I'm sorry I haven't published a post recently, but I found out that a laptop doesn't fair very well when dropped six feet from the cab of a freightliner. Not to worry, however. I now have a brand new replacement, and will be posting again on a more consistant basis.
Today is Thanksgiving, 2006. I am, as you might imagine, spending it alone several hundred miles away from my family in Georgia. Fairfield, Maine, to be exact. All is not lost, however, since this is my first trip to this state. To date, I have now visited 46 of the 50 states. I only have North Dakota and Rhode Island, and of course Alaska and Hawaii, left. I imagine I will see them all before I die.
New England is possibly my favorite region of our fine country, with New Hampshire being the most beautiful in my humble opinion. Maine and Vermont rank a close second, though. I believe I could live here and grow to love it, but I fear my Southern drawl would attract undesired attention.
The first of the two poems I am posting today was written on my last trip to Salt Lake City, and the last was composed one night as I pondered the romantic attitude many in my chosen profession have about trucking. I hope you enjoy these offerings.



I walk along a shore of salt,
Waves lick my feet.
Rays of sun beat upon my back,
Relentless heat.
A voice calls from the salty air,
Come swim with me.
I ignore the soft, sultry voice,
That calls gently.
For if I dive into the deep,
I'll not return.
For the voice I have heard before,
In my ears burn.
Promising all my heart's desires,
Yet in the end,
If I heed the seducer's voice,
Death will I spend.



Big Rig Thunder

Big Rigs thunder,
Into the night,
Flames shoot from their stacks,
Shaking the earth,
Beneath their rubber feet,
Lit by a thousand amber light,
Running the length of their sides,
Reflecting off chrome so polished,
Sparking in the full moonlight,
Their roar is deafening,
And can be heard from miles away,
As the Big Rigs go athundering,
Into the cold, lonesome night.