| Poems by Me and Others |
| Riding My Iron Horse Painted fingernails twist the throttle Black leather and shiny chrome Hair whipping around my face As I fly down the road Riding my iron horse All my senses heightened I feel the wind brush my face The heat from the engine rises to embrace me I smell the scent of citrus blossoms in the orchard The pungent sage brush in the desert And the exhaust fumes of the 18 wheelers Riding my iron horse The sense of freedom Independence and confidence Is totally intoxicating Unlike anything I�ve ever known before Riding my iron horse I pass a fellow rider Heading to where I�ve just been And we exchange the �wave� Only visible to another rider I feel an affinity, acceptance And belonging That exists only while I�m Riding my iron horse. I laugh out loud, and shout and holler As I twist the throttle I little more And roar off into the distance Riding my iron horse regan gawan |
| ALONE I WAS JUST FIFTEEN AND I WAS AFRAID OF WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN IF THEY KNEW I DIDN�T THINK THEY WOULD UNDERSTAND I WAS AFRAID OF WHAT THEY MIGHT DO BUT EVEYONE WHO KNEW AGREED THAT I SHOULD PROBABLY TELL MY PARENTS THE TRUTH AND GIVE THEM A CHANCE PERHAPS THEY�LL TAKE IT WELL. MY PALMS WERE SWEATING I WAS HOLDING MY BREATH AND MY KNEES WERE KNOCKING AS I WALKED TO THE FRONT PORCH AND OPEND UP THE DOOR WHEN I STEPPED INSIDE THE HOUSE THE STORM I FEARED ATTACKED ME FROM BOTH SIDES AND WITH FULL FORCE FAR WORSE THAN I'D IMAGINED MY MOTHERS SHRIEKS AND TEARS OF DISPAIR WERE SO EXTREME SHE COULDN�T SPEAK MY FATHER SPITTING OUT VILE NAMES AND JABBING HIS ANGRY FINGER AT ME PAIN STABBED MY BRAIN AND PIERCED MY HEART I COVERED MY EARS AND RAN DOWN THE STAIRS INTO MY ROOM AND PACKED A SMALL BROWN BAG I COULD STILL HEAR THEM UP THE STAIRS SCREAMING �WHERE IS THAT LITTLE WHORE?� �HOW COULD SHE DO THIS TO US?� THEY SCREECHED AS I FLED OUT THE BACK DOOR I WALKED AWAY CRYING INTO THE DARK NIGHT NOT KNOWING WHERE TO GO I TOLD MYSELF I�D BE OKAY I�D JUST HAVE MY BABY ALONE regan gawan |
| Life Is Good by regan gawa I have risen from the ashes Of my self imposed doom My walking death I have opened my eyes my ears, my mind ,my heart I have found that I can Repair the damage I have done To myself, my life, my world I have found that I am not Loveless, Worthless, Hopeless I have learned to feel And to use the love and power Of the creative force That sustains my life And provides me Strength, power, Hope I have become A human being again A daughter, sister, mother, friend I have discovered Another way of living, of seeing, of feeling, of being I have a second chance At life and love and laughter I am grateful, humble, joyful |
| Hooker Hotel in Paradise by Regan Gawan We feast on shrimp cocktails and fish tacos, And buy seafood along fisherman�s wharf We swim in the warm surf and take salty siestas in the sun We chase away the vendors strolling on the beach Offering their silver jewelry, straw hats, cheap sunglasses, and colorful blankets (No dinero senior, mucho gracias � well.. wait�.how much for this?) We bargain for shells and trinkets on Shacks 5th avenue The children rush bare footed in the dusty streets to wash our windows Then scramble for a few American coins Brilliant orange and red sunsets sparkle on the horizon The hammock swings in the cool breeze on the front porch And firecrackers boom through the bathroom window At the Hooker Hotel |
| HIKE FROM HELL dedicated to Kim Watkins and the Wild Women by Regan Gawan JUST A LITLE FARTHER SHE SAYS FOR THE 100TH TIME THE SUN BEATS DOWN UPON US DRINKING WATER IS ALMOST GONE WE WILL SURELY DIE HERE WE SIMPLY CAN�T GO ON! SHE MARCHES MILITANTLY UP THE ROAD A FEW DIE HARDS STILL IN TOW WE STOP AND STARE WE CAN�T GET THERE WE GO BACK THE WAY WE CAME TO FIND AN EASIER SOFTER WAY WE GRUMBLE AND CURSE HER ALL THE WAY BACK DOWN TO THE BANKS OF THE RIVER A PICTURE IS TAKEN TO MARK THE OCCASION THE WATER HAS COOLED OUR THROATS AND OUR TEMPERS AND WE SET OFF AGAIN AND THIS TIME WE MAKE IT |
| Bowling on the Mountain by Kim Watkins open past nine the house is small lanes are fine twelve in all the old goats come early in matching bowling wear I'm too young, surely but their happy we're here they get younger in time and a lane is assigned so with ball in hand I aproach and stand awaiting my turn behind a man rather large I view with disdain plumbers butt, big as a barge and bulge of cheek and gum on the skoal dipping, butt cleavage bum from coment I barely refrain please dont spit on the lane I'd quit if he had in a week its only a day its realy not bad but it lasts until May (Ok Regan and Nancy! I got a hobby. Bad poetry & I'm emailing it to you!) |
| In Memory of My Friend Charlie by Regan Gawan Dis-ease eats away at his insides Pale skin stretched tautly over his tall skeletal frame His proud head held high A burning cigarette dangles loosely from his fingers, (no point in quitting now..) Un-smoked, the ash grows long Eyelids half closed, he sits in his wheelchair in the sun wearing two sweaters (he was never warm enough in the end) and stares off into the distance in a morphine induced haze (but only to kill the pain) I sit with him quietly and watch him and remember him as he used to be Jolted into the reality of the present for a brief moment he focuses and sees me, his gaze holds me A smile forms on his dry, cracked lips and a gleam flickers in his eye And then it is gone And so is he |