OldTroubador's blog post - Hell and Heaven

In a previous life, I wrote a piece about my dachshund ghost-writing for me. She has since retired and is content to sit on the front porch and bark at the cattle in the pasture next door. This means I had to find my own inspiration.
Sometimes, an entire day on the road will bring forth the Muse, so I set pen to paper to record that particular trip. Not only does this give me a chance to share that day with everyone, but it also sets that day firmly in my lackadaisical memory. At other times, it is a stretch of highway, a season, or an entire country that fires a literary spark.
And at times, a singular glimpse at something mundane and/or common will trigger a thought which soon evolves into a whole story. Such is the case with a bit of roadkill I saw a few days ago. And, just for the record, this is NOT about me.

His dreams are as dead as that possum on the side of the road
Loneliness rolls through him like a train whistle on the cold, dark prairie.
His heart is as empty as the bottles on his kitchen table
His hopes shattered; his soul is gone

The stereo is playing but all he hears
is the slamming of the door echoing between his ears
And his little boy's voice saying “Bye-bye Daddy”
As he is carried away in his Mama's arms.

He grabs his keys and a jug and with a little luck
He can outrun his demons in that old Ford truck
With the wheel in one hand, bottle in the other
The road turned left, he turned right
Despair died on this cold, lonely night.

Not all my ideas lead to the macabre, morose, or morbid. Witness a breeze, a pear tree, and a spring evening at a truck stop.

It was spring in the south, late in the evening. The night was warm and soft. It had been a good day for the driver; no schedule, no place to be really be, just sit up front and drive. Six hundred miles passed under his front bumper this day. Windows down, the sun was warm on his skin. There was not much traffic to bother him, so he savored the landscape as it scrolled past his window. The hills, with their trees beginning to leaf out, the streams tumbling over the rocks. A hot air balloon rose from the next valley, a bright bold splash of color against the deep blue of the sky. He watched as calves cavorted in the pastures and laughed as foals tried to figure out how to use their legs. Yes, it had been a good day.
He paused before he walked back to his truck, carrying his shower kit bag in one hand and his supper in a paper bag in the other. Over the rumble of the idling trucks, he could hear tree frogs singing to each other. Sparrows and chickadees fussed each other in the azaleas as they settled in for the night. A killdeer flew overhead, its keening call sharp in the night air. Flowering pear trees lined the sidewalk on which he walked, and as he walked, a breeze sprang up, blowing the petals off the trees to float on the breeze as they fell like snow, piling up in small drifts along the concrete path. And he stood there in wonder as the flowers fell gently upon his cheek, like the soft kisses of his daughter.

I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who reads and enjoys my blogs. Thank You.