I promised my friend Ruben that I would try to write a poem about driving in the dark and drizzle of an English winter and here it is:
Low Cloud Over the Motorway [that's the Freeway if you are American]
Inside the puffy lining
of the cheek of a dying deity,
paired orange street lamps curve away,
defining the jaw's line.
Along which we hurtle, dawdle,
wait impatiently for red to turn to green,
wrapped in our metal skins.
We are the flora, the bacteria,
inhabiting this narrow space
between our birth and the teeth of death.
Or is that grey canopy above us,
leaking sweaty drizzle,
the cellulite surface of a god's buttock?
Solid, it seems, weight tilting,
poised to crush the products
of our human dreams.
Quite an accomplishment - writing poetry about English winter dreary, drizzly motorway driving. But you succeeded. The images are grey but clear, the frustration all too evident. Well done. Rgds, Ivan
You really have to think about this one to get the message. Very good.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Janice Amazing showcase of poetry, keep it up