Time to drive. a poem.

The manual transmission
sticks at times,
a reminder that we
need a service and I
need to find a new place
for my engine to unwind.

There was a time
when things were simpler,
when you could change
the sparks yourself.
But now it’s all computers,
and instruments
and waxing/waning moments
in technicolor
and surround sound.

Now, I need to feel
the road beneath my wheels
and roam free of this room
that encapsulates
and encourages me.
I don’t believe
you would appreciate
this fresh and wise
perspective.

Now, it’s time to drive.

poetry books - stevestillstanding

For more of my poetry, check out Poetry for the Sad, Lonely and Hopelessly Endangered and The All or the Nothing, available in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

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Driven. A poem.

The prairie and the road calls,
A waltz of remembrance
Dancing along the asphalt,
Like a tumbleweed made of last regrets.

The stick shift clicks in place,
The tension defining its existence
mirrored on the driver’s face.

Wheels spin and smoke
And the car strides forth
Like the lion on the newborn veldt,
Hunting for the prey that will stoke
Each and every kindled fire.

Every junction calls his name,
A whisper passing by
Like a ghost of Christmas past,
A brief entanglement in a roadside motel
That’s far too short and soon forgotten.

The freeway calls to him,
The art majestic and the weary eye,
Casting all doubts aside.
The way of all things revealed,
Found and lost and soon to be received.

poetry books - stevestillstanding

For more of my poetry, check out Poetry for the Sad, Lonely and Hopelessly Endangered and The All or the Nothing, available in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

Day Trip. A poem.

Drive across the aimless asphalt,
seeking ventures gained and lost.

Your hand is soft in mine,
the patina of your skin a road map
of anxious lines and weary learnings.
Today the sun and hills call forth,
in a circus maximus fanfare,
full of rolling fields and girdled cows;
ecstatic lens flare in every vista,
like a bargain basement special effect.

These times we spend are fleeting,
flying from our lonely pigeon coops,
hankering for domestic ventures,
the taste of quixotically exotic foods.

Your hand, so soft in mine,
my hand, so soft in yours.

Drive on, until our conjoined experience
merges with the murky sunset
and the road leads to your door.

I write a lot of poems, some from my head, some from my heart. Many don’t appear on this website. For more of my poetry, check out The All or the Nothing, my first e-book, available at most online book sellers.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

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