My Tires Speak

Casper Wyoming Truck Driving Jobs - Tire Speak

My spinning tires speak in tongues
Countless voices plainly talking
Individuals hiding amongst themselves.

— Trucker Poet


My Tires Speak and William Shakespeare

More than four hundred years after his death, academics continue to argue about whether William Shakespeare was a real person and wrote everything attributed to him. Regardless of the answer, the plays and poems of Shakespeare continue to delight millions.

Then there are the crazy spelling variations in his name. He signed it differently at various times in his life. Editors and printers coined more variations before and after his death. So whether you spell it Shaxper, Shakspere, Shakespear, or Shackspere, his art remains immutable.

Every play he wrote in iambic pentameter is like an epic poem, but his most famous poems are the sonnets. Shakespeare never drove a truck, but if he could have, I’m sure he would have heard the tires speak to him.

Sonnet 27

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see.
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.


Sonnet 44

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way,
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay,
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee,
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend, time’s leisure with my moan.
Receiving nought by elements so slow,
But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.

Sonnet 64

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age,
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
When I have seen such interchange of State,
Or state it self confounded, to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.

Come Ride With Me

Ride With Me Hammond Indiana

Ride with me for a day.
We’ll sing the open road
Onward beyond forever.

— Trucker Poet


Walt Whitman

I consider him the greatest nineteenth-century poet. He was also an essayist and journalist. Walt Whitman traveled some in his life and more-so in his poetry. Reading his works, I often hear him say “Come ride with me.”

On Journeys Through the States

On journeys through the States we start,
(Ay through the world, urged by these songs,
Sailing henceforth to every land, to every sea,)
We willing learners of all, teachers of all, and lovers of all.

We have watch’d the seasons dispensing themselves and passing on,
And have said, Why should not a man or woman do as much as the
seasons, and effuse as much?

We dwell a while in every city and town,
We pass through Kanada, the North-east, the vast valley of the
Mississippi, and the Southern States,
We confer on equal terms with each of the States,
We make trial of ourselves and invite men and women to hear,
We say to ourselves, Remember, fear not, be candid, promulge the
body and the soul,
Dwell a while and pass on, be copious, temperate, chaste, magnetic,
And what you effuse may then return as the seasons return,
And may be just as much as the seasons.


To a Certain Cantatrice

Here, take this gift,
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or general,
One who should serve the good old cause, the great idea, the
progress and freedom of the race,
Some brave confronter of despots, some daring rebel;
But I see that what I was reserving belongs to you just as much as to any.

The Ship Starting

Lo, the unbounded sea,
On its breast a ship starting, spreading all sails, carrying even
her moonsails.
The pennant is flying aloft as she speeds she speeds so stately–
below emulous waves press forward,
They surround the ship with shining curving motions and foam.