Turn Right At The Sign of The Dead Raccoon

 

she turned to look me square in the eye…

“you best be going off on this road”

and pointing to the map, there sitting in my lap

why, this is the story she sowed…

 

“turn right at the sign of the dead raccoon

and follow this road that is long

and sing that old Irish anthem you sing

and you’ll be there ‘fore you finish that song.”

 

so i took my map and i took up my keys

and i traced long the red road divide

and up and down this ol’ car went round

to the top of Potts Mountain side.

 

but the car it was shaking as i kept up my snaking

round and round- oh she went

till the car was baking and i felt like breaking

as my nerves like gunshells were spent

 

till the top i saw and the sound of the caw

of a crow of some gigantic size

 let me know i was there sitting hard in my chair

with a breather ‘fore descending that rise

 

so i prayed a couple prayers, and i prayed i would not fall

and i turned the car to descend

wiggling around as the bends go slowly down

till at last coming to a great mighty bend

 

there that old road slipped down into town

and the sign said i had made it to the West

so i slowed down a tad, seeing it was so bad

with a side full of potholes at best

 

till down on the plain as i sped up again

i found that the road broke in two

so i noticed the right opening up straight

and i drove on the road that was blue

 

it was there on the map, a mighty blue line

unlike that old red one i’d found

and this narrow trail always had a guardrail

not a thousand foot fall to the ground.

 

 

 

 

Mountain Quintet # 1

this is for the great masses who enjoy diverse forms of poetry. i confess to not being very talented at formulaic verse, since my passion to write is more iconoclastic…preferring poetic fiction, poetic prose, and subject matter inspired by subject or character rather than form. still, i did promise to write some specifically structured verse while http://www.kirstenuninterrupted.wordpress.com – and others- participate in a particular “poetry month.”

i have chosen to write a quintet, a poem containing stanzas or an entire poem of five lines. since i am in no way English, i decided to title this type “Mountain,” as in “Mountaineer,” as in “one from West Virginia.”

(On a trail near Bear Heaven, West Virginia)

 

MOUNTAIN QUINTET # 1

the red roads round the map of state

and cross the deep divides of form…

splattered with pockets of pea-green paint

lands over which boots and backpacks reign

land of the rhododendron domain.

 

(typical mountain foliage)

 

(Bear Heaven, West Virginia)

 

 

(Kumbrabow State Forest, West Virginia) 

 

 

Dreaming of a Road Trip

It’s that time of year,

deep-buried by the snow,

I glance at my map,

and plan where to go…

I have a map in one hand, a cold glass of ginger beer in another. It’s about 14 degrees (farenheight- however the heck you spell it- not celsius) outside, cold enough to freeze your appendage to a slick parking lot…if you accidentally fell down…and the snow keeps coming.

It’s evenings like these when I long for the beach, long for the open road, long for the warm wind brushing my hair back…the summer sun still above bedline, lingering to hear more craic, more culture, and watch me cross more contour lines…before I spend another night sleeping under the stars or under the sheets.

I confess to daydreaming in map-vision. I can picture those lines- those red, black, and blue highways, the ones that aren’t as straight as the bolder, wider expressways. The map transforms into pictures, and pictures into places my boots and my tail end must take me, before day’s end wags her sorry head in regret.

Sitting in my armchair, I am an adventurer. My thoughts take me forward, and sometimes, they even take me back somewhere.

I have traveled along the haul roads of Ohio,

‘long back highways that never seem to end,

through cities as numerous as the hours…

and I am just getting started, my friend…

on a snow day…