A full moon’d desert./
A double-zippered flannel bag./
Lonely recipe.

The romantic Oz ego/
gathers the poetic remains/
of verbal seeds cast across/
the ocean’s eternal waves.

She examines them closely;/
turning them this way/
and that. Hopefully believes words
written by the poet today.

She understands their power.
She knows of their might.
Years ago they’d caressed her
deep into the Outback’s dark, lonely night.

But she must now know he’s let go and moved on,
just like she did so long ago with her other one.

What would you do with/
a full moon you wished to share,/
while asking: Did she?
OR
What would you do with/
a full moon you wished to share,/
but asked if she did.

Your name calls to me/
from road signs, faces, jerseys./
Yet you are not near.

Between North Pole and/
Equator I saw the light./
It was a tractor.

As long as you drive/
with the top down, it always/
is clear and warming.

A friend told me she didn’t like to wear a hat, because she felt like it covered her mind and prevented her from getting inspiration. As I was driving to Utah, I took that one step further by driving with my convertible top down the entire way (even when it was below freezing on the Utah/Idaho border) … and I penned this haiku about how I can see more clearly with the top down:
You never know what/
possible visions you miss/
covering your mind.

When i see “Bump” signs,/
I throw my hands in the air:/
Road roller coaster!

Love Unsatisfied/
becomes ours when we fear and/
cant grasp the unknown.
Or:
Unsatisfied Love/
Or:
won’t try the unknown.

As I was leaving on a road trip — that ended up being more than 6 months long — a friend asked me “Are you really gone?” My response could be both a haiku or a poem:

Don’t know. My life is/
an adventure… So am I/
ever really there?

Or really gone?