael rowed ashore
and sister helped to trim the sails.
She’s at home on the other side—Hallelujah!
But I sure will miss getting in my Prius
and going over to her house.
A good name is better
than fine perfume
and the day of death better
than the day of birth. Ecclesiastes 7:1
❤️❤️❤️ Such a lovely, lovely poem Connie.
So heart-warming, this.
Connie, most times we do not know the value of a journey till it’s done. Lovely poem.
Magnificent
This stunned me. Connie, I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’m sure she would have suspected you would write a beautiful poem to honor her. God bless and comfort you. Hugs …
How lovely this is, and to your friend Welcome to your banquet…..
Eloquent writing, Connie!
DOWN THE ROAD OF REGRETS
It was the kiss of disunion.
An onion that caused
unwanted tears.
Your lips gifted me
with the displeasure of
numbness.
The facade of love
pressed hard against
me—
Failed to resuscitate
the death of our
relationship.
Our hearts failed
to pump the viscous respect
of honorable human beings.
We lacked the visceral
gut feeling of mutual
give and take.
Our vital organs gave way
to the disease of distrust,
infections of anger.
Your kisses I still fret,
the peril of your scent,
I will always regret.
You are smoke to me,
as we became fire and ashes,
cinders and embers.
You consumed my good
nature. It became the food
for hungry, licking flames.
You are the road with no shame.
No outlet. A detrimental
dead end.
Benjamin Thomas
That first line got my attention.
My GOODNESS so much power and passion here! And the creative take on the prompt? Wow.
Thanks Marie! What an awesome prompt!
Oh I know this route too well.
😁
“ You are smoke to me,
as we became fire and ashes,
cinders and embers.”
Gorgeous!
Thanks so much Sara!
Crosstown Bus
Crosstown Bus
Neon lights on brick walls,
visions shine in the station,
and I’ve been waiting
for my bus to come.
Transfers, my life in change,
I’ve already paid the toll.
Conversations
pass by me, then they’re gone-
people in different stations
transitions in life. One
person has a ticket
out of town,
but here I’ll stay.
Drivers bark out departures
and I’m swept out the door
by others to my bus.
The driver grasps
the steering wheel, guiding
us on the way over bumpy
and broken roads.
I gaze at others
at their unfocused stares
while listening to silence
of unspoken dreams.
Points of arrival
dance across a screen.
For every person who says goodbye,
another says hello.
One location bleeds into another
when I gaze out a clouded window.
I’ve seen them all before.
Memories whisper,
one thousand lives
lived in the city
I’m destined to live again.
I hear “Autumn in New York” as I read this. Wonderful.
Mike, your portrait of mass transit is perfect.
Thank you.
Another fine piece, a poem for other poets to read…and re-read
The visual and mood in this piece work well together, and never break stride. A must-read-again.
Takes me to the Greyhound station in Kansas City, all the busses on the diagonal, the exhaust steaming up the dirty bricks…. the possibilities//the knowledge that it was all the same.
Love this… I have not rode city buses often or I should I say successfully…but I do remember the disconnect of those riding with me.
Wonderful, Mike!
Traveling On
Across the Sea
There was a time,
when our legs still worked
and our feet did not hurt
and we were too young
to fear exotic places,
never considered illnesses.
There was a time,
when drachmas were still used,
before the euro ruse,
and we’d hop on a ferry to
somewhere, some island
we did not know,
just a place to go,
trusting, without a doubt,
it would all work out.
We even floated on the Nile,
northward, from Aswan
to Luxor, the only way to
see the Johnny Carson ruins,
the temple of Karnak.
It was an earlier time
with only two smallish cruisers,
one going north, the other south,
five days with stops along the way,
with local transportation,
one day a carriage,
another a bus,
once a walking tour,
then even a felucca.
That was a time
before the crazies
started shooting people, with
real-life Uzi’s,
real-life bullets,
real-life hate.
My sweetie was mugged three times,
we still went,
the big cities,
Barcelona, Paris, London, the rest,
all called us and we answered,
driving, walking, snapping,
truly blessed.
Yes, there really was that time.
Now, I can’t imagine travel,
it’s harder to see,
and there’s a lot more than an ocean
between other countries and me.
I understand my father now,
after they
opened him up,
closed him up,
why he said no when
I offered
a trip to the Old Country before
it was too late.
He knew that time had passed.
This is breath-takingly good, up to and including the Johnny Carson ruins.
Wow Daniel. Just wow.
Be still my heart. Daniel, dear friend, this is one of your finest … and one of the finest I’ve ever read. I got lost in it. That may be easy to do in a good movie, or a good book, but not often so in poems. And the sentiment and feel and life? Wow …
Traveling without a care is a young person thing. Nothing hampers you.
Blazing a trail…
I walked a path
Into forest…
There were two paths
Others had walked
Though fewer
Had traveled the second one.
I looked at both,
And saw a harder climb.
Why should I go
Where others have gone?
I had my walking stick,
And my ax,
And decided to blaze
A trail all of my own…
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 10, 2021
Loved the sharp turn of mind in this.
Uh-huh
thanks Damon and William…and Damon that is me…
Spot on, Damon. Spot on.
thanks….
haiku
mourning dove in flight
visions taken to open skies
angel wings
Bingo!
sigh …
Wonderful.
I fly to heaven through songs and prayers
Sharing with my Savior all worldly cares
Through whispered words, tears, and pleas
Through songs lifted high and a little off key.
Miraculously though my feet have yet to
depart this spinning orb,
My heart soars to heights far above
As my my soul becomes united to the One who is love.
In the presence of the Creator and King I find relief and comfort for grief
As He takes all life’s burdensome baggage from me.
Oh, Shelly! This is so, so special! This lifts my eyes to the One we love (thank you!). This is such a creative take on the prompt, including the burdensome baggage. WONDERFUL, and wonderful to read your poet heart again!
❤️👌
CAPTIVE SEAFARING
i was lost at sea,
except the sea was within—
tossed about by wayward waves,
time and again.
enveloped and encompassed
by deep pearl of blue,
saltwater seeps, assaults
open wounds, stings only on cue.
undercurrents of emotion
attempt to sweep me far away,
drifting crest to crest, without rest
and roaming day to day.
borne by waves of circumstance;
from one peak to the next, tides attempt
to drown out life, again and again,
i fret.
slowly wandering, floating,
the jaws of blue reject…riding
relentless waves, taken captive—
only hoping to be shipwrecked.
Benjamin Thomas
For me, this poem has a whirlpoolish, trapping effect. Well done.
It does. And this, such pleasing sound and cadence:
undercurrents of emotion
attempt to sweep me far away,
drifting crest to crest, without rest
and roaming day to day.
❤️😊
Thanks William.
I’m swirling in those ‘undercurrents of emotion!
😊 😊😊
THE LONG DRIVE
Along the road the old man drove
across the land, through field and grove;
the road was long but all the while
he hummed a tune and wore a smile
because the course was not a race
but held instead a calming grace
that proffered hours of touring pleasure
through autumn bursting in full measure.
From dawn to dusk he travelled far,
just one small man in one small car
who looked ahead to evening coming;
to driving at night with the tires thrumming;
to feeling at one with the car and road;
to freeing the burden of life’s lumped load.
Most questioned why he loved to drive.
His answer was, to remain alive
to the thrill of peering around the bend;
to a new beginning for every end.
Oh yes. So satisfying
Daniel says “satisfying,” and I couldn’t agree more. The subject matter, bits of whimsy, pleasing rhyme, and visual that makes me smile. Satisfying, indeed.
Very Robert Frost, to me.
Wonderful! I think only you could write this.
Love your rhymes in this wonderful poem, William!
Marie, your limerick has me chortling merrily.
Oh, good!
Hope you get actual whiteness up there. Walt. Godspeed.
Our blue Ford Escape
Always lives up to its name
Time to hit the road
Most car names don’t say anything, but that one did.
🙂
😂😂Nice!
Gone
I’ve ridden the Choo Choo
Chugga chugga toot toot
Through the hills and dales
But not since a little child
I’ve seen many a freight train
Chugging up Northern Maine
Long ago but not today
The railroad has gone away
When I was very small, my uncle, who was a freight conductor on the New York Central, took me in the cab of a steam locomotive. I can still smell it. This poem brought that back. Love it.
This is adorable, Earl!
I love take Earl.
Inside the Bullet
Long, sleek, and shiny white
Cleaner than clean all the time
It idles softly awaiting launch
I anxiously step on board
Find my seat and settle in
About to find if the rumors are
Anywhere close to the truth
The doors close
We start to roll
My excitement builds
As we leave Tokyo station
On the way to Kyoto
320 miles by rail
In just over 2 hours
Inside the Bullet
I’m not a traveler, but this makes me want to check it out.
Sounds exciting!
😁
Travels by Rail
How I would love to travel by train,
looking out at rushing scenery
of lands with exotic names.
How I would love to travel by train,
with view of snow or Spring greenery.
How I would love to travel by train,
looking out at rushing scenery.
A dream of mine as well Sara.
I know I would love it.
I had only one opportunity to travel by train, years ago, crossing the United States, This modified triolet brought it back to me. Thanks.
My pleasure!
Yes! This would be my desired method of travel. Great little piece!
Thanks, Marie!
Splendid, and me too! I’d love to do this at least once in my lifetime.
This comes from some of the research I am doing on my novel series…. it is a form of traveling…
The Brave Ones
They were children…
The battle was before them…
They were the chosen ones
To go into white schools
Where black children weren’t allowed.
They were pioneers
Going into a foreign space.
Many walked passed
Adults calling them names…
Some walked pass soldiers
Keeping them safe…
There were others who applied,
But were denied and had to wait
Until the first chosen ones survived.
They had to work harder
Because all of those waiting
Could only walk through those doors
If they shined despite the darkness
That they traveled into each day.
They were the brave ones…
Those children and teens
Who traveled each school day
Where they weren’t wanted,
Except for maybe one or two.
It is a shame, damn shame…
That this was the way it was…
Sometimes it takes a sledge hammer
To break down those cruel rules…
But sometimes it takes
A child traveling into a place…
Where each step of that journey
They heard that they were unwanted, but
Those steps they took was
To make it better for all.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 10, 2021
For me, this brought back one of Norman Rockwell’s classic illustrations.
I know which ones…. and thanks… I have friends who were chosen to be the first ones to go to all white schools… they are scared by it…
Oh my yes. Another creative take on the prompt, and a heart-pounding poem. Wonderful.
thanks
I like your topic for this prompt.
🙂
THE TRUTH OF LIES
Lies perpetuate
like springing wildfires burning
throughout the forest.
Once the flames get a
taste, they’ll utterly devour
the morsels of truth.
Ashes to ashes,
they leave fragments, dust to dust—
buried, six feet deep.
Benjamin Thomas
Spot on.
Absolutely.
😁
She Travels by Shanks’ Mare
pulls on her Wellies and heads out
doesn’t need a destination just the going
where wind whips through her hair
ahead of the front coming in heavy with rain
that will dampen the puff ball at her feet
with its puckered dome that dares her
to toe it releasing smoky brown spores
counts lucky her find of two lone spikes
of pitcher sage sky blue against the brown
of mid-October. Buries her face in the cedars’
thousand berries’ dusky blues bending
feathery branches as if begging her
to bruise them just enough to scent
air with autumn days and frosty nights
spots a single field daisy blooming out of season
rising from a thicket of purple asters
with their golden eyes unlike the red-eyed
box turtle with the algaed emerald head so wrinkled
tilting to listen to her chatter as she greets doves
whistling through the sky that she’s routed in passing
peels back the brush to find a new pathway through
barely parting limbs where she plunges through
onto a barely perceptible two-track so faint
she almost imagines it save for the license plate
she kicks free—2009—proof of another’s passage
hikes until she’s at the back of the salvage yard
on the highway where dead bodies tumble
their own monuments in an eerie graveyard
jumbled chassis gaping windows yawning hoods
flattened tires split and curling now and
denned by coon and opossum crisscrossing trails
signed by coiled scat shiny with black dung beetles
lifts another strand of silk from her face dangling
from spiny micrathenas in their glistening enameled shells
swaying beside mummy-wrapped prey
doubles back only to find the neighbor’s deaf horse mid-pasture
wrong side and begins to tramp the fence line to find the break
bangs the feedpan until her hands ache shoving and cajoling
until his huge hooves step over the bottom strand beneath her boot
and he buries his huge head in waiting carrots and apples
dusk dulling day now and the fields gone from green to gray
only the waist-high poison ivy burning with its orange flames
tiny beacons she follows until she gains the big trail
inhales the coming night and lifts her eyes then
to a grinning basket moon.
Sheer magic, this.
Love the ‘basket moon”.
Wow. I love your words.
“Strong women and men aren’t simply born. They are made by the storms they walk through.” – Unknown.
THE JOURNEY OF THE STORM
In the midst of this blitz of storm,
I walk and move with no shoes.
I feel every waking step beneath
my feet. I can’t see the end….
The puddles around me, mock my
beginning. The smeared reflection I see is
a distant version of myself. A blurred
stranger I’ve never seen.
The onslaught of pelting rain shows
no signs of mercy. Angry clouds overhead
sizzle with lightning, and casts bold bolts
of thunder, but offer no solution
to circumstance.
The riled darkness harbors offense against
me; like irate rattlesnakes that seek to bite
my soul, elicit veiled poisons into my frame
of mind.
The movement of gray shadows stalk
my every move. They take aim like evil
snipers bent to terminate my sense of
will and fortitude.
My steps are heavy and labored. Each
foot a cinderblock, under the weight of
determined expectations.
Each breath is weaker than the next,
like descending into a sick, spiraling
staircase, leading to a dank basement
of doom.
I am wet with regret, drenched in the pain
of careless mistakes. The sky is broken.
Heaven is leaking. The shards of rain are
sharp arrows that hunt me down, abundant evidence of my dire conviction.
I am crawling in the storm. My hands
and knees are bleeding with lost confidence.
The waters are rising steadily—but I can’t
swim.
I’m forced to stand, learn how to
walk through the defiant resistance of
the flood. They know my name, but they
don’t know my surefire resilience—
She has no shame. She has the power
to turn the engine, drive through the flying
debris of life’s worst hellish hurricanes.
My legs are weary with buckling knees,
but I’m strengthened by a single ray of
light. Its brilliance draws me toward
the end of the road, although my journey
is just beginning.
My unyielding tears are the storm;
brokenness of heart seeking a crack
in my withering soul. The flood of emotion
flowing to the forefront of my consciousness.
The dark clouds of condemnation
penetrate my conscience. The puddles of
anxiety discolor my naked feet. The gray
shadows, indiscreet, shimmer at the
brink my mind. But I take courage in the
thunderstorm around me, within me,
about me.
I learn to embrace the pelts of cleansing
rain. Let them slide gracefully off my back,
hear them splash far behind me.
I no longer dread the pain of walking
through the storm. Because now I know—
I am the storm.
© Benjamin Thomas
So many powerful images here, especially, for me, a leaking heaven.
Thanks so much William.
THE BEGINNING OF THE ROAD
Skin.
Dust.
The breath of God.
Was our beginning.
The
Likeness.
Image—of God
Blessing.
Was our beginning.
Man.
Woman.
Eden.
Marriage.
The word of God.
Was our beginning.
The Serpent.
Temptation.
Sin.
Leaves.
Skins of sacrifice.
Was our beginning.
Benjamin Thomas
THE ROAD TO PARADISE
The color of skin is a hard road
that leads to no paradise.
The appetency for divisiveness
has no exit.
The color of skin can be a catalyst
for the casualties of human respect,
honor, the binding mutual love.
The color of skin can cause one
to drive under the hidden influence
of bias, disdain, and hate.
The color of skin can cause fatal mistakes—
Wrecks of what it means to be human.
Passionate. Empathetic. Honorable.
The color of skin can cause us to miss
our true destination, become hopelessly
lost in the wild of unknowns.
The color of skin can blind us
to the reality of another person…
Who is on the same road to recovery.
Just like us.
That’s just it.
They are—just like us.
We are just like them.
Underneath.
Underneath the brittleness of our skin,
behind the shallow layer of pigment,
we are the irrefutably the same.
We must strip off the skin of indifference.
The shallow skin of divisiveness.
The subtle skin of uniqueness.
The perilous skin of arrogance.
We must strip off the labeled skin of race,
and discern the true face of our neighbor.
We need to put on the true skin of sameness;
and with enlightened eyes, see the true face—
Of a human.
Benjamin Thomas
This deserves a huge bingo, in my opinion.
Thanks William.
Blame this on the dream last night
I was walking in a dream world,
And all I could think was
What was with all this traveling.
I came upon an old woman
Selling apples beside a hedge row.
Spoke to me and said,
“I see you have traveled far,
And need a rest for the night.
I have place you can rest
Within my row of hedges.”
I asked, “Who grows this hedge?”
As I walked through a door
That had appeared.
And as that door disappeared,
I dropped a penny on the ground.
The old woman walked
As if she was young, and
She said, “Oh you asked me a question.
I wasn’t listening.” She smiled,
“It isn’t just a hedge,”
As her wrinkles began to smooth,
She cackled, “It is a maze.”
I dropped a penny as she laughed,
She danced a jig and said,
“You must find your own way out.”
I should have turned at that point, but
She smiled and said, “Where are the figs?”
My love of figs nearly ruined me.
As her hair turned from gray to black,
She smiled, “Yes, come with me
They are down this way.”
I dropped another penny
And after that I dropped pennies
Along my way.
The hedge grew taller, and
There were more thorns
Than green leaves, and
There before us was the fig tree,
With the figs rotting on the limbs.
She realized I had seen them, and
Tried to make them sweet and ripe,
But it was too late for that.
“How do I leave this place,” I asked
The diabolical woman before me spoke,
“This is a labyrinth and
The spider is my friend.
She needs feeding you see.
You will never leave hear.”
As the spider began to come
Out of the darken corner,
I pulled my ax made of gold,
And threw it at that spider.
It screamed as it withered.
I grabbed my ax, and turned to her.
The rage within her was deafening.
I did not wait a moment for her
To gather her storm.
As I raced away, I recovered my pennies.
For I did not want her to follow me.
I put the pennies in turns I did not take,
Trying to misdirect her.
The earth rumbled under her stomping feet.
I came to the last penny, and
Used my ax to break down that door.
Outside I built a fire,
And burned down that hedge, and
As I walk towards the nearest town,
I looked back once
As the black smoke threw vulcanoid ash
Upon the road, and I was glad
For my wits and my gold ax.
At the inn, I asked one question,
“May I leave whenever I want?”
The innkeeper asked,
“You escaped the hedge.
There are only a few that do.
Sleep well tonight
For tomorrow you can continue your travels.”
I woke up a moment,
And wrote down this dream.
Smiling as I remembered
How Ma and I used to discuss our dreams,
And she would tell me this was a warning,
But I would defeat this thing I was fighting.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 12, 2021
Held my attention fast, this did.
It was such a weird dream I thought it deserved a poem and thanks
This from a section in my second novel… it is just before Christmas 1953
Bus Ride across the South…
They boarded the bus separately.
The woman and the man-
She was white and he was black,
And they had to pretend
They didn’t know each other.
She boarded the bus first and got a choice seat.
He paid in the front, and went to the back to get on.
An older woman rode beside her, and
Whispered as she got out in Atlanta,
“You need to be more careful
Because they might catch on
That you are together.”
She warned the young man by dropping
A package in front of him, and
As she thanked him for picking it up,
She warned him.
She worried over him,
And when the airmen got on the bus.
They saw she was alone and harassed her.
She held her own while praying
Her man would not rush to protect her.
She shouldn’t worry an older man sitting
With him said, “She is holding her own.
Let her.”
In Biloxi the airmen got off,
And a nice woman who would be her friend
Asked her to come sit in the back with her.
The bus driver told her she was in the wrong place,
And told her where she had to sit, and
She told him I feel safer back here.
His face was red, and he raised his hand,
But seeing other white people watching
Didn’t slap her.
In New Orleans, his Cajun father
Welcomed home his son,
Who cried on his shoulder, and
Then welcomed her,
But as long as she lived…
She never forgot that ride,
And how afraid
She had felt
On that bus
That took them across
The south.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 12, 2021
If I could travel back in time…
I would go to a land
That I loved…
I would play games
At dusk
Of kick the can, and
Laugh while catching lightening bugs.
I would go to a place
Where I knew that sassafras tea
Would purify my blood,
And poke salat
Was a spring tonic-
But you had to cook it
Right because if you
Cooked it wrong..,
It was poison.
I would understand
That you’uns meant “You ones”
That if someone said,
“My years hurt.”
I knew it was their ears.
If some one asked for a latch pin,
They wanted a safety pin.
I would know
That I was wanted if
The person said, “I am proud to see you.”
Our dinners might be
Cornbread, chow- chow, onions and soup beans.
Breakfast on Saturday would be country ham,
Biscuits and red eye gravy or
If Da went fishing early, trout fish.
Ya picked the trout fried in cornmeal,
By the head and the tail, and
Gently bite… if you did it right
You didn’t get a bone.
Our neighbor Luther
Would take us to some revival
Where I would hear about God’s judgement,
But also, about His love…
That love always won.
I would hear Emily Bell Boney Bell
Play the piano loud and singing even louder
And have her teach me that service
Meant giving of your time
Which she did
Searching pawn shops for sewing machines
For young mothers to make her children’s clothes,
And making bridal gowns for poor brides
Who could not afford a dress.
She would say every bride
Deserves to look like a princess
On her wedding day.
At night as I went to sleep
I would hear my father
Playing blues on his harmonica…
He learned to play when he was young,
From men who grew up with blues
Taught a young man
How to be kind
When his father wasn’t.
I would listen to the tall tales
My brother Jimmy would tell,
And the jokes my brother Joe
Could tell like no other,
And Gary would be pontificating,
And the rest of us rolling our eyes.
Ma would be watchful,
And fuss at me
For my behavior was less than perfection.
I would travel there if I could
I would absorb the moments with joy…
For when they happened
I didn’t realize those moments were going away
And would be lost to me forever.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 13, 2021
Magnificent
thank you..
This really draws you in. 👌
thank you
Thanks! Love kayaking, esp fishing from a kayak.
My father loved to fish… I think he like the solitude of fishing
AWAY WE GO!
The Great One, Jackie Gleason, used to strut
across the stage akimbo, his great butt
in time with tunes that bore no trace of rock:
a little travelling music from Ray Bloch.
😂😂 Very nice! Cracked up with the use of butt.
THE PATH OF STARLIGHT
A cheering star afar—can be more faithful
than a man across the room.
It traverses time, infinite empyrean space,
to glisten our eyes and reveal its burning.
Human affection may fail to reach you at all,
becoming cold in the near distance.
The sailing of starlight is at least four years old,
at the time of its anticipated arrival.
Always eager, tickling the senses with its colorful,
majestic manner of speaking.
The energy of bridal light, is a radiant cheering
seeking—that overcomes a road of endless darkness.
The twinkling of a cosmic star is a wave, or
blinking from distance friends who truly see us.
The twinkling of a cosmic star, is a fan, a glow,
thinking—we’re closer to home than you know.
It’s amazing how the light of stars—travel
so long, so far, to cheer a man afar.
Benjamin Thomas
I think this is so appealing, especially the penultimate stanza.
🙏🏽
BULLETS CAN BE WORDS
Words can travel faster than bullets,
and can do far more damage than lead.
Tearing through the flesh and fabric
of a defenseless soul.
Easily breaking through the bony
structure, and stability of one’s mind.
Most don’t know the carnage, of words,
once they find—its intended target.
A mouth can be an automatic weapon.
A plethora of words, the continuous ammo.
Not all wounds are visible to the naked eye.
The veiled soul can have internal bleeding.
The broken mind, fevered will, deflated feelings,
needs the most care, needs the most healing.
Benjamin Thomas
Today’s Travels…
I rose before the sun rose,
And as I drove
Out for my adventure…
I saw the sunrise, and
Smiled for this
Gift
I was given
Over
Seven thousand days…
I have been given
To live…
Days
That were
Almost not mine to live.
What a gift
Is these days…
And I saw the moon
Rise at the end of this day,
And I smile
Because tomorrow morning…
I have another gift,
Another adventure…
Another day
I almost did not have.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
October 14, 2021