"turnpike" poems
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes
another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see
for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes
for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils
As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does
Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed
Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee
eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes
come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee
This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs
Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam
Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex
but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes
perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee
Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms
Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee
so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches
we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas
in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah
for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes
Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we
lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches
indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea
and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies
It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence
Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
1
Ever musing I delight to tread
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush
Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush
Converses with the Dove.
2
Gently brawling down the turnpike road,
Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream —
The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud
And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear,
The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer,
And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap,
Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear
And quite invisible doth take a peep.
6.9k
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit,
Wait till the frost has turned its green leaves red,
Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit,
And thou may'st find e'en there a homely bread.
Upon the hills of Salem scattered wide,
Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in Spring;
And straggling e'en upon the turnpike's side,
Their ripened branches to your hand they bring,
I 've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour,
That then I gave such name, and thought it true;
But now I know that other fruit as sour
Grows on what now thou callest Me and You;
Yet, wilt thou wait the autumn that I see,
Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.
3.3k
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
I.
something within me,
maybe its my amigdala,
misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
that great collection of want,
of transient soles-souls.
I miss how we’re piled three stories high,
so close to each others’ mouths that we must
burrow in criss crossed, colliding tunnels
to our point b’s, our job sites,
our lovers’ houses.
maybe it is indeed part of our un-nature to do this,
to cling to one another even
as our unforgiving sungod bakes us whole,
cornish game hens on the el train,
hurdling 40 mph, to and from
our personal hovels, heavens
and bedsheets,
tethered to this place, possibly indentured,
definitely flawed,
where we revel under roofs to prove incredibleness
an virility.
II.
our eyes are not closed today.
they may not blink in unison
as mannequin lids do,
so effortlessly, plastic and mechanical,
but those, we are thankfully not.
for we are flesh,
and air, and miles of gastrointestinal turnpike, if unpinned,
would stretch from here to panama.
we are each of us
a viscous mound called
Sally, Bertram and Queen Mary.
We are the collision of milk flowing, divine,
a whirling dervish
in scalding darjeeling.
we are air,
gliding over enamel into the collective breath
to be devoured so sweetly by others,
as saintly man-scripted gelato,
dribbling down our chins in piazzas.
la dolce ************* vita.
III.
that’s the funny thing about living
in this size 2 world,
the ability to appear anywhere upon its face at a moment’s notice,
to be in front of any face when desired,
to live sans toll booth or customs desk,
to simply dust off our ability to fly
and tumble icarus-adolescent into the collision
between the two blue planes called sea and sky
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
556
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly—and true—
But let a Splinter swerve—
’Twere easier for You—
To put a Current back—
When Floods have slit the Hills—
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves—
And trodden out the Mills—
2.5k
It's ironic,
Considering the language
Of those most threatening to us,
That the only public spaces
where we can take care of
our most basic of human needs
in complete safety
Are labeled "Family."
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
I burnt a bridge that didn't have any water under it.
No numbing temperature to shock you.
No tormenting waves to annhilate you.
No angry current to pull you under.
The bridge let across all the danger that I wanted to avoid.
But now that I burnt it down to the ground all that danger
came crashing down into the safe haven
that was protected by my bridge.
I was told to never look down when you feel inferior.
There was grass under that bridge but I was too blind to see it.
I was too busy looking up at the speeding cars crossing this turnpike.
I was suffocated and transfixed by the high beams of my problems.
I was so busy facing my problems head on
That I never bothered to look down and find the strength in giving in.
I didn't realize the bridge was what was directing the negativity away from me.
I listened to them. Society, that is.
And what a stupid idea that was.
Because they told me to burn my bridges.
They told me to strike a match to them
And watch it settle into an unforgiving blaze
Before walking away without looking back.
But they never told me some bridges were meant to save me.
They never said the real danger could be what was beneath the bridge.
They never warned me about the dam underneath that was ready to burst.
Karma is crashing down onto me like baseball-sized hail.
It's not the boomerang effect coming back around to hit me in the face
But instead the avalanche I created from throwing it too far.
And hitting a wall that was too fragile to be played with.
The worst part is I have no bridge to take cover under in a hailstorm anymore.
And no bridge to cross to get away from the incoming avalanche.
All I have are the ashes of what I thought was hurting me.
But it was actually what was saving me.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
I won't travel to the city
There is nothing for me there
I won't travel to the city
Not even on a dare
I won't travel to the city
I'm fine right where I am
I won't travel to the city
And I don't give a ****
Years have passed
I won't forget
Where I stood that fateful day
I was shopping
In the city
God Bless The USA
I won't get on an airplane
I'm much safer on the ground
I won't go back to the city
And I won't forget the sound
I've driven on the turnpike
And I just turned around
I won't go back to the city
I watched them tumble down
Each time I try to leave here
the taste of concrete dust
fills my throat with acid
and jet fuel fumes and rust
I won't go to the city
And though it may seem strange
I was there when horror happened
With a cop...and now I'm changed
Years have passed
I won't forget
Where I stood that fateful day
I was shopping
In the city
God Bless The USA
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Come follow me in the Turnpike trail
The story will unfold in more detail
It was a getaway to Pennsylvania on Thanksgiving Day
It was a group bus trip being underway
The group was conversing
We made a New Jersey Rest stop
It would be 15 minutes tops
Later when we reboarded
A Female passenger’s announcement, “ I am missing my purse”
All the passenger’s amazement of “What on earth”
The Female passengers checked overhead and under her seat on the bus
Now it seems this situation eventually involved us
But there was no vision of the female purse
The Female passenger wanted to go back and trace her steps at the Rest stop
However the Tour Escort stated that if she goes back, the bus will leave her and continue on
But mine you this is a rest stop in the middle of nowhere
Then all the passengers responded in orchestral voice outburst, “Let the woman go and find her purse and we shall wait”
Being the Tour Escort was out numbered, the Female passenger did in fact go back to the rest stop while we waited
We all prayed that the passenger would find her purse
The Female passenger stated earlier that her house keys and money was in her purse
However when the Female passenger returned she was able to retrieve what she thought she had loss
Her purse was found safe and sound
I later told the Female passenger, “You are really have a lot to give thanks and you have a testimony to tell”
But for argument sake, what if the female passenger didn’t find her purse?
How would she get home being in reverse?
Especially not having any money to be transported back
Well thank God we don’t have to think on that
The Tour Escort got a lesson in truly think and what if you were in this bind
“When a passenger you seem to ignore it’s the passengers chant it becomes a word of explore”
This day was definitely a give thanks in every way
The play we saw was “A Wonderful Life”
Now relate that to the purse
A situation that was at hand, but with a good ending being the caravan
But notice how everything seems to flow
The almost loss purse fits in the go
A Happy Thanksgiving indeed
The Female passenger was able to proceed
Her testimony being her voice
All the feast trimmings being our choice.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
me and cuz are gettin stove-piped
by three ripe, early-eyed airborne minds
me and cuz are flappin just right.
sharp turn on that slippy turnpike.
I spy twisted steel, cuz musta lied-
bottle kneck, open backpack, plastic bag.
guess cuz was 'fraid of a gun fight,
wid a seatbelt stained red on both sides.
me and cuz got us stove-piped.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
down a canyon where
a giant redwood grows
a mile up & out--
and on it like veins or
some wild turnpike
the whole
"mauvaise histoire"
of humanity:
all the thousands of years;
the hunger & strife & ************
(the poisons & spears in the back)
of this monkeycousined race
drowning in sewers
of wine.
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
I bet you thought I didn't have anything left in the tank. Bet you thought that I was done giving mind blowing advice on how to approach this crazy thing we call life. Well...you were wrong.
1. Often cases, how good a story you end up with is inversely proportional to how good a decision it was that led to it. Don't be afraid to make some bad decisions every once in awhile, because those are the stories you're gonna be telling for years to come. Even when you know it's a bad decision. Sure, you might wake up naked in a ditch on the New Jersey turnpike with a some blurry memories, a hangover, a tattoo of some girl named Francesca on your chest, and an ounce of black-tar ****** shoved up your ass...but you know what? You started this little adventure at a black-tie dinner party in Santa Monica, so I'm willing to bet some interesting **** happened between here and then.
2. Don't be someone who never breaks the mold. When you're lying on your death bed and someone asks you to tell them about your life, do you want to lean over and whisper to them that you always did exactly what people expected? That you carefully listened for society's cues on how to represent yourself at every point in your life? **** no. You want to tell them you broke off the road and went searching for the oddities that this world has to offer. You want to tell them that you gave the middle finger to society and did what you wanted because, you know what? It's your fuckin' life and you only get one shot at it, so you might as well make it memorable. Being normal is boring as hell.
3. Talk to everyone. Talk to them about uncomfortable things. Talk to them about their hopes and dreams. Talk to them about their fears. Just ****** talk to them. Real conversations always leave you with something you didn't had before. Real conversations make you think about your positions. Get passionate when you talk. Challenge their views and allow yours to be challenged as well. Do you think you know everything? Yeah, I bet you do. Why aren't you out solving everyone's problems then, you selfish *******
4. Whoever you are, be proud of that. If you're not proud of who you are, chances are you arent happy with yourself. If you're not happy with who you are, change something. If you're still not happy, change something else. Still not happy? Guess what. Change another fuckin' thing. Are you happy? Good. Now change something else anyway, because an interesting life isn't built on stagnation.
I hope you've all learned something today.
Also, I'd like to remind you to never take advice from strangers on the Internet. That's just stupid.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
shot of whiskey
i shot my mouth off at a bible salesman
shot a man with a glass eye on a street corner
he shot me a mean streak
shot out a candy cane window
a king in a powder blue sedan shot down the turnpike
never had a shot with her in a red flannel shirt
shot a broke down dog at a fire hydrant in birmingham
he shot out of a lawn mower
shot towards some handshaking stranger
shot down some train tracks
shadows shot with arms upraised
being shot at by electric trains
i shot a mirror at the stars
they shot back with a voiceless gesture
she shot right through my heart
her hair shot gold to kingdom come
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
You felt like paper
Flimsy and unsure
I was afraid to take
A picture with my
Mind. You might
Float away when
the flashbulb shines
Losing control of
Everything
all I can
Remember
Is kissing you in the summer
Sliding my hand up the back of your skirt
When I knew nothing else
But the skin on your face
Glowing green in the dashboard light
Another morning off the turnpike
She fills coffee cups for old men
I have memorized the color of your iris
And I play with knives
I have three boxes of matches
Up all night
Coping with addiction
What if in the mind
I could rhyme a bullet through it
I will act as if you arent
And you will be harder to get
I like the variable of your fingertips
And when you hold my eyes
Just a moment too long
If I
Were
To die
Would you throw away my poetry?
Who will sit with you at church?
Let's play a game called: forget it
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
Justin: Born On Wheels
@2012 Linda Barrett
You always lived on wheels:
a newborn infant
perched in a car seat
beside your mother
when she drove
Her 1973 Green Impala
The toy Knight Rider car
was your first one
It cursed at you
from its imaginary dashboard
You hummed your open road song
while holding onto
the sides of the Red
Wheel barrow
as I bumped you along
our back yard’s stone walkway
Out in Chester County,
you roller bladed
and skate boarded into adolescence
Every Spring Break,
You traveled in
your grandparent’s station wagon
down to Florida
One winter,
you drove to Colorado by van
to snow board the mountains
Other guys chose college,
you took your mechanic grandfather’s cue
studied up in Boston
learned how to fix cars
inside and out
then put them back together again
You inherited the 1973 Green Impala
with its torn off vinyl top
let it go to rust and to the junkyard
then bought Red 1968 Ford pick-up
Your mother gave you a motorcycle
so you could scream down the Turnpike
with your Independence Day spirit
Nothing out on the road
can stop you
as if you were born
on wheels
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
Maybe I am my own happening.
Maybe I am the beginning of the story,
before you walk in with your bad jokes
and your three years of silence
scattered across the turnpike.
I am trying to think about the moment
that I started crying, and I think it
was when I realized that all of my poems
were about you.
But maybe they weren’t.
Maybe I was just drawing you in between
the line breaks because I was lonely
and didn’t know how else to fill in the moments.
Maybe I am my own poem.
Maybe I am the reason my hands shake,
why I can’t say no to you even when
you aren’t asking me for anything.
Maybe I am the bad days.
Maybe I am my own sun.
Maybe I am in charge of my own undoing, of my own healing.
Who taught me to thank the ones
who didn’t want to stay?
Who taught me that you were something
to hurt about?
Maybe it was me.
I think it was.
Maybe I want to rest my tongue in
my own mouth and maybe I don’t
actually need anything from you.
I could be the moment it all started.
I could be responsible for the violins
in my throat, for the piano in
my teeth.
Maybe you were never the music in me.
Maybe I have always been singing.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
**** stained drainpipe
raining pain
unexplained sameness
expressed
in veiny legs
egg salad crustacean
situationally challenged
prophetic procreator
bending spoons
and your will
shill trolls on and on
seeking weakness
tweeking while twerking
discolored molars twinkle
baboons ***
shiner dines on refined lime
mining dimes
unwound ground cover
lamenting
lack of green
queen like boy toy bounds across the turnpike
exhilarated and misinformed
dorm room ****
forlorn
sounding horn born of jazzy lips
quips to the mainstream
hipsterism is like a disease
complete with rashes and bumpy outbreaks
15 century rake awaits her date
and is placed on the stake
for a belief in an alternative
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
He was definitely the wrong one in the situation.
After all that's why I'm here now, isnt it?
Now, I know he left when I was only 5,
but **** pops... You couldn't have called?
No, I understand you had a second family.
Though that witch left you shortly after
receiving her green card, its completely okay.
It makes no sense to take care of your own blood.
No, not when you have other people in your life.
For years, I denied your existence, even though
you were only 45 minutes up the turnpike.
I think its because I was embarrassed of you.
Or maybe because I thought you were ashamed of me...
Wasn't I worth it dad? Didn't you want a son?
If so, then why didn't you act like it?
And if not, why the **** would you do that to mom?
She raised me and Katie blind, alone, and jobless.
Meanwhile you have a pension check just shy of a million.
I have dreams sometimes of us at lunch,
but when I wake up I realize they are just dreams,
and nothing close to what reality is, but distorted memories perhaps.
I can't understand why, but I miss you...
All the best cowboys have daddy issues.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Ayr ye scurvy turnpike,
turn yer eyes from me!
The beauty of yer blizzard blue
tears me flannel heart.
Ye bake me mind into applesauce
that hotly drools on down,
me stomache is dissolvin-
all me courage ye have drowned.
Ayre ye wretched rogue of lies,
no one could be so fair.
Must be an imagination demon
with soft an tender hair.
When yer tongue tangs sharply on me lips
me life is drained and dying.
shut that song of love ye sing
that sets me soul a flyin.
Ayre ye **** banshee
Don't never let me go,
Grip me with yer slender claws
so closely we can gro.
This world can't stop yer fire
were gonna burn it down,
with nights of satin passion
were gonna paint the town.
Ayre me ***** of wonders,
ye know I keep ye dear.
I thank ye for yer nightmares
that ye give me every year.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
Look in the eyes and see the pain and struggle
Rubble lies
Vacant in my mind from my times of defeat
Sweet lines fed to me every time I'd eat
Hypnotized into denying the dynamite in every bite
Because every night you made me feel alright and think twice
And whats left when everyone including you went right
And at that stoplight
I turned the opposite toward the turnpike
And tore a hole in the earth when I detonated in daylight
When I could see clearly and the moon didnt obscure my view
Of you
I promised that I'd love you and that much may remain true
But I'll never fully forgive the **** that you put me through
So with that being said I smash the mirror and bid you adieu
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Maybe it's the obsidian spirit within that wishes to be in her axis spin
A topsy-turvy tango on the turnpike
My heart tries keeping pace
Embarrassment of riches, her smile never saves face
I'm spoiled to witness a heavenly Rorschach test walking
Olympic views sparkling on high
A natural one
Holy smokes
I've seen the evergreens blush red
When she brushstrokes
Her paintbrush-lush hair amidst the background of the Puget Sound
So refreshing
Trapped in her net
Outside the network of jerks
Fishing for lust
Refresh the pages
Reload the look of ages
My type of hype
She's keying in on my keen instincts
Putting wings on my desires
So heights can be admired
So fright can be delayed
In flight, I've fallen.
- Ifeanyi Okoro II
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 11:45 AM UTC
Playing songs to empty chairs
Taking bows when no ones there
We're on the road to famous town
But, no one really cares
House parties, and the legions
Around town and the region
We're on the road to famous town
But, no one knows we're there
One day we'll make it to the top of the mountain
They'll know our name and all will know our songs
It takes a while but we all have the vision
To be the best, so we will sing our songs
Our fans all scream for us to sing them for 'em
We'll reach our hall of fame one day
We'll play Ryman Auditorium
And when we do ....just listen to us play
Years of clubs and small time tours
Opening for kids half our age
We've walked a million miles
Just walking out on stage
A chance comes down the turnpike
Get recorded at a show
The Nashville people hear it
We're on the radio
Requests to sing our single
Come so fast, we take them all
We're no longer the shows opener
We're the top bill at the hall
More music and more albums
Larger tours and tv shows
We don't sing to empty bars no more
We're the name everyone knows
One day we'll make it to the top of the mountain
They'll know our name and all will know our songs
It takes a while but we all have the vision
To be the best, so we will sing our songs
Our fans all scream for us to sing them for 'em
We'll reach our hall of fame one day
We'll play Ryman Auditorium
And when we do ....just listen to us play
It's been twenty years in coming
We're an overnight success
We've climbed on up the mountain
You know where we go next...
An invitation to the Ryman
The Country Music Hall of Fame
A show where greats are thought of
And everybody knows your name
But, now...we still are playing
To our fans in bars, saloons
But, one day we will be famous
The Ryman...we'll be there soon
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
The story opens surrounding a Greyhound bus
But the dialog illustrating must
It was a normal day at the Greyhound lot
But somewhere not far away some thieves were planning a plot
The thieves were planning to rob the Shining Light Jewelry Shop on Solid Hands Blvd
But they were going to use a Greyhound bus being there getaway
No one would suspect a Hound bus going astray
So the Robbers entered the Jewelry store with masks over their face
It was a matter of precaution so no one could trace
The Thieves quickly and moved swiftly out of the Jewelry store and onto the Hound bus
It was a perfect crime with the bus being the thieves plus
However, the Greyhound Company notified the Police that one of there
Buses was stolen from the lot
The Hound bus was now cruising on I-95 of the New Jersey Turnpike heading for Philly
That might sound silly, but the heat was on in New York and New Jersey
The Police were in hot pursue
The Hound Bus was maneuvering in and out of the Turnpike lanes
Yet, the bus was speeding at 80 miles per hour
The chase was on and it was long
The Hound bus being the fastest dog on wheels, but became the subject of ordeal
But the ordeal was for real
A chase that went on for hour after hour
A Road block was at a stretch of the New Jersey Turnpike
But the Hound bus barreled through
However, the Hound Bus had to be stopped before it reaches Pennsylvania lines
The chase was still on, and Helicopters were flying high and being on alert
Suddenly, Gunshots rang out
There was plenty of commotion on the highway being out and about
But somewhere this Hound Bus chase had to end
However, it wasn’t until when
The Thieves had been driving so fast
The Hound Bus was now running out of gas
The Police were able to move in
The Thieves were arrested and out done
The Hound bus was returned and another one of my stories being among.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
A congenial aura
elated trekking
Intoning treasured verse
attention beckoning
Diligence provided
continual checking
Confirming with gauges
complying with code
Merged flawlessly towards
turnpike- cautious mode
Along breezed a rig
with a copious load
Heedless of rush hour
he rumbled on by
Remained in his route
to switch didn't try
Hurled on the brakes
swerved- she let out a cry
The fish tail and slide
left black in its track
Furled over in excess
too dazed for fact
Copper tang on lips
beginning to act
Sinew taut
cerebral flailing
Knuckles clenched
composure failing
Ticker raging
pent up wailing
Red and blue strobes
redundant sound
Screeching and wrenching
the pros abound
Flame vaulting acrid scent
soot around
One outstretched mitt
cloudy hood right behind
Echoing directives
"you will be fine"
Such screaming
not even sure if it's mine
Hours? Minutes?
seconds ticking away
WHOOOMF!!!
explosion that seized it today
Claimed these lives
on the earth they did lay
What's happening?
ascending brilliant light
Are eyes sealed exposed
perceiving what's right?
Sense soaring heavenward
a tranquil flight
Radiance entices
no need to resist
While buoyant wafting
in a cool opaque mist
At last home free
beseeching those that I missed
Brushed against His Grace
her brows lightly been kissed
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC