Ranch Poem – “Tie-Dyed Life”

10/5/2012

“Tie-Dyed Life”

My uniform is polyester cotton blend and solid blue,
monotone, replicated.
While down with my personal effects,
my t-shirt waits
hidden like it was beneath the heavy tweed hold
of the charcoal striped suit I wore to court.
Deep purples orbit and push greens and blues.
My colors.
First Dead shirt from a Phil and Friends show,
Bank of America Pavilion back in 08′
before all the cycles softened and faded
the roses, the wagon wheel, the Dragon.
“On the Road” in script, ornate and arched across the back.
There through the rapture, loss, fear, madness
and torrent of shame.
Never leaving the grip and tug
of my shaking hands.
A part of my tie-dyed life, always.

RwmG

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Ranch Poem- “Cherish Your Choice”

9/10/09

Cherish Your Choice

Driving into the night
two caravans rip
through the rain,
four men and four women
awaiting a rage.
Accompanied only
by a dashboard turtle
with a bobbling noggin
and a wooden gecko
with a nimble spine.
Barreling down dark and
empty stretches of Pennsylvania,
Jersey, and Maryland highways
on a one for all
and all for fun
journey to Asheville.

It would be my first
trip to Asheville and
the single longest drive
down the east coast
I had experienced.
Thompson once said:
“I have a theory that
the truth is never told
during the nine-to-five”
It is 12:42 a.m.
on September 10th
and I’m feeling
all kinds
of honest.

A bit of time
devoted to humoring
that which lies ahead
of this most rage worthy
of Nissan Pathfinders.
Weekends like this-ones
that begin with a long
mid-week drive and end
in the same fashion-they help
to remind me that
there is a desire,
a passion worth my
time and energy.
A vehicle for the kind
of ride I know
contains elements of
adventure and pure,
heady, unadulterated
creation
that would be dishonest of
me to deny my soul.

Deny that voice
that implores you
to live subordinate
to others for the
disposables of life,
and the family
desperately fearful
of your own ability to
choose.

When you cherish
your choice, you’re
hard pressed to loose
sight of the heart’s goals,
to lose your control,
to lose your mind,
or even your one
and only natural,
fleshy, life.

-RwmG

Ranch Poem- “Sea of Dreams”

6/9/10

Sea of Dreams

As the landing gears grip
the West Coast for the final moment,
he conceals his earbuds from the
ridiculously repetitive stewardess.

Tipping his Cuban glasses down
the Golden Gate of his nose,
his exhausted eyes survey the land.
It resembles a painting of Mt. Fiji.

“What would you like to drink sir?”
They don’t serve any drinks from the feet of the deity.
He asks to keep the rest of the can of Ginger Ale.
A broke man always accepts a free drink.

The thin outline of the rocky beach below
directs his thoughts to the Cliff House-
sitting snug above the white waves, beside
the Bathhouse Ruins, the moss, the cave.

His pilgrimage of insight had sealed
a place inside. San Francisco,
the first encounter with a true tandem
of passion and blind adventure.

There would be many more.
The memory of the concluded trip will be
a practical prayer, a positive scene to return unto
when hell and headlines break loose.

Perfect life turning points have become his
only addiction. He aches for them to satisfy
ever so slightly a life, a heart which has
always sought this thing that he can not name.

Darkness shines through the double paned porthole
onto his fragile face. Between clouds he sleeps.
Dream visitations create cosmic conundrums
that only the concealed third eye can grasp.

But some waking days are dreams
and those are the phantasm events
that we are blessed to remember well.
Where the mind is, there is treasure.

RwmG