Motorcycle Journeys

Around the World in...as long as it takes

8 notes

As Burning Man Approaches, and I am far away…

motorcyclejourneys:

I miss the hugs and heat and dust,
I miss the joy, the art, the trust.
I miss the music - blasting at all times,
I miss the spirit, temple and the chimes.

I see my fam’ly everywhere I go,
I see their smiles, their hearts, and so I know
The playa is not so confined and far away
if to a cuddle puddle i can find my way.

But none the less this distance does me sad,
It hurts to think of moments I’ll not have had,
What art will come and then forever burn away,
Will touch me not, won’t brighten up my day.

image

Filed under burning man playa black rock city art nature festival beauty people love world photography writing journey travel adventure motorcycle

1 note

Back to the streets of models, thin and aloof; of the office grinders in their uniform of light blue shirt and dark slacks; the bums in odd combinations of found clothes – almost indistinguishable from the hipsters, save for the smell; the Mac filled Starbucks and lunchtime lines for Thai inspired Polish pirogi filled with Lebanese hummus; the crowded subways – microcosms of the spectrums of color, language, culture, religion, mood, social station, sexual orientation and disposition – to ride on one is to see the world at a glance; 

Back to the streets of models, thin and aloof; of the office grinders in their uniform of light blue shirt and dark slacks; the bums in odd combinations of found clothes – almost indistinguishable from the hipsters, save for the smell; the Mac filled Starbucks and lunchtime lines for Thai inspired Polish pirogi filled with Lebanese hummus; the crowded subways – microcosms of the spectrums of color, language, culture, religion, mood, social station, sexual orientation and disposition – to ride on one is to see the world at a glance; 

Filed under new york photography writing religion culture sex people humanity world models fashion office motorcycle journey adventure travel homeless hope future hipster starbucks mac apple

5 notes

Surrogate Tears

A poem in memory of my mother, and in honor of Robin Williams - two people who lived selflessly for others, and brought care, love and joy to a world in need. If only they had done so for themselves…

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Surrogate Tears

I can’t cry for her, for she is long gone,

She can’t comfort or hear me for death’s deed is done.

But some careless words, or a note in D minor,

Bring me to tears and beg I go find her.

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Upon the image of her I dare not to look,

Upon her fair visage I dare not reflect,

Her turbulent life remains a closed book,

and my feet to its pages I dare not direct.

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And so I am left with constant burning in my eye,

Where all moments of love and of beauty lay hidden,

To ne’er be released from the cell of my heart,

Where they fester and from where they’ll never be bidden.

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It takes only a thought to be cast ever down,

A passing glimpse of a memory, happy or otherwise,

The image of her, whether in smile or a frown,

Is enough to make death a goal to soon realize.

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They say “look at her and remember the joy”,

They say “let her live through your life and your deed”,

But I say, in turn, who’s the better for it all?

Not me, not my soul – the most who’re in need.

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 But I cry surrogate tears for the passing of others,

For deaths in the books or on screens or of lovers,

Each touch of the hand, each wishful fulfillment,

Sends the torrents I’ve dammed to the vaporous firmament.

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Under guise of the strength men are said to posses

I carry the day, one step at a time,

I wear well the reticent mask of this flesh

which helps pass the moments as I straddle the line.

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What more can I ask of this cold, barren land,

But to take in its fold these bitter remains,

And from shadows and dust to return once again,

A soul which a fraction of her goodness contains.

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I fear to remain in a world void of her,

In a place so dark for lack of her flame,

A life lacking joy, with no hope and no luster,

Beheld by the scarring I can’t seem to tame.

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But if the sorrow and burning tears I do quell,

If somehow I float o’er deathly waves of the martyred,

And if it’s not for me that these bells daily knell,

As whom better to live than the son an angel departed?

Filed under robin williams rip robin williams poetry poem love death loss suicide cancer mother writing photography journey adventure travel world motorcycle nature

3 notes

So often I have to face death in order to experience the beauty that stays with me for all my days.
This sojourn to Trinity Alps in California was no exception. But seeing the earth from my tent on the ridge of a crumbling mountain lying in shadow of a giant volcano; and the golden path of death and destruction running from my feet to the end of wilderness, is worth the little life I had lived.

So often I have to face death in order to experience the beauty that stays with me for all my days.

This sojourn to Trinity Alps in California was no exception. But seeing the earth from my tent on the ridge of a crumbling mountain lying in shadow of a giant volcano; and the golden path of death and destruction running from my feet to the end of wilderness, is worth the little life I had lived.

Filed under nature beauty california mountain photography writing climbing camping trekking touring motorcycle travel journey adventure usa world death life

2 notes

The Power of Music: is that it can arrest the listener or the performer - in spite of themselves - with its penetration to the most primitive understanding we have of peace and happiness. We are left breathless and in awe for the truth we see, for the depth to which we feel, for our lives made, if but for a moment, clear.
Cafe Wha, New York 

The Power of Music: is that it can arrest the listener or the performer - in spite of themselves - with its penetration to the most primitive understanding we have of peace and happiness. We are left breathless and in awe for the truth we see, for the depth to which we feel, for our lives made, if but for a moment, clear.

Cafe Wha, New York 

Filed under cafe wha new york music rock photography writing motorcycle travel world adventure journey beauty poetry musician guitar singing song life