"airstream" poems
rain
mud and grass
common prayer
good weather
good people
art
and umbrella bags
because who wants to
get wet?
unless it’s with you
I could
I would
jump into the lake
for that rock
sew
cleanse
initials made in sharpie
and unclamp
we run
around the park
the afternoon surrounds us
the woman in the bikini
passes
and we laugh
iced tea
decaf coffee
cake without teeth
and that airstream camper
you always wanted
I could live in your
backyard
I could live somewhere
not here
in silver
prostrated
with my back to the
moon
like dead
like a mummy
like a mirror
and life would make sense
life would be beautiful
like this run
with perfect amounts of sweat
and conversation that runs
waves in the sand
and tells the squirrels
*goodnight, tractor
see you tomorrow*
and the land that billows
is dug up
and chewed
like a goodnight poem
this run with you
takes rest
on my soul
and I crack my ribs
to take the spring’s
twilight
aroma
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
*I can still remember that dusk,
We stepped out in the drizzle to collect
The pebbles of sun.
They kept swirling in the airstream,
So soft, so free like your thoughts
Inside my ribcage.
Cold sprinkle made some of them wet,
Some even vanished before we touched their senses.
Mostly oval and round shaped,
With the playful brightness of seven colours.
You moved through them,
And let your skin absorb their vivid glow.
Fragments of violet brushed your eyelashes,
Hair accepted the waves of green.
While I placed
Sensual conjugation of orange and red
On your palm.
And it blushed like the primitive dawn,
The dawn of creation
When sun had first dropped its pebbles,
On the bare chest of earth.*
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
It would drift by
on the airstream,
created by a stranger somewhere,
soft and sweet.
I'd stumble in the subtle
shades of the scent
till it dropped me at you,
the trigger pulled on a bottle
of perfume.
But my nose hasn't
gobbled up those particles
for quite some time,
your aroma
no longer on my mind.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
it smelled like love and a dive bar.
polishing liquid, flowers, stale smoke, patchouli oil.
the floor was covered in a blanket of antique carpets that
were the color of levi’s after being
mixed with bleach
and red lipstick that hadn't been removed
after 2 days that needed to be touched up.
that character practically lived
in the silver giant
and he decided that tapestries with the edges duct taped to the windowsills with designs
that were so deeply eloquent to the point
where the human brain could effortlessly get lost in them
were 300 times better than curtains.
there was a transistor radio in there,
oh, the good ol’ transistor that
was adored despite the raging amounts of
static that would pour out of
the speakers...
whenever the dead or zeppelin came
on the volume switch would turn as far
to the right as it would go.
he would smile
and within an hour
his fingers, bound in
layers of opal and turquoise rings would turn an ordinary
sheet of silver into
a glistening piece of magic.
every second spent in the airstream
was an abstract painting as tangled and mystifying
as those tapestries on the cracked
fingerprint stained windows,
where life took place in the subterranean depths
of the paper grains that no one
had dared to venture to.
-z. vega
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
I was grieving in September
I felt loss
the sky was empty
without summers abundance of life
there will be no more aerial displays
swooping birds on the airstream
feasting on unaware flies overly engaged in their own ceremonies of the sky
high spirited flight, with purpose such a magnificent sight
I was grieving in September
for the swallows had gone
left for another’s warmth
another’s ability to provide
but they will return
they always do
to the white cracked home
in need of repair from winters effect
together making the home as new
and bringing new life to celebrate
and I will watch in awe
as they learn the sky dance of their parents
these thoughts
And the promise of their return
keeps me warm
as I settle into winters cold
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
We saw the crosses
And the dozen of roses
Each for the 12 graves
Every tombstone reading
'Jesus Saves'
Then an open bible
With a funeral verse
That sounded like a fable
A flocking mass
All in black with poignant faces
A bald-headed reverend
Howling ashes to ashes
Clouds change to thunderhead
And the airstream consoles
The bodies that have lost their souls.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
I met a guy,
And when he looks at me
I know he sees
Him and me
Down the road
When we're old
Sitting' on that back porch
Drinkin' sweet tea
Or maybe whiskey;
Him and me
Down the road
Livin' in an airstream
Like gypsies
Blown from place to place
Never stayin' settled too long;
Him and me
Down the road
Hand in hand
Watchin' our
Sons become fathers,
Daughters become mothers,
But always our children
No matter how old they get;
Him and me
Down the road
Side by side
Six feet under
With his epitaph that reads
"Her and me forever."
And mine that reads
"What he said."
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
If I could only carry a tune
I'd write songs to go on tour
Sentimental ones-oh how I’d croon
Just so you would love me more
My Dear, just so you would love me more
If I could just win the Lottery
There’s your Instant Retirement!
Oh, what fun to hire that limousine
That’s only my first requirement
For when I win all those riches then
I’d hire us that limousine
To take us to Cruise America
Pick up our brand-new Airstream
We would drive North to Tallahassee
Pick up supplies along the way
Stop at Sam Ash for your dream guitar
Then could you love me more, I pray?
Just so you would love me more
I’d shower you with presents galore
“Can’t buy me love”, you say, my Dear
You sang that song I’ve come to adore
So say those words I long to hear
As we drive West to see The Rockies
The majesty makes your face glow
What matters to me on this journey?
That you love me more and say so
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
Shoot Straight, Sister
The Burly Man yelled loudly
Shoot Straight, can’t you?
Pointing my new gun proudly
Shooting Practice
My brand-new Smith & Wesson
I’m having my
Very first shooting lesson
Shooting’s easy
I hit the target’s bullseye
Brilliant shooting
Like Annie Oakley was I
Shoot great, Baby!
Where’d ya learn to shoot like that?
I’m scouting for
A new Wild West Circus Act!
Shoot straight, Mister
Only if I’m Top Billing
An Airstream, too
And for that I’d be willing
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
All the people and colors move by.
Life poured down streets and tiny brick
Sidewalks rubbed with decades of shoes.
The aroma of yesterday and tomorrow
Filled the airstream carried by the traffic
From a vendor a block down. Gyros.
Every-so-often I like to come into the city
To see how people act around other people.
It keeps me sane and washes from me
Big land’s disconnect. I recall, with every
Memory trigger that shoots off and cracks
The things I have not thought of since
My last trip here. I think to myself why?
Memory and time, occasionally, don’t mix,
But time needs memory to be remembered
And memory needs time to exist…
I suddenly thought of you, though—
That time you told me that news and I
Ran off for a year and some months.
You called to say you were sorry—
You even wrote me a letter, but I was gone.
Your call the other day was nice.
It reminded me why I am the way I am,
And you are the way you are, and why
We aren’t together, and why I enjoy spending
Days and days alone on old barrier islands
To spear fish and make camp in the sand.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
In an airstream of breath, I rise.
Celebrating, moments that echoes with light.
Celebrating, birds who whisper daintily,
as dogs that romp with voice.
In an airstream of natures breeze, I rise
Dancing, in knowing I am divine.
Dancing, with puffy graceful clouds
as flowery smells open heart.
In an airstream present, I am free.
Free, to drift in grace anointing all.
Free, to remember who I am
as all my precious dreams align.
Dreams that root,
in garden of an airstream breath.
StarBG © 2017
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
A reflection
Today is the last day of June and thanks
to a northerly wind and some rain, it has been a good month.
It is a Siberian airstream wonder if it knew
I was a communist until I saw it was just a dictatorship
where men in ill-fitting suit decided our future usually so old
they lived in another century their idea of freedom had
little to do with reality.
Today Russia is a modern state semi – democratic and there
is a freedom of speech if played by soft violin music.
But Russia is worried the mighty USA is spoiling for a war.
I will not think of the afternoon, enjoy the cooling wind
and let the world pass by.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
In a garden of an airstream of breath, I rise.
Celebrating the moment that echoes with light.
Celebrating the birds who whisper daintily,
and the dogs that romp with voice.
In a garden of an airstream of natures breeze, I rise
Dancing in knowing I am divine.
Dancing with puffy graceful clouds
and flowery smells that open heart.
In a garden of an airstream present, I am free.
Free to drift in dreams.
Free to remember all my gifts,
and all my precious dreams.
Dreams that take root in the garden of an airstream breath.
StarBG © 2017
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC