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.


Talking jive over a riff like ‘Hot Rod Lincoln’  Words by Wayne Slater-Lunsford, 1996

The Moon Man is Missed

The Moon Man is Missed

Well now I know you’ve heard about the hotrod race
with the Plymouth and the Rambler setting the pace
Well I’m here to say that story’s true
‘cause I was the captain of the Rambler’s crew (RIFF)

One night we were climbing Palmdale Pass
My Ambassador cookin’ with unleaded gas
I pulled up beside that Valiant pup
grinned and downshifted to pass him up

The MoonDog smiled and stomped his throttle
and I put down my soda bottle
his Plymouth whined and my Scrambler roared
and Doug shoved his foot right to the floorboard.

Doug honked his horn and I flashed my lights
My old 360 was feelin’ all right.
The Valiant was goin’ mighty fast
but my Banana Boat was a-pullin’ past.

Then out from under the Valiant’s hood
came a rattlin’ roar that didn’t sound so good
That Plymouth’s exhaust pipe was rusty and old
and it blew right off the manifold!

The sound it made was like a Gatling gun
but somehow it made that Valiant run
like a scalded dog on amphetamines
and the MoonDog looked like he’d stained his jeans.

Well that car rared back and it popped a wheelie!
Doug’s saucer eyes got hard and steely.
His knuckles turned white and his face turned red
and the Valiant started pullin’ ahead.

We passed a ‘Vette like it was standing still
and got some air at the top of the hill.
My Rambler hit hard on the other side
But the Valiant just began to fly!

That little Plymouth with the pushbutton gears
had stayed on the road for 32 years
But it seems its slant-six 225
had waited ‘til then to really come alive.

The car kept flyin’ higher and higher
its manifold pourin’ out blue-white fire
and as it climbed right outa sight,
the last thing I saw was those tiny tail lights.

Well, I never saw Doug Moon again,
but I think about him now and then
and when the Moon is high up in the sky
I wonder if old Doug is passin’ by.