The Dumpster Trip

I lug all the bags of waste
Down crumbling steps
My stride is quick
As I avoid the chill
Inescapable
My toes turn blue and
My breath becomes a cloud
In the cold

Sunday 1942

A joyous dance in the pouring rain
Wet skirts twisting
Turning against brown legs
And bare feet
Open mouths and closed eyes
The face of ecstasy
Hair wrapping around naked shoulders
Rippling wet
Grass in between toes and
mud-speckled calves
They dance
And sing
And shout
The beauty of it all
Warm skin cooled by warmer rain
The smell of blue
Twilight descends
Wrapping its fingers around the rain dancers
Joy drunk and spent
They dance on
The dance of the ancients
The beauty of feet upon
Hard earth - soft grass
The incessant plague
Proverbial blessing
And so they dance

Edgemere

I am riding hard
The air is whispering in my ear
And whistling through my hair

The wind chafes my skin
And my lips grow rough
As I struggle

All that holds me back
I am leaving behind
To find another victim

The gravel grinds beneath
My tires and the chain
Making a grating sound