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Michael Bauer Mar 2018
I got sick in a Florida winter
Something evil was chasing me
Stayed up all night for days
Most of this probably didn't happen anyway

I started flipping through Gramps's Bible
Leaflets fluttered out
Little signs from God that I was fine
But I still couldn't shut my mouth

The roof of my mouth was bleeding for awhile
So I took more antibiotics and it healed
Went to a doctor then stayed in my room
Took what he gave me then saw how I'd feel

Then I went out driving one day
I thought I was feeling better
Drove all over the Nature Coast and down to the thunder
My mind was in tangles and filled up with wonder

I went to the casino where the sweet siren played
Didn't see her and was feeling too sick still to stay
Drove in a daze all over the freeways
Stopped at Mellow Mushroom for pizza and beer

Ordered the Cosmic Karma pizza dish
Saw Gabby fly by as an angel -- I wish
Ate and drank my beer
Then walked out into the wind and drove home

I got back to the house but I couldn't sleep
Thought my step-dad wanted to **** me
Left a note on the door then drove out in the night
What took place next was a hellish sight

I hit a few people driving out to the river
Was messing with my phone while driving -- go figure
But there were really no bodies there
I was conscious-unconsciously there unaware

One moment I pulled over to the side of the road
Thought the sweet siren was locked in the trunk
I unlocked the trunk and pulled out the nothing
Then the angel Gabby swooped in from the air

She carried the siren off to Heaven
Then I cranked the volume up to eleven
I think I was listening to The Gaslight Anthem
Continued my voyage out into the marsh

I found the place by the river to sleep
Out where the sirens weep
Slept for some time with my head in the trunk
Then it all got stranger from there

Angels came down and were crushing the car
I heard familiar voices all around
Then I summoned the explosive destruction of stars
And reality came clear with a thunderous sound

I ran full speed straight off the road
At a place where the road does bend
Ended up rolling and tumbling a couple of times
Must've really hit my head

The siren was there and strange angels came swooping
Thought I was still in the back feeling loopy
Had *** with the siren then she was freed
And the angels one by one started ****** me

Woke up in the ambulance
I was taken to hospital
Somehow made it through all that with just a scratch
The madness continued for three days and three nights

My mom came to visit and my step-dad and grandma too
I cried and said to them all "I love you"
My dad flew in to see me as well
Then took me back to Los Angeles (Hell)

For too long I hid my Omega Day in my mind
It's been mostly revealed from my unconscious now
Some parts are still missing but I'll find them in time
I swear that wasn't me and it's all disavowed
Lauren R Apr 2016
Dear God,

I don't know if you know this but we're counting on you. I don't believe in you, none of your healing touch is true. There are no pearly gates, no wise men, no father, son, and no holy ghost. There's just *******'s trophy little girl swaddled swamp bottoms and dumb men, just a ******, a suicidal-wanderer-mothers-help-squanderer, and teething-on-baby's-flesh demon.

God, you haven't cured me, or my boyfriend, he's still bleeding on the occasion, and not over candle lit dinners either. God, can't you see we're seething? God are you even listening? God are your ears sewn shut? Did some shotgun blow them off? That reminds me, God, that's your job. Please take away the shotguns. I don't want them anywhere near anyone, especially certain someone's. I'm talking about cops and angry fathers and kids taking steps towards the edge. Our freeways are ***** enough God.

God, you've let me down. I'm screaming everything unholy your way God. You're pathetic. Where is the miracle I've been asking for? I'm not praying God, I'm on my knees and begging, like you told me to. Where's the saving? Where's the grace and goodness? All I'm seeing is terror God, all I'm seeing is your face, laughing and crying at the same time.

You're a disgrace.
Frustration with the universe and how it works against us sometimes
Frank Gavin Jan 2015
Brutal, unforgiving
Organic
Like sand in your teeth

Undeniable as truth in its purest form

As beautiful as color

Planes are departing
Landing
Crashing

Frogs are leaping
Dogs are guarding
Cells are dividing

The woman with her Judas smile
Poison forked tongue flicking
Darkens my doorstep no more!

Freeways hum
Refrigerators buzz
Oil goes unchecked

I turn off the tv set
Ignore the rioting in the streets
Look away as the one percent
Ruins America

The silence of the phone
Is deafening
Tomorrow is uncertain
As I contemplate my obsessions
And A.D.D
I wonder how patient
Can God be
Pieces of
our past.
Wondering how we will
Patchwork
them back
together,
in the days
of the weeks,
the months
of the years ahead...

as you disguise
yourself,
on benches,
in corners, alleys.
Hidden in woods,
underpasses
of freeways.
Tents, cars
of strangers.
Filthy trap houses.
You disappear,
to find
comfort in
the only place
left to heal.

The Deep Depths of Sleep.

Oh how I
worry about
you my love.
You suffer so
for this journey  
you have embarked on...

Oh, how I
hurt for you,
yearn for you,
love for you
and cry for you.

Your pain
so deep
keeps you away,
to dwell in the
terrifying place that
encourages
the need to
Self implode..
Obliterate all ability to feel.

Even the
true sense of Belonging
Of being
unconditionally
loved.
Missing my precious daughter so...
Jay Bryant Jun 2013
Distance
The space that is holding us back.
The thing keeping my hand from caressing your back.
These roadways, highways, and freeways
Blocking my way to you
I need to make my way to you.

Distance
This is the problem
Love I believe it to be the answer.
Tho, the solution to the problem
Raises a question
That needs to be answered.
How far does love go?

Distance
What is love in distance?
Would I measure it in miles or inches?
How much love does it take to get to you?
Does love matter if the distance is to great to get to you?

Distance
I don't like this distance
Tho, I'll travel the farthest distance.
Just to give you a give a kiss
Can you feel the love don't resist it.

Distance
Love knows no distance
If I were on Venus
You were on Saturn
We'd meet on Mars
The distance wouldn't matter

Distance
It takes time to travel
Tho, I think we could go the distance.
When I said I love you I meant it.
I know you felt the love
Just try not to feel the distance.
A B Perales Apr 2022
The Harbor freeway was without the congestion and the gridlock that made this highway famous.
Empty freeways demand speed and in Los Angeles everyone's in a hurry with somewhere to go.

It was a rare sight in a city full of men and their machines
A rare sight that was quietly becoming normal.

The lack of cars made the otherwise thick layer of ***** brown smog become a minor smear on an otherwise beautiful blue Southern California day.
With the changing of the guard the nameless planes with their exaggerated white lines across our skies magically returned.

There's more of us noticing things today than any other time before.

To the far West Venice is dying and the beach has become a refugee camp full of tents and blue tarps all wasting in the wind.
Handball courts now occupied by old bikes, tents and an array of useless garbage someone calls their property.
And the California girls' no longer come here to tan.

The girls on Figueroa stand half naked on 64th street waving like debutants at the lonely men as they window shop for *** from the safety of their vehicles.
The girls here never tell you their real name and all the men are called John.

The Gang members in the Hoods on the West side and in the Varrios and the Projects on the East all use Graffiti as a way to convey their threats to one another.
The Taggers bright, bold pieces bring colors to the otherwise grey concrete freeways.

Downtown is nowhere you want to be without a million dollars or a side arm and a reason.
They gave Skid Row up to the people and the graffiti then watched in horror as it grew into what it has become today.

South Central continues to bleed red, brown, blue and black.
Curbside motive candles dot the city corners like mile markers along the highway.
There's been far too much death to ever mention peace here.

Hollywood is slowly dying and Melrose is at 50% capacity with robberies happening almost everyday on Rodeo.

The Cranes along the Harbor stand like giant monuments to a God no one prays to anymore.
And there's a lot less Cargo trucks on the road today then any other time before.

Yet we are told to "Stay home ,we'll pay you to do so".
While outside our city is dying and there is no where to spend the money we're given anyway.
never again
sadgirl Feb 2018
o, darling
daylight has never been your most flattering
light

and how could it be?
you never sleep,
because life is but a dream

like that old
children's song
goes

dear god of boujee
women, the ones with
bloodstained louboutins

let me autotune myself to sound inhuman,
say my prayers to
you

in the dying light
of the atl
freeways

my only hymn i have to
offer is that of
migos

and instead of bread and wine
i have lean and
xanax

o, darling
our eyes will never
age

and new money, who dis?
will forever be the closest thing
we have to a mantra
Gang gang.
Richard Riddle Nov 2015
Because of recent fatal accidents that have occurred in the Dallas area, I felt it appropriate to repost this piece.*

Richard Riddle 11-06-2015

There are many "you's" out there, on the highways, byways, freeways. Those that put others in harms way, excercising their egotistical need to be "first in line", "head of the class", so to speak; "**** the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" is their rallying cry.

It makes no difference what "YOU" are driving, old vehicle, new vehicle. Perhaps an overly powerful pickup truck, or an SUV, that makes YOU feel IMMORTAL. Ice, snow, rain, dark of night, makes no difference to YOU. Inconsiderate, rude, careless, makes YOU, dangerous. Today is no different, its "all about YOU." Speeding, weaving in and out of traffic, no need for signals, tail-gating,  trying to get that vehicle out of YOUR way, because YOU are being "INCONVENIENCED!" YOU, don't care! For this morning, like any other morning, "its all about YOU."

The lights are a bit glaring, as you begin to emerge from that state of unconsciousness, laying in that hospital bed, wondering where you are, who, and why, are those strangers standing around you.
They are the doctors, nurses, first responders, investigators, preparing for your reaction when you're told that the brains of your spouse and children had to be scraped off the pavement with a snow shovel.
You should be proud of yourself. For today is truly,
                                              "All about YOU!"

copyright: richard riddle April 03, 2015
37 years as an accident investigator, have seen many of these. This piece was inspired by Jamie Burkes, "BOOM". Thanks, Jamie!
George Carlin's wife died early in 2008 and George followed her, dying in July 2008. It is ironic George Carlin - comedian of the 70's and 80's - could write something so very eloquent and so very appropriate. An observation by George Carlin:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to ****. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

Remember to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, 'I love you' to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.

Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

And always remember, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by those moments that take our breath away.
after some research...it appears this may not belong to Mr. Carlin...so forgive me for not digging a bit earlier. Especially, my sincere apology to George!
jerard gartlin Feb 2010
sleep
is just a metaphor for
deep dream seeking.
chasing dragons & demons
through a seamless sequence
of events which
defy all weakness
with tongue in cheek
& grinding teeth
toward bedsheet beacons
bright light beams
that scream through
bleak dreamscapes.
but better your head
than these streets & freeways..
rbarber Mar 2010
Serena's eyes retain focus onthe golden road before her.She imagines cuts and bridges, off-ramps, freeways, and diversions.She made a pledge to Tribecato pave that lane to China. Forget Afghanistan,she found the real payout.The Taliban bus shows a Jolie movie, or will when rolling down that road.I heard they'll serve a meal:     Attacks of adaptation, the final course. 
Lo Infusino Oct 2012
As the vivid heat of Illinois
sheds
the profuse breathing forest
and crowded meadows,

smug evenings
bleed
insect symphonies.

As pressurized homes
Exhale
oblivious life
cushioned in air artificially chilled,

one thousand Julys
forever in transit
traverse golden cloud ceilings
above so many absent walls

until savage nights
visit for the sake of vacant freeways,
and neon blooms
shadows, brake lights, and flickering darkness
Emma Zanzibar May 2011
I was frightened by familiarity.
I assumed that a hometown was just a cage to be broken out of.
The freeways burned like veins into my forearms.
The lights of distant cities lighting up my being.
I ran
from your open arms and wide eyes
to find nothing but empty bus terminals and books that held no solace for me any longer.
My resolution was to run harder and father away
from those who knew me best
because they had also seen my vulnerability.
From there I initiated fresh starts
but I built false foundations in every new beginning.
I kept chasing that horizon which had long marked the boundaries of my existence.
I was running from the possibility of familiarity
of settling,
of the prospect of someone knowing every detail about me.
I was frightened that once they knew,
they would run to the opposite horizon.
I was mistaken.
I never felt the dawn of your eyes until I felt the dusk of missing them.
I found that there is a difference between cage-bars and open arms
and that I couldn't run any longer.
Batchelor Oct 2020
A paper cut

A ****** machete

Became a thorn on the focus

Became the pause on the focus

A wail of the wee ones

A whirl on the freeways

Became a soft smothering

Became a daft splattering.
Morbidity is the deal of the week, and there's no way anyone will miss that for the world.

6th of March, 2018.
Diane Sep 2013
some of the “greats” are walking among us
making eye contact upon our sidewalks
sharing sweaty seats on our buses
eating tempeh and salad at our cafés
lying next to us, sleeping, in our beds
we shop at their record stores
throw dollars in their guitar cases
curse their driving on our freeways
art and history are presently in motion
the past is just the place where we idealize them
Lee Turpin Oct 2010
We are
up late in the static dark, and we are
together
laying in your bed perfectly still,
our limbs filled with movement
Pressed down onto the floor with the weight of imperfections in the air.
Hands and face
filled with blue blood
a silent grin.

can’t sleep

So
we go
our laughter stumbles out into the dark
pulls us out, as we follow currents of sound.
The wail of atmospheric jet planes, lonely crickets,
the boom of empty 3am freeways
a chorus of ***** angels
brings us to stillness.

Laying in the dirt
stars arch overhead from the bottom of my chin to the back of my neck
emptiness like falling
and if you close one eye

you whisper
against
my skin

you can reach out and touch them
so I try it
it feels like nothing

And with a glance,
time shifts
the earth tilts
your silent face,
open to mine.
10/6/90 - 10/2/10
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway
there is a bus stop two blocks away.

****.
****.
****.

Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?

I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.

Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as  couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.
True story walking  at night in La Boca, one of Buenos Aires' most crime-ridden neighborhoods. Bless the soul who gave me bus fare back to Palermo.
Preston C Palmer Sep 2010
This poem goes out to all of the deleted words,
the millions of ideas quickly erased, obliterated
because they just didn't quite fit in with
the rest of the ideas. Today, I honor them briefly,
but sometimes, life moves by too quickly
to mourn, even when life, true life, is lost.
Today, I sniff the cold, stiff air
and the breeze feels like shivers, covered
in warm, futile sunlight. The short hairs on
my adam's apple scrape on my collar like
road-gravel on newly built freeways, but
I don't drive.
Today, momentary friendship is held up
by our busy hands, and even as we leave
we hope that our hope will keep it airborne,
but at least I know that this fellowship
will not break if it hits the ground,
it will always be there to pick back up
at a later date.
rawpoems Oct 2015
Her mother used to always buy her notepads-- ya know diaries and journals, anything affiliated with paper. And a couple years later she switched from stories to poetry, soulfully but vocally humming the same tune mostly while she unpacked the groceries. And as she grew older she began to bring pencils with her everywhere. Occasionally jotting something down and re-reading it in her head and then looking out at the rain and then humming that song again. But soon enough she stopped, and her mom never though much of it so for Christmas she bought her a journal and asked, why don't you write anymore- and her eyebrows furrowed, her shoulders dropped, she put her hands together and let out a deep sigh. And she looked at her mother and said

"Whenever I'd start to write a piece, it was like a sudden release from all the ticks, all the constantly changing things when I'd listen to this symphony. And I know it sounds stupid but I'd try to feel the music and use it to help me write about whatever I was going through and it would work it was something about the decrescendos and how the instruments would blend that would make my hands shiver until I picked up a pen, see whenever this track would play I'd write my heart out but mom, when I saw him, it was like hearing a brand new song, every single time. When it rains, and you're dazed in the car driving on freeways. Do you ever notice how whenever you drive under a bridge, the rain stops, the car is silent and it's like for a moment everything is still? That's how he is or, more so how he was. He asked me out six times behind the bus, I said yes the first time but he kept going, he kept going and I kept hearing medleys every time he spoke, when he'd tell me he loved me i'd hear the guitar and when I'd say it back I'd hear the violin. there were nights when it would rain and we'd video chat in dark it was a little bizarre but I always loved the way he talked about my eyes, he said they were stars, like an Orion of some sort. And excuse me ma, but I can't rhyme anymore. See as time went by and we were on the phone when it rained he'd fall asleep and I could never sleep cause the thunder the the drums were so loud so instead, I'd listen to his soft breathing and every now and then he'd say something in his sleep with my name he'd be like Kae I duh duh duh, and Kae duh duh duh. I thought it was so sweet, I'd lay back and listen to his solos and even though I all I could see was the flashes of lightning, spiking and gleaming through my windows, I'd close my eyes, and the drums come in tune with his solos and is whisper to myself how he's this and he's that and he's that and this and that and I'd make so happy but there were times where the song was wrong, there were times when the he wouldn't sing his solos and the drums didn't bang on the right cue, sometimes his guitar wasn't tuned so when he strummed some of the stuff he said just did not add up but I didn't care Mom, I didn't care. Cause when the drums did not bang, I'd tap a metronome with my bow, when his guitar wasn't tuned I would pluck my violin for just enough time for him to get his **** together but as time went by, the strings on his guitar, began to wear out. His strings broke and I said baby I can get you new strings, I can play for us until you can get new strings but he said no, he did not want them. He did not want new strings, he started saying this was a mistake, but how could this be a mistake, when he was the only song that did not drive me to a pen. This could not possibly be a mistake, I know our song isn't perfect but it is still our song I cannot bear the though of finding someone else. Please do not make another duet because she will not tolerate it when your guitar isn't tuned, she will not tap in place of the drums she will not pluck her violin to keep the song going please do not go but he took his guitar and left with his broken strings. Mom I had a few rough days after that and I could sit here and tell you how God took away my sadness or how I woke up and got some kind of epiphany but the truth is I don't know, I don't know if he's out there kissing someone else or if his strings were ever or will ever be fixed all i know is the music stopped, and every morning I leave my violin in its case."

And when her mother saw that she was finished, mom didn't cry, mom didn't hug her. Her mother said, "How long has it been since Phillip broke up with you?"

"Mother, you asked why I don't write anymore. Well there's nothing left to write about."

*8/14/15 - 9/8/15
A B Perales Aug 2016
People who don't live here think they know it all from watching T.V.

City lights cast down upon city streets.
They know no other way than to survive once someone comes and shoots their street lights out.

They **** and die for the street.
The fat man on the radio tries to calm the city.

Grafitti acts as a warnig, who'll get the 187 mark out today.

Some grew up on the low side of town where the bridges and the freeways meet.
L.A river acts as borders for the Gang controlled neighborhoods and washes their blood and sometimes their guns away.

Everyone's from somewhere ,are you brave enough to say.
Tommy Johnson Jul 2014
All I asked for was a little off the top
And if you could top me off
Now I see stupid people with double chins
I'm with stupid t-shirts and kick me signs on their backs
Completely unaware of the indecent truths of the world
Truck drivers  stopping at greasy spoon diners, ***** dives
Driving down freeways, parkways, highways, turnpikes and interstates
People eating up the **** the press put on us
Augmented *******
Formaldehyde for our loved ones
Pull the plug, push the plunger
On the tobacconist and his eerie broad shoulders
I asked to french kiss, I was rebuffed and left flat alone in a gazebo
The apathetic drive through worker told her to **** her father with an indifferent look
A bead of sweat traveled down her tempted face
Her moral spindle is low on twine
Her meds are wearing off
The roustabout is now a stenographer after his time in the roundabout and a heave **
Into a case of small pox and a bout with shingles
As the biker gets nursed back to health
And we all slowly decompose
Through avenues
And boulevards
My toll road
Has had
All the forks
I could handle
Crossroads plenty
Sometimes off-road
Sometimes freeways
Dead ends more
Than expected,
But I'm still driving
Dreams my gas
And love my map,
Never lost
Because
I'm always in the middle
Of everywhere and nowhere,
Interstates and highways
In my veins
Smoking and drinking
The only tuneup
To grease the gears
In my head,
Always grinding
And slipping
But never missing
A mile,
As my odometer
Just keeps turning
Each day another
Street I get lost in...
APAD13 - 059 © okpoet
Sam Moore Jan 2014
bone is bone is bone
is bone.
my hands are forever too tiny,
my hips forever too big,
and you forever the girl
who’s always wanted to leave.
when we first met you talked of
hating the palm trees seventy degrees
traffic clogged grit and smog,
graffiti covered rat sewers
mansions dotting all the hills
and everything else i’ve ever loved.
i reminded myself that some people
need more than a place with
hundreds of stars on the sidewalk
but hardly any in the sky.
when i think of superpowers
i imagine being strong enough
to carry manhattan to you on my
shoulders and all your rain clouds
in my arms.
if you ever turned fragile i would
arrange a fortress out of skyscrapers
big enough to cover all the hills,
and with tiny hands i’d point
to the clouds and make them fill
the sky outside your window;
white as bone, as bone,
as bone.
Leslie Ledezma Apr 2019
life’s expanse is hard
only better in your path’s eagle height
understand this before the world began reward
what you do, as he said, done well

silhouetted smoke, sadness, silvery time, sagacious

music is the holiday
oozing into this side of paradise
beautiful like a moon out in day
lives fast like birds as free as you over the sky

music is the religion
just leaving town for now
what do you have playing
takes your soul riding
even through the night

on freeways through gilded hills, until now
raceling traveling to my coastal world, edge and heights

song lonely, giving bliss
seeping from the other side of heaven’s doors
dreamy like dawn’s first lights for
lives fast horses bronze racing as fast as they always could

dressed in true worship
festivities, this is purely living
dreamy and propitious
blessed with a slightly sullen glow
don’t belong here no more than he

chance at pure light in each spin around the garden
play and design life today, Lord knows the time we have awake

I’m a soul eternal, living vigil of the
gentle diamonds falling summer,
horse country sunset wonder

when I get back in from all, azure skies like a billion stars
these days will seem strangely far away but you’ll love me all the same
Grace Mar 2021
of course I'd want you to come visit me in New York
take the subway to off broadway
make snow angles in Central Park
buy overpriced latte's in the glistening rain
but there are invisible bounds
and I must restrain
the bounds of a city
then marked by footprints
replaced now by loud freeways and hippies
the bounds of downtown
once marked by trees and spring beauties
roots once tangled and over grown
cemented over now by sidewalks and shows
the bounds of two souls enveloped in love
as friends not lovers
soul mates, kind of
if I move away
do the bounds bend and sway
or like a string break
and disintegrate away
I love New York
Sophie Grey Jul 2014
There is a woman in Europe who drinks coffee at midnight. She has purple hair, but once upon a time, it was brown and she cut it under the table in first grade and let another girl get in trouble for it. She never said a word, let the guilt eat through her bones at night for weeks.
There is a woman in Ireland who is afraid to drive on the left side of the road, although she once ruled the California freeways in her blue pumpkin-turned-purple carriage. With a negative sense of direction and a never ending supply of menthols, she got lost so many times that she had no choice but to be found.
There is a woman in Galway whose skin is laced with ancient spiderweb scars. Years ago, they were angry, open tubes of crimson paint that children had stomped on when no one was looking. But everything fades, even acrylic paints and ancient pains.
There is a girl in Kinvara who is practically a professional at destroying nice things. She tried her hardest to make something beautiful but she was never much use at creation; better at cremation. Burning, bleeding, bruising-- these are her areas of expertise. She has learned to stop hiding from her secrets and her sins and her skin, that it is okay to be made up of matchsticks. She washes her hands too often, but that's okay, right? There are worse things a girl can do. At least, that's what they tell her…
But she's had enough of the poison they've been trying to sell her.


s.h.
2014
Akemi Dec 2015
We made nests in clocks
that Summer the electricity died.
Stars rose out of the ether for the first time in centuries.

Autumn rolled in
but it only grew hotter.
We climbed on rooftops to escape the heat of our homes
and saw the silhouettes of strangers follow.

Winter choked the freeways, the subways, the old ways.
Rust fell on us like rain.
We danced in the belly of an abandoned ship
cheeks burning with mirth.

By Spring
the plants had withered
and the animals had slept until their bodies devoured their souls.
We sat on the town hall as the sun engulfed the sky
Thankful for such a beautiful life.
2:35am, December 9th 2015

Can't ******* wait.
Richard Riddle Sep 2015
Because of an upsurge in fatal accidents in the North Texas area, and elsewhere I'm sure, I believe it appropriate to repost this write.

There are many "you's" out there, on the highways, byways, freeways. Those that put others in harms way, excercising their egotistical need to be "first in line", "head of the class", so to speak; "**** the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" is their rallying cry.

It makes no difference what "YOU" are driving, old vehicle, new vehicle. Perhaps an overly powerful pickup truck, or an SUV, that makes YOU feel IMMORTAL. Ice, snow, rain, dark of night, makes no difference to YOU. Inconsiderate, rude, careless, makes YOU, dangerous. Today is no different, its "all about YOU." Speeding, weaving in and out of traffic, no need for signals, tail-gating,  trying to get that vehicle out of YOUR way, because YOU are being "INCONVENIENCED!" YOU, don't care! For this morning, like any other morning, "its all about YOU."

The lights are a bit glaring, as you begin to emerge from that state of unconsciousness, laying in that hospital bed, wondering where you are, who, and why, are those strangers standing around you.
They are the doctors, nurses, first responders, investigators, preparing for your reaction when you're told that the brains of your spouse and children had to be scraped off the pavement with a snow shovel.
You should be proud of yourself. For today is truly,
                                              "All about YOU!"

copyright: richard riddle April 03, 2015

37 years as an accident investigator, have seen many of these. This piece was inspired by Jamie Burkes, "BOOM". Thanks, Jamie!
Asim Javid Apr 2015
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints.

We spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.

We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time;

We have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too seldom, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.

We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life; we've added years to life, not life to years.

We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.

We've conquered outer space, but not inner space.

We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul.

We've split the atom, but not our prejudice.

We write more, but learn less.

We plan more, but accomplish less.

We've learned to rush, but not to wait.

We build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men, and short character; steep profits, and shallow relationships.

These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare; more leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition.

These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but broken homes.
Found it :)
Richard Riddle Apr 2015
There are many "you's" out there, on the highways, byways, freeways. Those that put others in harms way, excercising their egotistical need to be "first in line", "head of the class", so to speak; "**** the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" is their rallying cry.

It makes no difference what "YOU" are driving, old vehicle, new vehicle. Perhaps an overly powerful pickup truck, or an SUV, that makes YOU feel IMMORTAL. Ice, snow, rain, dark of night, makes no difference to YOU. Inconsiderate, rude, careless, makes YOU, dangerous. Today is no different, its "all about YOU." Speeding, weaving in and out of traffic, no need for signals, tail-gating,  trying to get that vehicle out of YOUR way, because YOU are being "INCONVENIENCED!" YOU, don't care! For this morning, like any other morning, "its all about YOU."

The lights are a bit glaring, as you begin to emerge from that state of unconsciousness, laying in that hospital bed, wondering where you are, who, and why, are those strangers standing around you.
They are the doctors, nurses, first responders, investigators, preparing for your reaction when you're told that the brains of your spouse and children had to be scraped off the pavement with a snow shovel.
You should be proud of yourself. For today is truly,
                                              "All about YOU!"

copyright: richard riddle April 03, 2015
37 years as an accident investigator, have seen many of these. This piece was inspired by Jamie Burkes, "BOOM". Thanks, Jamie!
Lo Infusino Oct 2012
I am the emptiness that exists in the kitchen
at such hours, late and lonely.
I can operate only in this space,
at night when the answers become irrelevant
and the present tense becomes the past.
I rely on the sporadic sounds of movement of traffic below the window.

I am the scratchy sound of death cab
on the Buick’s aged speakers.
I claw at the insides of the aluminum
and seep out through cracked windows.
I shore myself against a distant past
despite better judgment.

I am born of the vivid summer heat.
I ride the train to the loop
and back out to the city’s extremities,
like blood through a body.
I sweat under layers of wool humidity.

I am the concrete paving the boundless suburban streets.  
I exhale tar and forest
as the rain begins to fall, long after dark,
cooling the still-hot surface.
I crave the tires and feet that brace themselves against me.  

I am the slow moving clouds at dusk, the color of tea.
I ignite as the sun slouches toward the horizon.
I consume the jets that depart from O’ Hare in every direction.

I am familiar laughter, striking ears in palpable waves.
I move most freely though vicious August heat,
But even in such passive chilled air, I proceed.

I careen toward what has been named peace,
though it’s been forgotten over the years.
I have fled the immortal city for one more ageless.
I crave the smell of the death of summer.

I pass into a state of suspension
like the bodies that surround me, never born but built.
I trace the veins and find no flesh,
but only bones beneath them.
I stretch willing to bridge the gaps that exist.

I am the tangled freeways moving among one another
in the heart of a city accused of being heartless.  
I am guiltless in the face of isolation.
I hold blood hostage on a daily basis.  

I am lethargic, gold-soaked afternoons
Bearing such spacious skies.
I lie beneath gilded light
like the lazy palm lined streets.
I am the trembling airwaves,
And I disarm the distance itself.

— The End —