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The Billboard
a pantoum
It’s propped along the route I roll—
A squatting square against the sky,
Atop a sturdy metal pole,
To tell me what new thing to buy.
A squatting square against the sky,
It blocks the airy, fluffy clouds,
To tell me what new thing to buy
To follow the unthinking crowds.
It blocks the airy, fluffy clouds,
A big sign saying come and shop
To follow the unthinking crowds
To buy that brand of soda pop.
A big sign saying come and shop,
Atop a sturdy metal pole,
To buy that brand of soda pop—
It’s propped along the route I roll.
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The Country Drive
Throughout the rippled fields of green,
Farm houses dot the grassy mounds
And cauliflower clouds are seen,
Casting shadows on the grounds,
Against the deepest blue of sky
With sunshine bright in good supply.
The sheep and goats and cows in herds
Stretch out far like fields of flowers.
Throughout the air, the blackest birds
Fly and land on wooden towers.
I hear the caws and bleats and moos
As on the hamlet road I cruise.
That night, when waiting for my sleep,
The country scene plays in my mind.
Old country houses, fields, and sheep—
That drive-through hamlet’s just the kind
Of country place I’d like to stay
To raise a family someday.
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The Interstate
I drove along the interstate;
To me, the surest sign it showed
That drivers there are less than great
Was all the crosses by the road.
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Night Driving
You’re driving back from out of state.
It’s late at night; home’s far away.
Your headlights on the interstate
Give fifteen feet of not quite day
In blackness from the cloudy sky,
From hills ahead, from hills you’ve passed.
Each big, black mountain flying by
Looks no different from the last.
The road’s white dashes lull your mind;
You sing along to stay awake
With every album you can find—
Night driving’s more than you can take.
A sign appears that lets you know:
Two hundred miles more to go.
First published in Snakeskin
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Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives near Austin, Texas. His poetry has also been published in Snakeskin, Sparks of Calliope, Atop the Cliffs, and the Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism.
Joshua, apparently, we have driven those same roads. I remember all the billboards along the way. Once going into Santa Fe, New Mexico, it seemed like there were miles of them. Then environmentalists managed to get them cut down. Now, what else was there to want to see driving into Santa Fe at dusk? As a Texan, I know you have driven the hill country and no doubt observed the ranches with sheep and cattle. I love your use of “cauliflower clouds.” The crosses beside the road is sobering and may help motorists slow down and be more careful. “Night Driving” in Texas is so descriptive, since there usually are at least 200 more miles to go and still be in the state. These four poems contributed to my nostalgia today for the times I used to travel so much. Thank you for the neat package of poems,
Thank you, Roy. These were all inspired by road travel right here in Texas, so I know you’re picturing things very similar to what I’ve seen. Apparently it hasn’t changed much since you were traveling a lot…
Joshua,
While I haven’t driven much in Texas, I have done my share of driving in the midwest.
I echo every one of Roy’s words. Sweet poems.
Congratulations!
Paddy
Thank you, Paddy. Glad you enjoyed them. I bet the roads up there are fairly similar to down here.
Your pantoum was a delight as well as your other three.
Thank you, Allegra. I felt the pantoum was the best form for that one.
Josh, what a marvelous array of road travel poems that have driven this reader to heady heights of linguistic delights steeped in vivid and beautiful imagery – imagery that captures the imagination with “cauliflower clouds”, “rippled fields”, “blackest birds” and those herds of farm animals stretching out far like “fields of flowers” – great stuff! I can hear the rhythmic roll of the wheels and see the warning crosses. I love the use of the pantoum to express the endless appearance of “squatting squares” blocking the clouds with their intrusive lure.
Each poem stands alone in its appeal, yet together they conjure the complete journey on roads I have travelled, but never look at through a poet’s eye… thank you for a poetic trip I won’t forget in a hurry!
Thank you Susan! It makes me happy that you can picture the scenes from the images I used, and such a description from such an accomplished poet is wonderful to hear. As you inferred, these are all from actual trips I’ve taken right here in Texas.
I’d love to see your poetic perspective on sights like these…
I’m reminded of some of the longer road trips in Saudi, though without the cauliflower clouds that get a third thumbs up from me.
Thank you, Paul. I also don’t imagine there are a whole lot of crosses by the road in Saudi Arabia. Are there “rippled fields of green” there? I picture all of Saudi Arabia as a desert with little more than scrub, like West Texas.
It’s always a joy, Josh, when I see your poems come up for publication. These four are entertaining and evocative — and particularly timely for me since I’m about to embark on a road-trip to Southern California tomorrow morning. I’ve only driven through Texas once many years ago from Louisiana to New Mexico on I-10 and I remember how vast and bleak so much of the drive was. And yes, much of the southwest is more of the same.
Those crosses you describe on the side of the highway really get to me — they seem to be everywhere these days. Here in New Mexico they are often dressed up as if in a cemetery with flowers and photographs.
And I especially like your clever use of the pantoum form to convey that repetition of billboards upon billboards that seems to ruin views everywhere. I also like your rhyme of “moos” and “cruise” in Country Road.
Thank you, Brian! It’s always a joy to see your comments on my poems… as well as your poems!
I find I-10 to be an enjoyable drive, except for the big cities… it’s I-35 that gets tiring and monotonous, especially in and near the big cities. (Gee, can you tell I don’t like big cities?)
The crosses here are decorated like that, too. Like Roy says, I see the need to be extra cautious where those are, as they seem to cluster in specific places.
Yes, everyone seems to like the pantoum form for “The Billboard.” The idea just struck me as I wrote it, as did the rhyme you mention.
Your “Country Drive” poem brought back the memories of when I was a child and our parents took us out for the Sunday drive to visit our cousins. The roads along the way were more rural back then, filled with farms and dairy cows. Now it’s all gone and there are housing developments and more traffic instead.
Thank you, Cheryl. I’m glad I was able to bring back memories. People who live here tell me that the interstate here was once like that, and now it’s a continuous strip of city. Once you get away from the strip, the buildings halt abruptly, and it’s all country until you get to the next town. Sadly, apartment buildings are popping up like mushrooms… I hear that greater Austin is the fastest-growing metropolitan area in the United States, so the road that inspired “The Country Drive” will most likely suffer the same fate.
Good collection, Josh. Nice to have “Country Drive” as a contrast to the interstate pieces. As Cheryl says, it’s becoming more difficult to find a country drive, and if speed limits are low enough to savor it, there may be a speed trap somewhere. One area of France used to have spooky official warning signs (often with crosses added nearby). They consisted of a dark heart painted with white road markings, and struck by a yellow lightning bolt, with a name and age added in red (such as Bernard, 73, or Gisele, 19). These certainly made me slow down and pay greater attention to areas where drivers had met their demise. Here in my part of California
Your destination is distant, you know:
Unlimited suburban stretches to go.
Thank you, Margaret. I’m glad you enjoyed these.
Out here in Texas, you can still find a nice country drive once you get away from the interstate. That’s interesting, those signs in France—it would probably be useful to have that here! It reminds me of how once on I-5, in the middle of the night, I saw a car that had spun, caught fire, and split in two—it made me decide to find a rest area and try to sleep.
Love the couplet!