There’s a dip in the road
Up on Ravenstone Ridge
Where it crosses Wine Creek
On an old wooden bridge.
I remember my dad
With us kids in the Ford–
How we flew down that road!
How he had “The Bomb” floored!
When we got to the dip,
We were launched into space
With us kids and the dog
Flying all over the place,
And my dad laughed so hard
When we flew in The Bomb,
But he made us kids swear
We would never tell mom!
–Photo by me
hopeful hang gliders
prepare to take to the air
on silky sails
–photo by me
lives and leaves
are torn
from their trees
and borne
upon autumn winds
they dip
and swoon and race
madly
across the face
of the moon
scattering afar
until at last
they spiral down
to the earth
to form
that final mound
after all
we all fall down
I don’t really believe there is such an animal as anger–it’s an evolved response to stimuli that might otherwise kill us if we pussyfoot (what a word) around too much. It seems to be the filter for the one feeling we as humans can’t seem to handle: being hurt.
There was a guy down the street from here that shot his ex-lover outside a bar with a freakin’ deer rifle. He felt hurt, I’m sure, but he couldn’t handle that so he turned it into anger and now he lives in prison. If we could just admit to such a simple thing that as humans we can feel hurt, maybe things like the Las Vegas shootings, or a women being shot down the street with a deer rifle could be avoided.
Siblings
Brawling
Scribblings
Crawling
Nibblings
Bawling
Dribblings
Falling
Once brilliant reds
Now softened
In a late September light,
Our pastel matte
Will fade until
We’re left with only white,
And when the winter
Finally comes
And daylight hours few
I wonder if the people all
Do fade a little too.
–Photo by me
my wife died of anxiety
morphine was the means
but anxiety was the cause
she saw no cure but death
now she finally rests in peace
but her three children carry on
with the anxiety they inherited
and now, a profound sadness
i cry for them
i can’t finish this poem
sorry
a steady rainfall
on this gloomy afternoon
drives the earth to drink
Sixty-two times around the sun
A thirty billion mile run
I’d clung to Earth both day and night
As twenty thousand times it spun
My life is four or five dogs old
The beating of my heart, untold
I’ve tholed a dozen presidents
And watched a score of wars unfold
And though time flows and hours gain
And moments seem to wax and wane
Within the cosmic hourglass
Time passes only grain by grain
(Originally posted 12-2016)
devoid of matter
full of substance
souls are stories
spun
from silver space
and golden time
each is a valiant
epic
told anew around
an ancient campfire
and echoing through
time
our ethereal souls
leap into the sky
like these burning
sparks
to abide forever
among the timeless
constellations of
stars
michaeljordahl 