Sunday, April 25, 2010

Roads

I wrote this poem on a car ride to Polson, MT. It sort of (unintentionally) presents the two extremes of idealism and realism and then hints at a more Christian alternative.

The Highway 4/9/2010
Rushing wind and spinning wheels
For a moment almost feel
Like some adventure long ago,
Speeding on through ice and snow,
Or some great trek across the plain
With flying hooves and tattered mane.

But then the markers tick on past,
Alliteration far too fast.
As rubber on the asphalt screams
And blends with engine noise and steam,
I feel like just another dot
That slides along this long black blot,
A smear of asphalt through the hills
Like residue from oil spills.

Yet in this flying island, there
Are souls of life and laughter rare.
So why imagine or despair?



I wrote this next one last year after a car in which I was riding hit a dog that wandered onto the road at night. I was struck by the profound solidity of the dog. Its death did not merely affect minds and emotions; it was real enough to affect the motion of the car and slide on ice.

Death on the Road
11/13/2009
The dead, dead dog lies like lead
on asphalt black as hell.
The horror hanging in the air
still waits to break the spell.

But we glide on like eerie ships
through black and misty fog,
So different from the sudden shock
of car impacting dog.

The dog spun out across the ice
its yellow fur all whirling
To stop, quite solid, on the ice
and frigid snow still swirling.

If it be dead why does it not
sink down beneath the ground,
And fade to leave pure memories
of happy barks and sound?

Instead the sound of whirling wind
resounds the frigid truth
That this poor beast is solid still
in meat and claw and tooth.

A child's playmate yesterday
and now a broken dog.
Blank as death we pass on through
the ever reaching fog.

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