| Summer Gallery: Driving Cars |
For the 2019 Summer Muses' Gallery, we asked poets (and photographers) to share their passion for driving and cars. Automobiles are a means of getting to a destination. In this collection, the car means much more. Car as machine and technological marvel. Car as identity. Car as culture. Car as freedom and liberation. Car as memory. Car as relationship. Climb aboard and take a ride.
To find out about our participating poets and photographers including a fun/interesting car fact, visit the Participating Poets tab.
Enjoy!
Sincerely,
Jennifer Dotson
Founder & Coordinator
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Singing With the Car Radio
By
Tricia Knoll
Williston, Vermont
| I have to believe that singing with the car radio
lets me live longer. Choruses repeat.
Lyrics the open window carries
to the extreme of pavement.
My spine lengthens
behind a steering wheel drum,
my words sweeten
the traffic jam
as we jitter with the road.
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1955
By
Herb Berman
Deerfield, Illinois
| Yesterday rides shotgun
In my ’53 Bel-Air coupe
Cool as my Lucky Strike smile
Blowing smoke in the slip stream
One hand on the wheel
90 on the straightaway
I slow to a lazy sneer
Luckies rolled up in my T
Over manly biceps
Bravado and nicotine sweat
And sure a pretty girl
Shares my bourbon high
And we park
Inhale Lucky Strike kisses
We’ll never grow old she says
But we did
Though my Bel-Air didn’t
And James Dean didn’t
And rock-n-roll still lives
In an old man’s dreams
Now Luckies aren’t cool
And 90 miles per and bourbon aren’t cool
Even cool’s not cool
But you pretty girl
Riding shotgun
Into yesterday
Still cool
As a James Dean dream
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Out for a Spin
By
Sylvia Riojas Vaughn
Plano, Texas
| He was hot, but oh those wheels!
Sleek, shiny, fast,
speediest ride on campus.
A drive after the final bell
led everywhere but straight home.
Moon roof open,
rushing wind, roar of road
competed with Top 40.
Exhaust prickled our noses.
Maybe a foot long dog at
an outpost on the edge of town,
maybe a double feature at
the drive in picture show —
salty buttered kisses,
speaker's tinny sound on low.
Years later, in my minivan
fit for family,
Ginger the Lab, every
errand under the sun,
a muscle car zipping by
turns back time.
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| R. James Paradiso Photographer |
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65 Ahead
By
Kate Hutchinson
Palatine, Illinois
| Weekends of the future will need
no premeditation. Hours will
unfold in layers, panoramic, as we
round each curve: faded red barn,
new-green grove of willows, or
a herd of stampeding bison—
everything. We’ll stretch our arm
lazily across the passenger seat,
take it all in. Smell the damp earth.
Till then, Saturday is the rush
of the week’s needs yet untended,
the stop-and-go of suburban streets,
clutching steering wheels and
pounding blacktop, looping again
to where we’ve already been.
We are turn signals and mirrors,
gas gauges nearing empty. We look
things up, we write things down.
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Distracting Thoughts on Distracting Thoughts
By
Khalid Mukhtar
Wheaton, Illinois
| I guarantee you do not need a cellphone,
A bag of fries, unopened can of pop,
A passenger behind you raising hell, drone
About your driving with no plan to stop;
A toddler trying hard to lose his harness
Or children crying out to have their say
Mixed in with whines complaining of the fairness
Of wherever you’re headed to this day.
You do not need these things to be distracted
Although they’re bound to help without a doubt,
If you won’t rest until your life’s impacted
By injury that glamorizes gout,
Just tell yourself that you’re distraction-free,
Then watch yourself distract you totally.
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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My Dreamsicle
By
Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
| was a hand me down like a party dress or book bag
but while it was mine, it was all mine, devoid of
mother’s cigarette butts and opera music, cash
register receipts and coupons for anything and
everything on sale at one time or another in local
stores and eateries. this baby was white outside and
cantaloupe in, although Ma called it tangerine orange
like a dreamsicle, you know, the good humor variety.
for one brief summer this ice cream treat on wheels
was all mine and the envy of my friends. who else
had a two-door convertible when they were eighteen
and driving around the county as a summer employee
of public aid. not just an intern but a pay-checked
person who wore skirts and heels to look and feel
adult enough to read casework files on battered wives
and alcoholic husbands and make house check-up calls
to determine if children were fed and safe and that no
single mom had a boyfriend drinking up her welfare
check on beer, my caseload so heavy I doubted I
would see these families until next summer if ever again.
one notable passenger caused me to think of
a career change but in the long run he made me stop
judging people by their rap sheet. I was asked to drive
a sixteen- year old from jail to court. It was a beautiful day
and the top was already down which was a sure get-away
waiting to happen. luckily the boy in my charge was
enjoying the ride too much to ditch me or my car but I later
learned he was charged with murdering his dad with a knife.
he made it to court and then on to prison without passing go.
it was a small miracle I got home that night, let alone my car.
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| Gert Knop, Photographer |
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Secrets from Hamburg
By
Joris Soeding
Chicago, Illinois
This poem first appeared in the chapbook Yellow Shift and Unruly (Night Garden Journal, 2018)
| he drives under yellow and red stars
near the trolley, Perry Como’s ‘Christmas Dream’ on the radio
trailed by news of JFK and Parkland Hospital
he was already elsewhere before Dallas
not in the holidays and cobblestone streets
after stopping at the deceased elder’s apartment
he takes his diary to the car and home
in bed with his girlfriend
then walks to the kitchen, in a robe, to boil water for teas
he follows in his dress shirt to the table with jam jars
while she dances at the Regina Cabaret he begins reading
under the dark yellow down comforter and Holocaust stories even at 3:30 a.m.
he must find the man who took the late elder’s wife
approaches his boss at Komet Magazine
justice and the cover story
he is hounded while shopping with her
the crowd of St. Pauli train station
he knows where the murderer hides
among suits, cigars, an electric company
he drives to Heidelberg with 1,000 Marks and an address
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Noise
By
Gail Denham
Sunriver, Oregon
| If Ada Brunsetter called the police once,
she’s called them 400 times. This time
it was about that inconsiderate Larry
Phillips and his car stereo.
“Every day his radio rattles my windows
when he stops at the corner.” Ada complains.
“At least he obeys the stop sign,” sighs Sheriff
Kroner. “He lingers there on purpose,” says Ada.
“Why last week that infernal racket made
my chocolate spice cake fall. I’m famous
for that cake around here, you know Sheriff.
You gotta’ do something.”
Sheriff Kroner nods and keeps trying to escape
Ada’s porch. At least Ada is off on the subject
of Mr. Jenkin’s loud mower, the Simpson’s
dog, or the pesky shouting kids in the park.
Finally the Sheriff tells Ada he has an urgent
case to investigate. “I gotta’ hurry. I’ll look
into the noise problems,” Sheriff says.
As he drives away, Sheriff Kroner
feels led to use his siren.
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| Joanie Tooley, Photographer |
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haiku
By
Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
Previously published in Charlotte's instructional guide, Haiku and Senryu: A Simple Guide for All, 2014
| car wash tunnel . . .
making resolutions
for the new year
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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'57 T-Bird, Highway 36
By
Lennart Lundh
Orland Hills, Illinois
First published in Poems Against Cancer 2014 (self-published charity fundraiser)
| The car burns on the side of the road.
Smoke a million shades of gray joins
henna and bottle-blonde yellow flames,
making faces in the autumn afternoon.
Once polished powder blue,
the paint is blistered and smoked
to some different color entirely.
A small crowd barely watches the end.
It’s now of a certain kind with the
pocked spotted wrinkled mottled
skin of an old man once noticed:
Too many miles. No longer collectable.
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| Photograph provided by Mary Beth Bretzlauf |
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My Father's First Child
By
Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
| We kids learned long ago
someone else was here before us
this “baby” didn’t have two arms
nor two gangly legs.
Baby never had a name
not Sally or Hank
nor Gerry or Sue
she was simply, the MG
it didn’t stand for Mother Goose
just England’s Morris Garage.
From my earliest days
baby had a room all to herself -
though the garage wasn’t heated.
She stole time from us five -
My father’s singular passion
Only we older kids recall
baby’s transformation
like a mad scientist, my father
laid out all her pieces
painted them fire engine red
they hung like washed shirts
from the basement clothesline.
Baby rode in parades,
beauty queens and politicians
waved from her back,
she and I took the turns at Road America
and taught this poet
the delicate balance of clutch and gas.
Last week Wednesday was
my father’s hardest day yet -
saying goodbye to his baby
for he couldn’t hold his tools
to tinker with her engine
off she went to a new home.
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A Bit of Unexpected Peace
By
Candace Kubinec
Greenburg, Pennsylvania
| There is a place along
a quiet, country road that
twists and curves,
a place where the trees
reach across the asphalt
to hold hands above me,
a place where the sun
shines through the leaves
to make lace patterns
for me to drive over,
a place where time feels
like it has slowed down,
taken a deep breath -
a place where peace flows through
the open windows and wraps
its arms around me
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| Chuck Kramer, Photographer |
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Traffic Cop
By
Chuck Kramer
Chicago, Illinois
| My son patrols the highway of
our relationship like a
traffic cop, riding up in his
squad car to let me know when
I speed past his boundaries
in search of an artery of
communication, when my
questions switch lanes
without signaling to move
from banal conversation to
heartfelt concern, when I make
illegal turns into the private
road of his personal life or
snarl the flow of traffic
by slowing to examine the wild
landscaping of his overgrown,
cloistered existence. Once he’s
curbed the conversation, he steps
out to ticket my transgressions.
If I go the wrong way down the
street that leads from his heart or
slam the brakes on his
ill-formed enthusiasms, he
pulls my license with
cold anger, reminding me to
remain in the narrow confines of the
public avenue, a grim road where
questions and revelations are
proscribed. Behind his sunglassed
glare, he protects a secret life from my
caring eyes, as if I were just another
commuter, rushing off to a world
miles from the pain in his heart.
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Sometimes Freedom is a '93 Dodge Shadow
By
Kathleen Gregg
Lexington, Kentucky
| boxy, khaki green, low-end model
fully equipped
with rolldown windows,
with one of its keys permanently stuck
in the ignition
and with two years left on the loan.
I called it my consolation prize
for losing at marriage.
But damn, that Dodge was everything
my ex-husband was not.
When I unlocked the driver’s side door,
I knew I would be sliding
into basic, snug comfort. My choice
of radio station didn’t need
to be justified,
or mean that another option
wasn’t good enough.
I was never troubled
by temperature ups and downs.
My Shadow always started,
always took me where I wanted to go,
under the radar; the road
reimagined.
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| Jen "Pen" Richards, Photographer |
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Art Car
By
Jen Pen Richards
Highland Park, Illinois
| Like an I Spy book
your multi-layers drive my eyes crazy
as they search the roadways of miscellanea
now dashed into clutter in collections
that steer my thoughts to memories
of movies, happy meals, and dime store dreams
now onboard to withstand wind and rain
a traveling trash heap exhibit of treasured trinkets
designed into a cultural awareness plastic behemoth
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| Jen "Pen" Richards, Photographer |
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Last Rites
By
R. M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
| once a farmer found her
stuck in his cornfield
she had driven off the road
said she tried to avoid a deer
we should have suspected
when she called one day in May
asking what was the best exit
to take if getting off in Peoria
it took a full 2 years
before we found out about
all the accidents she called
minor “fender benders”
it was midnight, a neighbor
called to say she was asleep
in her car in his driveway
and didn’t know where she was
a policeman drove her home
she spewed profanities at us
said we had no right
to take away her car keys
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Oh, Tesla
By
Kerry Ann Leaf
Highland Park, Illinois
| My best guess, Tess,
Is that I confess
That you had me
At electric.
I always liked the silent type,
Super charged on demand
But otherwise
Low maintenance.
And your fab frunk,
My fave,
Our special hiding place,
The envy of poor trunk.
To dash, or not to dash,
And no dashboard,
Excel at accelerate,
Yet no grease, no oil.
You light my circuit,
Energize my system,
Power my voltage,
And leave me with no resistance.
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Carcass
By
Mantz Yorke
Manchester, England
| Sunk on its belly,
the still-bright lenses
were picked out
by the first to arrive.
The strong came later
and hauled the dead
weight of entrails
back to their homes,
leaving the carapace
to rain and sun.
Slowly the smooth skin
blistered into rust.
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Red and Black
By
Neurine Wiggin
Glencoe, Illinois
| A spring day on Lake Shore Drive.
Ahead, a top-down, vintage red Mercedes--
a history lesson in the slow lane.
I pull up closer in my black sedan.
A grey-haired man is driving,
hair a little too long and unruly,
corduroy jacket too tight around the middle.
He is faded but chirping to the radio
like a bird on the fly. I pace him.
His roadster is flush with chrome,
its red interior, bright as a scarf
I sometimes wear to relieve
my somber black suits.
I want to follow him,
find out what he is looking for, or running from.
Is he meeting a student for lunch
to drink wine, fawn over her words,
feel that blood surge of spring?
Or is he joining a collected woman in her fifties ,
someone he might be married to, or holding out on.
She serves tea in pink lusterware cups
from the 1850’s.
Finally he takes an exit
with the swerve of an after-thought.
I watch him go, still curious.
I drive on, leaving my fantasies behind.
Does it matter how age comes to us?
Must we face it with determined realism,
or is aging a style
that can arrive in a flash of red?
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The Land Yacht
By
Tricia Marcella Cimera
St. Charles, Illinois
The poem was first published in April 2016 in Silver Birch Press, "Learning to Drive" series.
| I don’t remember the make.
It was American.
It was big and long.
Super wide. Majestic.
The complete opposite
of the cool, slim foreign
family car I practiced in.
I was scared to death.
How was I, who was I
to steer this great white
whale of a luxury sedan?
I sat paralyzed,
my fellow students
whispering in the backseat.
Suddenly the Driver’s Ed
teacher barked out,
Let’s go, honey! and
I pressed the gas,
sailing irrefutably forward
like a Viking Lord
aboard his dragon ship,
like Cleopatra on her
glittering barge.
Like Captain Smith on
the Titanic,
while all the passengers
waved happily,
unwittingly.
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Tooling Down the Road
By
Gail Denham
Sunriver, Oregon
This poem received an Honorable Mention in the Arizona State Poetry Society contest and was published in Sandcutters, 2012
| Wind blows sagebrush against
the ’55 Ford grill. The car’s radio
sends Mathis tunes out the window,
while fingers beat the rhythm on the hard
vinyl steering wheel; these hands ready
to tap tunes into the future until life
breaks up the melody with static.
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the purpose of a car
is memory
By
William Carey
Glencoe, Illinois
| The purpose of a car is memory,
of South Bend beaters and girls, rampant randomness,
and parties strewn through youth like lost pearls ...
of grandpa's gruff gift and first real vehicle,
driving Datsun headlong into manhood and D.C. but not arriving ...
of cool, blue Saab hitting its stride in New Town,
Sunday Times in the sunroom, free as life ...
of sober Volvo at 40ish, draped in sedate mantle of Business,
of midlife stolid Acura, masking furtive Dracula who broke several hearts,
but whose own, self-pierced endlessly, just would not die ...
of heaving Lexus desperate in dark home rain, of oil and asphalt
and tiny lady crumpled on that seared spot, frolicking with God ...
of blind drives each day longing for sight and forgiveness,
swerving toward salvation
or at least a close parking space.
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The Journey
By
Annie Jenkin
Plymouth, United Kingdom
| Wending through the lanes
cottage garden scents
of lilacs and roses
tickle my nose
under tunnels of trees
snaking up and down hills.
The carriageway passing
in a blur of buttercups
cowslips and pink campion.
No time, no time
to stop and look.
Slipping across the city
pausing on red
going on green.
Stepping on, stepping off
pavements of people.
Motorcycles roar
lorries split dust
thunder passes louder
than a mail train.
No time, no time
to stop and look.
My foot presses down
I've further to go
and not much time.
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Vehicular Vernacular
By
Dave Marcus
Streamwood, Illinois
| Shotgun rider
Backseat driver
Dashboard drummer
Steering wheel strummer
Radio despot
Rearview mascot
Console mug
Tailgate pug
Top-down summer
Hot-rod gunner
Hitchhike thumber
Flat tire bummer
High-speed flyer
Road rage ire
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| Chuck Kramer, Photographer |
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Detailing
By
Tricia Knoll
Williston, Vermont
| I’d detail you if I knew how.
Your shine needs a buff
and if you welcome it, rubbing.
Which, of course, you wouldn’t
want a dangling pine-tree deodorizer,
a gleaming bumper,
or a rear-view mirror
aimed to see me
as I think I am.
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Twin City Cruisers
By
Michael Escoubas
Bloomington, Illinois
Previously published in the June 2018 issue of Limited Magazine, Bloomington-Normal, Illinois.
| From my vantage point
in these my nostalgic years
I meander past row on row
of ancient cars—
they’re mostly from the 50s and 60s
poised as if to rev and run
on the hotel parking lot.
Cars then were big as army tanks
and made out of steel. They had big
steering wheels, big windshields,
big everything. Seats were genuine
leather, deep and soft as baby-skin.
They had double head lamps, white
side-wall tires, engines on display
show no dirt or grime. Signs say,
Stand Back, Do Not Touch.
I linger by the light blue ’57 T-Bird.
I’m sixteen again, my menthol Lucky Strikes
(no filter) are rolled in the left shoulder
of my too tight, white tee shirt. My hair
is black and combed back in a slick duck-tail.
My jeans are too tight in the crotch,
but who cares, I’m cool in my light blue
Thunderbird which my dad is paying for.
I wonder if l that pony tail in the poodle skirt
will notice me, if I skip over and say Hi!
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Red Car
By
Lynn White
Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales
First published in Blognostics, June 2018
| The abandoned car stood on the waste ground,
rusting away, doors hanging off, leather seats ripped.
The children played there on warm summer days
but I was not allowed.
The place was dangerous
and the children were rough.
It was the first time I had ever been in a car.
I sat behind the wheel to drive it making
engine noises like a bus.
It was a black car.
In those days all cars were black.
Any colour you like, so long as it’s black.
I thought that a red one would have been nicer.
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Lost Dream
By
Joan McNerney
Ravena, New York
| I am driving up a hill
without name on an
unnumbered highway.
This road transforms into
a snake winding around
coiled on hair pin turns.
At bottom of the incline
lies a dark village strangely
hushed with secrets.
How black it is. How difficult
to find that dream street
which I must discover.
Exactly what I will explore
is unsure. Where I will find it
is unknown. All is in question.
I continue to haunt gloomy
streets in this dream town
crossing dim intersections.
Everything has become a maze
where one line leads to another
dead ends become beginnings.
Deciding to abandon my search,
I return for my automobile…
nowhere to be found in shadows.
Finally I look up at the moon’s
yellow eye…my lips forming
prayers to a disinterested god.
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Closing Speeds
By
Lennart Lundh
Orland Hills, Illinois
First published in Best of 2013 Anthology (Writing Knights Press)
| In twenty seconds that red sports car,
heading east to your west,
will be almost a mile distant.
At the end of what’s left of this minute,
you’ll meet an imperfect stranger:
One of you nodding at the wheel,
the other grateful for the day.
It doesn’t matter who is who;
you’ll soon be one.
Parental words on fairness,
lies to you, were never meant
to cover this.
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| Mark Fisher, Photographer |
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Patriarch Car Dealers
By
Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
| His ole country instincts bought him fame and
fortune as a Chicago’s Beverly car dealer
Sold those trendy Edsels throughout Chi-Town
and fed his family
My pop used his entrepreneurial skills
to hustle those rancid Oldsmobiles
Model T’s, 2019 Hybrids lives
in forever car infamy
Pitch that line, drive away from a fancy showroom
My grandpa made a fortune at his dealer selling cars
1950’s fun, your girl in the back seat and
Dion and the Belmonts blasting away on AM radio
Citreon’s, the pride and joy at the dealers then
Fast talk the plumber, schmoozing secretaries,
whatever it took to sell cars
My father once raised his family on those
oratorical selling techniques
Cruising, swinging a dilarity of humor with
those yesteryear vehicles
Once a thriving J. J. Wright Oldsmobile dealership
on Torrance Avenue in Lansing, Illinois.
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The Oldsmobile
By
R. M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
| Everybody talks about muscle cars,
their first car, chick magnet, ha!
my wheels first belonged to my Grampa
I inherited the Olds when I was 16
a 1986 Delta 88, 3.6 V6 fuel injected
loaded with options he did not need
Grampa had said it was to be his last car
so he wanted everything on it
gun metal grey, red pin stripes
towels were strategically placed
across the seats to protect red velvet interior
imagine the ribbing I took from classmates
at my north shore high school
they called it a Cheech and Chong mobile
I didn’t care, I had no car payment
insurance was really cheap
driving my Gramp’s old car
it smelled like him
I felt him with me
wherever I went
that old car took me back and forth
through college, across states
that big grey car
kept me safe
I miss Grampa
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| R. James Paradiso Photographer |
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Minnesota Thighs
By
Maggie Stewart
In the summer, sweating in the air conditioned Toyota, I ask
Who turned on my seat warmer?
But it’s never on. Just my body adjusting to fifty.
Today, it’s cold enough outside to hold the Starbucks cup without a cardboard sleeve.
Let the burn penetrate hand, and travel to the legs that push through unplowed parking lot.
My legs skirt and zigzag around the dance of salted cars parked helter skelter
in a lot where snow has erased the yellow lines.
Memory appears like kitchen fruit flies in front of your face. Clap, look in the palms. Gone.
What the hell did I come out here for?
I get in the seat heated Toyota, start it up, back up, go. With coffee. Without my list.
Forget my list, forget my husband’s birthdate while filling out a form,
leave my Visa card on the sticky table at the Hungry Tummy Restaurant.
Yet, remember what Mr. Peterson said in 8th grade biology to us Minnesota girls.
The body, he said, adapts. In winter: thighs will collect fat cells to protect us from the cold.
I drive through the snow, note the same old streets that get plowed. The ones that don’t.
Apparently, in 8th grade, Nicole Gillete’s Pom Pom thighs had a higher threshold than my own
to the cold. Hers remained smooth and thin like a plastic Barbie doll’s legs.
Winter wakes up the mind.
Snow drifts that curl like waves between the garage and the house next door
bring you back. Memory shapes memories the way you want them.
I have no idea what I left the house for, but here is the Denim Depot.
The uncomfortable way I’m forced to sit up straight just to breathe in these jeans gives me
reason to pull into this finely plowed lot. It is time to call my Fat Jeans: Skinny Jeans.
Teen girls tip toe cautiously in suede boots over the neatly piled snow at the Depot entrance.
Butter cream frosting on a Sweet Sixteen cake lining the sidewalk.
I plow by in rubber and nylon. Open the door first.
I drive home, the last inch of hot coffee gone frappuccino.
The plastic Denim bag stiff with negative wind-chilled air. The garage door clunks open.
Steam from car exhaust hits frigid air, fills the garage like a Mr. Peterson biology experiment.
I go to turn the key and see the E. Gas. I left the house for gas.
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My Cavalier Cruises
By
Barbara Robinette
Viola, Arkansas
Previously published in 2017 by California Quarterly
| to the music of cloudless infinity
cut grass graces the median while strong Illinois
corn stands ear to ear in fields stretching away
a semi red with speed nears my back bumper
as I pass a slower rig
steel reflects afternoon sunlight
and we are three drivers
with whatever thoughts hopes dreams
steering our wheels we sit alone
within cast iron and steel confines
from departures made long ago
we consent to today’s focused isolation
above the lure of the road
we are three neighbors
proper in our places
between the pavement’s solid lines
we may offer a distracted smile
but never a handshake nor a pat on the back
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| Lakshmy M. Nair, Photographer |
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My Miata
By
Lakshmy M. Nair
Vernon Hills, Illinois
| Behind the glass wall a
ruby red silhouette glistens
I stood with a momentous gaze
breathing a new scent in the air
just one look, my fantasy fly
high above, on the wings of a
butterfly sailing through the wind
above the clouds, to a distant galaxy
on a golden summer afternoon
I am going for a joyride
windblown hair and no care in the world
stereo blaring 'cruel summer'
below the blue sky, gliding
between green pines and golden oaks,
through the sundrenched cornfields
along the shores of Lake Michigan
I go places on open highways,
through dreamy countryside
I pretend not to see the green eyes
gawking at my red little Miata
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May You Always Brake For Butterflies
(a father's wedding admonition to his daughter)
By
Curt Vevang
Palatine, Illinois
A variation of this poem was first pulished by WestWard Quarterly in 2013
| On life’s highway wend safe and wise.
Is this the girl? with pigtailed hair?
Please always brake for butterflies.
Excuse me while I dry my eyes,
a woman now, who's bright and fair.
On life’s highway wend safe and wise.
Marriage is built on compromise,
dreams are magic, perfection's rare,
so always brake for butterflies.
Stay young and kind and seek new highs.
End every day with thankful prayer.
On life’s highway wend safe and wise.
You'll have your joys, you'll have your sighs,
you'll often find that life's not fair,
yet always brake for butterflies.
Time turns to dust before our eyes.
Cherish each day with all you dare.
On life’s highway wend safe and wise,
and always brake for butterflies.
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| Mark Fisher, Photographer |
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It's Just a Matter of Time
By
Kathleen Gregg
Lexington, Kentucky
| My step-daughter and I are sitting at a red light
on Harrodsburg Road. In front of us:
a dirty white Malibu, with a crumpled back bumper
and the trunk tied down with frayed twine. The driver
is revving and revving and revving the engine
to keep it from stalling out; a stop-gap maneuver
I’ve had to use myself. It’s working, but this engine
is belching its neglect. In a matter of seconds,
my faded yellow 1976 Ford Elite, with rusted-out fenders
and a dangling muffler that has clanged and sparked
for months, is completely encircled by a black, swirling
smog of exhaust. Oh my god! Jennifer’s voice is bubbling;
and the two of us – astonished by this sudden, quasi
imprisonment by smoke screen, this unexpected time-out
from the ordinary – evanesce into giggles, which expand
into shrieks of laughter.
We are folded over, wiping tears from our eyes, when
the light changes. The offending Chevy lurches forward,
and we slowly return to a clearer world. Oh my god!
Did that really just happen? Jennifer whoops her glee.
We are co-conspirators now; relief is our guilty pleasure.
Because here’s the cold truth:
having to drive a piece-of-junk car sets you up
for inevitable public humiliation. I know.
Today, it was just the other guy’s turn.
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Beetle
By
Lynn White
Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales
First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, November 2018
| They had a reputation for reliability
but there’s always an exception to the rule.
Mine was the exception
with an inclination to come to a halt
for no reason,
just a whim.
It was worse after it was fixed,
it’s tappets adjusted
or perhaps renewed.
It became so afraid of stalling
that it was reluctant even to start.
One part of the car park was on a slight slope.
I got to work early to make sure of my place.
I switched on the engine,
gave it a push,
leapt inside and put it into gear.
Usually that did the trick
and the engine spluttered into life.
No way will I let anyone fix tappets
on my car again.
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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Song of the Volkswagen
By
Mikki Mendelsohn
Naperville, Illinois
| I traveled
in the back of a decaled,
rusted, naked wagon of sixties’
vintage, never purred or roared,
groaned its start and croaked
its way through blind turns.
It squeaked in lame protest
up winding hills of highway 280
out of San Francisco to unwilling
stops according to its load.
We were eight or nine, stuffed
like rancid sausages, sitting on
tattered pillows, the originals
trashed and slashed, who knows
when or how? Our butts hurt,
feeling every move and jolt
of a hull of aluminum, an aged
shell of primer and glass.
Our ecstasy was our freedom
as birds fly high in cirrus clouds,
able to see and do, land at will
challenge our world
to sing our songs of angst
to anyone who’d listen.
They were days
of fun not protest—
irresponsibility not maturity--
our message: no more war.
Context changes, not meaning.
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Living the Dream
By
Merle Tovian
Highland Park, Illinois
| Cadillac, baby, nothing like it!
Cruising, top down, 75 mph on Route 66.
Tie a scarf on your hair and ride with me.
Pedal to the metal, full tank of gas.
Hear the engine hum?
Purrs like a kitten.
Full throttled roar on the highway.
We’ll stop at a roadside burger joint.
Let everyone admire the car.
Fine leather upholstery and shiny chrome trim.
Fifty years from now, you’ll remember
We were living the dream.
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Journey Home
(an excerpt)
By
Donna L. Ritter
Highland Park, Illinois
| Driving on auto pilot,
as done so many times before,
I remember her words, “Just be, Honey Girl. Just be.”
Passing farms, cows grazing in pastures green,
evoke memories of her garden,
with fragrant bursts of peonies, and pale pink trumpets of weigela.
Seeing Lake Michigan in the distance,
retrieves images of rides in my Chevy Nova to Dairy Queen.
We watched the waves,
relished our cones,
with seagulls swooping down past the windows,
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Tie Rods
By
Mike Freveletti
St. Charles, Illinois
| Tonight the moon encased the road with shadows
At first the pavement evolved into a smooth lake,
An ice sheet through the woods where we drove with abandon
Forging a breakable bond with machinery, our warm steel blanket
Everything solid, an alignment in both direction and purpose
Yet you look concerned – roll down your window as warm air
Puts a hand upon your shoulder perhaps a comfort but unlikely
Just then my diagnosis of our joy ride has failed us both
The forces no longer transmit, the wheels no longer turn,
And nothing is as certain as we assumed it always was
I paused to consider the necessary action for course correct
When really the simple fact is fate is unknown, distant,
A used sports car old and beautiful waits in the wings
Promising a better you, that you may or may not be around to see.
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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The Sale of Our Jaguar
By
Bonnie J. Manion
Hoopeston, Illinois
A variation of this poem was originally published on the Illinois State Poetry Society website.
| Paul acquired our jaunty bronze Jaguar
sportscar from the Turkish embassy in
Chicago, driven a mere four thousand
miles before driving home his bargain.
Sleek, sophisticated and jazzy, this car
gave Paul a new aura of establishment
success that had eluded the son of a
factory man. Miles and years later,
a van loaded with kids arguing with
their mother bore into him on I-70.
It took five months to repair the Jag;
Paul’s back will never recover.
The car looked nearly new, a model
change delayed for years by Jaguar.
The tall couple came dressed for a
sophisticated encounter. Her black
skirt ended mid-calf, paired with daring
red sandals; his slacks draped elegantly
above tasseled loafers. Her dark hair was
stylishly tousled, his white locks Clintonesque.
Retired University professors, the couple
checked out our Jag with many questions,
then slipped out of our driveway on a test run,
zipping with pleasure once out of sight.
Dressed fit to kill, the car and its new drivers made
a good-looking team: sleek, sophisticated and jazzy;
the Jag a winner.
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Transporting
By
Kerry Ann Leaf
Highland Park, Illinois
| Untether me from gravity
And I’ll fly farther faster,
With gravitas, I’ll sail above
Wickedness and inequity
Or perhaps I’ll take release from air
And dive in search of fairness
Among bottlenose dolphins
Defying silence with moans and trills, truth to power
Or maybe I’ll lay atop a train,
Travel in unseasonable winds and storms
To feel the climate change
As passengers inside feel nothing new
Or perchance I’ll stand, grounded outside Starbucks,
And ask drivers, one parked auto at a time,
Gently, then firmly, to please
Turn off their ignition and stop idling our world away.
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| "Chevy Headlight" by Mark Fisher, Photographer |
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Pre-Dawn, Country Road
By
Kathleen Gregg
Louisville, Kentucky
| Driving to work in the ebb of darkness, I round
the first bend on Route 33. Up ahead looms
an alarmingly familiar shape. My high beams confirm:
a deer, statued in the middle of the road; its head
now jerked towards the car. Instantly, this deer and I
become cosmically linked in our desperate desire
for a happy ending. With sudden cool nerve, I brake
my car to a stop. No sickening thud, no writhing hooves,
nothing but relief, shared eye to eye, in a space
of utter stillness. The deer blinks first, then sprints
the few yards into foliage and safety. I ungrip
my hands from the steering wheel, wait
for my leaping heart to calm down. A tinge of red
spreads just above the horizon. I watch the day dawn
through clear, unbroken glass.
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Dolores - Tim and Mike’s
1961 Buick Invicta
By
Emma Alexandra
Highwood, Illinois
In memoriam of two dear friends, neighbors on Seeley Street, Chicago, Timothy Plowman and Michael Hengelhold to whom we rented half of our garage to house their antique car Dolores. Tim and Mike were taken by HIV in 1989 and 1990
| I stand in the rented garage waiting for my engine to rev up.
Drive anticipated, delayed, three weeks since his last relapse.
Though the ambiance of the old fashioned
garage with stall doors, cheers,
memories of lazy rides with no particular
destination, alive and well,
I cannot stave off my fears.
I cannot bear the thought of a final, final time
when neither Tim nor Mike will take
friends for a drive in the contours of
my plush upholstery,
my luminous mauve body, undulating,
on streets urban and suburban, on roads, on highways,
my brilliant white top jauntily retracted to sweep sunlight,
summer breezes through hair carefully coiffed,
shirts billowing in the happiness of the day,
the moment, the moments.
I stand proud as my name, Invicta
“'unconquerable, invincible, unbeatable, unvanquished.”
Words clever ads proclaim.
And yet I know that a virus unvanquished
keeps Tim and Mike from me, HIV.
HIV the dread, invincible, the reality of relapse,
of Sundays, silent, no cure, no rides, too real.
My heart stands silent in the rented garage.
No key to start it beating, I wait, I hope.
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| John Adorjan, Photographer |
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Car Bar
By
Radomir Luza
Los Angeles, California
| Over there
On the South side of the street
Where rubber meets rim
Cars meet to discuss the future
The Cadillac has it all planned out
The Honda needs help
Mapping out his upcoming gigs
While the Chevy gets
A haircut with braids
To look like a Ford
And meditate like an hippie van
The Mercedes looks to take a trip to Germany
To join the Audi and BMW
But it is the Volkswagen
That worries the most
Because it yearns to be what its name implies:
The car of the people
The Dodge Charger flexes its muscles and
Drinks a 24 ounce glass of beer
The Volvo and Peugeot,
On the other hand,
Are busy sipping
Tequila Sunrises and Margaritas
The eighteen-wheeler sleeping in the back
Swills down some ale
To go with cleaning the bar floor with a pail
The Toyota just works hard behind the bar
To earn another golden star
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Family Memories
By
Jacqueline Stearns
Bloomfield, New Jersey
| A road trip with Mom and Dad! The highlight of the summer.
Dad poring over maps in June for our August adventure.
Getting into the car, never knowing from one year to the next
what new experience awaited.
Sitting in the world's largest lobster trap, swallowed up by the immense.
A magical evening standing with my parents gazing in awe at a magnificent
fairy tale village ablaze with lights.
Lake George, a peaceful world unto itself. Taking a relaxing tour of the lake
on board a boat called The Minnie Ha Ha!
Eating dinner at a diner where the hospitality of the wait staff is as generous
as the portions of ham steak!
The Poconos. I am thrilled to sing in the hotel night club, pretending to be
a professional performer.
My older sister joining us for a sojourn to Cape Cod Massachusetts.
A meal at a seafood restaurant, feasting on succulent soft shell crab.
Digging into an ice cream sundae with eight year old enthusiasm.
Gazing out to sea, as happiness courses through me.
Seventeen years old. My family and I are passing through Maine.
We stop for supper and are waited on by a handsome waiter.
My first clumsy attempt at flirting.
The American South. Virginia, home of hush puppies,
mouth watering tiny round corn muffins.
Feeling chilled on a warm summer's day,
as a Jamestown tour guide leads us past a gallows!
Family togetherness. Seeing the United States through each other's eyes.
Road trip. Words that represent amazing family memories.
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| Mark Fisher, Photographer |
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Summer of '76
By
Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
| The summer of '76 was the summer of Igor,
a used Volkswagen Beetle and our family car.
With black exterior and bulbous shape, Igor
conjured Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.
Igor was prone to overheating. A piece of
plywood on the floor kept feet from touching
pavement. A clever mechanic drilled holes
on the back engine panel for ventilation.
The summer of '76, Mom had a teaching job
in Vermont, close to the Canadian border.
Mom drove Igor the 350 plus miles with three
kids and a dog (Benny, Jenny, Izzy and Moose).
Igor was packed to bursting, a steamer trunk
improbably lashed to the roof. Igor strained
with the load and hilly road after eleven hours.
Mom cranked the heat to give the engine relief.
The summer of '76 was the summer of Igor.
Mom managed the stick shift and navigated
the many miles unfamiliar roads. Failure
was not an option. We melted into the bug.
Mom survived the journey with Juicy Fruit.
Chewing gum gave a burst of sweetness.
Chewing gave rhythm to coaxing the car.
On long stressful drives, I do the same.
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Driving Lessons
(2 excerpts)
By
Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
The complete longer poem is published in East on Central (2018/2019 edition)
| I. Ignition
On a Sunday visit Dad suggests
Why don’t you drive the Valiant?
My 12-year old feet stretch for pedals
Gas on right, brake on left
We switch places one block
down the street to his driveway
Hands on the wheel at ten and two
Pressing on the gas unleashes
a sudden surge like a chained
up dog after a squirrel. Nothing
like Dad’s smooth handling behind
the wheel, the Plymouth creeps
and jerks under my command.
III. Brake
Practice session with Uncle John
in grandma’s beige Chevy Impala.
I learn the most important rule of the
road – Beware old men in hats. They
go just under the speed limit but
accelerate if you attempt to pass.
Get behind one and you’re doomed.
Sometimes they disguise their identity.
Sometimes they take off their hats.
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| Don Ryan, Photographer |
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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