"cochran" poems
once, when I thought I
had smallpox, Doc Cochran slapped
me across the face
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
First, Tom Cochran, and next, Rascal Flatts,
sang that
Life is a Highway
and that's partially true if
you're willing to consider that
coasting is not an option
that you rarely have the opportunity
to drive hundreds of miles without
rubberneckers or blue Q-Tips driving
forty in a sixty-five
to drive from Napa to San Diego without
stopping for mixed nuts and a frozen coffee
and Smartfood
to drive with movie-like abandon without
the Thelma & Louise slo-mo sending you
careening toward the crevasse
Life is a highway riddled, web-like, with
unexpected off-ramps and
unforeseen on-ramps and
inconvenient detours that take you places
you never dreamed you'd go
you never thought you'd end up
but there are
rest stops and
diners and
fruit stands offering organic sunshine
and there are
flat tires and
empty tanks and
road crews repaving your path in 104 degree heat
and there are
national parks and
natural wonders and
the world's largest frying pan
the world's largest ball of twine
the world's crookedest road
the world's newest you
Your life is a highway that is made of
choices
which lead you on your own
Choose-Your-Own-Adventure
with epic battles for good and evil and
pots of gold at the end of sprinkler-rainbows and
endless hints that
YOU MAY ALREADY BE A WINNER!!!
Your life is a highway and
if you miss your off-ramp
accept your new path
. . . because there's no going back and
if you miss your on-ramp
enjoy the scenery and the cows and the Texas Stop-Signs
. . . because you never know when you'll
see them again
Your life is a highway and
this is your off-ramp, so
take it with
your eyes open to wonder
your heart open to magic
your life open to change
because that is you evolving
Honor the view in your rearview mirror as you
keep your eyes on the horizon and
with joy
with fear
with electric anticipation
Take your exit!
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
*i know, i should have attempted to collect black sabbath's oeuvre, instead i missed out on master of reality's song solitude, loved that song, learned to play it apart from the solo, and a girl remarked 'i did't know you could play country music', country?! ah, you mean country as in: sleepy hollow haunted woods and wide open fields and remote routes into isolation? ah, well then yes. shame really, but i'm not going to feel ashamed having collected iron maiden and slayer oeuvres (up to a sensible point), but **** me, that song! and thank god i smashed my guitar on the stones, bye bye, you haunted guitar.*
you know, after reading a lot of books,
esp. in your ****** prime and want of party party,
you digest things a lot easier,
mind you, i used to visit my grandparents
in the summer religiously, a perfect environment
to have read major books:
kierkegaard's either / or, bertrand russell's
history of western philosophy,
dostoyevsky's the karamazov brothers,
bolesław prus' the doll,
don quixote, tatarkiewicz's on joy...
i mean mammoth-sized books (by the way,
mammoth is a word derived from estonian,
and they didn't become extinct as far back
as you might think)... but the perfect environment
to read them... and after you've done that,
and enjoyed a few other books in between
you just turn to writing, and reading book
reviews... like today, i sneezed four times
to protect me against the guilt of laughing
reading a book review, rather than the book itself:
death drive - there are no accidents,
a book about celebrities crashing their cars,
fatal car accidents; enlisted examples refer to:
jayne mansfield, albert camus, james dean,
eddie cochran, mike hailwood, mike hawthorn,
marc bolan, tara browne, isadora duncan.
i guess you just forget reading books,
having testified to yourself an adequate cultural
canon being possessed: well, i mean,
imagine going back to the town of your birth
you left aged 8 and spending time with your
grandparents for a month - you have to
make shroud economics in such scenarios.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Twas essential to see her in wintertide -
misery in order to appreciate the abundant daffodils -
of spring , the cardinal ever watchful over -
her fledgelings , the gaiety , pomp and circumstance -
of damsel flies , the mockingbird flautist and -
the peckerwood drumming
The morning laughter of Bear creek
The multicolored blades of March that -
stair step the Mill Falls
Morning dove woo their lovers , whitetails -
in repose , in the backdrop of misty , hardwood -
cover
Her poetic omnipotence in touch with my -
innermost being
Ever watchful as the cardinal
Breath exposed
Pious
Forever thankful
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
Wren , heron and robin wailed Cold , clear waters swirled o'er
black glass boulders Her river song was endless as
thrill seekers walked the tall , treelined shoulders ,
as the blue eyes of God watched from above
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
Pines seeds trickle downward from the canopy , find home on the floor of Cochran Mill . Feverish morning blackbirds , burning sunlight just above the wild grass strewn approach .. I once prayed for love by these very waters ..
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC