................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Dwight Bitikofer.....................................................
Somewhere North of Chicago
Soaring dreamlike
there amid the thunderheads -
skyscraper fly-bys
the ancients could only
have fantasized
in hours of meditation
gazes lost in unreal dimension
Big silver bird
turning, twisting gracefully
in the surreal light
of a thundershower summer evening
over Lake Michigan
somewhere north of Chicago
The classic anvil streams
from the top of one cumulus head
higher than this bird's path through space.
A molten white tower passes,
billows in infinity on the right.
Over there, that funneled spiral
takes on the head of a lamb
on its leeward side while
the profile of a running bear
plunges into starboard sky.
And just a little to the left
a giant whale breaches,
leaping high above
the bay of empty sky
Down below
a cloud-hole glows
the pink of a rose
and we soar away -
aerodynamics
and the stuff of dreams
Two Ducks
Two ducks swim -
furtive shadows
in the spring
at dusk
At top the woodland trail
where bare-branched canopy
opens into sky
hung with crescent moon
two lovers
shrouded by falling light
stacked like cordwood
- but still fully clothed -
reach deep into one
another's kisses
to taste, to deeply savor
the flavor
of early spring
The dog and I walk on
her nose absorbed in scent
my mind a wandering miscreant
of ducks and lovers
competing with
the spirit's intent
to meditate
and pray
just for today
for awareness
of the soul's
wellspring of serenity
Roads Less Taken - An SUV Lament
Big red machine
4-wheel drive
begs for the roads less taken.
A gas tank to fuel
500 miles - maybe 6 or 7 -
pulled by a gluttonous engine.
Power to dig
through snow drifts -
capable of getting
an imminent mother
to the hospital in a blizzard.
(Unfortunately it doesn't snow much in April).
The big red machine crouches
on the gravel driveway
and begs for adventure.
It drives the middle child
to a sleepover.
It wheels across
a steep railroad grade
on the 4-tenths-of-a-mile
trip to the office.
Its payload is newspapers
and cardboard
bound for the recycling center.
I drive nowhere all month
and guzzle 50 gallons of gas.
My heart wants to follow
river roads and steer
twisting routes up mountains.
I want to splash across rocky streams.
I want to dig wheels
into sagebrush and desert.
My big red machine
begs for the Al-Can Highway
- in winter!
It wants to find dog sled races
in northern Manitoba.
My imagination bounces over
rocky trails in
Utah's Arches National Monument.
My big red machine
wants to be loaded with gear
for a father-son trek
to the scorching no-man's
lands of west Texas
or Dakota Badlands.
Its headlights beg
to probe the fog of
rocky Northeast coastlines.
Instead it drives my daughter
to swim lessons,
takes the family to church
and drops the oldest at high school.
It drove the old black lab
on his final trip to the vet.
And I sit here waiting for the time
- for permission perhaps -
to explore the poetry of driving
- and living.
My heart yearns to syncopate
with the drumbeats of a soul exploring
back roads while discs spin jazz and blues
and Windom Hill in in the CD player
So much muscle underutilized.
So much wanting unrequited.
So many "things to be done first"
block the views of horizons unfolding.
So many dreams wait for the "chunk"
of a park brake releasing.
Big red machine
4-wheel drive
begs for the roads
not yet chosen.
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