Pacific Coast Highway Sunday

old iron
echoes,
rattle man sounds
off the asphalt,

PCH on reverb,
let the thunder play,
like teenmind music,
no control loud,

Pacific is blue green
on Sundays,
when the tide is in,
posing for photos,

and the lookers
are driving too slow
to get a buzz
from the wind,

then they hear
the thunder,
recognition,
like love to a lover

and they ride the shoulder
of a shy freeway,
can hear their words
offered with no tax

stuck to the glass,
of rolled up protection,
too fast to live
for very long,

and the replies
on the outside of rolled up windows,
too slow to live
for very long,

boredom kills quicker than speed.

 

Stones and Water

Mist of morning,
dressed in reflection,
reclines on smooth stones,

rain stories are whispered
from leaf to moss,
hidden in dark tree skin,

water woman sleeps
between stone lovers,
draping her hands

around strong shoulders,
over subtle shapes,
descending into private valleys,

tapping rigid rises,
with waking suggestions,
undulating dance.