Riding in my first car,
A `67 Mustang was something.
Windows down, wind rushing in,
That 289-sound,
I love it,
Everything except the radio
Which didn’t preset well,
Leaving me with only the right side knob
To find the stations
To score whatever the drive.

Each turn gave the stations
Just enough time to check-in,
A sort of Name That Tune simulation
Of blended music, talk, and commercials.
Funny how we can tune out the noise
Until the moment when clarity hits
And the perfect sound gets through our haze.

We ran this morning,
A good run, four or five in total, I think,
Cold, crisp air, no breeze,
The smell of toast in the air,
Which was distracting,
Except for the hills,
Which have not changed in years
And it seems my noise tuning memories
Are turning into flashbacks
That became amplified after our run.

The post-run conversation became more active,
Each new person checking in about the group’s workout,
Explaining their own,
Then there was some rapid fire about color coordinating outfits,
And then, silence.
I was gone, lost in the sound of rapid tuning on the old Philco,
When the dial scanned the stations so quickly
That there wasn’t even a sound.
I could see my friends talking,
They were laughing, making faces, enjoying themselves.

Just as I was,
Content in the serene nature of the quiet
There, not there, no where.
Something woke me up, brought me back,
I would guess it was the gargoyle of the pool,
Who true to email descriptions
Does have a Jimmy Dean quality to his digits.
At first, I thought I missed out,
Not hitting on any conversation,
Then I realized, the calm that I was feeling.
There and knowing it was okay that I checked out
Because the comfort of friendships is allowing people
To be themselves.

Maybe that little diversion
Is the reason why I thought about my old car,
Windows down, radio up,
No static.

Ideas can sometimes be elusive,
Other times, they land right on the table
Like a buffet of creative delights.

The last few days have not been effusive,
They have forced me to question if I’m able,
But the physical and mental fogs have left some insight.

Through it all, the thoughts are inclusive
Including the bizarre suggestions, more riff than fable
Suggested in the morning that is still dark as night.

Under the watchful eye of a gargoyle like lifeguard
Toes grasping the pools edge with a boney grip
A rag tag group of runners wondered openly about life’s directions.

Donuts, religious and hole-y, for the nutritional die hards
Sweetened talk of latex thermals and their potential to cause a sweaty drip
While baby ducks and chicks brought out backyard recollections.

Traveling for work, seemed for some, to be hard
Especially, if a train was going to be part of the trip,
But nothing stirred the emotion as did the gargoyle’s phalangeal projections.

Too often the ideas are elusive,
More frequently they land right on the table
Stuffing my day with a buffet of creative delights.

The madness is starting, again.
Dribble drives, lots of jumpers, screaming fans.
The energy will be all consuming
Game after game after game

The bets will be in
Some will cash big, others not so much.
The games will go on
And none of the athletes will get paid.


people hotel bar drinks
Photo by Stokpic on Pexels.com

Some have said,
“He’s a current event poet,”
I guess meaning
My writing is about what’s happening now.


Topical, that’s what it is
Hitting on the highs and lows
Of life in a routine, searching,
Trying to find if there is meaning.


So these things happen,
I write about them,
Maybe changing details,
Maybe creating better versions of a day.


Yet none of it is true,
Not the absurdities,
Not the bawdiness,
Not the lies.


Perhaps there were pigs and gunny sacks,
There could have been equine prancing,
Would growlers even have a place on the same day
As fashion conversations between aging men bellied up to the sty.


Random thoughts inspired by concrete days
Make the miserable bearable through
Inspired laughter about the ridiculousness
Of the lives we lead.

Say, again?

Look, stuff happens,
It gets illuminated here,
It gets amplified there,
If it really ever happens.

You’re losing me…

No, find your meaning in poetry,
The poet says something only known to the medium,
The reader determines what the poem means
Through interpretation and reflection.


Yes, the stories of a day
Can tell a bunch about us individually,
How we see the world,
How we lived our experiences.

Makes sense…

So go figure out why your boss is not at the game,
Throw batting practice on an off day,
Wash down drool with snooty beer, and find
The perfect inspirations to describe manicured lawns.

I will.