The Provocation on Highway 401/ By Maria Mitea

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you, the day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hammer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself."

I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble into the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hammer hitting on a red iron,

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen to a spot fyi " Going Out West", and ask if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives",

Ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I have heard the tautologies of the rich,
the shifty and the shallow
when told of their impending fate
in a medical review

I’ve seen them torturing themselves
over the unfairness of it all
as though it were a deal, to negotiate.
But The Reaper always calls

They don’t go gently into that dark night
but not like that drunken poet meant
many pass with a look that begs
One question, was that it?

It was

Blanket eyes,
Close, to see the light.

Drift,
Further from the shining bright.

Open wide,
To see the blight.

That which,
Leaves with dreams of flight.

Goodbye, fateful might,
For once again,
I will sleep tonight.

never and never my boy,
riding away and away
from the land of the hearthstone tales
to never look back,
fear or believe
that a look cast into the past
might trip you up ahead.

never and never my boy,
fear or believe
that your Troubles,
dressed in cloaks of Joy -
snarling and snaking,
roughly and blithely
shall leap -
my boy, my boy -
into a home under new trees
in a sunlit year
to eat your heart
in this house
in your whole new world.

The guy who wore a scarf at the bar,
he chose not to write
because he's ‘no Hemingway.’
I told him no one stops me.
Memories of Ginsberg, Frost, Thomas,
and even Bukowski's drunken ghost
make me feel at home in my words.
That didn't change the guy's mind,
so I told him to drink up
and do something else.

-Ron Gavalik

A Villanelle poetic form
Is a Nineteen line poem
5 Stanzas of three lines
Followed by a single Stanza of four lines
Two refrains and two repeating rhymes
Rhyme patterns
A1 ,b A2.a,b ,A1.a,b,A2.a,b,A1.a,b,A2 ,a,b,A1,A2
Here is a famous Villanelle by Dylan Thomas.
1914-1953.
~~~~~~~~~
Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rage at close of day
Rage ,rage , against the dying of the light

Though wise men at their end know dark is right.
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men the last wave by crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a Green Bay.
Rage,rage, against the dying of the light

Wild men who caught and sang the men in flight.
And learned too late ; they grieved it on its way
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men near death , who see with blinding sight.
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay
Rage,rage against the dying of the light

And you my father there on the sad height
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Posted by Philip as a Villanelle Exercise.
December 7th 2018.