14-5-210-405 -118 by WayneSL

14-5-210-118by WayneSL (2015)

WayneSL 1988

Leaning forward Skijump Stance

jawset faces cutting wind

chromeplate eyes scan grey-brown haze.

Out of the mountains we ooze

in a rolling rush downhill

to coalesce in painted metal rivers

spreading on the shrouded valley floor.

Roaring rapids, chrome and glass

spray and steam and smoke.

Eddies swirl at on-and-off ramps

Rubber ripples shining wet

reflect the sun’s weak penetration

of the brown-cloud glare.

A barracuda’s darting dance

flaunting lane-change pirouettes

taunts the surly diesel rhinos

flouts majestic ocean liners,

manic minnows fawning in their wakes.

An open lane, a gush of gas

A carom off a gravel truck

slomo flight, wheels spinning airborne

graceful leap across the chainlink

a somersault & a half twist

Flying in formation

with a dozen spinning shards of shattered plastic

and windshield glass spraying like rock salt soaked in red.

The river curdles, standstill spreading from the snag

up and down the grid the grinding jam congeals.

Engines whirring idle, gnashing teeth, hot tar and radios.

The smoke begins to rise

and reeks of hair and gasoline and rubber soot

and I’ll be late again and likely lose my parking spot.


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Timescapes (1988, WayneSL)


Things float past my sticky-wheeled swivel chair

above my undisciplined desk

my bothered will watches wistfully,

they pass & fade, untended

intended, but lost by default

my fault



uncalendared, out-of-sync, out of Time

surfing down these rapids, between the tall, slick walls

Mundane Fry Day

On Moonday

I hatch visions like doves

and throw them soaring to the sky

cloudwisp wings on pale wide blue

By Fryday

blue has sunk to rust and gray

the clouds have clumped like unginned cotton

>and tumble down to roost around me

lumpy owl-eyed hens accusing,

constipated with rotting eggs.

Turns Left

(to be read aloud- not for the eyes alone)

A tear of joy
a tear of heart
the tares of life
when leavers part
the part you knead
your needs depart
a life of leaves
and branches.

The branches fork
spread from a crotch
the dogwood bark
but bark peels off
peals of the thunder
nervous cough
the coffin creaks
and listens.

The creeks a flood
the flowers float
too light to fall
two lightnings bolt
lithe wood is rent
the rent comes due
the dew comes.

To do, to die
the die is cast
cast out the doubt
decide at last
the side of right
the right to wrong
the left won.


 a Vilanelle

Time and Tide, who wait for none,
still bind me fretting to my place;

in stately meter march until they’re done.


There is one race I’ve never won:

I’ll never beat, but always chase

Time and Tide, who wait for none.


Death and taxes, moon and sun

allow no alteration of the pace;

in stately meter march until they’re done.


Things I need to do, I shun.

I dawdle, then I rush, and still must face

Time and Tide, who wait for none.


These universal rhythms weigh a ton;

they never dance with any joy nor grace;

in stately meter march until they’re done.


Change is a constant, and the only one;

Though I can find no standing place,

Time and Tide, who wait for none,

in stately meter march until they’re done.