Time between bus locker journals

By foot and bridge

Time between bus locker journals

From a first song,

To a last song,

And all those stories in between,

On a walk to where no roads run,

A set of six strings slung across ones back,

Writing in old weathered journals,

Stored in bus station lockers, from east to west,

Adding a few more written lines each visit,

To perhaps find a song, maybe a verse or two,

Until, again daylight fades and time says,

Put another hundred miles in, find another locker

A tree to sit beneath, a place to sing with a wind,

Whether leaves, rain, or snow delight in falling,

A day’s sun will surely come flooding in sometime,

Soon when those gravel roads desert these highways,

Our feet come as all we got to leave such pebbled dirt and dust,

To find some forest missing between such mountainous places.

 

11 responses to “Time between bus locker journals

    • Cheers, Julie, It is. A thought on safe places to store, stove ones thoughts, while making a dash once asleep in transit across the gaps in trails. Thought about burying them beneath trees (a dig tree), a common practice wayback for some long distance travellers in regard to leaving caches of food, messages, journals, maps, etc for others to find that may follow later.

      • I sometimes leave books in places that I stay, passages underlined, odd notes written in the margins. Things to maybe make someone wonder as they, too, wander.

      • Sounds a cool habit to partake in for a writer. What’s one underlined passage, or note in a margin you remember the most or are least likely to forget, that you have left behind (maybe book title or author too)? I was going to ask perhaps location also, but I may of already asked too much of why you remember in a single moment of detail about a small note or passage. If it’s in the current book you’re editing/redrafting, you don’t have to say a thing. Little details to narratives are a cool thing.

    • No minstrel, something closer to that of a surveyor. For me, writing verse or a story, is like picking fresh wild fruit to open up and reveal what stories it holds to sustain one on a trek to one’s choosing. Most of my stories are tapped to different lived histories, so it rolls from the mind in relaxed fashion.

  1. A wandering minstrel I
    A thing of shreds and patches,
    Of ballads, songs and snatches,
    And dreamy lullaby
    (W. S. Gilbert, The Mikado)

    Nice piece, well done.

    • I can recall LPs being played in the background while only a youngster, out of some ancient machine one could close the lids and sit on to listen. Thanks, Mike.

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