It Started At The End Of The Driveway
The first yellow almost horizontal shafts of the rising sun
were lancing through the ancient sycamore branches that I
used to climb and swing from as I reached the end of the dirt
driveway. I felt a tinge of excitement as my wheels touched
Uvas Road that morning, the old rural road that had always
brought me home to the only place that I had ever known.
I sensed a tingle from the handlebar grips like when young
smooth hands first touch and hold each other on a first date.
Tent, tarp and sleeping bag all crammed inside my Dad’s
old WWII Navy duffle bag lashed down tight on a simple
flat luggage rack. None of that ape hanger high handlebar
Easy Rider Hollywood sissy bar chopper crap for me. This
was a two lane open road warrior motorcycle I had prepared
for the long haul, day after day, week after week, month after
month, rain or shine and even, as I learned weeks later and
three galactic asphalt time zones away, the Adirondack snow.
Shiny black saddle bags meticulously packed and
organized brimmed full as I short shifted up through
the clunky gears, rolling easy on the throttle, (CLUNK),
keeping the revs down, (CLUNK), in the throaty torque
zone of that big bore boxer twin, (CLUNK), in the crisp
morning air that was smooth as glass, (CLUNK).
I still remember that... the air smooth as glass. No head wind,
no tail wind, no wind turbulence at all. The birth of freedom,
emerging from a long dusty driveway, inhaling its first gasp of
God’s given glassy air as I hit that old narrow chip seal country
road. It was then, that early morning, that the open road became
my new lover and my new address. And lucky for me, the open
road never turns down a properly prepared motorcycle.
It Started At The End Of The Driveway published in Hobo Camp Review, Issue 29, Winter 2016/2017. Also published in GLASSY AIR with acknowledgement to Hobo Camp Review.
Desperate Woman
Whether drunk, dumb or
dreadfully delirious, she
is a desperate woman
who desires to sleep
next to a man
who sleeps next
to a motorcycle.
It may be her only ticket
out of a cruel lonely town,
but there will be no front door
nor a back porch or a swing
hanging from an old shady tree.
There will only be
an endless empty desert.
Desperate Woman published in The Main Street Rag, Volume 22, Number 1, Winter 2016/2017. Also published in GLASSY AIR with acknowledgement to The Main Street Rag.
Night Escape
Sleeping up on the wood shed
Fled the landslide inside the house
Train whistle calling in the distance
I wish I were there pulling that handle
Heading due north or heading down south
The night sky is so massive and cold
Holding twinkling stars in their place
A lucky one gets away now and then
Streaks bright plasma rushing for the train
Then disappears forever… without a trace
Night Escape published in Muddy River Poetry Review, Issue #7, Fall 2012.
Edward Ferri, Jr. grew up on a "non-profit" farm in the rain shadow of the Santa Cruz Mountains of California when "Bailing wire, gumption, and spit" were the "apps" of the day. He is a strong believer in the spirit of Boo Radley and he still savors lessons learned during the “missing miles” lived on the roads of North America on a motorcycle named “Little Curry”. His chapbook Glassy Air, Poems Kindled in the Long Shadow of a Lone Motorcycle was published in 2018. https://booklocker.com/books/9813.html Also Amazon, B&N, Foyles, etc.
The first yellow almost horizontal shafts of the rising sun
were lancing through the ancient sycamore branches that I
used to climb and swing from as I reached the end of the dirt
driveway. I felt a tinge of excitement as my wheels touched
Uvas Road that morning, the old rural road that had always
brought me home to the only place that I had ever known.
I sensed a tingle from the handlebar grips like when young
smooth hands first touch and hold each other on a first date.
Tent, tarp and sleeping bag all crammed inside my Dad’s
old WWII Navy duffle bag lashed down tight on a simple
flat luggage rack. None of that ape hanger high handlebar
Easy Rider Hollywood sissy bar chopper crap for me. This
was a two lane open road warrior motorcycle I had prepared
for the long haul, day after day, week after week, month after
month, rain or shine and even, as I learned weeks later and
three galactic asphalt time zones away, the Adirondack snow.
Shiny black saddle bags meticulously packed and
organized brimmed full as I short shifted up through
the clunky gears, rolling easy on the throttle, (CLUNK),
keeping the revs down, (CLUNK), in the throaty torque
zone of that big bore boxer twin, (CLUNK), in the crisp
morning air that was smooth as glass, (CLUNK).
I still remember that... the air smooth as glass. No head wind,
no tail wind, no wind turbulence at all. The birth of freedom,
emerging from a long dusty driveway, inhaling its first gasp of
God’s given glassy air as I hit that old narrow chip seal country
road. It was then, that early morning, that the open road became
my new lover and my new address. And lucky for me, the open
road never turns down a properly prepared motorcycle.
It Started At The End Of The Driveway published in Hobo Camp Review, Issue 29, Winter 2016/2017. Also published in GLASSY AIR with acknowledgement to Hobo Camp Review.
Desperate Woman
Whether drunk, dumb or
dreadfully delirious, she
is a desperate woman
who desires to sleep
next to a man
who sleeps next
to a motorcycle.
It may be her only ticket
out of a cruel lonely town,
but there will be no front door
nor a back porch or a swing
hanging from an old shady tree.
There will only be
an endless empty desert.
Desperate Woman published in The Main Street Rag, Volume 22, Number 1, Winter 2016/2017. Also published in GLASSY AIR with acknowledgement to The Main Street Rag.
Night Escape
Sleeping up on the wood shed
Fled the landslide inside the house
Train whistle calling in the distance
I wish I were there pulling that handle
Heading due north or heading down south
The night sky is so massive and cold
Holding twinkling stars in their place
A lucky one gets away now and then
Streaks bright plasma rushing for the train
Then disappears forever… without a trace
Night Escape published in Muddy River Poetry Review, Issue #7, Fall 2012.
Edward Ferri, Jr. grew up on a "non-profit" farm in the rain shadow of the Santa Cruz Mountains of California when "Bailing wire, gumption, and spit" were the "apps" of the day. He is a strong believer in the spirit of Boo Radley and he still savors lessons learned during the “missing miles” lived on the roads of North America on a motorcycle named “Little Curry”. His chapbook Glassy Air, Poems Kindled in the Long Shadow of a Lone Motorcycle was published in 2018. https://booklocker.com/books/9813.html Also Amazon, B&N, Foyles, etc.