Life is a black car
Unable to keep clean for long.
Road dirt, the haze of travel
Dull dusty glaze that appears without invitation,
Without fail
Without excuse
Without remorse or much effort.
It just is.
Solar frying pan; lose focus and you will feel the burn.
Scratches, snow white primer against coal blackness.
Stark scars from careless driver.
At midnight, as you sneak invisible down dark streets you think,
God how it shines when clean.
Life is a black limo.
A car meant only for hire.
Dark blank windows no one sees in.
Dark blank windows only you see out.
A private life on a public highway.
Transportation to airports, weddings, to proms and funerals and all of life’s stops.
Sometimes the seats full with passengers, with our cargo,
The destination certain, our arrival expected.
Other times, we ride solo leaving the driving to strangers,
Who know our agenda and what time to arrive.
Life is a black limo which we never own.
The ride a short one, are we there yet?
Life is a red convertible,
Put the top down, let the wind mess your hair.
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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I enjoyed reading this poem.
A very clever write.
I esp like the lines...
"A private life on a public highway"
"Life is a black limo which we never own.
The ride a short one, are we there yet? "
Ha ha !!!! Very well done.
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thanks . . . . . .
funny how inanimate objects can become anthropomorphic metaphors for life. glad you liked it.
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'are we there yet?' - loved that part especially, took me back to family holidays.
I like your poem, extended metaphor that works all the way through. I like particularly the final stanza - this is it, open up and enjoy!
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yes. seems like we never really grow up or grow out of that impatient nature. some times, some of us just seem to always wonder when we are 'gonna get there'. when, in fact we already are. thanks for you comments and for reading it. i have read someof yours and will read more.
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roll up for the mystery tour
1st, thanx for the comment on Samsara. Now to the Black Car.
I am more relieved that disappointed that road rage wasn't addressed here. The automoblie is the great equalizer in America. Be ye a little ol' lady, a paraplegic, a stoned-out prom queen, a patrol cop, a soccer mon with the whole tean in back, just an odd fisherman like me, or whatever, there's that sacrosanct few cubic feet of interior cabin space that somehow became culturally inviolate - and Lord help whomever interfers with its progression.
"Dark blank windows no one sees in.
Dark blank windows only you see out.
A private life on a public highway."
Why is it the only time we can BE ourselves is when we're BY ourselves?
The following are the lyrics to a song by King Crimson that I think you'll like:
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dig me
it's here I sit and rust amid this ruin and rancor
like tire irons toothy grills and car parts before me
the acid rain floods my floorboard,
burns my pores, and rots my upholstery
once I was worshiped, polished magnificently,
now I lay in decay by the dirty angry bay
I'm ready to leave
I wanna get out of here
I'm ready to ride away
I don't want to die in here
I'm ready to ride
my skin is metallic now,
no longer an elegant powder blue
my body unhinged and sleeping in the jungle
of motor block manifolds and metal relics
what was deluxe becomes debris,
I never questioned loyalty,
but this dead end demolishes
the dream of an open highway
dig me . . . but don't . . . bury me
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