Joy Ride

 

think how your body moved down the avenue of fourteen
hips swaying into tomorrow and the next day

how you curl your tongue around the idea of chocolate
consumed by it even as your body consumes it

how your eyes connect with other eyes,
locking you into that inevitable, unforgettable dance

and feel how your body shudders and utters delight
when you share its secrets

how Beethoven ravaged, savaged your heart
invading, vibrating a joyous ode across tiny ear drums

how your skin felt like silk when you dove into the ocean,
and the salt-flecked water blessed, caressed and ate you

how your body worked to roll out another and another body,
sweating and pushing, pushing and sweating you bore them out

then swooned at the scent of brand new-born
pouring into every open door your body owns

how you are stunned when you rise from a daydream
and your eyes run across the sky, immense, intense with clouds

how you glow when a little boy stops playing
to touch your cheek lightly, politely planting a kiss

 how a river of pleasure runs through your nose when a rose
shrugs off its holy fragrance

and oh,
feel how your heart pumped as you jumped on your bike
willing your eight year old legs to ride forever

how you soared, when you stopped on the road to Yosemite, awed
and had to lie on the hood of the car to keep from falling into the stars

and how your heart sings in time with the birds
when spring arrives to banish, vanish winter

your body convulses and pulses with laughter,
tears flowing, you fall down on the floor

when you think what an impossible joy-ride it has given you
ever since you climbed aboard at your naked, gasping birth.

****

Published July 2014 –  Bards Annual  2014 – A Poetry Anthology

Wherein The Muse’s ‘Vehicle’ Goes in the Shop For Repairs

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The muse won’t tell a LIE….
the truth is, she must lie STILL,
teetering on the edge
of tomorrow’s forest
 
OK,
I made that up,
there is no forest,
(a jungle maybe)
the truth is, she must lie still
on the edge of a surgeon’s table.
 
All right,
I made that up too,
 she won’t be on the edge
of the table –
NO,
more like stage center,
at the head of the class,
letting all the young doctors
watch the surgeon
making tracks on her belly,
OK
another fabrication…
not tracks – incisions,
the surgeon will cut her
while her muse, pale and mute
wallows in drug dreams
leaving her body, her vehicle
in a complex heap,
a mess,
while they peer into whatever
openings the surgeon makes,
 getting all the answers for their files.
Once it is over,
she won’t LIE AROUND
she’ll be up and about,
revving the motor,
cruising the hallways,
LYING in wait
 for her belly to rumble back to life…
that rumble is the ‘get out of jail free‘ card
 the ticket out of the repair shop
 with a full tank of gas,
and that’s NO LIE !
 
****
©2013 Wabi Sabi
 
For The Sunday Whirl where the words for this week are -tracks, edge, files, lie, mess, complex, gas, forest, still, pale, answers, class.
For Poets United ‘poetry pantry’
 
I know this is a crazy, silly poem but it kept me busy as I prepare for surgery on Monday.  I do apologize for forcing the words to suit my agenda and especially for the ending. (Really!? Gas!?)
I will be off the poetry circuit for a few days but plan to return as soon as the drugs wear off and the muse sobers up!
 
If you would like to read another poem I wrote about my  ‘vehicle,’  here’s a link  to ‘Joy Ride.’
Until we meet again, peace!