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Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes pasted along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
CK Baker Nov 2017
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn

clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scenes

concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut

choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross

cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads

rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Spent a couple days in late September on a motorcycle trip with my brother...weaving through the small towns and villages of the Pacific Northwest.  Magnificent!
JV Beaupre Apr 2016
My road is not a highway, well-traveled and straight.

Nor does it meander through the woods or follow a country brook.

No, it's often like a cave with short horizons;

And when there is a fork, I take it.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
When I wrote this, I didn’t realize I was channeling Yogi Berra!
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
I’ve kept to the high road in life,
only in my mind.
Thinking myself wise to avoid
the pitfalls others faced.

A warm wind blew up from my past
and there you stood.
A memory of childhood
and view to my future.

Old and new, my path I find in you.
You’ve led me to the back roads,
on trails I’d left ignored,
looking outside the familiar at you.

For a while we walked together,
hand in hand following love’s path
caught up in the voice it called.
Suddenly, I found you had gone, taking another path.

Now I’m left abandoned, alone again
blinded by my fear to move.
For I’ve lost my way on these back roads
without my guide and without my love.

Can you find me hiding here beneath this veil
Can you see the real me?
Did you look inside this woman to find the
frightened insecure girl wanting only to be loved.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Brandon Amberger May 2016
The Road to redemption
Is a daunting path
It’s an uphill battle
That is slippery and steep
It goes against the current
In the frigid rough rapids
With rays of blistering sun
A jagged wall of obsidian
And a sea of sand
There are no shortcuts
Only cuts, scrapes and bruises
What you did in the past will never be forgotten
But what you are remembered for will have changed.
kevin hamilton Sep 2018
break me on the wheel
while the wheel spins
argentia road
and all i see are crows
gorging in the open field
severed cornstalks everywhere

burned your clothes
beneath the palest stars
like a contagion
to cherry embers for my bed
love, i dreamed of empty graves
and the undivided moon

such a fragile thing
to sigh for the sake of breathing
no more, no more
i am claimed by blood-soaked hands
and my resolve is dead
Potential

I was told I had potential
That I could do great things
But nothing has transpired
Into the glory that it brings
And so the bar gets lowered
As far as it can go
Until, it can get no lower
No room for me to grow
Perspective is welcomed greatly
Opinions come and go

Focus is illusive
As well the ebb and flow
Focus is illusive
As well the ebb and flow

I've been stagnant without direction
As the years pass and I grow old
The consensus is its never too late
Or at least that's what I've been told
It's far, so far beyond my vision
Down that long and winding road
I once thought I held it in my grasp
But it slipped right through the fold

Focus is illusive
As well the ebb and flow
Focus is illusive
As well the ebb and flow

Greatness isn't given
Or earned through years alone
It's what we say and how we say it
It's with our words and tone
It's possible you've reached your peak
Up the mountain through the snow
It's still no cause to lower the curtain  
After each and every show

Focus is illusive
As well the ebb and flow
Nothing is more conducive
Than letting shine your inner glow

If there's a chance then you should take it
Show us all how much you've grown
From the prince who lost his kingdom
To a crowned king on his throne
Not everyone can make it
The choice is yours and yours alone
Just don't become complacent
When the world is yours to own

Focus is illusive
As well the ebb and flow
Nothing changes without change
When you still have room to grow
This started as a writing prompt many months ago. Directly due to positive feedback, it was made into this poem and ultimately, into a song.
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
Let's speed down the highway
85 under the street lights
Watching the towns grow small behind us
The music murmuring in the background
The cars fading
Shadows dancing across your face
And no matter what's ahead of us
I can't stop looking sideways
As we drive into the night
Making memories in the moonlight
Holding hands under the bridge
Exchanging kisses at the stop lights
Staring at you while you drive
Cause you can't stare back
with both eyes on the road
Laying my head against your arm
Wishing this **** console wasn't here
Wishing the night would last forever
So I could ride along with you
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2017
The road is littered
with broken bowls and buddhas
flung in bits from cliffs
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Carter Ginter May 2013
I just want to ride,
Far or near,
By your side,
And away from here.

Driving to nowhere,
In our own sweet time;
Arriving to unknown somewheres,
With your hand in mine.

We'll forget the rest of our town,
While we go into the stars.
After we watch the sun go down,
From the hood of your car.

With that crisp summer air,
And your face shining in the light,
Not a worry or care,
Our old lives out of sight.
Inspired by my desire to go on a road trip this summer but then the situation changed with the one I wanted to go with. So looks like it's just this.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
In the cold silence of the area
Rose a lonesome cafeteria,
Outside of it hooded forms -
Scaly horns -
Perched on white, plastic chairs
Like fifteen owls on a wire.
II
A grey-green bird in the distance
Sang a three-note song with insistence.
He sang on not to the white folks
But to the cold he tried to coax.
He sang to a spot desolate -
Sure thing, he sang to punctuate it.
©LazharBouazzi, July, 2017
The whole of stanza one is a true story. On the way to my home town, Kasserine, I did see the scene involving about fifteen hooded people sitting outside a café with their backs against the wall, apparently waiting for sunset and the cannonball that would announce the break of the fast in Ramadhan.
Stanza II (with the bird) is pure poetic invention.
CK Baker Jun 2017
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry

split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire

pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail

raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char

thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july

smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem

stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace

quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead

past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack

sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone

cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Ben Sep 2018
I was at an art museum and
I saw these girls snickering around a
Collection of black and white photographs
In a corner of the gallery

As I approached they moved on
But not before I heard one of them say
"Who wants to look at pictures of an old guy's ****"

The photographs in question did have a rather large picture
Of an old man's *****, but there we’re others
Pictures of his hands, feet, face
All zoomed in enough that you could see his skin
In detail

In the wrinkles, freckles, and weathered lines
Of this old man you could see an entire
Lifetime on display
The time etching into his surface
Like the needle into a warm wax cylinder
The song of his years played as lines and furrows

A venerable road map of a life lived

As for the ****
I'm sure that thing had some miles put
On it too.
These nowhere towns,
Mountain tops snow-capped long through march,
Everywhere else,
A barren brown.

Though people live here,
And they aren't broken down.

The paint peels from the motel,
The mother tends to her daze,
The attendant ponders the insects of the sill,
Tumbleweed **** these acts of being still.

Life is good here,
In these hazy,
Background,
Nowhere towns.
Really hope I captured that picture I saw... I don't think I fully did but... It was almost there...
Peter Garrett Aug 22
When life’s colours seem to be gone
My shaking hands grab the wheel
So the road can take me on
And my soul may find some heal

Each mile brings a different mood
Some are bright and some are blue
Old songs keep away the solitude
While anxiety slowly fade through

May the asphalt God lead the way
For everything’s going to be okay
As long as I have the highway
Best therapy ever (specially with a Stanley bottle filled with coffee)
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
There's a simple life somewhere
Out there in the cold
If it's dead, I don't care
I'm already too old
The window feels like winter
It makes me think of home
My thought's been split to splinters
On this lonely, teenage road

Have you seen my possessions?
I think I left them in Omaha
I've got no obsessions
As we pass through Arkansas
Can you play our song?
Only if you sing it with me
And if you've been driving too long
Give the control back to me

There's a ringing in my ear
It's the voice of an angel speak
Tell me, I want to hear
Your stories awaken me
This wheel's on fire now
Just like our skin and our hearts
And before it's over now
Can you tear me apart?

I've been in here too long
I can't stand the engine noise
I need to get back home
And have a drink with the boys
Can you fill up the tank?
Can you bring me to the end?
Don't take this to the bank
But I want to see you again
Ted Apr 2018
Loose gravel under my feet,
An isolated road
leading down a path of
poverty.
Bathing in a dark
illumination,
to find a new
devotion.

One without my
stains already attached

My only companion,
the crescent in the
sky.
Cathyy Feb 2015
When I'm at the end of my rope,
You're my only hope, you're my go to- road.
And if I leave you on a cliffhanger, a slippery *****,
Would you still give me hope? Oh darling please, don't go

Oh make a soundtrack for my life,
Make a playlist so good it'll keep me alive,
You're all I've got, all I want, and I'd let go of my alternative world, if I could keep you in this real one here..

Cause when I'm at the end of my rope,
You're my only hope,
You're my go to road.

And sometimes life is a lonely road,
But I'll hold you close, In my heart
You're my favourite poem.
Shed a few tears.
I really love someone, as well as myself and life of course ;3
Eva Aloezos Jul 2018
As I drove
the rainy, foggy atmosphere wisped me into a long forgotten dream
one in each, for a  momentary while nothing was as it should seem

So I continued down the path less chosen,
where my soul had risen
out of a confining mental prison

it all appeared like a scene from Where the Wild Things Are
I felt as if I could grasp it, yet it was simply too far
longed to make it my home

However, as Pope's Head Road grew windy and dark,
a sense of fear inside me sparked
as the caution tape swirled from an abandoned fence of wood, from a broken down shack
I decided I shouldn't look back
nor keep track
of this seemingly enticing journey

As I passed the final sighting,
chopped up wood in a mushroom's disguise
I scolded myself, as I realized I find much brilliance in stormy skies
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