Bright Lights, Pink Car
Tornado rush of luminescence
Happiness is hard to find
Unless you've got a sweet new Kia
Then you're sitting inside.
It's got power steering and power locks
Power wheels and power shocks
A horn that makes the mountains move
It's a spacious hatchback too.
Cruising around the county roads
I turn on the brights.
I can see for miles
In these blue halogen lights.
When the speedometer passes sixty
I buckle my seat belt.
God bless the South Koreans
This is the best I ever felt.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Want More Hair?
I'd love
I think
more hair
more hair
like a big
old grizzly bear
more hair makes
you manly
more hair
makes you tough
more hair feels
like carpet
more hair keeps
you rough
more hair
for pretty ladies
to rub their faces on
more hair for
guys to jealous of
and more locks that can
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poem by John W. McEwers
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I spin in public
Waiting to cross
the street
I shuffle upon
my feets
The red hand will not
retreat
The walking guy continues
to sleep
Waiting for green
to go red
Restlessness wrestles
my head
I remember that thing
you said
'Adulthood is like
being dead.'
So I start to move with
my feets
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poem by John W. McEwers
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First Love Story At The Movies
I can still picture the old theater's gold marquee
thrusting over the sidewalk, a brittle matinee ticket,
and in a dim enough room-smell the seats,
the satiny wash of crushed chocolate and sweat,
candied lip gloss and floor wax.
If virginity was a thing to be lost
I'd still keep it, meticulous habits complying
to my packrat's retention of useless little things.
I recall the feel of swampy popcorn,
the echo of Will Hunting's tears,
and my pride, my pride
in purposefully misplacing something.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Tuba
I was once in a band
in school long ago
when the Poison was big
as their hair
When I was a lad
I played a Golden Tuba
and marched all
over the land
We played in parks
for elderly folks
we played in the gym
for our parents
but mine weren't there
We marched in parades
and my Tuba shined
because I polished it
every day and night
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poem by John W. McEwers
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France is for Lovers
It's Paris in the Springtime
as the fluers de lis flower
Singing hymns to the fresh new floral scents.
Paintings hang in the monuments
to great men and their moments
showing oils and acrylics trapping hymns.
And that architectural marvel that is called the Eiffel Tower
towers over sights and smells and sounds of spring.
It is here that you lay your head to rest now.
It is here that you bring other heads to rest.
It is in Paris in the Springtime that is for lovers.
And if I could afford the plane ticket over
you would have to see me regardless
of all the child support you try to make me pay.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Monkey money
When my son,
all blushing youth,
had a wish
I made it my adventure
to grant it.
When he wished for ice cream,
I got two scoops,
cold rounds of heaven,
so we could share the sweetness
because I like ice cream too.
When, eyes bright and innocent,
he wanted to play,
we'd explore Candyland together
and eat candy together
so that I could give him the full experience
of a world made of candy.
As he grew older,
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poem by John W. McEwers
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Wedding Day at the Circus Tent
She loved the trapeze
He loved the lion tamers
They both loved fried
carbohydrates.
It was a match made
by a ringleader
in a Barnum and Bailey
heaven
a little too lovely to question.
So I was in a groomsman tuxedo
lined up in front of marching elephants
while jugglers on unicycles
wobbled through the aisles
and fire eaters
spat fireballs over the wedding guests
like a thrown bouquet.
I recall bitterness on my part,
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poem by John W. McEwers
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Sand in the car
Once we were one,
a family with unified hopes
united in vacation
to the beach on a sunny day.
The children made castles of sand
that slowly crumbled,
assaulted by a rising tide,
a kingdom eroded as the day grew old.
We piled into the car
as the first rays of nighttime
broke the sky into a panorama
of colorful clouds.
That car, Toyota Corolla,
the most reliable car I have ever owned
where we kissed and held hands at stop lights
was yours in the divorce.
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poem by John W. McEwers
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Where There's Smoke, There's Failure
So it goes like this,
Guy meets girl.
Guy buys flowers.
Girl puts them in a vase.
Guy buys a ring.
Girl says yes.
Guy goes to work.
Girl goes to work.
Guy meets girl.
Girl meets guy.
Guy and girl fight about girl and guy.
Guy leaves work for new work and gets an apartment by himself.
Girl moves over seas and doesn't have to work any more because she has a new guy and the old guy has to send her money from his new work.
Guy writes poems.
Guy writes about new girl and old girl and new guy and work and old friends.
Guy wants to stop working and sell poems about the stuff in his life so that he can do other stuff in his life without having to go to real work.
Guy does not yet have high selling collection of poems.
Guy goes to work.
Guy meets girl.
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poem by John W. McEwers
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