Vol Lindsey

Road Scribes Of America ™  

Active member

 

SHORT BIO…

Vol Lindsey is a Poet, Wood Sculptor, Biker and retired Creative Writing teacher living on Route 66 in Gouge Eye, Texas. He was born in 1949 at a Bible college in Waxahachie, but if he has a “home,” it is spread through most of the states in southeast America, mostly Florida and Tennessee. He has degrees in Literature, History and Education, earned at Middle Tennessee State University.

Vol Began writing while still in high school and for several years as a non-Haight Ashbury hippie. Like most folks, he gave all that up at the insistence of what folks call “real life.” Twenty-five years later, and thanks to his brilliant wife, Kimberly (R.I.P.), he got back to his TRUE real life, did some sculpting, picked up his pen, and bought a new bike. Since then, he has read publicly for many years at the various fabulous venues in Nashville, and has been recognized by that city and the State of Tennessee for his contributions to poetry. Oh, yeah, and biked lone wolf all over the damn place as much as health would allow.

 

 

FLIGHT

In the overlay of heaven and Earth,
the thinnest place I know is on
my motorcycle. Down the long road
there is time to think it all the way through…
A face in a passing car brings to mind
every woman I’ve ever loved or made love to
or didn’t, but wanted to slide a slow hand
Along the smooth inside of her long thigh…
rock and roll; watch her slow breath
asleep on the pillow next to mine.

The bright blue of a desert sky
so deep you can see the black on the other side,
wind so hot  your soul edges its way
through your skin and expands outward
“I’ll fly away oh glory, I’ll fly away;
When I die Halleluiah by and by, I’ll fly away.”

The redbuds and dogwoods prove God
is an impressionist,
Monet, but not Van Gogh at the last end of time.
Before Picasso or Dali built the fire that burned everything
to leave us in the ashes;
the revolution behind us ended
with a moan, not a whimper…
“Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush,
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.”

Unexpected debris on the pavement ahead
to swerve and avoid brings the witch to
dig at the scabs of regret and disappointment,
and a ragged skeleton emerges to grin at the times I hurt
somebody I didn’t mean to, and lowered the lid
on sweet possibilities, her eyes looking off to the side
for what could have been.

It is there, in the overlay
of heaven and earth
I can feel the knots on my shoulder blades
where the budding wings
get ready for a last solo.

© Vol Lindsey 3/10/2012

Road Scribes Of America 

 

 

 

THE WITCH

I rumble down a mountain road,
Through low clouds…
In the wee hour dark,
She sails down on a shriek,
The daughter of Lilith, to ride
With me awhile.
Her shroud blows
Tatters in the wind to reveal
Thigh and breast… She
Laughs because she’s in
My head; knows my
Secrets, knows all I’ve done;
Watches my eyes slide
Across her chest and linger
At the dark vee
Between  her legs
Till she moans, slides astraddle
My lap, and drags her
Talons down my back
To kindle a wanton despair.
Icy embers glow blue
In my belly and I wonder
How I’ve dared to come this far.
With a longing smile she turns
To the ragged dawn,
Then back to nip my ear
With an ivory fang
And whispers,
“I’ll be back”
Before she sails away.

© Vol Lindsey 10/10/2009

Road Scribes Of America 

 

 

AFTERNOON

Salty kisses
Ring like slow funeral bells
In the early freedom of Autumn
My destination nears
So I’ll take one last ride
Down this highway
Into the ruddy light
Before it is time to lie down
In cool water
And sleep among the rocks.

© Vol Lindsey 7/11/10

Road Scribes Of America 

 

 

 

 

ACCUMULATION

Sail down hard
and whip the wind
in a long dive to whitewater,
roar and slam the rocks
past trees and cliffs,
infusion,
confusion you know nothing about
at the muddy end of the bed
she dances right under your bridge
and accumulates there
until the dam breaks
and leaves
what’s left to wander
dazed into the night.

She sings raunchy blues
and trips the light fantastic
I say, trips the light fantastic
because destruction is where it’s at,
Baby.
You need to get with the program,
Baby;
Figure it out.
Next time,
get it right the first time!
Understand this song don’t end
until it’s over.
I say, this song don’t end
until it’s over,
Baby.

© Vol Lindsey 11/11/12

Road Scribes Of America 

 

 

 

 

CONSCIOUS

When you ride alone
there is time to think.
Between the trees and fences
on either side
a little thought breaks free
and tumbles into another
then more to make a cascade,
so now it’s double duty…
the road
and a question.

Happened just the other day…
war, prisoners, retaliation,
torture, shame, humiliation,
blood, shreds of flesh from RPG’s,
my brothers
and the oxymoron
“inhumanity”
a gust of wind
shifts me a little to the left,
I lose the train a moment,
then back again…
“inhumanity,”
conflict,
the passionate stuff
of literature and art.
Cruelty,
pain for pleasure…
I want to pull over,
squeeze my eyes shut
against myself,
afraid that down deep,
where darkness sleeps,
it could be me.

© Vol Lindsey 10/06

Road Scribes Of America 

 

 

Coming Soon

Motorcycle Sam an Epic Biker Poem

by Vol Lindsey

INTRODUCTION

Sam has always lived life as he wanted…as far from the cares of everyday life as he could get. He figures God takes care of the sparrows pretty regular, so he didn’t worry overmuch, just worked occasional odd jobs to pay expenses and keep the motor running. Sam wants to be like Tom Bombadil, happy and free all the time, and in control of his own fate. Sam loves people… and good conversation, one at a time. He’s sad that our times have robbed too many folks of their souls. Sam thinks it is important to take care of his soul.