January 11 2016 PHX PHL WFL 673 Modfied

Miles to go before I can pause
My companion the road holds me safely in its embrace
Asphalt lover unwinding beneath my tires
How I love to be grounded and rolling

Where all is possible in your flowing lanes
Where adventure and possibility are waiting
Where miles evaporate in Mindfulness Meditation
And my muses dance on the pavement
Rubber, creativity, and road are the happy trio
As I grab my voice recorder and take another note

My mind dances so freely between those lines
That make up each lane
I feel it speeding so rapidly no matter
The limits imposed by signs I whiz by or drift past
Ensconced in my moving pod
I playing songs over and over again
As thoughts, images, and lines of dialogue
Burst forth and make their way to my lips
And digital recorder

Transient car and truck cities moving inspire me
As we jockey for position
Swearing laughing and smiling at each other
Though the professionals pay us no mind
For them the road is a thirty-thousand pound office

At times, a million miles left is a welcome break
At others, one mile seems more like swatch of asphalt
Stretching infinitely painfully beyond breaking
Over so many damned hills and equally as damned valleys
Never surrendering a hint as to its hoped-for end
At those times, it is a vapid creative purgatory
Limbo untouched by favorite songs or phone calls

LuvB2URoad as you simultaneously take me
Away from and lead me to wonderful worlds
Corporeal, imagined, and metaphysical
My journey limited only by the gas in my tank

Going, going, going
Flowing, flowing, flowing
While fully swaddled
In my rolling meditation temple


Copyright (c) 2019.  All rights reserved.
Photo: Infinity’s Road (Lehigh Tunnel, 2015)


I (The Artist)


I (The Artist)
Know this world
Inside my head
Fueled by dreams
That ignite my soul.

I (The Artist)
Live in worlds
Handed me in bits
And pieces
And dreams
And scents
And distractions
And sounds
And wide-eyed faces
Caught in the passing smiles
And muted giggles
Of joy
I join into
With each flutter
Of my fingers
On this keyboard
On this literary dance floor
From which all my glories
Wash over
All those damned distractions
I must call life.

I (The Artist)
Laugh at my follies
And silly pursuits
As decades pass
And allow me to
Know living
Know connection
Beyond ambition
In those moments when
Word and I and Reader are one
As all those readers know
The union of reader and word
Render all else insignificant.

© 2016 by John David Higham: All Rights Reserved
Photo: Writer’s Paradise (Windfall, 12/18/16)

Who Wants This Truth?

Seatec to Windfall 2 20 16 151

Who wants this truth
That is flowing like a river from the sun
And cascades all over my life
In a nurturing flood
Of Abundance and bliss?

Who needs the touch of the warm wind,
The hypnotic sound of the ocean’s waves,
And the comforting embrace of a lover
In the middle of a raging snowstorm?

Why would I share these worlds?
What might they bring me
Or take from me if I sat only in silence
And said nothing of the thousand worlds
Inside my head?

What should become of those
If each were hidden in a prison of my mind’s making,
Each submitted to a rigorous test before allowed
To grace the glorious light of day?

It reminds me of the dawn:
In the morning, the sun brings the birds and their music
Until the discordant logic machinery disrupts
The day’s symphony.

These things my path consists of;
How many countless times have I lost myself
Justifying my truth to the birds who only care to fly,
The sun that only cares to shine,
The wind that only cares to move about?

They’ve no use for my justifications
And neither do I;
Truth exists sans words and reasons
And requires I justify
Nothing to my strictest judge: me.

My art is my truth,
My truth is my life,
My life is my being,
My being is this poem:
Nothing more I will explain.


© copyright 2016 John David Higham

I Saw Blank Pages

February 8 2015 Windfall 008

I saw
Blank pages,
Blank books,
Unfinished poems,
Unfinished synopses,
Unfinished pitches;
I saw them everywhere.

I heard
Unspoken dialogues,
Undeveloped characters
Unrealized plots;
I heard them all night.

Too many
Worlds were swirling
In my head;
Waking, dream, creative, mundane
Were all begging, stealing, fighting
For my attention, my energy, my soul.

Too much, too much, too much
In this writer’s world
Being pushed aside ;
Creative opportunities,
Artistic potentials
Flowing like floodwaters
In all directions
Across an infinite plain.

Will my passion shrivel
If I don’t overfeed it?
Will my magician
Cease making his magic?
Will enslavement
And mediocrity
Be mine?

I sought out
The Inner Voice,
The Universe,
The Great Spirit,
The Angels
To direct me.

Breathing in,
Breathing out,
Breathing in,
Breathing out,
Breaths cleansed me…

So loud the answer
Came to my consciousness:

I saw my smile.
I heard my bliss
And the worlds
Stopped swirling
In my head
So that I could once again
Write my soul’s poem.


© copyright 2016 John David Higham

Barbeque with a Side of Poetry (Hold the LSD): Halloween 2015

October 31 2015 Windfall 077

Pulled pork,
Barbeque chicken
Filled my plate, my stomach.
My ears were filled by
The Eagles singing
About living in
That fast

Was my Tabula Rosa,
Was a pen,
Was then MY pen.

Barbeque with poetry
(Hold the LSD):
My soul, gut
I smiled,
Seeing words
Dancing across
The brown paper.

All so
Funny, so
Nicely surreal.
A blissful journey:
Barbeque and poetry
(That was now my LSD).
Muses dancing with
Me in Callears as
I ate, indulged
With these

At the next
Table, enjoying
Their Texas Briskets
As I watched their meal,
Watching their hands
Talk with forks
And nodding
Their heads
(A “Yes”

The family:
Dad, Mom, Sis,
And Sis gazing at
Their menus. Sis One
Has a Smartphone and
Is again checking
For some thing
Soon ignored
As Mom

And then
The Eagles sang,
The background music
Like a lyrical invitation
For my crayon pen
To dance out

My world
Was prepared
For Halloween,
For Smartphones,
I was just living poetry
And looking beneath
The masks all over
My world today
(Again, again)
As I ate ribs
And was.

My mask.
My worlds:
My salvation,
A perfect balance.
Writing is straddling
Both waking and dreams
Both thinking and feeling
Both movement and stillness.
Barbeque, tunes, and poems
Amidst plastic plates
Will eternally
Kick ass.

When My Inner Wind

October 31 2015 Windfall 060

When my Inner Wind
Is no longer yelling
And I’m no longer
Pulling at this world
With all my letters and words.

When my hands
Are reaching for the sky
And I watch my fingers
Turn into sparkling dust
Woven into the rainbows.

When my lungs
Fill with more than air
And my thoughts stop
Stopping me.

When I become my dreams
And my prayers become buffalo
Bringing me abundant lightness.

When I see The Angels dancing
Just beneath my bedtime ceiling
And my eyes become otherwise useless.

When my minutes and hours mean nothing
And I am pulled away
From all those titles, histories
And objects that had defined me.

When my soul’s eyes open
Infinitely within each moment,
Seeing the subtly of the
Inner child inner breeze
And I allow all worlds
To flow through
Me one letter at a time.

When I am the loyal dog
To me and those on my path
That I may sound warning barks
As strangers approach
And I embrace their scent.
When innocence returns
Like a cascade of future recollections
And now empty past predictions
Moving beyond my intuitive self.

When meanings becomes meaningless,
Thoughts become music, and
Work evolves into whimsical play.

Then, and only then
Will my Inner Wind
Gently embrace you,
Gently embrace the many me
Without either of us knowing it.

Then is only here and now.
See The Hierophant
Is upside down…