Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
2024 Summer Muses' Gallery -Road Trips Poets Respond to Travel on Life's Highways and Byways
For the 2024 Summer Muses’ Gallery, Highland Park Poetry asked poets to write about road trips. These selected works explore major highways, country byways, and even roads not traveled. There are journeys with family, friends, strangers, and alone. Some expeditions are vacations while some fulfill other purposes or destinations. Most focus on the automobile, several take other modes of transportation such as bicycle, train, or Winnebago.
May these poets’ words inspire you to look at a map, pack a bag, make a playlist, grab some snacks and hit the road. Even if only in your imagination.
Many thanks to all of the poets who honored us by sharing their writing.
Enjoy!
Mary Beth Bretzlauf, William Carey, Jennifer Dotson, Irene Hoffman, Julie Isaacson, Jen Meyer, and Marjorie Rissman Highland Park Poetry Press Editors P.S. Scroll to the very bottom of this page to read brief bios of all contributing poets and artists.
Enjoy!
Mary Beth Bretzlauf, William Carey, Jennifer Dotson, Irene Hoffman, Julie Isaacson, Jen Meyer, and Marjorie Rissman Highland Park Poetry Press Editors P.S. Scroll to the very bottom of this page to read brief bios of all contributing poets and artists.
Terry Loncaric, Photographer
Right Lane, Left Lane by Duane Anderson
The message posted in the electronic highway signstated: “Not passing? Stay in the right lane.”but I had my own driving philosophy. taking a pass on any offer to use the other lane,letting someone else make it one of their choicesas I stayed put in the right lane.
I was in no hurryand would let others move into the left laneand race to their destinations, for I am a follower rather than a leader,knowing I will eventually get to my journey’s endhowever long it may take, and wherever that may be.
I was in no hurryand would let others move into the left laneand race to their destinations, for I am a follower rather than a leader,knowing I will eventually get to my journey’s endhowever long it may take, and wherever that may be.
Trip to Perpetual Siesta by Marie Asner
Off the gravel road, we began to see rock fence posts.Nearby sparrows cleared their voices and took pleasurewith grain stubble in narrow shafts of light.
Fog starts to rise, then swirls away from the small wooden chapel.We park the car and walk a cracked brick pathTo the graveyard, so forgotten in this place,that the dead have been whispering to each other a long time.
I did find one possible relative,though the headstone was faded and stained.“Could it be?” My friend said, “I think not,”and with jangling keys strolled to the car.
I glanced into the old chapel. In the past,lace curtains on the windows moved quietly,while in the winter, frost formed intricate patternsand an old gray metal stove provided warmthfor people sitting on wooden pews, season after season,watching baptisms, marriages and funerals.
We leave, and I look backto see the church fading into mist.In time, even the birds will pack their bagsand move from the Church of Perpetual Siestato new lives…as did we.
Fog starts to rise, then swirls away from the small wooden chapel.We park the car and walk a cracked brick pathTo the graveyard, so forgotten in this place,that the dead have been whispering to each other a long time.
I did find one possible relative,though the headstone was faded and stained.“Could it be?” My friend said, “I think not,”and with jangling keys strolled to the car.
I glanced into the old chapel. In the past,lace curtains on the windows moved quietly,while in the winter, frost formed intricate patternsand an old gray metal stove provided warmthfor people sitting on wooden pews, season after season,watching baptisms, marriages and funerals.
We leave, and I look backto see the church fading into mist.In time, even the birds will pack their bagsand move from the Church of Perpetual Siestato new lives…as did we.
Miranda Dotson, Photographer
Painting by Ann Privateer
Hope on the Nowhere Road by Mary Bone
There was hope on the road to nowhere.I could see the glowing brightness,from a distance.Many people had trudged this road beforein the nightmares of my dreams.I was seeking brilliance,shining like a diamond,I was almost to the end of a tunnelwhen hope held out its arms and consumed me.
Previously published at Lothlorien Poetry Journal, December 28, 2023.
Previously published at Lothlorien Poetry Journal, December 28, 2023.
Omaha in January
by Mary Beth Bretzlauf
I can’t recite or recall how many miles we’ve traveled over the past twelve yearsor times we’ve driven to St. Louis after work ona Friday night arriving at The Arch near midnight.
Each weekend was a sacred routine of loading equipment,clothes, snacks and everything needed to set up a proper bar in our hotel room – true test of a travel hockey mom.
One subzero January weekend we trudged west on I-80. This time Grandpa and his walker have joined equipment,luggage and vodka in the cooler – his Mercury Marquis,perfect for a long drive – trunk space enough for three bodies and legroom for a growing boy with stinky hockey gear.
Sunday afternoon we took our losses and our wins,Good times with other parentsIcepacks easing aches and painsBut it turns out we didn’t need the icepacks –The car’s heater died somewhere outside Omaha –Only 400 more miles and seven hours to go…
Note to self: pack more blankets
Each weekend was a sacred routine of loading equipment,clothes, snacks and everything needed to set up a proper bar in our hotel room – true test of a travel hockey mom.
One subzero January weekend we trudged west on I-80. This time Grandpa and his walker have joined equipment,luggage and vodka in the cooler – his Mercury Marquis,perfect for a long drive – trunk space enough for three bodies and legroom for a growing boy with stinky hockey gear.
Sunday afternoon we took our losses and our wins,Good times with other parentsIcepacks easing aches and painsBut it turns out we didn’t need the icepacks –The car’s heater died somewhere outside Omaha –Only 400 more miles and seven hours to go…
Note to self: pack more blankets
Lynn West, Photographer
Cheryl Caesar, Artist
From the personal photo collection of Kathy Lohrum Cotton
Bailey By Gail Denham
(for Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel, past Okie poet laureate)
Bailey created his trailerfrom shower doors and seats dumped out back of Mel’s filling station, plus scrap lumber from Franklin’s Mill.
Wheels were a problem tillhe found a field of worn-outand wrecked cars; their tires and axles good as he’d find anywhere.
Sleeping bag, an ancient rusty refrigerator that used ice blocks, and cupboards from Branville School – the one that quit teaching kids six years ago.
Toured out west that May,stopped at the Grand Canyon.Finally he settled in a Californiavalley where he picked berries,grapes, sometimes peaches,and visited junk yards.
Bailey created his trailerfrom shower doors and seats dumped out back of Mel’s filling station, plus scrap lumber from Franklin’s Mill.
Wheels were a problem tillhe found a field of worn-outand wrecked cars; their tires and axles good as he’d find anywhere.
Sleeping bag, an ancient rusty refrigerator that used ice blocks, and cupboards from Branville School – the one that quit teaching kids six years ago.
Toured out west that May,stopped at the Grand Canyon.Finally he settled in a Californiavalley where he picked berries,grapes, sometimes peaches,and visited junk yards.
modern haiku by Charlotte Digregorio
sultry day . . .motorist with tattoosgives me directions
First published in Modern Haiku, Vol. 40.2, Summer 2009
First published in Modern Haiku, Vol. 40.2, Summer 2009
Monica Cardestam, Photographer
William Vollrath, Photographer
the pull of the horizon by Joe Farina
here on the open roadyou learn you're better off alonewithout the need to understandthe language of the lonelywithout the need to satisfythose who would hold youhere you know who you arekeep it in or give it awaythe choice always yoursstaying safe or living wildin the pull of the next horizon
Road Trip with Children by Dana Fine
I spy in their eyes a sense of wonder.Seeing the country from a fast-moving window.Cows, cows, cows and horses too.Junk food tastes better with fields in the rearview mirror.Wheat and corn, more wheat, more corn Dogs resting by the cold air.Long highways, small towns.Full bladders in search of a rest area.Stop, after stop, after stop.Country music blasting.Memories everlasting.
John Adorjan, Photographer
Monica Cardestam, Photographer
"Cloud Car" by Jonathan Plotkin, Artist - https://www.spontoonist.com/
Today is the Day by Colleen McManus Hein
Today is the dayThe one at the end of the rowYou pricked like balloons –Pop pop pop.
One down, ten to go.Two down, nine, so slow.
The car at four Is packed tight,Rearview – no sight –But’s it’s clean.
By Duluth, old iced tea cups Will sweat in the holders,French fries at your feet.
But now, the sun rises sweetAs you stop for gas and seeThe dawn’s Wisconsin streetThat is someone’s hometown.
The place whereMaybe they stayedAnd maybe they go-edBut home is this town.
In the dim bathroomYou gaze at your faceAnd wonderWhat’s it like to liveIn this particularGreenly rolling Lives unfoldingStories toldingNorthern space.
One down, ten to go.Two down, nine, so slow.
The car at four Is packed tight,Rearview – no sight –But’s it’s clean.
By Duluth, old iced tea cups Will sweat in the holders,French fries at your feet.
But now, the sun rises sweetAs you stop for gas and seeThe dawn’s Wisconsin streetThat is someone’s hometown.
The place whereMaybe they stayedAnd maybe they go-edBut home is this town.
In the dim bathroomYou gaze at your faceAnd wonderWhat’s it like to liveIn this particularGreenly rolling Lives unfoldingStories toldingNorthern space.
Porches by M. Harlene Henry
I am merrily lost this bucolic afternoon meanderingunder Maine’s crystalline sky over around mounds mountainsfertile aromas birdsong riffling leaves distract my attention fromroad’s tapering black ribbon unspooling toward horizon’s vanishing point
My soul devours delicious freedomI laud and applaud the intrinsic customs ofMainer friends who gather on rustic porchesto rest and renew with kith and kin
Farmhouse faces invite passerby to slow downappreciate expanses of bountiful vistas nourishedby rich dark soil tended by caring calloused handstubers, taters, turnips ‘bout ready to gratify palates weary ofwinter’s canned, frozen, dried, salted, smoked, put-up meals Young’uns not yet spent and bent from decadessowing and hoeing gather on the back porchevolving in their own peerless customlearning from one another how life works throughageless pubescent jousting games testing tormentingpushing teasing pulling pounding on their besties and not so bestie friends gathered there
Sun kisses my car’s hood good eveningthe road-rise ahead paves my sense of beinga part and apart of this pastoral idyll
Time for me to find the road back to where I don’twant to go – back to the furor of compoundingdangers fundamental to surviving urban life – but must
These well-worn porches will go on and on withoutme monitoring their usage sheltering shading Maine’swicked fine natives no matter how old they areno matter how long it takes until I return
My soul devours delicious freedomI laud and applaud the intrinsic customs ofMainer friends who gather on rustic porchesto rest and renew with kith and kin
Farmhouse faces invite passerby to slow downappreciate expanses of bountiful vistas nourishedby rich dark soil tended by caring calloused handstubers, taters, turnips ‘bout ready to gratify palates weary ofwinter’s canned, frozen, dried, salted, smoked, put-up meals Young’uns not yet spent and bent from decadessowing and hoeing gather on the back porchevolving in their own peerless customlearning from one another how life works throughageless pubescent jousting games testing tormentingpushing teasing pulling pounding on their besties and not so bestie friends gathered there
Sun kisses my car’s hood good eveningthe road-rise ahead paves my sense of beinga part and apart of this pastoral idyll
Time for me to find the road back to where I don’twant to go – back to the furor of compoundingdangers fundamental to surviving urban life – but must
These well-worn porches will go on and on withoutme monitoring their usage sheltering shading Maine’swicked fine natives no matter how old they areno matter how long it takes until I return
Anne Bell, Photographer
Photo of the actual red plaid suitcase mentioned in the poem below by Julie Isaacson
Road Trip Turns Railroad Trip by Julie Isaacson
The first time I heard the words “Road Trip”I just turned threeThey told me we’d be in the car for a long timeBefore we reached a place called Florida
We drove and drove and at the southern tip of Illinois,Dad’s car broke downIt would take a week to fix it
Then the nice man said…Tonight at midnight a train comes through,headed to Miami. Take the train,and when you return, your car will be fixed
When the town’s clock tower chimed 12 times,Dad carried me onto the traina steam-billowing, huge clanking machine
We drove and drove and at the southern tip of Illinois,Dad’s car broke downIt would take a week to fix it
Then the nice man said…Tonight at midnight a train comes through,headed to Miami. Take the train,and when you return, your car will be fixed
When the town’s clock tower chimed 12 times,Dad carried me onto the traina steam-billowing, huge clanking machine
In our cozy space called a cabinwe had lights we turned on with a button, a teeny sinkand a high bed called a berth. My secret haven.Magic was in the air.
In the morning, men called the conductors took us to the dining carTables with white linen cloths, vases with yellow budsIn the distance across the fields, we saw the road we were to have driven
Florida? It was fun – with tall palm trees and a kiddie pool,in our hotel room I built a tent for my dolls under the deskBut still, the best part was the journey getting there and back again
My first delicious memories packed in a red plaid suitcase –the constant rhythm of the mighty train trackand the soft hug of the backseat when our car was fixed.With my new Mickey Mouse coloring book and sharp crayonsI colored inside the lines.And now I felt big. I even learned to draw my own lines.
In the morning, men called the conductors took us to the dining carTables with white linen cloths, vases with yellow budsIn the distance across the fields, we saw the road we were to have driven
Florida? It was fun – with tall palm trees and a kiddie pool,in our hotel room I built a tent for my dolls under the deskBut still, the best part was the journey getting there and back again
My first delicious memories packed in a red plaid suitcase –the constant rhythm of the mighty train trackand the soft hug of the backseat when our car was fixed.With my new Mickey Mouse coloring book and sharp crayonsI colored inside the lines.And now I felt big. I even learned to draw my own lines.
California Summer by Michael Lee Johnson
Coastal warm breezeoff Santa Monica, Californiathe sun turns saltshaker upside downand it rains white smog, a humid mist.No thunder, no lightning,nothing else to doexcept for sashay forward into liquidand swiminto eternal dayslike this.
My Way on the Highway by Richard V. Kaufman
I am the master of the road not taken.I am the lord of all my routes forsaken,of the forks in the road I didn’t take,each one a journey I wouldn’t make.I accept the puzzlement and regretfor my myriad paths not travelled yet,the many different lives I didn’t live,the acts of kindness I couldn’t give.Wonder and mystery wait on the way.I’ll travel there before the close of day.
Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
Badlands National Park, South Dakota by Maggie Kennedy
Maybe it’s the suddenness of spring.Plants and trees bursting with pride, selfishly pushing asidewhatever stands in their way to the sun.Or the sparrows greedily splashing in muddy puddles while the cardinals look on cautiously.Do they not want to stain their lovely plumage?
Today I’m traveling to the Badlands.I want to remember what it feels like to do somethingfor the hell of it. Manners be damned.
Today I’m traveling to the Badlands.I want to remember what it feels like to do somethingfor the hell of it. Manners be damned.
1979: Nights of Neon by Elizabeth Stanley King
The blistering air weighedon my chest as is itentered the car, defyingmy desire to be cooledby an evening breeze.The kind of heat that searsthe inside of your nostrils.Those days of short shortsrefusing to keep your thighsfrom sticking on those polished vinyl seats.The thrill of Friday nightcruising, driving the stripwith your friends, windowsrolled all the way down.The Hustle blaring from stereo speakers.Wolfman Jack spinning vinyl with style. Neon nightswhere AM radios became throbbing mobile discos.Out of every Trans Am,the radio blaring Bad Girls.In each Camaro, Earth,Wind & Fire oozed funkin a Boogie Wonderland,and we were sure that the Devil Went Down to Georgia in every El Camino.
Terry Loncaric, Photographer
Pamela Crady, Artist - www.pamelacradyart.com
Spring Pilgrimage by Candace Kubinec
They drove halfwayacross the State so he couldcatch fish that would not be eatenand she could take photos thatwould not be printed – traveling toa place where calmness resides.They drove past windmills with arms opento the wind and went through mountains, insteadof climbing over them. They saw the backside of lifeas the highway miles flew by, until they traded speed for scenery. Small towns turned into farms and fields.Cars and tractors were replaced by horsespulling buggies. Billboards morphed into handmade signs for quilts and honey, and they wavedat plain shirts and dresses billowing on a clotheslinestrung between two poles. Mile by mile their busyminds began to still and their hearts began to beatin rhythm. And there, waiting forthem at the side of a stream, was peace.
Fragile by Jill Angel Langlois
I drove past a funeral processionturning into the cemetery.I was on my way to get a Covid testand I wondered how he’d died, or she.
I have a procedure scheduledat the hospital next week.I’m nervous about it.It’s been weighing heavy on my mind.
The nurse pushed a swab up so farinto my nose that my eyes teared up.It was annoying so I pulled overto recover before I could drive.
On my way home again, I took the same route.The funeral had ended;All the cars were leaving the cemetery.They’re still alive, I thought. They go home.
I go home, too.But I don’t put this behind me.It’s before me,And I know how fragile life can be.
I have a procedure scheduledat the hospital next week.I’m nervous about it.It’s been weighing heavy on my mind.
The nurse pushed a swab up so farinto my nose that my eyes teared up.It was annoying so I pulled overto recover before I could drive.
On my way home again, I took the same route.The funeral had ended;All the cars were leaving the cemetery.They’re still alive, I thought. They go home.
I go home, too.But I don’t put this behind me.It’s before me,And I know how fragile life can be.
Bridges by Michael F. Latza
The bridges then were wonderfully strongAnd crossed, not all alone, but with my clan;Their strength and love guided me along.I felt as if they’d always hold my hand.But by and by my helpers slipped away –The path is solitary, after all –The bridges seemed to narrow down the wayAnd I had much to heave post stumbles and falls.Before each bridge I’ve had to leave behindSome burdens and/or blessings, hard achieved.My needs? My wants? I’ve often been purblindTo what I must eventually leave.I’m working toward that final bridge to cross,When I discern release as gain, not loss.
Short Cut in Italy (Before GPS)
by Joan Leotta
Driving across Sicilyright through the island’scenter, as my husband and Iapproached the town of Enna,we encountered a traffic stop of note—sheep demanded the right of way.When at last that last ewe bleatedpast, announcing we could continue,impatient to reach Catania, still hours distant, we careened over more little-traveledroadway so fast we hardly noticedsights along the seemingly never-ending route of two-lane roadwayson our rental agency’s map.We reached Catania justbefore our reservation’s expirythen settled down to a wonderful meal.As the waiter set before usCatania’s seafood specialtiesI heard a couple at the next table say how glad they were that the new highway from Palermo to Catania had saved them so much time.We looked at each other. The mapin our car noted no such modern road!Our eyes widened with a short flashof anger and then, probably tooloudly, we began to laugh.
Cheryl Caesar, Artist
Photographs by Monica Cardestam
Last Trip to Birch Farm by Ann Malaspina
We drove her one last time to the farm in Connecticut.Stopping to picnic at Candlewood Lake.Stopping to see the great uncle living with his housekeeper in a shingled cottage on a hill.The uncle who shipped out to France in World War I and never spoke a word about it. The brick farmhouse still stood at the crossroads,as did the stone wall where she posed with her wedding party on a windy November day. The barn where her sister was hurt had fallen, and the field where her father grazed his red Devon cattle with elegant horns had gone fallow.She wanted to walk alone, down toward the brook,under a bower of oak trees older than she. It was after Labor Day. The leaves turning gold.I took the photograph.
Photograph by Ann Malaspina
Photo on left by Catherine Schwalbe; photo on right by Gail Denham
To Be of Use by Ann E. Michael
We have passed the Susquehanna,the Shenango’s hummocky banksundulant in contrast with the highway’suninterrupted line.Flanking the road, oaks and beech treesclutch their brown leaves,dowagers with leather clasp-pursesthey can’t bear to set down.My mother adjusts the seat,fishes apricots out of a bag,relates her quiet tumult—the work of childhood,the ache of forbearance, birthing shameinto the world and teaching it howto split its skin and emergebeautiful, pulsing, strong.
Ten miles east of Ohio, we stop for gasoline and lunch.I show her how to usea credit card at the pumps—small things like that delight her.She wants to clean the windshield.To stretch. To be of use.But the squeegee’s brittle,gas-station rinsewater slacked with scum.From the driver’s seat I watch her work:the glass goes dull, streaky, cloudedas the Pennsylvania skythis late in January.Undeterred, my mother works,the work—begun over sixty years ago—of doing, and undoing.
First published in Juxtaposition, A Women’s Writing Anthology
Ten miles east of Ohio, we stop for gasoline and lunch.I show her how to usea credit card at the pumps—small things like that delight her.She wants to clean the windshield.To stretch. To be of use.But the squeegee’s brittle,gas-station rinsewater slacked with scum.From the driver’s seat I watch her work:the glass goes dull, streaky, cloudedas the Pennsylvania skythis late in January.Undeterred, my mother works,the work—begun over sixty years ago—of doing, and undoing.
First published in Juxtaposition, A Women’s Writing Anthology
Road Trip to Planned Parenthood by Carol Moldaw
It rained overnight, refreshing the earth.The air wasn’t yet warm, the leaves
not fully unfurled. It was the heightof the virus, the first wave. With clinics
in seven states closed and ours booked,we found one within a day’s round trip.
I hadn’t driven in weeks, for dayshadn’t been past the bottom of our drive,
to pick up the paper at six and the mail at one.We got a doctor’s note in case the state’s
border was sealed: “unable to scheduletime-sensitive procedure in-state, please
allow through.” No one stopped us and wemade good time. Only one hazmat-suited
protestor outside the two-block buffer zoneshouldered a sign stapled to a plywood cross
that proclaimed a woman’s regret inevitable. I kept both hands tight on the wheel
so as not to flip him off as we drove by.In the parking lot, the cars were spaced
for social distance; the appointment mostly by phone, each car a semi-private
glass-sealed intake room. At intervals,the door opened to let someone in or out.
Up and down the path, everyone wore a maskbut with no legal necessity, not yet, to hide.
Published in author’s collection, Go Figure (Four Way Books, 2024).
not fully unfurled. It was the heightof the virus, the first wave. With clinics
in seven states closed and ours booked,we found one within a day’s round trip.
I hadn’t driven in weeks, for dayshadn’t been past the bottom of our drive,
to pick up the paper at six and the mail at one.We got a doctor’s note in case the state’s
border was sealed: “unable to scheduletime-sensitive procedure in-state, please
allow through.” No one stopped us and wemade good time. Only one hazmat-suited
protestor outside the two-block buffer zoneshouldered a sign stapled to a plywood cross
that proclaimed a woman’s regret inevitable. I kept both hands tight on the wheel
so as not to flip him off as we drove by.In the parking lot, the cars were spaced
for social distance; the appointment mostly by phone, each car a semi-private
glass-sealed intake room. At intervals,the door opened to let someone in or out.
Up and down the path, everyone wore a maskbut with no legal necessity, not yet, to hide.
Published in author’s collection, Go Figure (Four Way Books, 2024).
From Jill Spealman's Family Photo Archive
Photos by Lakshmy Nair
Mother/Me and Daughter/Olivia by Catherine Perkins
decide to drive from KY to Santa Feto see Mother, hospitalized, pneumonia, possible causes — New Mexico’s elevation or the 5-day road trip recently made with her son across the nation for their relocation from Cape Cod, MA.The way strays from the beaten path somewherein TX. Olivia steers me to exit for a side-ride on Route 66. She she-mans the AAA travel book, locates must-stop at stop-and-see shops, restaurants and tourist attractions. Bad food in our bellies, too much junk stuffed in the trunk, we continue to an iconic location for a graffiti experience, Cadillac Ranch. We embark on a ¼ mile hike across a muddy, shit-filled field, cows grazing on all sides.A slick, compact path guides us to a row of cars— asses up, noses rooted, lined like some miracle disasterplummeted them from the sky to cause their demise.Olivia runs wild, free from the auto’s constraints.She clambers to fins, shakes, writes and squeals. Her joie de vivre pulls me in. Like a putz I sketch a red heart, with wobblily sunshine-yellow letters write, Cathy loves Olivia in the center of half-a-hood over top of someone’s war cry, kill or be killed shooting out of a red, white and blue gun barrel.Our marks mark 10-out-of-10 dead, heavy-metal, way-past-their-prime, beautifully designed bodies.Time to get back on track. Only ten hours to our destination. If we stay on course, we’ll arrive in time to visit Mother.
Neon by Drew Pisarra
It’s a fairly straight shot from Downey toVegas but the drive feels long since your carlacks AC. So we roll down windows as faras they’ll go then hide behind shades that you’vepinched from an over-lit mini-mart. Windsands our faces; skin clings to cracked leather;we’re doomed to sweat sweat flash-dried by hot air.This sun’s rays are relentlessly unkindyet still we drive on, after a sleeplessnight spent dry humping on your childhood bed.Is that Mecca in the distance ahead?No such luck. Sin City is one hot messof cheap brunches, rushed weddings, stained box springs,slot machines, false teeth, fake breasts, and faux bling.
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Volkswagen Illustration by Monica Cardestam
On the Way to Peoria by Marjorie Rissman
brown and dry unmovingwithout an inch to breathebrittle stalks awaitthe harvester that movesin a cloud of dirt and debris the land left barren pockmarked beyond recognitionanticipates the giant tillersthat prepare the soil forthe crop of winter whiteuntil early in the spring
the face of the earthprickles with stubblewhere once the corn grew tall and proud to reach the harvest sky: once green and glorious undulating in the breeze rows clearly discernable stretching out for milesin all directions ruptured occasionallyby soybean patchessolitary farmhousesdancing windmills somersaultingacross the horizon
the face of the earthprickles with stubblewhere once the corn grew tall and proud to reach the harvest sky: once green and glorious undulating in the breeze rows clearly discernable stretching out for milesin all directions ruptured occasionallyby soybean patchessolitary farmhousesdancing windmills somersaultingacross the horizon
Killen: Repair Job by Roddy Scott
Outside, the car is being repaired,the car that brought me to this placewhere repairs on the heart are commonplace:
each nut and bolt he takes out with care,the repair man knows exactly where,every nook and cranny is not rare.
Inside, people, practitioners, with such great care,remove and ponder the words insidethe engines driving the humans by their sides.
There’s some serious damage, some parts neglected, some need renewed, some cracked,some are broken pieces of human art.
And the tools? They use human ears,that, with radar precision, pinpoint a murmur,a rumour of malaise, a callous callus or a burr,
and carefully increase the volume until, deafenedby the reality of their hurt, knowing there’s no better pill,the people, the children, accept, turmoil settles, is still.
The repair man has finished, the battle is won,my car is better, the axle-back pain is gone;I however, have just had my best fears confirmed:
there’s a crack in the cylinder head, I’ll be in a garage for some time, they said;while the caring repair people, experts
in their science, their art, they get their ears well and truly black to the lobes, my brakes and fluids bled,I might just pass an MOT, where this long road trip’s led.
each nut and bolt he takes out with care,the repair man knows exactly where,every nook and cranny is not rare.
Inside, people, practitioners, with such great care,remove and ponder the words insidethe engines driving the humans by their sides.
There’s some serious damage, some parts neglected, some need renewed, some cracked,some are broken pieces of human art.
And the tools? They use human ears,that, with radar precision, pinpoint a murmur,a rumour of malaise, a callous callus or a burr,
and carefully increase the volume until, deafenedby the reality of their hurt, knowing there’s no better pill,the people, the children, accept, turmoil settles, is still.
The repair man has finished, the battle is won,my car is better, the axle-back pain is gone;I however, have just had my best fears confirmed:
there’s a crack in the cylinder head, I’ll be in a garage for some time, they said;while the caring repair people, experts
in their science, their art, they get their ears well and truly black to the lobes, my brakes and fluids bled,I might just pass an MOT, where this long road trip’s led.
Photograph by Bev Seiffert
Photo by Terry Loncaric
The Road to Self-Enlightenment by Joseph Sinclair
There is a vast chasm between knowing and believingAnd there is no map that reveals the path,And there is no bridge when you get there;There is only the spontaneous acceptanceOf our own self-belief and the knowledgeThat the path has never failed to emerge. So hand-in-hand let’s start upon the wayAnd together we will scale those rocky heightsTo self-enlightenment and beyond,Traversing every chasm that appearsOn the journey between knowledge and belief,Forever choosing the rarer of the two paths that diverge.