August 2016
j.lewis
jim.lewis@jimbabwe.com
jim.lewis@jimbabwe.com
Photographic prompts are a lot like poetry prompts. They are everywhere, if you are looking. And some of the best ones are a complete surprise. A motorcycle on the 4th of July. A rusting truck in the county that makes you stop and think about what happens with age. What we remember and don’t. A vintage car that jumps your memory back more than 50 years, to the same make of car that your family owned. What is even more fun is finding that a photo pairs well with a poem you’ve written, or perhaps prompts a new poem.
What could be more daring or exciting than blasting down the freeway on a fiery red and chrome motorcycle? Could it be as simple as neuroreceptors? Few events in life have as permanent an impression as being dumped as a teenager. Even when you are an old relic, the sound of that impending goodbye still lingers. What memories does that vintage car evoke, and what do you see looking back in time to childhood days when that car was sparkling new? These questions are answered in this month’s poems.
What could be more daring or exciting than blasting down the freeway on a fiery red and chrome motorcycle? Could it be as simple as neuroreceptors? Few events in life have as permanent an impression as being dumped as a teenager. Even when you are an old relic, the sound of that impending goodbye still lingers. What memories does that vintage car evoke, and what do you see looking back in time to childhood days when that car was sparkling new? These questions are answered in this month’s poems.
dopamine
he is not in the details
as i was often told
not smoking fiery red
no horns
no fork
no tail
no
the devil is in the dopamine
sliding into synapses
overriding receptors
interfering with the best intentions
afferent and efferent impulses
blocked
diverted
enhanced
as love and lust
motivation and addiction
adoration and adultery
swirl in sensual spirals
tiptoe through thoughts
dance across dreams
i am puppet to the stream
of chemicals flowing
never knowing
who controls the rails
on the mesolimbic line
is the engineer today
infernal or divine
as i was often told
not smoking fiery red
no horns
no fork
no tail
no
the devil is in the dopamine
sliding into synapses
overriding receptors
interfering with the best intentions
afferent and efferent impulses
blocked
diverted
enhanced
as love and lust
motivation and addiction
adoration and adultery
swirl in sensual spirals
tiptoe through thoughts
dance across dreams
i am puppet to the stream
of chemicals flowing
never knowing
who controls the rails
on the mesolimbic line
is the engineer today
infernal or divine
goodbye sounds like
when you are the passenger
no dash-mount panic handle
car and driver
taking the corner hard
hearing tires complain
in their own peculiar voice
shouting goodbye to pavement
soon to be abandonned
stomach tightens
and a frightened breath in
betrays you to the one
who grips your heart
hard like the steering wheel
and then
to emphasize the ride is over
raises both hands
and lets you go
the screeching screaming warning
of impending separation
takes so very long
to fade away
no dash-mount panic handle
car and driver
taking the corner hard
hearing tires complain
in their own peculiar voice
shouting goodbye to pavement
soon to be abandonned
stomach tightens
and a frightened breath in
betrays you to the one
who grips your heart
hard like the steering wheel
and then
to emphasize the ride is over
raises both hands
and lets you go
the screeching screaming warning
of impending separation
takes so very long
to fade away
rambler
my father was a rambler man
not rambling, as some fathers were
but in his choice of cars
rambler had the reputation
for the qualities he admired
careful consideration of economy
and durability. it had to carry
a growing family safely, frequently,
over the long, hard road from trading post to town
his days were like that long, hard drive
full of work, little time for recreation
but he was our rambler
our solid, dependable ride
from childhood's ignorant bliss
through the potholes of adolescence
into the confident cruise of adulthood
he believed in economy of words
so praise was scarce, but precious
a simple "good job" would carry me
through days and weeks of quiet
durability was in his genes
the engine and wheels that never
seemed to tire, never failed
if the rambler could run on fumes
so could he, and often did
lunch was a luxury when a job
had to be done before nightfall
somewhere in my young years
the rambler became smaller
had to be replaced to accommodate
more children, with all that implies
the rambler was traded in
on something newer, bigger
not necessarily better
thank goodness, father's love
grew to fit us all—
no trade in, no replacement
not rambling, as some fathers were
but in his choice of cars
rambler had the reputation
for the qualities he admired
careful consideration of economy
and durability. it had to carry
a growing family safely, frequently,
over the long, hard road from trading post to town
his days were like that long, hard drive
full of work, little time for recreation
but he was our rambler
our solid, dependable ride
from childhood's ignorant bliss
through the potholes of adolescence
into the confident cruise of adulthood
he believed in economy of words
so praise was scarce, but precious
a simple "good job" would carry me
through days and weeks of quiet
durability was in his genes
the engine and wheels that never
seemed to tire, never failed
if the rambler could run on fumes
so could he, and often did
lunch was a luxury when a job
had to be done before nightfall
somewhere in my young years
the rambler became smaller
had to be replaced to accommodate
more children, with all that implies
the rambler was traded in
on something newer, bigger
not necessarily better
thank goodness, father's love
grew to fit us all—
no trade in, no replacement
©2016 j.lewis
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