Loneliest Highways
Three hours to go.
Coming from lonely highways,
over mountain passes
through rural towns.
Relaxed drive, audiobook novel.
Dogs asleep in backseat sun.
Startled, as too soon awakened,
dust whorls through Lone Pine.
Wind shakes out dirty rugs across road,
blinds, screams, tears down Vacancy signs,
does not slow for traffic.
Peeled-off metal panels from gas station pumps
cartwheel across the parking lot
while gasoline hoses dance like cobras on asphalt.
Jacket hood pasted to my head,
I herd my dogs into car from rest stop,
pull out onto road, slowly.
I drive with hands welded to steering wheel,
chassis swings, bumps, gyrates.
Wild throws confetti of leaves, celebrates
my cautious return to concrete coliseum
to face roaring velocity in my unarmed armor of car.
I pass through Lone Pine, dodge debris,
now filled with gasoline and determination,
I head slowly toward home.
The gusts fade with the miles,
they soon halt as I drive in to Olancha.
The road is mine again.
My speed picks up, I am on my way, faster,
back in the race I always have with myself
every time I return
across 357 miles, straight yellow lines, weather,
toward home, nothing gets in my way.
Death Valley Lake
Dry.
Void of activity.
Ancient.
The ceaseless wind repeats.
W
I
D
E
Spread out like cracked china,
wrinkled linen tablecloth.
No fish today, this once inland sea.
Harsh.
Sun. Heat. Clouds.
Little rain.
Empty lifeless bottom.
Crust.
Uneven trails of salt.
The Earth's tears.
Starter Home
I knew we had to fix it, sell it,
make it disappear.
The family home in the mountains
for over sixteen years,
my ex called it the starter house,
but it never was.
Pine cabin on an acre and a half,
twelve miles from a small town,
an hour away from Bakersfield,
four seasons of seclusion .
We’d taken so many photographs
of the bobcats, deer, rainbow of birds
that adorned the view.
a home I thought I'd never leave.
I planted 35 trees,
now they’re thriving
since my now husband installed irrigation
they were dry,
as I was, in conservative horse country.
I will choose what to bring
back from the cabin.
The wildlife was always the best part,
and now I am the one who roams free.
Diane Funston has been published in journals including Lake Affect, F(r)iction, Penumbra, Still Points Quarterly, among others. She served as Poet-in-Residence for Yuba-Sutter Arts and Culture. Her chapbook, “Over the Falls” was published by Foothills Publishing. She lives in rural California with her husband and three rescue dogs.
Facebook Diane Funston Author and Artist
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