Poems by HWY 61
52nd STREET STATION
It's midnight in New York,
Her match lights up the deserted station,
It illuminates my poems on the tile walls,
I'm under the lightbulb
with my busted guitar and paper boy hat,
This is exactly where I want to be,
She smoked so many cigarettes that night beside me,
She would only give me one,
But that was all I need for my Woody Guthrie pose,
We talked about Dyalan and Cohen,
And she told me of her Summers in Europe,
When I woke up in the morning she was gone.
ON MY MEMORIES
Many years have passed now.
And I sit all alone.
I've lost everything I love.
I Sit here by the river banks.
Where the stream once did flow.
All I have is memories,
they're dancing in my mind,
of a time that seems not so long ago.
A time when the moon, the river, and the sky were singing
When the stars in the sky came out and shined.
I don't think I'll forget that night ever.
When the world was right, and pure.
Those memories will last forever.
The track rides the train,
through the delta plains,
and forgotten cotton field of the south.
Cross the river,
cross it's mouth
of my brother
That keeps A-winding
and A-goin' just like me.
And I've come to love the sound,
of the six-string,
I have found.
In a boxcar as I travel north,
struming and tryin to sing,
like Bob Dylan and B.B King.
unwearied train take me far away,
My life's only meanin'
is to go travelling.
The clickity clack,
of your rusted ol' track,
has become my only friend,
and train you keep on-A goin',
where the hell do your tracks end?
Everythin' ends sometime,
Or maybe your the only thing immortal.
That's the biggest harvest moon,
I ever dun seen,
In all my wanderin',
and them places I have been.
Sitting in the dark heart of an ocean
painted on the sky.
Your tracks have led me here
to the dead of night
in some port town in Maine.
The piers are empty so late,
for the mornin' sun they wait,
but by tommorows light,
I'll be on the tracks again.
through a light midnight rain
my eyes full of sleep,
I see a lively boardin' house.
Inside a party is playin' out,
"Cheers to our lady, the sea!"
And a blue light pours through the windows,
it dulls my senses,
and I become so relaxed,
to a passing sailor I ask,
"Is that blue or am I dreamin'?"
In the distance a light house is gleamin',
A lone beacon of white
pressing hard and alone
into the horizon.
But there ain't no ships
out there on the water.
Or sailors on the docks.
Just the house,
and the light,
and mixin' with the misty air,
off the sea,
for runaways like me,
who will forever ride the tracks to nowhere.
A SALEM WITCH TRIAL
"Satan walks among us."
The preacher shouts from the hill.
Behind him the gallows lay vacant,
nooses sway lightly against a full moon.
"God, have mercy on their soul!"
A women screams falling to her knees,
her gown stained in the mud.
"To die for the good of a society and God.
We must cleanse our settlement
of dark magick, at any cost"
Cries the preacher.
Torches shed light,
on hollow selfless faces.
Their lives lost,
in the pages of a bible.
a line of the accused,
stand wating for their turn
to hang or burn.
Your execution awaits innocent maiden,
accused of witchcraft.
Lucifer has not touched thee
because you wish the best for yourself.
You are you,
that is the most beautiful thing you can be.
Run away with me my lady Bradbury.
Let us be martyrs,
To those who dream,
and believe happiness
and shall not be littered
by any immortal being or government."
Across the fields,
they run hand in hand.
Through the forest,
through the night
as a substitute for flight.
I HATE YOU
Standing at the crossroads,
Of broken chains, and broken codes,
Where you would hang off my arm,
And I would stare at your crucifix,
You were really such a pretty one,
Daddy's angel who slept with everyone,
And thats how you would get your kicks,
I dont know how you blinded me of this,
With your darkened doorstep and jaded kiss,
Your religion was just to hard to follow.
Lying by your broken bones,
Your battered body with scarlet overtones,
Now that I've seen you broken down,
Now that you've destroyed all the evidence,
You really aren't so mighty,
Daddy's little angel hanging onto me so tightly,
Begging for repentence,
And hasn't fate taken such a funny twist,
So this ones going out to all the boys you kissed,
I just can't pretend to understand you anymore.
Biographical sketch: I live in Toronto, Ontario.
I started writing 2 years ago, and I write everyhting I see down ever
HWY 61 recommends:
Stranger Music by Leonard Cohen
Reason: He is not only a great poet but musician. His words
are very daring, and talk of subjects
other poets won't.
Recommendations for writers:
Not to care what people think except yourself.