napshots

  A Poetry Collection

  By Adam McFee

  Coyright 2012 Adam McFee

  The Open Road

  Yesterday is

  Packed, wrapped, and stacked

  In a warehouse of boxes

  On a page with a date

  And the calendar has

  Already turned.

  Tomorrow is

  A freeway, a highway,

  An open road

  Running

  Over the next hill, valley,

  Or vista

  In the early morning sun

  A light fog burning off

  And all the horses

  General Motors can give you

  Just itching to run.

  Aged

  Lead-lined

  Basset hound eyes

  Carved

  Into a weary head

  That leans slightly to one side.

  Feeble, bitter fists

  That pound away at padded arms

  On an overstuffed chair

  By the fireplace--

  Angrily emphasizing

  Lost dreams

  Lost Loves

  And the inability to get them back.

  Dirty Rain

  The wind is roaring

  The dust and dirt

  Ripped up into the sky

  Infused into the drops

  Of rain

  That splatter

  Indiscriminately

  Much like the venom

  Injected into the words

  You call truth

  Spit out without

  Regard

  To who you might

  Infect.

  Solitary Happiness

  Living on the inside

  ain’t so bad.

  It’s the outside

  scares me so.

  People out there are fruitcakes,

  and they want to help

  me?

  I’m perfectly happy

  right here by myself,

  but they won’t let me be.

  Bring him back into the flow,

  they say.

  But maybe I don’t want

  back into the flow,

  ‘cause to be totally honest with you,

  I can’t swim.

  Three Sisters

  Fate pulled up a chair

  Next to me at the bar

  And proceeded to tell me

  How it was going to be

  Like she knows anything.

  Why can’t a man just sit

  And have a drink in peace?

  At least I guess

  She’s not as bad as Destiny

  Always going on about how

  I’ll never amount to anything

  Having never finished college

  Working back at a job

  I left behind

  Ten years ago.

  But at least I’ve got a job

  Unlike those two Harpies

  That have never done

  An honest day’s work

  And like nothing more

  Than to just nag and complain

  About how I’ll never be

  Good enough.

  In the end, as always,

  I go home to Faith

  The only one that

  Keeps me sane

  In a world that’s changed,

  and moved on,

  The only one that believes

  Like I believe,

  In me.

  Time Traveler

  I open my eyes

  And rationalize

  Orienting myself

  To the here and now-

  Whatever that means.

  The clock that used to tick-tock

  Went the way

  Of the rotary phone,

  The calendar pages flipping

  Like so many foreclosed homes,

  And where did all

  The families go?

  Time marches on

  To the beat

  Of a demented drummer,

  Summers flowing by

  An endless stream of runners

  Whose footfalls

  Echo in the streets;

  Generations of falling leaves

  An immortal rain of colors,

  A Jackson Pollock landscape

  The mind sees

  But no longer really perceives.

  The Volleyball Net

  It seemed like a good idea

  All those years ago

  When the kids were young

  And we were younger

  Than we are today.

  Burgers and dogs

  And pitchers of lemonade

  Skinned knees and shade trees

  Sundays in the sun.

  Now it’s just a broken down

  Sagging reminder

  Of a time when

  We were younger

  Than our kids are today.

  Election Day

  You’re free to choose

  Of the two

  That have been chosen

  For you by the

  People that write your

  Checks and balances

  Need not apply

  To the status quo-

  If it ain’t fixed

  Don’t break it.

  Two sides of the same

  Tarnished coin,

  Tumbling through the air,

  Heads we win

  Tails you lose.

  This message is a paid advertisement

  Brought to you by the good folks at

  Special Interests Incorporated.

  Power to the people.

  Can You Find the Pattern?

  Achievement by any

  Means necessary

  Beware those

  Individuals

  That would get in your way,

  Interfering with your

  Opportunistic plans.

  No one else matters.

  Irony

  Constantly waiting

  For the other shoe to drop

  While kicking it down the stairs

  One excruciating step

  At a time.

  Making Good Time

  There’s a lotta road

  In the rearview mirror,

  All of it leading to here.

  There’s a blur of fence posts

  Running beside us like

  Hours and minutes and years.

  Where we’ve been

  Where we’re going

  What’s to be

  The not knowing

  The next curve or vista

  We’ll see.

  People and places

  Conversations and phrases

  All part of our past

  And future destinations

  Wherever the miles may lead.

  Gratitude

  For every complaint

  Or hardship

  There are an infinite number

  Of blessings

  To be found.

  For every loss

  There was the advantage

  Of having.

  For every obstacle

  There is the opportunity

  To overcome.

  Every plan has its problems

  And every problem has its plans-

  Yesterday

  Was a gift of memory

  Tomorrow

  A gift of what can be

  And today

  Is just a gift

  To use as we see fit.

  We are all just poor sinners

  In a Universe of Light

  And Darkness

  Is nothing to be afraid of,

  But simply,

  A gift of time,
/>
  To rest our eyes.

  Cobain

  All he ever wanted

  Was much less than

  What he got

  Was more than

  He wanted

  Just to play

  To sing

  To write

  To pay his rent.

  To be your savior

  Your conscience

  Your hope

  Was more than he ever wanted

  And so he left.

  The Totality of Existence

  The moon rises

  The sun rises

  The wave leaves its mark

  On the shore,

  Until the next one

  Comes along

  And erases it.

  The leaves fall

  And the snow falls

  Until the Spring thaws

  And everything begins again.

  Water drops

  Shape the rock

  And everything we ever

  Thought or said

  Is long since dead.

  In the Beginning

  Purple lightning flashes

  through a black velvet sky,

  dry ice yellow haze drifting

  over smallpox-scarred terrain.

  The lonely

  red-eyed rock stares down

  at once-mighty

  crumbling cement ghosts--

  dead

  but for the tiny orange flame

  from the tribe of

  radioactive rats

  who have discovered fire…

  again.

  Dreamscape

  From the mist opportunity

  A rose in bloom

  The Son grows tall

  In the West

  Looking down

  Petals on the ground

  Like drops of blood

  In the sand of

  Time flows like the water

  Drying on our skin

  The sun shining on drops

  That glisten

  Diamonds in the night sky.

  The Morning After

  Streaks of lightning

  Reflected in-

  Emanating from?

  Your eyes.

  The storm passes

  Warmth slides over the horizon

  And the morning air

  Smells clean and new.

  Sunrise

  On a West Texas highway

  Burning through the miles

  Of darkness traveled

  The night before.

  Everything I own

  In this truck-

  Everyone I love

  Five hundred miles behind me,

  And the distance growing longer

  With every turn of the wheel.

  Opportunity is where

  You find it,

  And it isn’t always

  Just your employer

  That pays.

  The America Tourist

  Tidy rooms of silence

  Greet us with

  Cool air-conditioned kisses

  The beds turned down

  Just so

  And the sun dances

  On the water

  Outside

  Something pretty to look at.

  The compound is secure

  And distant

  From the places people

  -who serve us deferentially-

  Actually live

  Around here

  The stretch of groomed sand

  At the edge of the sea

  Is ours

  For the duration.

  The local culture of the region

  Is tastefully displayed

  Within the grounds

  With no need

  To authenticate it

  Personally

  So we don’t.

  Cold clean water

  And tropical drinks poolside-

  A little vacation from

  The realities of home-

  Both here

  And where we’re from.

  A Self Portrait

  He was born into this world

  A miracle

  Just like everyone else

  Just like you.

  He’s been more

  Than he ever thought

  But less

  Than he probably could have been.

  No remorse or regret

  Maybe sometimes a little wondering:

  What if?

  He’s smart enough to know

  He’s self centered

  And humble enough to know

  It isn’t warranted.

  He’s a father

  even though he wonders

  How that ever happened.

  What good deed did he ever do

  to deserve that blessing?

  If they were all he ever created

  All the proof there ever was

  That he ever was

  It would be enough.

  They were born into this world

  A miracle

  Just like everyone else

  Just like you.

  The Nice Man

  He lived mildly

  And passed