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Chris Rodgers Jun 2014
Out of food for thought and the stores are closed.
Closed eyes and sighs tonight.
Tomorrow I'll go shopping for an idea or two;
mending my inspiration with tape and glue.
dot dot dot dadot dot. tap tap tappy.
Happy Father's Day coming up. It's good to be back.
It all began as an observation,
a mere innocent study,
to watch people in cars,
from cars.

First, the tired workers,
who glared and stared in the road in front,
who slumped in their seats,
who held the steering wheels in a glum manner,
who had dark circles under their eyes,
who had cans of beers at the back seat,
tired, weary, drained, exhausted,spent.

The cheeky children,
who yelled at their siblings,
who wrestled with siblings,
who sat listening to lectures,
who texted with their phones,
who went tippy tappy with their laptops,
who ignored the world; reading,
innocent, busy adolescents.

Of course, there are mothers,
who glance at their sleepy children every few minutes,
who smile at their babies dotingly,
who gave loud lectures to kids,
who smoked cigars,
who was on the phone,or was just driving ahead,
loving, fussy, unleisured.

There were the out-going,
who head-banged furiously to booming music,
who sang aloud to radio,
who chatted enthusiasticly with passengers,
who smiled the whole way through the journey,
who stuck their hands out to feel the wind,
who had nothing to worry about,
free, wonderful, liberated, loose.

Also, some were fretful,
who needed to visit hospitals,
who had their heart broken,
who got rejected at interviews,
who lost someone,
who is obviously in anxiety, who were simply drunk,
worrysome, tired, sad.

And then there's me,
who had nothing better to do,
than to watch and observe,
and felt many things should be changed,
eccentric, weird.
Diesel May 2021
A team of four - or more than two
Tappy children waddle by -
To see the lake - with a loon, with
Their mother - looking nigh:

Their funny games, which all they play
Throughout the night of orange suns;
Of tannéd eyes the streetlights flay
And run on home would all of them:

Then father comes and takes away
To other places in a night;
All gone the children, gone today -
Perhaps they'll come another time.
Loud Music
Music that soothes
Music that rejuvenates
Music that speaks to the souls

Loud music
Forget the lyrics
Its just the beats
On a repeat  
For the amoeba thoughts
Swirling twirling Swimming in uncharted waters
Moulding them into set shapes
Queuing them up in rows
Taming down their pseudo waves

Music that has a feel
The  pebbles cascading
down the stream ,
A tremulous tippy tappy sweet sound
To the heart it appeals, heals

Music that is light and tender
Dim the lights
Close the  eyes
Let the music do the wonders

Music for the senses
That soothes rejuvenates
And speaks to the souls
In tongues ancient
Known ,yet unknown
I want this life to read like an intricate novel. I don’t want to keep sitting at a computer all day while the romance of life slips through my arthritic fingers. They are meant to write beautiful prose that flow over our souls and cover them with golden warmth.

Yet they are tippy-tappy typing away at exhausting, unimaginative emails with signatures like “warmest regards” to cover how calloused my heart has become.

Sitting in this comfortable space behind a giant screen where nothing can hurt me is crippling.  We were meant to embrace the love this earth holds us in. We are supposed to bathe in rivers, meet strangers in different cities, and learn to fall. My knees should have scrapes, my elbows bruised from stumbles I take on dirt roads and motorbikes.

While my bones are intact, my life is what is breaking.
Corporate America and climbing the ladder got me like.

— The End —