Cinders and broken glass.
Warm engines blowing smoke.
Old men with hats, suspenders,
stained work boots and pants.
Great stories of Louisiana bayous,
marshlands, mountains and oceans.
Empty freight cars transporting
lost souls and homeless dreams.
Wooden platforms, benches carved
with names. Trackside families.
Steady work. Scars and sweat.
Creosote and oil, steel and shovels,
the tissue that connects.
A whistle in the distance,
editors note: Train of thought, recalled from rails; wistful whistle stops stay the passage of time. - mh clay
I pulled down a dream.
Opened like a present.
I feel a full sun warming me;
breezes reinforce the
Beach grass bends to rhythm.
Bicycles, open shirts,
uncombed hair. Faces without
voices. Water reflections.
Warm freshly tarred roads.
The fragrance of low tide.
Each day writes its own menu.
Radios speak in concert over sand.
It was an open window.
Freedom not to return, except by
editors note: Return, so sweet, when free to not. Next dream, please. - mh clay
A drawing on the wall attracts
An old couple shake their heads
and then their fists.
A young woman reaches out,
touching the colors.
A dog walks by.
A pregnant woman scans the image
while rubbing her abdomen.
Two young boys on bikes laugh
and ride off.
A city bus stops. Passengers step
off and separate, noticing nothing.
A man and a woman contemplate the
wall, arguing as they walk away.
A nun passes by quickly, her eyes
A soldier presses his hand to his
A rabbi stops, looking intently and
then begins to cry.
editors note: Eye couldn't say what art walks by, what heart makes cry. - mh clay
The train lunged in
and out of order. Heads swayed
like displaced seaweed mocking
gravity. The stars and moon remained
in place. Thick metal wheels turn
with conviction. There is no shame
for those asleep, leaning onto windows,
newspapers for pillows. The miles create
a low hum. The engine possesses a pure heart.
White smoke rains upward. Surrounding
breezes are pushed aside; weight has
privilege. Nameless roads pass by
within a blur like uninvited relatives.
Darkness blocks the view. The engine
scowls forward. Vanity is a boastful drunk.
editors note: No tougher train to ride than your train of thought. - mh clay
Farewell to day. The heat layered
high through dawn, spreading wide over
spaces where long shadows formed beyond
ancient obstacles burdened into place.
Night… finally moved in.
People casually scattered. Stars opened
their windows onto a black sky. The desert
diner closed up; its neons splizzed out a last
drizzle of sparked light.
A warm migrant breeze slipped over the road.
Coolness followed, pressing onto the sand and
weeds and anything occupying space.
The car’s engine shuddered and then groaned
into labor breathing. A cylinder war under the hood
struggled to maintain life.
A cloud of dust rose from the car as I tossed a
bottle at the last road sign.
editors note: Keep splizzin', Baby! - mh clay
Misplaced thoughts are broken stones.
The sides of the road hold treasures
for those walking by. Old newspapers
separate us from yesterday’s tragedies.
Wisdom is born in diners and roadside
Cafes. Painted signs on old barns hold
the innocence of roadside marketing.
Paper hats have character against the sun.
Popsicles were once five cents. Longer
steps will get you there faster, even if you
don’t want to arrive. Birds work the winds
in every season. The eyes never lie.
Everybody’s your friend till the rent comes
editors note: Roger's road-worn realities keep us cruisin'! - mh clay
I got out the big car, the flashy one
where you’re absorbed into the soul of your seat.
We turn on the black roads with no names
past road signs peppered with bullet holes
and other signs pointing each way to towns
and places somewhere to go.
The moon plasters a gray canvas like my
single headlight, beaming a path of night.
Cold and flat, suspended and smoking the
old car slips past cemeteries where we tip
our hats at the crossroads where tales of
life changing like Monday morning sheets
turns the heads each way while praying.
The road is hard as it surrenders the lost
and curious at deserted rest areas where
carved initials in picnic tables tell a story.
editors note: Smooth cruisin'. A story to tell, pocket knife ready. - mh clay
A ripple of air passes over a
curtain in an open window.
Papers tumble gently, trapped
at the base of a picket fence.
A weather vane signals
direction, twisting quickly.
A furious language descends.
Shutters slap senselessly
Tree tops swirl like ocean
Leaves and branches are
swallowed by wind’s appetite.
Clouds swell. The sky ignites
with jagged bristling tails.
Rain releases the beginning
The storm finds reason to move.
Sounds fade to welcome release.
editors note: There's a bite in the air this morning; I feel the season turning far above. - mh clay
The second self of me is the gift
The adventure in need of a path.
A stone to be dislodged.
A bridge that crosses every part,
leading to passions and fears.
It’s a road without a friendly door
or room without a place to hide;
My second self forces me to sunlight.
I’ll shed a skin, maybe between clouds
or a under a soaking rain
and find a place I best fit in –
my second self and me.
editors note: Better two-for-one than full price; make 'im fit. - mh