Riding Rails

Jumping cars and riding rails
down a track or two…or three
All beginning, on the
metaphorical farm, of life - or
perhaps, just within me.

Baggy pants, thoughts and tramps
Graveled throat and dust
A campfire, spirits,
freedom roads and lust.

Beans and Billycans,
Flowers for the man
Standing on a soapbox
On my corner of the world
Doing what I can.

Switching tracks, crossroads
No turning back
Riding rails, with parent’s dreams
like cold steel, pressed against my back.

Now here I sit,
Riding rails, grey hair on head
Parents long gone, both dead
Sitting back remembering,
What each one had said.

Funny thing,
being out there on my own
All I wanted to do,
Was turn around, and take the first track
All the way, back home.

Nonetheless, I forged ahead
Freedom of the metaphorical rails
Taking Life’s tracks instead.

But with all that said,
I made my way,
despite my rights and wrongs.
I rode those rails, sang those songs
And fell in love, along the way
With life, and just the way it is.

We’ll Be Fine

In the middle of time, everything stops
Two hands dancing, between the time
and the clock
Third wheel spinning still.
A slice, half part me, the other you.
Can this be true?

Midnight divides us,
Worlds collide at the strike of dawn
Separated by Greenwich Mean and you
Stuck in the London Tower of mine.
Watching time, our heads on a pole,
life’s end of day, crossing from this side
to the west.

If I could hold you, thighs to thighs
Hinged between the time, and eyes
Embers of your light of day
My darkness stripped away
Like numbers on the face, of time
Slowly passing, as each moment ticks
this is my sublime, these mental tricks
of time and mine.

The motions of clock, and the
mind spinning round and locked
With jumping hands from me to you,
and kisses on the face, places moist with grace
In-between the time of you and me
We’ll be fine, in the middle of this moving sea.

When everything stops,
Two hands dancing, between the time
and the clock,
we’ll be fine, just you and me, and time.

An Old Stone Well

An old stone well
Stained water, deathly brown
reflecting back
shimmering ~~~, from my past
…eerie still, as I peer down.

A single tear
Salt from eye to mouth
this briny taste, fallen over time
waiting, for a ripple to appear.

Leaning over, a sickly draft,
gagging on a cry,
wafting up, this stench of past
of an escaping, echo sigh.

Slipping past my lips
down the mossy walls, which I…
built high, over the weight of time
now dripping,
these hollow stone piles,
deep within my mind.

Looking, into this old stone well
with creaking, rusty pump
spewing dust…,
into an empty bucket...
of thoughts,
left chipping at the crust.

One step back,
And up I look,
A refreshing breath, I took!
This well, is old - dank and cold,
It’s the sun I need in life.

Breathing deep,
I walk away,
Never looking back,
At that old stone well
Where I once choked, and sat.

Shoes that Walk

I put on my shoes, and they began to walk
Down a path, listening, while I mumbled and
talked.

They never heard the rain, nor the splash,
they just continued to walk, and simply walked
on past.

Flopping shoelaces, never tied in a knot,
Strings attached, like forget-me-nots,

Always dancing to stay out of puddles,
Listening to the tune of me, as Iwalked about
and muddled.

The soul bared the brunt, scraping the earth
Worn down by the salt and the girth.

Splitting seams, of these tightly worn shoes,
tongues wagging, as if they knew - smiling in mirth.

Focused on the miles ahead, bent with arms
swinging to an unsteady pace, unsure of my
tread. I marched on as if in a race.

Reaching a peak, I sat on an edge, not sure what
to do, so I looked down instead. And there I sat
stuck, like some gum to my shoe.

Unsure what to do, I sat there and I thought
about you.

The miles we’ve walked, now baring our soul,
although a bit weathered from the heavy toll.

But, there’s comfort in that, in these worn old
shoes - who have seen it all, as we’ve walked,
on these midnights strolls….

….and listening to these wonderful talks, in
these shoes that walk.