… to the wayward wind
and those tumbling tumbleweeds.
Blowing through unshorn locks, thinking
why, we have always known, we think
we can agree with the songs on the radio,
as they were the ones that lulled us to sleep,
what we were destined to be was but a guess,
what we saw was us not being actually normal,
very odd, as if we had been born saved and free,
as was our first impression of being an American,
ready reader granted Little Golden books, for seeing
ah, see, once, I won The Little Engine That Could, by
cunningly looking under the blind fold to pin the tail.
I was five, and looking back, strange, I read that book
right then and there, I thought I could, I think I can, yet
to this day pay enough attention to make a difference,
in what gets thought about just now.
Writing wild ideas remembered as mere what ifs, now
we can do the ritual action, just imagine, answered prayer
why, given a way a will can make a mind up, and stretch it
past all we never even thought to ask, as a person
pursuing happiness, after annihilation became thinkable.
The Wreck of the old 97,
probably was one we'da heard of,
had we been around back when, radio
was in the home, we called home a while,
when baby sister had yet to be born,
we were the best kid in the world,
momma said.
Oh, woe, old recognate weights,
trade me your MAGA lie, I'll give you
my dust bowl refugee story, it's same
as some, far stranger than many, it seems
we all heard the same songs at once, we did,
make believe beliefs we shared, singing along
with wandering winds in wayward minds,
humming along as seemingly satisfied minds,
born next of kin, to the wayward wind, then,
given grace to put down roots and ramify wildly
become the oak I sit below, what's it like, branching
whither ever rooted self evidence was likely to appear
to convince me, I did not really die in my proud rage.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 2:24 PM UTC
… to the wayward wind
and those tumbling tumbleweeds.
Blowing through unshorn locks, thinking
why, we have always known, we think
we can agree with the songs on the radio,
as they were the ones that lulled us to sleep,
what we were destined to be was but a guess,
what we saw was us not being actually normal,
very odd, as if we had been born saved and free,
as was our first impression of being an American,
ready reader granted Little Golden books, for seeing
ah, see, once, I won The Little Engine That Could, by
cunningly looking under the blind fold to pin the tail.
I was five, and looking back, strange, I read that book
right then and there, I thought I could, I think I can, yet
to this day pay enough attention to make a difference,
in what gets thought about just now.
Writing wild ideas remembered as mere what ifs, now
we can do the ritual action, just imagine, answered prayer
why, given a way a will can make a mind up, and stretch it
past all we never even thought to ask, as a person
pursuing happiness, after annihilation became thinkable.
The Wreck of the old 97,
probably was one we'da heard of,
had we been around back when, radio
was in the home, we called home a while,
when baby sister had yet to be born,
we were the best kid in the world,
momma said.
Oh, woe, old recognate weights,
trade me your MAGA lie, I'll give you
my dust bowl refugee story, it's same
as some, far stranger than many, it seems
we all heard the same songs at once, we did,
make believe beliefs we shared, singing along
with wandering winds in wayward minds,
humming along as seemingly satisfied minds,
born next of kin, to the wayward wind, then,
given grace to put down roots and ramify wildly
become the oak I sit below, what's it like, branching
whither ever rooted self evidence was likely to appear
to convince me, I did not really die in my proud rage.
anaisvionet Inspired, not my idea, I just remembered all the Eddy Arnold songs about wanderers and aimless dust bowl refugee children
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