"pony" poems
there was a slice of chocolate cake in the fridge
and my sister asked me if i wanted it.
i didn't respond, stared off into space
and continued to smoke my cigarette
in the kitchen because mom was
asleep already and it was 1 am
on a saturday in july
and it was hot and we were both braless and hoping
the single fan on the counter would circulate the air enough
to make us comfortable in the cottage that we called home
that didn't have air conditioning in the middle of the woods.
the three of us hadn't moved for three more hours,
instead spent all of that time talking about nothing
and everything the way sisters do
because sisters eventually end up saying all the words that have
to be said
but each time it sounds new even though it never is.
we're all different but the thing about sisters is
that other people always see you as the same.
we all eventually grew into having brown hair
even though i had been born a redhead
and she had been born blond
and she had been born the same shade of brunette
that still graced her scalp but was thinner than the rest of ours
and fit in an elastic pony tail comfortably
unlike mine, which broke those things immediately
and she, who cut hers all off in hopes
to cleanse herself and
keep herself from being weighed down.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Really? Well, don’t be, because it doesn’t help to be sorry. Sorry doesn’t change it. Sorry doesn’t make it go away. Sorry doesn’t “undo” what’s already been done. Sorry doesn’t erase my memory. Sorry doesn’t take away the searing pain in my chest. Sorry ***** I don't want your pity or to hear that no child should ever have to endure what I did. Because **** happens. It happened to me …it happens to millions of other kids. Shoulda…woulda…coulda…
You’re right – I do have so much going for me. I have an education, a career, financial security – the beautiful house w/the picket fence, the 2 kids and the dogs. And it’s all a huge sham! You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. And that’s what I’m to be commended for??? That doesn’t make me special. I should be commended because I have an education? Things could sure be a lot worse, huh? I could be a crack ***** living on the street with 10 kids in foster care, unable to afford therapy even if I wanted to go. I could be like “them”.
Wow! I’m so awesome. Yay for me! Kudos to the smart chick that spent years being molested by her father and ACTUALLY made something of her life. It’s a miracle!
It’s all such a sham – a dog and pony show. Smoke and Mirrors, my dear! Put on a stylish outfit, and paste on a cheerful smile, and everyone thinks you have it all together….. No one would ever know different. You wouldn’t have known. If I’d have kept my big fat mouth shut!!!!! I should have known better….I should have sat down and weighed the risks, possible opportunities, the roadblocks the problems, and definitely a cost analysis of plan A – trying to work through the ******** of the past, B – continue to live in denial, C – **** myself. …. That’s what a smart business woman would have done. And after all, I’m super smart, huh? A real genius!
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
Oh how I hate
this time of year,
with the stupid songs
and holiday cheer...
Annoying bell ringers
outside the store,
and the tacky wreaths
hanging on the door.
Cardboard calendars
filled with waxy treats,
ice and snow making
death traps of streets.
Frazzled parents
spending more then they should
on entitled kids
who are far from good.
Fake smiles & wishes
in the "spirit" of it all,
the empty shelves-
the crowds at the mall.
The hour long line
to see Santa the phony
who falsely promises
an x-box or a pony.
Having to gather
with family who annoy,
gifting another cheap
Chinese-made toy.
Fire hazards
strung with tinsel and lights,
tensions leading
to fun Christmas fights!
Secret Santas-
holiday parties for work-
ugly sweaters
making you look like a ****
The stress of having
an enormous list
and a tiny budget
just makes me ******
No, nothing seems jolly
or merry or bright...
Oh how I can't wait
till post-Christmas night!
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
Full moon, black pony,
olives against my saddle.
Though I know all the roadways
i'll never get to Córdoba.
Through the breezes, through the valley,
red moon, black pony.
Death is looking at me
from the towers of Córdoba.
Ay, how long the road is!
Ay, my brave pony!
Ay, death is waiting for me,
before I get to Córdoba.
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
16.4k
Cordova, far and lonely.
Black pony, full moon,
And olives in my pocket:
Although I know the roads,
I'll never reach Cordova.
For the plain, for the wind,
Black pony, red moon,
And death is watching for me
Beside Cordova's towers.
Alas! the long, long highway,
Alas! my valient pony,
Alas, that death is waiting
Before I reach Cordova.
Cordova, far and lonely.
15.2k
Oh to wander down country lanes
Where ‘shank’s pony’ is the mode
By which one travels from end to end
Beating off the open road.
Willow-herb and cow parsley
Grow tall against the hedge
Where dandelions behave like kings
Growing wild among the sedge.
A toad pops out and then pops back
To long grass where he’s hidden
Where birds will sing a merry song
And ducklings scurry when bidden.
For these few hours you forget the world
And you feel at peace with yourself
But the lure back to your reality
Gets this dream returned to the shelf.
©JRW2014
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
it's the management
here to inform you
your lust has been hacked
we know what your thinking
what you hide
we are all up in your business
like cyber terrorist's
don't ruin your life with to much self respect
we are all watching you **********
to mamma mia meets a hundred shades of crimson
and fight club blood ****
while you ***
screaming
ooooooooh god
licking
holes and poles
like a pig at a trough
praying to be handcuffed and on your knees
sweating and hysterical, a red moon struck **** face
high on drugs
in a dream better then this life has to offer
life is full of yogas
***** pony position
bouncy bouncy
i'm the light in your darkness
i know what you do
i want pieces of you, you wont show anyone else
your sickness, is my own
you are my love slave
turning me *********
who loves to hurt you
who's the *****
who's the switch
your flawless
now
cry me a river
move a little bit faster and to the left
your **** is a cartoon
**** grinning emoji
bleeding shrieking
fu fu fu fu *******
your brains running out of your eyes
gimmie all your venom
***** movie poem's
*** tongue and *****
your mouth like hemoglobin jewelry
saliva diamonds
kiss that
you'll never go back
squealing smooth heat
breathing winds of perfume
love and pain
united by
tragedy and desire
by
the grotesque and the beautiful
like thirst holds stones
stop crying
you know baby
you look your best on the toilet bowl
shameless
a delicious little *******
that holds me close to life
like a baby to the womb
please
stop banging on the door
i'm using this stall
Thank you
The Management
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
It was early nineteen thirty four
The world was set to change
Europe was on fire
It was time to rearrange
Poland was the first stop
The German Army on the move
So we left for America
I hope you did approve
You came with me to Jersey
On a trip across the sea
You've guarded all my secrets
Known by only you and me
You used to spin quite gaily
Now you just stand there en pointe
You're my clipped wing little angel
That's the name I shall anoint
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
I sit here and remember
All the treasures you once hid
You've still some trinkets in there
Some from when I was a kid
Your tu tu is all tattered
The silk lining frayed and torn
But, you've held together nicely
But, I guess we're both quite worn
Your lipstick isn't red now
I hear your music in my head
It hasn't played for 50 years
I just remember it instead
The music gave up playing
You were slightly over wound
But, you still twirled and kept dancing
Even though there was no sound
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
I've told you more than anyone
Than I have ever known
We've been together now forever
You're the most precious thing I own
You've been with me for two husbands
And you've seen my kids pass on
There's just me and you, my dancing girl
All the rest of them are gone
Your paint is chipped and cracked
Your pony tail is broken too
If I still can recollect now
In the fall of fifty two
Your spring is rusted tightly
You need a hand to stand up right
But, then again, I do as well
And most days it's quite the fight
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
Charms and little trinkets
Plastic jewellery, real as well
Secrets of a child
Secrets you would never tell
I am now moving to December
Of my calendar of years
Soon my life will end and
There's no one left to shed me tears
I sit here and I wonder
What shall become of you
My Thumbelina Ballerina
In your dancing dress of blue
You started as a music box
You are not used as that no more
But, Thumbelina Ballerina
Will you dance for me once more?
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
She, a cavernous champagne glass,
he, a weary pony, who ate the neighbor's grass--
her name Ms. Wesson,
his name Mr. Smith,
they died on a slow Tuesday--
and stop looking Wesson clan,
if looking for a lesson.
Mid-afternoon
midst a love bent 69
Mr. Smith and Ms. Wesson
committed murder-suicide--
Mr. Smith turned from a man
back into a stain,
Ms. Wesson turned from a woman
back into a chain.
And the artist-in-neighborhood did rejoice,
subject matter for a painting to hang above
his licorice-colored memorial of a prisoner dove.
And the police did gossip,
was it love? was it ***********
What a fine piece of *** that could be living.
And it took the families two weeks to find out,
they wiped their feet on dead leaves,
daydreamt open caskets and planted juniper seeds.
Talk of another woman, talk of another man,
but God himself would tell you,
they were simply bored of each other's drugs,
they were simply bored of each other's barrels,
so, they barred each other from being,
and headed west on erosion's dime.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
pony-tailed playmate
head tucked in her shirt
gazing steadily down
at her toes in the dirt
chaos tiptoes around her
naive oblivion
journeys in far away lands
just west of the meridian
watercolor fairy tales
bleeding outside the lines
unaware of the danger
unaware of the signs
let me sit with you, darling
in the dampened flower beds
and paint a new world
for us in our heads
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls
and I would board my toybox lid
and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon
which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic
for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper
but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Some of you may know me,
Some of you may not.
You may have seen me across the street,
Sensual
And
Sleet.
Maybe you caught me in your mothers bedside draw,
*Or in the pockets of a local *****
We might already be acquainted,
We might be best friends,
I might be your
Means
To
An
End.
Give me a taste,
Be mine forever.
But don't try play it clever,
Don't be a predictable fool.
Maybe you think you're stronger.
If that be the case,
Then come a little closer,
Get a clearer view.
Those to make it out alive are few.
Let the paranoia manifest in your cells,
Let the shivers be like earthquakes in
your bones.
Let your agony pour out in moans.
Come on dear,
Let me
Take away your pain.
Let me
Be the blood in that vein.
Can't you tell?
I'm here to stay.
Come along,
Let us play.
But let it be known,
I am no one trick pony,
And this is no childs game.
This will end in shame.
Do you see the visions?
The never ending car collisions.
Do you feel the sweats?
Can't you see?
They're
All
Gifts
From
Me.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
(Interlude)
My eyes in 1910
never saw the dead being buried,
or the ashen festival of a man weeping at dawn,
or the heart that trembles cornered like a sea horse.
My eyes in 1910
saw the white wall where girls urinated,
the bull's muzzle, the poisonous mushroom,
and a meaningless moon in the corners
that lit up pieces of dry lemon under the hard black of bottles.
My eyes on the pony's neck,
in the pierced breast of a sleeping Saint Rose,
on the rooftops of love, with whipers and cool hands,
in a garden where the cats ate frogs.
Attic where old dust gathers statues and moss,
boxes keeping the silence of devoured *****
in a place where sleep stumbled onto its reality.
There my small eyes.
Don't ask me anything. I've seen that things
find their void when they search for direction.
There is a sorrow of holes in the unpeopled air
and in my eyes clothed creatures - undenuded!
7.4k
THAT civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps ate spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
1
That the ******* towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
1
That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-leggedfly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
6.8k
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
THE BABY moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?-no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail?
Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?
6.4k
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
6.3k
I want something other than ****
with the short shorts showing
everything
the low-cut crop top
exploring eyes wander over
on countless evenings
my imagination having nothing
left
I want smokey flannel
a two-day-old pony tail
boots stained by the dirt and grass
a hole in your jeans
that wasn't there when you found them
I want hungover-fastfood-drive-throughs
with my shorts and your tank top
wrinkled from your floor
your hair still wet from the morning shower
I want leggings, a t-shirt
and a backwards ball cap
while we sing loudly out the open window
tapping the dashboard off-beat
hand raised fingers pointing at the moon
laughing at the man that sits watching us drive
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
There was a cat named Crazy Christian
Who never lived long enough to *****
He was gay hearted, young and handsome
And all the secrets of life he knew
He would always arrive on time for breakfast
Scamper on your feet and chase the ball
He was faster than any polo pony
He never worried a minute at all
His tail was a plume that scampered with him
He was black as night and as fast as light.
So the bad cats killed him in the fall.
5.3k
Fire suns out of canons of old and decay in daylight. There might not be blood under your fingernails if you'd refused to laugh. Don't doubt it though, you're being watched. It thinks about your thoughts in thoughtless ways. Dance, pony, humor it. Fail to see the source. Research more. Someone else already answered your stupid questions. Go home. Go broke. Go on as long as you go away. Get a job, you idiot, and make sure it's a good one. If it isn't, fire yourself out of a canon into the Sun. Morphing is addictive. So is heroism. Go, sally gently forth. Froth. Growl low in the gut. Yeah, breathe the fear; die ******* mad about it.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
You've got lies
Like you've got acne
Raw and sour
They deform the skin of the room
Leave scars on its silence
Creep unbidden into pores
Brand themselves into reflections
Hung
Ugly as battle wounds
On the arpeggios of conversation
And you wear your lies
Like you wear acne
Smothered in pretty chemicals
You deliver them like scripted text
Into a world of disingenuity
The self-affected
One-trick-pony of your tongue
Plays them down with beauty
But fails to remove their aftertaste
So please,
Feel free to keep talking
But I thought you should know
That no one's listening any more
And we no longer believe in
Your cries of 'wolf'
Because we know that
No matter how you sing your lies
The world will not cease to orbit the sun
And then re-align itself to you
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
Each day I watch the ocean swell
Sometimes with hope, sometimes despair;
The ocean's faces ever change
Like the fashions of their hair:
Monday:
Like a waterfall of brown
Through golden culverts flowing--
Sweeps me far away downstream,
Without her ever knowing.
Tuesday:
Rippled clouds at sunrise,
Supple, damp and red,
Combed out, twisted in a braid,
Or just left loose instead.
Wednesday:
Of her black hair a single strand
Sweeter than Midnight's darkest land;
When it lightens up again,
Its sunrise on a beach of sand.
Thursday:
Like golden floss on top of corn,
Silky, curly, fine,
Rising from a thick, black band
Above blue eyes that shine.
Friday:
Whipped up like a hot souffle,
Luxurious, soft, held loose
With ribbons, combs and perfume,
Tempting like a mousse.
Saturday:
Her pony tail we follow,
Like the Christmas star;
Maybe we're not wise men,
But then, maybe we are.
Sunday:
Her hair flew up out the vent
Like a flame,
When we hit an unmarked bump
(Not big).
The top slid shut,
And her hair almost caught,
So I reached up
And pulled it in quick.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:28 AM UTC
A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant
In the steamer’s sweet humidity
And the idle legs pace for more
I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix
Local color of a quiet little town.
Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime
And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been
And who they’ve seen.
There’s a poetry in the patron, come
My gaze permits and intervenes
Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved.
Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer
Seated far, far in a blissful nadir
Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
The grass flickers, as the
Wind pushes it down, in
A gentle but determined
Motion, sweeping upwards to
Swirl the blue-grey clouds
Around the radio tower, before
Dissipating into the milky
Sky, which at this moment
Is the lightest shade of
Blue, an open innocent shade
Of blue, like an angelic birthday
Cake, the pinker clouds, whose
Graceful tendrils embrace the
Air, and dancing twirl across the
Peaceful summer skyscape
Down below them, the
Emerald stalks of corn stand,
Silent sentinels, awaiting the
Coming of the dawn, they too
Feel the pushing of the wind, but
Brush it off, over their shoulders,
And continue their silent watching
On the sloping sides of the hill, the
Growling pines, resplendent in their
Glimmering needles, reflect the fading
Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks,
Beneath the horizon, and I watch them
Silently on my bike, the only thing
I can hear, is the swish of the wind,
And the hum and whirring of the
Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up
The hill, and down the hill, and
Around the posts that are meant
To keep the cars from disturbing, this
Peaceful walking path
A while later, we crest a hill, now
Having past the town, I see the work
Of the persistent wind, the clouds
Now whipped into a curling wave,
Of pink and blue-black, spilling
Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed
Country houses, which are strangely
Reminiscent of those old, red, barns
Which would sit abandoned in
Fields of perpetual wheat, and,
Through the turning of the seasons,
Would rot away into timbers, with
No one left to remember, what
They were, or why they remain
Now we have ridden in a loop, my
Bike clicks as I change gears, to
Crest a hill and coast down, at high
Speed, between the guard rails and
The road, with the wind kicking
Up behind me and whisking an
Upcoming tree in to a fluttery
Flurry of leaves and branches, while
Below a stream cuts a field, and,
Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto
Pony, I think it was, that was just
Standing there, as we rode past,
Onto the cobblestones and around
A bend, the group splits, some going
A different route, but I want to come
Back the way I came, and I ride
Beside the highway, listening to
The chirp of the crickets and the
Hum of the wheels against the
Cold, pavement, while up the hill
The verdant pines bob their bows,
Up and down, waving, waving,
The crashing blue-black wave has
Rolled, on past the tower now, it
Is crashing down over the silent
Sentinels, and I watch quietly as
The wind rolls down the hill, and
Whirls some leaves, making the
Grass flicker in the setting sun.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC