MarySusan Williams-Migneault “Shadow-Wolf”

Road Scribes Of America ™ Founder

SHADOW-WOLF’S

SOUL GRAPHITE

 

The Ride – 

~~~

THE BIKER POETS’ MUSE

She is the colors that he wears…
tatooed across his skin
the very patch that binds
his heart to the road
his journey — to his soul.

She is a spirit in the wind
a spark that stokes
the passion of his fire —
sometimes a mighty gust
that blows the road dust
off his mind —
softly she whispers to him
beckoning his poet’s pen
to expose his heart’s desire

Each day he scans the horizon
hoping to find her face —
to gaze into her eyes perhaps
or see her gentle smile
but somehow he knows
he will not find her there
for she sits against his back.

MSWM/RHP (c) June 2008(REV 2012)
Shadow-Wolf

~~~~~~

The Well Worn Vest

Old man …

Your vest is well worn –
It has seen better days,
Like when it hung beside your bike
In the middle of the living room
The leather still strong and street black.

Old man..
Your steed has carried you far
Through wind and rain
And narrow pass roads
Hidden in winter’s whiteouts
Or clicking and cranking down
While you both rested
In summer campgrounds
Beside rivers and hills
A day’s journey up ahead…

Old man…
Your memories are packed
In saddle bags and photos
Of bike runs to Vermont,
New Hampshire and Maine,
While the horizon of Connecticut
Held you steady with traces
Of your Yankee family ties
And roads that brought you back
Again and again.

Old man…
Your life has twisted into knots
So much lost, never to be replaced
A mean streak fills in the spaces
Left by roads that just led nowhere
Rusting your chrome and stripping love
From your heart like a thief in the night

Old man…
You have forgotten

MSWMigneault/SHADOW-WOLF (c) October 2011

~~~

OLD WOMAN

old woman you have betrayed me
I am  here….    waiting

to run and skip
to jump rope all day long
throw stones into the brook
to lay curled in blades of grass
watching
white castles ….  float on by

old woman you have betrayed me
my whispers you ignore
I’m waiting here   ….  inside

let’s run old woman
grab ‘hold the tail end
of a comet
blazing to its end
let’s get up old woman
you and I …
we will
catch the wind rushing by
and dance naked with the moon..

 marysusan williams-migneault / shadow-wolf

(c)october 2011

 ~~~
The Parking Lot ….

Last time I sat here

It was a different year
The scars have thickened

Deeply burrowed
Under layers of life
Rooted in between
Silent anguish

So much left unsaid

No one will notice
Our friendship
Passing

Still I will wail

Until your wings
Lift me
And remind me

To smile.

By MarySusan Williams-Migneault / Shadow-Wolf (c) 2011

*********

Summer —
When was it last I loved you? 

Was it on sandy beaches past
When waves crashed upon my feet
As gulls swooped and dove for scraps
And kids yelped and whipped frisbee’s
Over volley-ball jocks and bikini’d babes
Who lathered their toasted skin
Burnt by the sun’s scorch ?

Or was it when … 

Icy dips refreshed my soul
In soft rippled river pools
And dogs and humans
Played like kin on sandbars
While swarms of Black Flies
Retaliated against intruders?  

Perhaps it was the summer 

The roar and rumble of motorcycles 
Snapped me back to boardwalks
Of another moonlit night – 
When you were there
And Bikes were lined in shiny rows
Their chrome and engine-painted art
Drawing the crowd’s stares?

Surely I loved you – Summer 

When afternoons filled with laughter
From toddlers running in sprinklers
And floating toys in wading pools
With kid-size slides and pregnant moms;
New dads dunking baby’s toes
My own grandson jumping up and down
Dripping smiles and water on my lap
Until sunset sent us home. 

Summer, was that when I last loved you? 

Or was it when my soul’s companion
The one who stole my heart …
Returned from years apart
Laying his head upon my lap 
To rest beneath my breast?
 
For hours that joy-filled lazy day
We sat at the Saco River’s edge
Our picnic slowly eaten
Reading, resting, roasting
Remembering days gone by … 

Long before the winter came 
To freeze all that remained 

Of the summer
I once loved. 

 MSWM/RHP / Shadow-Wolf (c) 2004 (reprint 2010)

Santa Tales

No money for presents
No chicken to roast…
Credit extended lost long ago
No gas in the car
No where to go

Two tiny little men
One two and one four

Sit at my table to feast
On cookies and juice
Until there’s no more

“Santa knows if we are naughty or nice”
I’m told by little angels that have no vice

“I have to do pee pee in the pot or Santa will know, “
The elder brother cries as he stands on his toes.

I smile with eyebrows raised, “Is that so?”

Later they sit at the foot of the bed
dreaming of sugar plums just as I read
A story of presents and dead up lies
Told to the young spirits trusting in me
I put down the fable and finally decide
It is time to get honest and set them free …

There is no list of naughty or nice..
For you are perfect just as you are
Santa doesn’t care if you pee in the pot

That’s a trick we play

So you’ll do what we want

So you won’t pee in your pants and be all wet
We tell you a lie in your best interest

A lie about Santas
In red suits that make lists

But really you see..
Santa rides a motorcycle
And wants you to be free..
To pee when you must
In the place that you might
And still he brings toys
On the back of his bike
To all the children — wet or dry alike.

MarySusan Williams-Migneault “Shadow-Wolf”  (C) 2008

The Storage Bin
Or living in Government Housing…

Life jammed in between
twelve years of unpacked boxes.
Plastic bags stuffed with clothes,
kids toys strewn underfoot –
piles of books collect dust,
so thick you can write notes
across the pile …
save me.

Winter, summer, year-round-wear
crammed into one long closet.
Whatever has no place to sit
shoved in spaces
between 1998 and now.

Knick knacks & bric a brac
suffocate the shelves.
Picture framed memories
peak through new gifts,
given to squeeze a moment,
press a hug to your heart.

FACEBOOK  lights the corner,
Elvis looms on either side,
Brad Pitt stares from across the bed,
with the TV angled on an old chest,
an awkward mahogany monstrosity –
Its cracked leg splinted with tape,
each drawer closed and cowering.

A bedroll waits 
for the little ones
to fall asleep

Their laughter breaks the silence,
colors in the grey,

any lingering blues
their antics chase away.

Their little hands roll meatballs
and drop them in the pan –
necessary kitchen lessons
to fill their hearts
and keep their tiny
bellies full.

We listen for the elevator’s
almost silent warning beep 
of any building keeper’s
breech …
the drag and shuffle
 of their feet 

not wanting to police
but oh so tired of listening
to the daily wackos freak.

MarySusan Williams-Migneault / Shadow-Wolf (c) 2009

****************

 

how can I keep on going …
what is left to write about
my pen is empty
the ink spilled
across my days
and time – like a blotter
soaked up
every drop of love
every morsel of hope
leaving only dried stains
where dreams came
and loveless nights spent
all there was left of me
all that was there to say

 

6:10 AM Journey’s end

so much to put away- 
clothes and memories 
stuffed and packed
into any available space
stacks and piles
moments receding
in the undertow
deposits of reality erode
altering the landscape,
the foundation
upon which my entire life sits
shape-shifting dreams
into droplets of loss
haunting — eternally haunting
places where you smiled
places once my refuge
now painful holograms

 

Going Home

she had that look
you know the one
the far off stare
searching the horizon
listening to a drummer
only she could hear
and you knew
and she knew
she would soon
be leaving here
the road was calling
but this road
this road led
to a destination
only she could roam
rolling past yesteryear
memories her only gear
the smiles – the tears
a thunderhead of forevers
crashin’ crashin’ crashing
her bloodline flashing
across her view
ya, she knew
and you knew too
the road was callin’
callin’ her home

 

Another day dawns…

every morning 
when I can’t try 
to sleep any longer .. 
when my body
has tried every position
there is to try..
when the left over
emotions
of yesterday
have finally settled
down
into the lump
in my throat …

 

The Village Inn

The Inn’s faded paint 
with checkered patches 
of once primed slats 
and chipped shutters
embraced the porch
the rocker creaking
back and forth
though no one sat
rocking anymore
Moon-Wolf watched
thinking someone
might appear
he listened for the wind
but only his engine
could be heard
his mind wandered
wondering about yesteryear
how many had found comfort
or met loved ones here
still the rocker rocked
though no one sat there
Moon-Wolf climbed off his ride
stepped carefully
on the rotting stairs
half expecting to disturb
the ghost in the rocking chair
but the rocker just rocked
as if he was not there
He pulled on his beard
standing still out of respect
as he surely knew no fear
but something told him NO
leave the ghost rocker alone
He listened again for the wind
But hearing nothing he turned
mounted his ride and grinned
let out a long Eeeyaaaaa!!! —
saluted the old Village Inn
And his new ghosted friend.

 

The old rat biker’s lady…

She never watched him leave
Or stood between the door
She just handed him his leather
And turned to look away..

 

Your smile …

I carry your smile 
in my pocket
just in case 
the day darkens
with storm clouds
and when night falls
I place it on my pillow
to rest my weary head
in its gentle grace …
I carry your voice
in my heart
to sing its song
reminding me
life is but a flash dance …
I carry your memory
in a treasure chest
locked inside my soul
until we once again
bridge the distance.

 

Soul Writing:

fierce – unraveled
write write write
no one is EVER
going to read it —
LET ALONE GET IT
lose your way
don’t give a fuck
what someone thinks

 

I remember 
riding in the storm
pebbles of rain
pelting my face
near blinding him
makeshift protection
big green trash bags
billowing in the wind
shielding our clothes
from nature’s soaking
what a strange sight
we must have been
two green pumpkins
riding tandem —
my arms at his side
and the Harley huggin’
the sopping wet surface
with the throttle secure
in his steady gloved hand
he juggled sudden patches
of potholes and sand
road after road
through town after town
the foot-pegs slid
our leather boots around
but he stood firm
and steadied the load
making sure at all times
to keep the rubber side down.

 

Biker Poetry is more —
than images on a page,
more powerful than
Spoken Word – Slam
Rant – or – Rap
Biker Poetry is —
the gravel in your pores
the bugs up your nose
the rain scraping your skin
as it whizzes across your face
Biker Poetry is —
the sun setting
while the engine cools
and you sit staring out
the Roadside Diner window
admiring your Steel pony
breaking bread
with your biker
brothers and sisters
Biker Poetry is —
standing on the edge
throttle open
engine firing
rat-a-tat-tat
pulsing through your blood
fire-breathing straight pipes
blasting towards the horizon
forever stretched before you
Biker Poetry is —
the Spirit of a soul
chasing after the wind
listening for the Road
…………. to call them HOME

(Revised 4.2014) / mswm
Shadow-Wolf of the Shire
Road Scribe of America ™

 

Rubber Side Not Quite Down..

A tale of two rides..
Twice the pavement betrayed me
not keeping the rubber-side down —
The first – a cager ran the light
smashed and crushed the bike
left nerves and muscles raw
my brainswaves were scrambled
tangling memory with fight or flight
a screeching halt destroyed a life
built ’round the road and wind
gone were long rides north —
or through the Essex farms
stopping to buy a book
or maybe a bite to eat,
just long enough
to cool the engine
and stretch the legs,
or listen to a local’s yarn
but not for long you see
’cause keeping to the road
was always the destiny.
The second threw a wrench
into the family tree —
a cager crossed the line
a dead center head-on hit
threw the kid thirty feet
his helmet did no good
cracked in half it landed
far from where he fell
if a cop did not revive him
right there at the scene
he’d not had a story to tell
or ever mount another ride
on any metal steed.
But that is not how the story ends
the kid still rides and loves the wind
but me? I’ve left the seat…
still love the road
and chase the wind
and write biker poetry.

© MarySusan Williams-Migneault
September 10, 2012
Road Scribes Of America ™

 

Motorcycle Fever
by MarySusan Williams-Migneault ©

cracked leather sleeves
broken zipper
politically-patched jacket
faded Harley t-shirt
road-imprinted soles
on black steel-toe’ d boots
sand and gravel trails –
tracked across the floor
chained tri-fold
hanging off your ass
as you bend to lift
fat-bob tank
primed and painted black
to sit pretty in the frame
not bolted down yet
two or three twirled
sweat-stained bandanna’s
wrapped around chrome bars
spread-eagled across the rug
ah.. yes … winter has arrived

 

You’re free now baby..
Ride on..
~ ~ ~
They wanted you
to stand in line
walk straight
hold your head
above your shoulders
to speak only
when spoken to
and … listen
when they pressed
their rules.
~ ~ ~
They wanted you
to obey the signs
to stay within …
their fences,
fences pounded
into an earth,
that never wanted
to be … contained.
~ ~ ~
Now, they want us
to form a line
to say goodbye
to a spirit …
a spirit
that knew
no lines
no boundaries –
no fences, no rules
only a code
of respect,
and camaraderie.
~ ~ ~
They want us
to cry
at the side
of a lifeless
mannequin
laid to rest
in a space
marked
to take your place
~ ~ ~
Instead —
we look to the horizon
waiting … watching
listening always listening
for your wings to ride by ..

© revised 4.4.2014 /mswm
Shadow-Wolf of the Shire
Road Scribes Of America ™

 

THE BIKER’S BRIDE

He bent over to stoke the fire
flames danced around his beard
embers flicked and singed his heart
like blazing shooting stars
He sat back on his boot heels
looked straight out across the black
the glow from the campfire
flashed on his Harley’s chrome
the tent he double tied
But the tent was for another ride
another lifetime ago
Tonight he’d unpack the bedroll
And lay beside the fire
listen to the tch tch ticking
clicking and cooling the engine’s
full day’s heat inside
A year had passed
and still he felt her touch
just as if she was right by his side
her arms so loose around his waist
that sassy smile never left his eye
She was not his honey —
and no she was not his wife
but she was more than he
could find the words to say
her soft belly against his flesh
held his scarred and hardened life.
She knew what he wanted
what he needed before he did
and she was not afraid to give it
without a hint of any pain
This woman that always waited
when the road took her man
she knew from time to time
he needed to ride solo
and she knew he’d soon return
One run blew past summer
as He rode from camp to camp
until his soul got weary
and his heart longed for his “May”
but He stopped to sip a beer
before heading back on through
with his ol’ running mate
Lester Blue —
“I’m sorry about May” —
Blue said to a distant eye
and half turned ear of stone
Blue knew he had not heard
the Big C came hard and fast
left May laying there alone…
So now he packed May’s scent
all rolled up inside his bedroll
kept her memory close and tight
the way she touched his thigh
leaned in on every curve
He’d ride all day and night
listening to the wind
seeing her in everything
and missing her silly grin
No, she was not his honey
And never was his bride
But his soul was attached to her
Her name tattoo’d across his mind.

(c) July 18, 2012 / mswm / shadow-wolf of the shire

 

Into the flame….

Every muscle in her belly
strained to hold her steady,
while the energy of his body
leaned into the wind
and drew her into his flame–
the thickness of his fingers
slid her legs nearer to his hips
the chill of autumn’s air
stole her breath
as the steady vibration of the engine
stirred her blood – intoxicated her soul —
As if one with their Harley stallion
1they glided through Essex farmlands
on Old-New-England country-roads
nature’s foreplay teased their senses
their metal-steed’s tires kissed
each narrow twist and turn.
“Hang on, darlin..” he warned,
then cut the wheel off-road …
Their bodies banged, bounced up,
then smashed right back down
their boots found the foot-pegs
pushed hard and stood straight up
arms locked around his waist
heart pounded against her chest
breath froze in mid-air, and yet–
from deep inside her gut
she heard herself yell out:
“Don’t stop … Not now … Not ever!”

MarySusan Williams-Migneault AKA Shadow-Wolf
© 2008 Road Scribes of America (TM) 2012

 

Daylight

He sat by the window
watching dawn appear
streams of morning’s sun
lighting the reflection
of his thinning hair
mostly white and grey
not quite reaching
his gristle’d beard
shortened only by time
his God reclaiming
strand after strand.

 

This poem 
Is not a poem … 
It is more a poetic expression
written on behalf of the fathers
(and mothers)
spiritually abducted
against their own will
by disease, addiction, death
or shut off by fear
or ignorance,
or other’s selfishness.

 

THE PORTAL

heavy is the curtain
that can not be seen
but hangs there
none-the-less,
tiring those who
bravely push it aside
and step through
to sit among
the empty chairs
to listen–
to unsung songs
to grasp — receding memories
for one last HURRAH!

 

 

I can remember 
hiding my journal
afraid 
others would see
the vulnerable mess 
——-that was me

 

 

Made in America

spiritual squanderers
belligerent litterers
tempting Karma’s Wheel
drunk on technology
contemptuous
compulsive obsessive
consumed consumers
drinking thinking
foolish fools
mesmerized terrorized
by inadequate pride
but underneath
the crusted core
the raging fires
of the melting pot
sears and forges
the collective soul
into indestructible
American Steel