Fred Steele

Fred Steele

Road Scribes Of America ™ Active Member

 

Blind Man Behind Bars

On two wheels of freedom
A man can be free,
With the wind through his hair
A wind he can’t see.
A blind man has feeling
Feelings aren’t free,
They come from emotions
Of things that can’t be.
For a blind man there’s freedom
From the things he can’t see.
There is daylight at midnight
And there’s a full moon at noon,
There are raindrops in winter,
And room for the stars,
But there is ultimate freedom
For a man behind bars.
Two wheels are rolling
Past heartache and scars,
Down the road from his memories
Of his days behind bars.
He smells leather and hot grease
He smells fresh air and gas,
He smells fresh cut hay
From the farm he just passed.
He’s wary of visions
Of the things he can’t see,
While of two wheels of freedom,
A blind man is free,
He rides through his memories
Out into the stars,
For a blind man there’s freedom
On a ride behind bars.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

The Gunfighter Awaits His Destiny

Its the hour of destiny
The gunfighter stands ready
A cold sweat covers his brow
His fingers twitch

While standing motionless
Waiting to make cold steel flow
His fingers twitch
He detects a smell of fear

Waiting to make cold steel flow
His weapon is showcased and foreboding
He detects the smell of fear
For who is the bullet and smoke

His showcased weapon is foreboding
His opponent falls in a pirouette of dust
The gunfighter stands ready
Its the hour of destiny

Fred Steele © 2015
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

The Beauty Of Rust

In the back of the barn
Behind old washing machines,
As hidden as memories,
That nobody sees,
Condemned to her silence
amid the droning of bees.
You can smell the old barn wood,
There’s used leather in there
Ragged and twisted
And a lot worse for wear.
Over the boxes, a seat for the truck
I stand in the clearing,
Amid generations of junk
She leans on her stand,
In the beauty of rust,
With glimpses of chrome
Is a layer of times dust.
The roads she once ventured
Come back into view,
The memories of time
And all that I knew.
Will she ride with the wind
Through a dream just once more
Or will she remain in the dark
On the old barn wood floor.
Where she leans on her stand
In the beauty of rust
With glimpses of chrome
In the layers of times dust.
Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Bitter Harvest

A farmer is a gambler
He bets it all in spring
Stacks his chips on a plot of land
To see what life will bring.
With a rugged smile
And weathered face
And questions on his mind
He trusts his fate to the hand of God
To see a crop this time.
From bone dry days of summer
To the crisp cool days of fall
Worry hides behind his battered hat
That hail might take it all.
The crops a bitter harvest
Of bills that couldn’t wait
Drown in a sea of bankers ink
And rains that came to late.

Fred Steele (C) 2015
Road Scribes of America  2012

 

Throwing Letters At The Wall

Words are words of feelings
Unsheathed from time to time
They are worse than flesh wounds
Words carve scars into the mind.
I’m in possession of a pen
So I can write the words I see
I can sketch a verbal sunset
Describe a stately pine
I can see what others miss
Down the halls of darkened minds,
Discarding things I do not want
Wherever words may fall
I can see connected meanings
Throwing letters at the wall.

Fred Steele (C) 2015
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Part Of Our Childhood Dies

Mother Hubbard passed away
And Mother Goose moved on.
Mother Teresa folded her arms
And part of our childhood’s gone.
We look around as the old ones go
To sleep in the futures tomb.
The young and the old
Pass into the night,
Its the way history makes more room.
Thousand pass in an afternoon,
In a flood or hurricane,
One star dies in their swimming pool
With film clips that remain.
The golfers, the athletes,
And the chosen ones
They are part of our passage
To who knows where.
We mutter and morn,
And say our prayers,
We fain our sorry
And close our eyes,
As part of our childhood dies.
The truth slips away in a hazy past
While our memories recall tries
To reflect on what the truth really was.
As part of our childhood dies.
We forget the misdeeds
While we recall what we adore,
We forget about the truth
They left behind
That was left on the cutting room floor.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes Of America  2012

 

Would I Do It All The Same?

If I had it to do over
Would I do it all the same
If I had it to do over
Would I do it all again.
Would I reach out to others
To absorb some of their pain,
Would I try to understand
Or make judgments with disdain?
If I had it to do over
Would I do it all the same
If I had it to do over
Would I do it all again
would I hold onto to friends lost
Or let animosities remain
There are shadows on a blemished soul
Absolving me of blame,
I look back down dirt rut roads
To see what still remains,
If I had it to do over
Would I do it all again,
If I could do it over
Would I do it all the same
Would I hold onto my ambitions
With a pocket full of dreams,
Even if they came to nothing,
Leaving me without my means
Saving some of what remains
If I could count my losses
And they outnumbered all my gains
If I could do it over
Would the outcome be the same?

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Rain

Distortions are images
Trapped in the Brain
They dance on the glass
Of a cold window pain
We see rainbows and mist
In the pattern of rain.
Life trembles in the chill
of the harsh of the storm
Through droplets of rain
New blossoms are born.
We curse the dampness,
Its effect on old bones,
As rain washes the dirt
From decorative stones.
Rain nourishes gardens
Make puddles for play
For children its magic
On a cold rainy day.
We stare out the window
Time and again
Through distortions
And images
We see in the rain.
It scrubs the rivers of nature
It enriches the soul,
If comes in a flurry
Clouds retreat on the wain
As we pray for the sunshine
To bless us again.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

They are Gone Now

In our closets and our albums
Lie the visions of our past.
We see the faded photos,
We feel the rush of wind
Blow through our hair,
This would last forever
What we recapture with our stare.
Pictures of our tricycle,
The bike, the GTO,
The old rusty pickup truck,
Where did they all go.
People replace people
If you take a look around
Those that stand before you
Are the present and the future
Not the ones who slipped away
And are nowhere to be found
For they are gone now.
They took with them their laughter
The glint of mischief in their eye
They took with them their spoken word
Their wisdom and their pride.
They are gone now
To a place we cannot go
For there will be no pathway home
That is yet for us to know.
If we can search our memory
For a glimpse of what we see
Our mind will let them live again
And set their spirit free.

They are gone now
Absorbed in to the visions
Of our reflective past
Scattered with the pictures
Of our Trike our bike,
The GTO and pickup truck
And familiar things we know.
They are gone now
To a place we do not know.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Groundhogs Ride

The groundhog sleeps all winter
Dreams he’d like to ride,
They drag him out to see his shadow
From the light he wants to hide.
Groundhogs wise enough to know
Its six more weeks to spring,
Time to rev the lady up
Hear that engine sing.
It time to dream of open roads
And all good summer things
Its time to put the pen to ink
To write what nature brings,
Road Scribes are summoned now to write
To defend their space and time,
Readers wait to see your print
Put adventures down in lines.
Winter winds will die away
In the tombstones of the past
The written word upon the page
Secures memories that will last.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

On The Precipice Of Time

I am standing in the doorway
On the precipice of time
understanding that all moments lost
Were moments that were mine.
The ride of life is written
In the tire tracks of sand,
Like a road map life is written
Out across the land.
Time is natures crystal ball
Where her secrets are concealed
Written on the wind of time
We see through our windshield.
A season rains down winter snow
Heatwaves rise up from the sun
Natures seasons are reminders
Of adventures yet to come
Let the highway of the future
Ignite the spirit in our soul
Let the ride unwind forever
Making memories in our mind
Remembering forever
We’re on the precipice of time.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

I Only See The Sunshine

Postman came this morning
To my house on lonely street
With a Santa sack of heavy bills
And payments I can’t meet.
I have a paper weight of heavy bills
And blisters on my feet.

There’s a letter marked most urgent
A manila from the man
This ain’t no invitation,,
Final notice and demand
Is this a package from Time Warner
Or the ghost of Steely Dan

I only see the sunshine
Through my window when it rains
And if baby don’t come back to me
I swear I’ll go insane.
I see visions of tomorrow
Through a broken window pane.

I’m talking to a rusty rooster
On a broken weather vane
I’m crying out for your love
In this God forsaken rain
I only see the sunshine
Through my window when it rains

I bought a bottle and a candle
And a budgie with one wing
Bought a rotary phone with a cut off slip
And a number that won’t ring
If baby don’t come back to me
I swear ill go insane

I only see the sunshine
Through my window when it rains
And if baby don’t come back to me
I swear I’ll go insane.
Staring at my visions of tomorrow
Through a broken window pane.

Fred Steele © 9./8/1998
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Walking On My Heart

That old flame of love keeps burning
Like a star across the sky
Consumed by universal darkness
That flame of love will die.

Love is like a gypsy wind
That touches autumn dew
When sunshine melts a broken heart
In a sky of summer blue.

I keep looking for a new love
Disappointment’s all I find
Every time I close my eyes
You’re walking on my heart
And through my mind.

Its another bloody whiskey night
And I’m already blue
The lights on, in the hallway
So I must be missing you.

Every morning its all over
Yet I’m crawling back again
Riding nightmares through the darkness
Down the hallway to your door.

I keep looking for a new love
Disappointment’s all I find
You’re walking on my heart
And through my mind.

You keep saying that you love me
It’s a game you like to play
You live for your performance
While I look the other way.

You keep walking in my daydreams
While your memory breaks my will
I keep trying to forget you
But my heart, it loves you still

Fred Steele © 2003
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Should I Walk Away

Nature draws her purple shades
To end a perfect day
Sailing on loves chilly winds
When autumn comes to play
How can I believe in love
When I’m caught up in its spell
Consumed by passions fire
On your heartstrings out of hell
Father time keeps right on ticking
And the writings on the wall
You dethroned the king of hearts
And I can see it all.
Your pillow’s scented with your lies
Where you used to lay your head
While dreaming of a new love
Until our love was dead.
Don’t lay down beside me
Don’t paint dreams inside my head
Don’t you tell me lies of love
And hint about your bed.
Tomorrow is a new day
And my heart is going to pay
But I keep looking for a new love
That I’m sure will come my way.
My heart is at the crossroads
Should I go or should I stay
Should I listen to my head or heart
Or should I walk away.

Fred Steele © 2009
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

The Actor

Waiting for the curtain call
In the evenings fading light
Amid the theaters fantasy
And anticipation every night,
The old man takes his station
Behind the curtain fold,
Living life behind the curtain
He forgets that he is old.

He remembers gallant days
When he played the leading role
Sometimes he was a pirate
Or a kings knight brave and bold,
While he chipped away his timeless shield
Where his memories were sold.

There was a once, a once upon a time
He was master of his craft
He could bring them to the edge of tears
Or dance and make them laugh
And now the theater is empty
The hall’s without a song,
He sits behind his magic curtain
And he wonders where she’s gone.

How that woman tempted him
And led him to delight,
Her fingers burned like matches
As she set fire to the night.
There’s still an angels fragrance
From the perfume in her hair
As he reaches out to touch her
But she’s no longer there

Fred Steele © 1987
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

They are Gone Now
In our closets and our albums
Lie the visions of our past.
We see the faded photos,
We feel the rush of wind
Blow through our hair,
This would last forever
What we recapture with our stare.
Pictures of our tricycle,
The bike, the GTO,
The old rusty pickup truck,
Where did they all go.
People replace people
If you take a look around
Those that stand before you
Are the present and the future
Not the ones who slipped away
And are nowhere to be found
For they are gone now.
They took with them their laughter
The glint of mischief in their eye
They took with them their spoken word
Their wisdom and their pride.
They are gone now
To a place we cannot go
For there will be no pathway home
That is yet for us to know.
If we can search our memory
For a glimpse of what we see
Our mind will let them live again
And set their spirit free.

They are gone now
Absorbed in to the visions
Of our reflective past
Scattered with the pictures
Of our Trike our bike,
The GTO and pickup truck
And familiar things we know.
They are gone now
To a place we do not know.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

On The Shiny Side Of The Snow

We walk to the crunch
atop the snow,
Where winter holds charm
And the north wind blows.
The sun is an etching
For shadows to grow,
As we walk through winter,
On the shiny side of the snow.
We hear the laughter
Of children the laughter of friends,
Feeling the rush of a snow filled breeze
We hear our heart pound
In adrenaline’s flow
walking through winter
On the shiny side of the snow.
We hear the click of the skis
We see millions of stars
We dream of the days
behind old chrome bars.
With your sun to your back
You are living on dreams
Of where you will go
When the warm sun melts
What’s left
Of the shiny side of the snow.

Fred Steele (C)
Road Scribes of America 2012

 

The Measure Of A Dream

The measure of a dream 
Is but an eye blink in the sun,
The measure of a dream 
fades in yellow photographs
Where life’s fading colors run.
The measure of a dream
Is bundled in awakening,
Not knowing the reason
For a tiny crooked smile.
The measure of a dream
Dances in your mind,
Lets you retrieve a yesterday
When you were once a child.

Fred Steele (C) 
Road Scribes of America tm 2012

 

Shadows Of Our Shadows

Shadows are our silent partners
That won’t let our conscience hide
We feel the presence of our shadow
With each and every stride.

Our shadow is an imprint,
An etching on our soul
It contains what made us
And the things that went before.

Our shadow stretches everyday
To guide us to the light
And fades into the darkness
With the coming of the night.

Our shadow it will rise again
When the sun comes into sight
Our shadow is our conscience
As we walk toward the light.

Shadows linger in our memory
Making imprints on our mind
And the shadow of our mothers
Will never fade with time.

Shadows never lie to us
What we see, is what we see
Shadows never lie to us
They allow us to be free.

We are the shadow of our shadows
Of our fathers from before
We now walk toward the light
As our fathers do no more.

Reminders of our mothers
Influence our future deeds
They help to light the way for us
To be what we can be.

We are the sum of all our shadows
And the things that we can be
Our mothers are still here for us
If we will only see.

Her dreams are in our shadows
And in the children on our knee
Our shadows are our conscience
And the soul that sets us free.

Fred Steele (C) 2010
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

This was set up for song lyrics for Pat Savage Band back in 1998

I Only See The Sunshine

Postman came this morning
To my house on lonely street
With a Santa sack of heavy bills
And payments I can’t meet.
I have a paper weight of heavy bills
And blisters on my feet.

There’s a letter marked most urgent
A manila from the man
This ain’t no invitation,,
Final notice and demand
Is this a package from Time Warner
Or the ghost of Steely Dan

I only see the sunshine
Through my window when it rains
And if baby don’t come back to me
I swear I’ll go insane.
I see visions of tomorrow
Through a broken window pane.

I’m talking to a rusty rooster
On a broken weather vane
I’m crying out for your love
In this God forsaken rain
I only see the sunshine
Through my window when it rains

I bought a bottle and a candle
And a budgie with one wing
Bought a rotary phone with a cut off slip
And a number that won’t ring
If baby don’t come back to me
I swear ill go insane

I only see the sunshine 
Through my window when it rains
And if baby don’t come back to me
I swear I’ll go insane.
Staring at my visions of tomorrow
Through a broken window pane.

Fred Steele © 9./8/1998
Road Scribes of America(tm) 2012

 

The War Horse

Driven by an outlaw spirit
And a past I cannot tame.
I feel like an ancient war horse
On a hot and dusty plain
It’s a long way past the springtime
There’s ice on the lagoon,
Where tadpoles used to gather
For the concert of the loon.
I’ve seen the summer harvest
Stacked against the sky,
Trampled into beaten chaff
When the Devil’s angels fly.
I’ve seen the anguish in the faces
When the dreamers dreams all died
Holding back the well of tears
In a farmers silent pride.
I’ve seen those stately statues
Those golden stalks of corn
Wither like the deserts flowers
When a prairie storm is born.
Summer rays kiss the tiny seeds
And make them stand up tall,
To be cut like rotten timber
In the cruel cold winds of fall.
I’ve seen a mountain sunset
Glorify an evening sky,
While holding onto snow caps
So the rivers won’t run dry
I am an aging war horse
On a hot and dusty plain
Driven by an outlaw spirit
And a past I cannot tame.
Log cabins once were palaces
Where our fathers once were born,
Now crumbling in the wilderness
Abandoned and forlorn
Gone now is a way of life
When people smiled at me,
I’m proud of where I came from
And that our land is strong and free
It has been a long hot summer
But I’m still glad I came.
To be abandoned in my yesterday
Where only memories remain.
Coloured leaves are left to roam
Across the painted hills
Dancing through the morning frost
On a chilly wind that kills.
I’m on the seashore of my autumn
Drowning in my summer wake
And its time to close the cottage
In the meadow by the lake
The wind it sweeps the valley floor
To sing the trees to sleep
Summer now retreats indoors
With the sunshine in defeat.
Wayward souls reach out for Jesus
For the soft touch of his hand
But I’ve seen the rock of ages
And the promise made of sand
Oh I’ve seen the rock of ages
And I’ve heard the Army Band
I’ve heard distorted messages
And I think I understand.
I am an aging war horse
On the hot and dusty plain
Driven by my outlaw spirit
And a past I cannot tame
I am waiting at the waters edge
For something I can’t see
Through life’s distorted messages
I am longing to be free.

Fred Steele (C) 1993
Road Scribes of American ™ 2012

 

A Poor Mans Wisdom

I can feel the life breeze blow
This springtime is so cold.
At sunrise I’m a young man
And by nightfall I am old.

Natures world surrounds me
In a tapestry of green
Filled with love and laughter
Yet I stand behind the screen

Rich men cling to power 
On a pendulum of greed
And to wary minds of offspring
They plant destructive seed

The answers lie inside ourselves
Each mind holds the key
The secret is to turn the lock
And set the questions free.

Why do we have prostitutes
And others without hope
Why do we have terrorists
And some strung out on dope

Why do we have presidents 
And other men who kill
Or Bible thumping preachers
Or those with broken will.

We always look outside ourselves
For answers we don’t know
We mask our lies in self defense
So feelings never show.

The power of the poor man,
Inner wisdom is his gun
His rough handed knowledge
Can take power from the sun

Just who is the poor man
The guy who takes it on the chin
We seldom ever hear from him
To be poor is classed as sin.

Poor men don’t know riches
Rich men never face the scorn,
All men should be brothers
But from different worlds are born.

Is the rich man our new problem
Is the working man to blame,
We all ignore the questions
So we can hide our shame.

There is revolution coming
As our riches slip away
When terror lights its deadly spark
And our world, slowly slips away.

Fred Steele © 1985
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Jesse

It was hotter than the Devils breath
At noon in mid July
On the main street of a one horse town
Where dust balls go to die,
There’s the smell of sweat and desert dust
And booze on the barroom floor
And the smell of fear, in a one horse town
When a gunman fills the door.
Jesse was an outlaw
Lightning’s shadow with a gun,
He was the darling fair haired boy
And the old grim reapers son.

Bartender pours the whiskey
And the outlaw pours it down,
As rusty hinges break the silence
While the lawmen gather round.
A thought can hold its secret,
When no one’s fast enough to lie
Friend, you don’t talk back to Jesse
Unless today you want to die.
Yes Jesse was an outlaw
Lightning’s shadow with a gun
He was the darling fair haired boy
And the old grim reapers son,

Jesse slid the whiskey glass
Down the wood grain of the bar
Stopping at the redneck hand
Of the man who wore the star.
Lawmen went for pistols
And the stars began to fall
Smoke drifted from the empty room
Yes Jesse killed them all
Jesse was an outlaw
Lightning’s shadow with a gun
He was the darling fair haired boy
And the old grim reapers son.

Fred Steele © 1987
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

SCARECROW

Keeper of the garden
Warding off the birds of prey
When the hobo jungle children come
He looks the other way.
Dressed in someone’s Sunday best
From some forgotten time.
Entrusted with the ripened fruit
Of summers sweet red wine.
Keeper of the garden
At the end of shadow’s day
An ink spot in a reddened ball
As the last light fades away.
Scarecrow hears the thunder
He can feel the summer rain
As he jumps into the echo
Of a passing midnight train.
The whistle is an endless wail
That senses cannot see
Out beyond the rainbow’s edge
Where knowledge sets him free.
In the darkness of life’s evil
In a dungeons neon hell
Scarecrow sees the secrets
That the underworld won’t tell.
Throw away children in the city
Starving hand to mouth
Dependent on the needlework
Of a silent patch work south.
Snowflakes fall on weathered veins
Observed through sunken eyes
No reason’s found in tattered brains
Yet the vision never dies.
Scarecrow hears the saddened songs
The blues beat of the night
Hears parables from sordid lips
That protect them from their plight.
There’s reception lines of gifted hawkers
Broken priests, and sold street walkers
They are twisted vines and tumbleweeds
These children of the night.
Memories fly like ravens
Rippling on a echo’s wing
Truth hides them from their knowledge
In the sad songs that they sing.
Questions come from fairy tales
Left buried in the brain
There are no answers for the visions
When the visions are insane.
Scarecrow sees reality
From beyond the whistles call
Through the jangle of an echo
In the frost of early fall.
Scarecrow’s dressed in tatters
Leaning on the winds of time
Propped up by the scattered leaves
In the corners of his mind.
He’s a stand of ageless pitch and wood
Mere slivers in the air
Scarecrow guards his silent dreams
Of dust beyond repair.
Keeper of the garden
Warding off the birds of prey
When the hobo jungles children come
He looks the other way
Dressed in someone’s Sunday best
From another place and time
Entrusted with the ripened fruits,
Of summers sweet red wine
Staked alone in furrowed rows
At the end of shadows day
An ink spot in a reddened ball
As the last light slips away.

Fred Steele © 1998
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

Gray Skies In The Morning

The dawn of the morning
Is the same silver gray,
Yesterdays promise 
Is still one day away.
We change with the seasons
Yet the seasons remain.
This is the Yuletide
From the days of the Celts
The stars shone brightly
In the crystal night sky
And the questions of ages
Were seen through their eyes.
Through the eyes of the legends
The lessons came down,
Mysteries died in their secrets,
They left clues to confound
We renamed their traditions
To ancients despair,
We condemned them as pagans
We were Devil may care.
The solstice reminds us
Bonfires warm the night air
Despite what we changed
The Truth is still there..
It floats into forever
On the Gnarled hands of time
We ask what is out there
And where have we been
Is this our tomorrow
Or a little child’s dream.
Child of he Universe
They’ve supplanted your dream,
They hid the solstice with Christmas,
They filled it with Santa
They filled it with toys,
They kept the glitter and laughter,
And reduced it to noise.
So here’s to the solstice,
The early dark of the day
And the morning that greets us
Is the same silver gray.

Fred Steele © 31/12/2016

 

The Hill

Early in the morning
With my mind and soul awake
I see nature has been busy
Putting whitecaps on the lake
I can live in fear of love
And still refuse to hate
Yet I shall always be around
To pass through your love’s gate
I climb a lovers mountain
In the passion of the night
Filled with the sense of wonder
When true love feels so right
With a soft sweet kiss that’s wispy
As a sunny summer day
Where love will softly linger
Until it slowly drifts away
I stand upon the nearest hill
Watching nature in her flight
Handing out the breath of life
And she sometimes takes it back again
In the stillness of the night
Some hearts never wander
Some hearts are born to roam
Some bare artificial flowers
And some hearts are made of stone
There’s pretty prisms in the rainbow
In pretty prisms I see you
There’s a life force in the raindrops
To nourish love anew
I take comfort in the raindrops
While I’m praying for the sun
Where love forever wanders
Until its wander lust is done
I’m stand on this rugged hill
Naked in the winter chill
And hoping for abandoned hope
That a broken heart can’t kill
I will always love you
As if standing on this hill
Bathing in the sunshine
Of a winters iron will
Yet upon this hill I’ll linger
Beyond the autumn chill
For even when I’m under it
I will love you still

Fred Steele (C) 1985
Road Scribe of America (TM) 2012

 

Two Wheel Jack

Jack came around, on his old bike
More like wine coloured stains
On dust and sweat
He came round with a crooked smile
And the pallor of death,
A tan coloured face
And, his whiskey, breath
Jack had an ex and two young kids
He had his old bike and a list of sins
Too many losses
And not enough wins.
We should have called him survivor
A jack of all trades
He could sell boats and cars,
Even fridges or Eskimo’s snow,
He had a hard road past
That he couldn’t let go.
His dreams fell apart
With the shooting stars
And Jack ended up late
In the water hole bars,
Like the shadow of time
He passed through our lives
But he clung to his dreams
‘Cause the dream never dies.
Yes, Jack road hard
Through his asphalt dream
There was never a mind space
Where, Jack hadn’t been.
Jack quit smoking
But he snorted the caine,
He share life with his demons
That hid in his brain.
He clung to his humour
While hiding his pain
And slowly but surely
Slipped out of, life’s, frame.
The world kicked his ass
Till he was tired and sore
But he kept on breathing
And begging for more
Yup, life knocked him down
And he got back up,
He was old and weathered
With, the heart of a pup,
On a cold starlit night
He split from the bar,
On two wheels of danger,
Ran into a car,
No licence for driving
And a sure zero eight
He thought of his options
He just couldn’t wait.
When you’re down on your luck
And facing your fate
Confused by the whiskey
And not thinking quite straight,
Jack made his way home
On that ill fateful night
Poured a tall drink
And he turned out the light.
It was too many pills
In a world full of pain
When his heart it stopped beating
But his memory remains.
He would ride up the driveway
With a mug full of smile,
He would make my wife laugh
He told jokes for a while,
He’d share a few beers
And be on his way
Jack passed through the clouds
Yet his memory has stayed.

Fred Steele (C) 2013
Road Scribes of America (TM) 2012

 

Billy’s Trail

A star went out on a starry night
Another star shone
So very bright
It was off in the distance
Ever so pale
In the rays of the moon
At the end of the trail.
Billy knew more than he knew
But he didn’t know why
He left in his time
While the rest of us cried.
His first love was baseball
Yes, it was the Blue Jays
He remembered them, Champions
Way back in those days.
He argued his hockey
Dreamed of a cup,
One for the Canucks?
God said just give it up
Every animal loved him
Especially his cat
Who was to know
It was his dog that came back.
Yes Toby walked in
At the height of the day
Bill took the dog home
It wasn’t a stray.
And the dog came back
The very next day.
Billy lived in his daydreams
Absent of fear
Long as Woodies was there
For his breakfast and afternoon beer.
Billy was a collector,
A hoarder to some
It was his compulsion
His eye, second to none,
He had a very strange laugh
And a very green thumb.
There were owls and elephants
Decorative plants
He liked to read books
And he hated to dance.
So who was Billy?
As seen from afar
He had a rub-ix cube mind
And a heart with a scar.
In the shadow of darkness
Absorbed in the pale
He paused for a moment
At the end of the trail.

Fred Steele © 08/19/2016
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

Authors Note: This poem is a tribute to a friend who passed from our midst far too soon.

 

Dreams of the wind

Christmas has come and gone
Yet a small boys dream is still alive.
The old Harley Shop has told it’s story
To many a child in their daydreams.
To a small boy
Dreams of the wind are big
For the dream never ends.
The store window merely casts its shadow
On the dream.
His Harley jacket and helmet is real
The sense of rubber under him
He has felt from the seat of his trike.
He can only imagine the big wind.
The spirit of the child
Has felt the rush
His mind has heard the rumble
He now lives for the wind.
Once he dreamed the dream
What was imagined became real
the store window leads to destiny
Destiny is the road
And freedom is the wind.

Fred Steele (C) 2014
Road Scribes Of America (2012)

 

Red Rose From the Heart

Loves red rose conceals the chain
Locked against the heart 
The fantasy of passions blush
Where emotions flirt and dart.
Lost there in a daydream
Where lovers wishes go
A rose will last forever
in the minds eye memories glow
Does she remember romance
Does she remember her first time
Is it of the first you held her
On the floor where you first danced
Memories are born of visions
Of a past where you have been
they brush against reality
In things you have not seen.
The rose creates loves memories
It allows the heart to dream.

Fred Steele (C) 2016
Road Scribes of America ™

 

Burning the Spirit

You can see your breath
In the chill of the night
Through sparks and flames
Of orange and red
The stones encircle the spirit
Stones trace the moonlight
The seasons revolve
In the cycle of life
And it ends too soon.
Belief was, we return to the earth
Return to where we came
Now we would rise to the heavens
Through the smoke of fire and flame.
Stonehenge would track the answers
In the stars of the cycle of life
The spirit would melt
In the fragments of bone
Absorbed in ashes and dust
Guarded in the walls of the chamber
Deep in the heart of the tomb
The spirit would rise to the heavens
As it once departed the womb.
The spirit would travel
In dimensions of time
And visit us again soon.
Renewal by fire was a part of our lives
Entrenched in the circles of stone
The autumn would die
In the veil of the night
Winter would conquer the sky
Druids and Celts had it all figured ou
They charted the sun and the moon
Their spirit is lost
On life’s rutted road
yet the vision of heaven remains
We burn with the spirit of ages ago
Amid flames the ashes and stains
We are the blue in the glint
Of an equinox sky
Today the question pertains
Are we the flame of spirits past
Do we breath new life
From the ashes of old
Do we have a place in the sky?

Fred Steele(C) 2015
Road Scribes of America ™ 2012

 

THE ROAD TO SPRING

In among-st the dirt and snow
Of the pothole road
Silence waits for spring.
The first shoots sprint
To the end of the vine
Mother Nature knows its time.
You can hear her sputter
Choke and start,
In the shed out back of the barn.
The winter warms a pen full of ink
To write another yarn.
Beneath the sheds layer
Of sediment dust
Is the shine of the chrome
No signs of rust.
Time to grease and preen
And dust her down
Time to fire her up
And head for town.
Birds sing hard in budding trees
Nights are cold
But it does not freeze.
Rain and sleet mark winters end
The road to springs
Just round the bend

Fred Steele (C) 2016
Road Scribes of America (TM) 2012

 

A LINE IN THE DUST

A line in the dust 
At the depth of the day
Clouds invade blue skies
Its always that way.
Seed of excitement
Are pebbles on wind
From the sands of the desert
To the jungles we’re in
The wind and the pen
Are the road maps of life
Where the writer resides
And never visits again.
Each line is a stroke
\on the portrait of life
Visions and moments
That unite and divide
Yet all come together
At the end of the ride
To breathe in your life
|s a matter of trust
And it all comes down
To a line in the dust.

Fred Steele (C) 2016
Road Scribes of America (TM) 2012

 

Winters End

I feel the bitter edge of winter
As the season nears its end
I see round every corner
Round every rocky bend
I am looking for a melody
To make the season rhyme
As I watch the season melting
One snowflake at a time

© Fred Steele RSOA ™ 2012

 

Silence of the Wind

Today a cold grey shroud
Cloaks the mountains
Leaving only the echo of silence
The stillness does not allow
The wind to speak,
The boat launch is empty
The cabin windows are shuttered
And the Harley sleeps
Sleeps like some hibernating bear.
As a farmer I hear them
Off in the distance of the mountains echo.
Today hours are measured by silence.
When the spring returns
To steal the warmth of the sun
And icicles drip their last tears of winter
The wind will speak,
Speak to the restless soul of the Harley
As the train once spoke to the hobo,
Riders will come alive
With a brush of the wind
Whispering the sweet song of freedom
To all who will hear
Locked in the frozen images of time
The mystic power, awaits
For the rider its freedom
For the dreamer its wonder
Winter is frozen
In the silence of the wind

Fred Steele © 12/03/2014
Road Scribes of America ™

 

A Tribute to those in the arts

Mind Shrapnel

Poets, musicians and artists
Whether obscure or with fame
Often appear to be different
‘Cause nothing about them is the same
Their vision is timeless
When exposed in the light
Voice of ignorance pass in the night
Inspirations a dream
From the soul it is fed
Through endless mind shrapnel
That flows through their head

Fred Steel ©10/05/2014
Road Scribes of America ™

 

Farmer Johns

The Devil slept with his music box
About a half a mile from hell
While waiting for his mistress, War
To come and cast her spell.
It was quarter past his midnight dream
When the gauntlet finally fell
To Noble Knights of gopher holes
With rifles and their shells.
Lost in the streets of London
In beer and barroom song
Were these yet unproven, Hero’s
Who were nicknamed Farmer Johns,
Strange shooters from the open plains
Standing straight and strong
Stepping into global darkness
On the Longest Day at dawn.
First off the shore in battle
First to break the line
The last for recognition
The first ones there to shine.
History scarcely mentions them
On a page of hard won gain
History fails to pay its due
Though a statue, still remains.
Noble Knights of gopher holes
Raise a glass in barroom song
Home sick sons of farmers
Keeping freedom strong.

Fred Steele (C) 11/16/1998
member Road Scribes of America (TM) 2012

 

 

Burnt Orange in shaded gray

Burnt orange in shaded gray
Such is the night sky
Burnt orange in shaded gray
Is the light the moon peeks through.
Stillness has no echo,
For sound to pass on to.
Burnt orange in shaded gray,
Seen in the depth of match box eyes,
Swollen in the veil of smoke,
Obscured by what is true.
Smoke is the midnight traveler,
It avoids the heat of the flame
The fire will quench its evil fill
And its memories will remain,
Smoke surrenders to the will of the wind,
Blowing back from whence it came,
The soul of a fire we can’t understand
Nor comprehend what is insane.
Burnt orange in shaded gray
Are only clues in ashes and dust
Without revealing who’s to blame.

Fred Steele © 2017
Road Scribes of American ™ 2012