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Phillip E. Carpenter

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Featured Book
The Ghost of Atlanta
by JE Thompson

The saga of Andy Michael Pilgrim, facing real and supernatural forces, ends with the publication of The Ghost of Atlanta. ..  
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Lost Horizons
by Phillip E. Carpenter
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Red-rimmed mesmerized eyes, targeting the long black ribbon pulling me futureward into mysteries of night.
Tiny diamonds wink in the distance, a fuzzy, posted shield glides past-sixes, rampant
on field of white.
Tired synapses finally fire, record data, signal numbed foot to ease,
resentfully it stirs from wooden lethargy.
In this small hour, a neon otherworld beckons hypnotically, a promise
of relief from dark, humming monotony.
Inside, zombie-like extras pose quietly over steaming tankards of indulgement, untold stories etched starkly in mirrored blank countenances as congealing dead animals are
stabbed yet again, then lethargically consumed.
Badly out of sync, microseconds behind reality, I sit tiredly on a scarred, vinyl-coated
pedestal, yawning, gritty.
Then-- She comes, aproned, busty, lipsticked, waved and sprayed, bringing an earthy ambiance.
A look for a look, then a second of stillness and we suffer rare attacks of mutual shyness.
Recovering, she raises tablet in anticipation of my desire, quill quivering at Present Arms as subtle roses bloom on fair cheeks.
Interfacing modems again connect our fiber-optics, Id speaks to Id, a mythic spark flashes
Suddenly an unanticipated milestone looms, demanding a decision. A hidden path opens
but I am not yet ready for such a journey. Other formats are in place, not ideal, nor dream fulfilling, but like sagging padding in a favorite chair, we have adapted, accepted, reached an unthinking, comfortable accommodation with status quo; procrastination and resignation.
Inexplicably afraid, I recoil from this sudden, compromise-shattering wormhole in my universe, mumbling trite camouflage, hastily imbibing liquid essence of bean, I rise,
largesse carelessly tossed as tribute on stained Formica.
Once again ensconced within the refuge of my steel chariot, forced by inner turmoil,
I look back.
She stands forlornly still behind glass, a single drop of precious
liquid crystal oozing from her azure soul windows. Caught in my gaze like a frightened doe in sealed beams, she starts to lift a hand, a reflexive act quickly aborted.
It is too far for small details, yet mutual trembling lips and tightened throats are seen in my mind,
felt in my center.
In an eternal dopplered instant, an alternate time line of averted joys and sorrows
telepathically, agonizingly, flashes soul to soul.
Numbly, I turn the key, heart shrinking as a collapsing star, a
black hole of might have beens.
Dark asphalt ribbon again hums tunelessly beneath me as photons
tunnel ahead, searching out unknown destinies. Poles, lines and mystic signs rush by in a watery blur.
The right thing done, for one and one, I and all of I concur.

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Reviewed by Phillip Carpenter
I wrote this poem long ago after many lonely nights driving across western desert highways, lured by the hypnotic rhythm of the thrumming machine, the asphalt ribbons leading to the unknown tomorrows,. It was the 'fifties and to a young man exploring the wide open spaces, an adventure in learning, with much time to ponder the complexities of the universe and the ultimate mystery that is the ethereal bond between two human souls. Perhaps you, too, sometimes wonder about that path not taken, that moment of decision that alters your universe forever.

Reviewed by Lady Peg (Reader)
Excellent write and I love the photo.. very good.
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