Chasing radio stations

We used to drive across the prairies.

Chasing radio stations from point to point.

Towns along the railway alphabetical names.

The click of the cassettes or 8-tracks songs play.


The road was more than from point A to point B.

Maps marked, folded and creased, wrinkled deep.

Or crisp and new – unmarked and untravelled – yet!

Snacks in an old shoe box. Thermos of coffee or juice.


You waved at everyone you saw. You smiled too. Journey.

Stopping to help someone in need. Sharing stories, tires change.

Flashing to let someone know they are safe to merge in after a pass.

Trailers and trucks, cars and not so many vans. Thrill of a sports car.


Indian reservations. Resorts temptingly pass by. Fairgrounds to walk horses.

Tall gas station signs along the flat highways. Mountain passes – runaway lanes!

Rain, sun, snow, ice – the highway went on and on. The tires beat the rhythm of the road.

Being a good traveller – pee in the ditch. Drink sun warmed water. Sleep against the window.


Sunshine fading behind hills and headlights coming on. The way sparkled like diamonds alight.

Highways and backroads. Beloved, and horrifying, ‘short cuts’. The way less travelled sometimes.

Familiar landmarks to lead us home. Dancing in the unknown as we go out again. Generations on the road.

A million miles in a truck (or more) and I still love the open road. We all three do. The best thing – to go! Go!


We did a semi-epic but not surprising ‘surprise’ trip to see family for Easter. 16 hour drive that put us in three provinces in a day. Tired but happy to see their ‘surprised’ faces. Packing things better for the trip home. Dogs and boy, husband and wife. Snacks and treats. Old stories and new jokes. Dreams and memories of past drives. How things have changed (seatbelts, smoking and the safety of hitchikers!)  Truckers will still sometimes flash a ‘thank you’ when you blink to let them know they are far enough past to merge, sometimes other drivers wave or smile. Sometimes we visit with strangers at truckstops. Smiling because at 1 am there are no strangers at the gas pumps! Just tired drivers finding their way.

If you are here via dVerse, thanks for coming by. I’m tending bar tonight for Poetics. If you came from another place, please stop by dVerse and meet my brother and sister poets, read their words and enjoy their journey. Share your own. And leave love. Always leave love.

Ballets Russes

Prompt for Magpie Tales today, inspiration is Ballest Russes.


Trains hauled them, the ballet, across the country.

Dancers rode the rails to towns unknown.

Places where ballet was a ‘city thing’.

Places where Indians and Black

dancers were not welcome.

Russians either.


They came from across the globe to dance here.

Not for the money, nor for the fame, just to

dance, dance, dance. They rose up on

point for the dance, lifted slender

hips, raise arms and faces

times when you could

still smile on a

stage, perfect.


Dancers, for the love of dance, in a world ripped.

Ripped apart with war and with jealousy.

Two companies danced across the

globe. To Australia and to Witchita,

on train, by sea tossed ship.

They made a million miles,

danced a million notes,

and gave a million

or more smiles.


You don’t know them, do you? What a loss!

The eyes of a Russian ballerina stare,

from the poster on the theatre wall.

You can’t imagine what it

could look like, seeing

her dance to that

music, in those

arms of him

so strong.


Ballet is not the same, you know, their time passed.

No more props, sets or smiling faces.

No joy in dance, just the stern

athletic bodies demanding

you, the audience, be

somber and still

witnesses to

their new



I would love to see a ballet in this style, it is reviving, those who danced teach, and those who were taught dance, and those who love dance watch.  Check out the film.  It is amazing.  Their stories, the first Black American ballerina, the first Aboriginal (Native American) ballerinas, they danced through a war and brought ballet to places that never would have had it without them.

Copyright 2012, Shanyn Silinski