"guardrails" poems
Out the window the trees go by fast.
Never having the chance to know one
even by the looks of it.
The houses pass by quick and
the people in them never move.
There is no time to see what's on their televisions.
Drive by the Dennisville Lake and my eyes
are fixed on the egrets drying in the branches
of the trees at least half a mile out.
There's a beach in the distance where
the sun sets and it's more than picturesque.
Years ago, this is where I first learned to ice skate,
*but now the lakes blocked off with guardrails,
I'm on a busy road, and there's no turning back.*
-s.r.pikulinski
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because they have chapped lips
And the jagged edges
Will slice your tongue
Whenever you touch them
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because metal on metal
Isn't a forgiving sound
But you already know that
From when you had your first kiss
And you were each wearing braces
You shouldn't kiss telephone poles
Because they are sensitive
And will bite your lip with an electric current
But not in the way that you were hoping
And rear view mirrors aren't for decoration
But you never bothered to look at them
When you were desperately switching lanes
And speedometers aren't for your entertainment
But you always enjoyed watching the needle fluctuate
As though your life depended on it
(It did)
And the high beams of oncoming cars
Aren't Christmas lights in restaurant windows
And crashing through the windshields
Won't bring you any closer
To the apple pie the bakery down the street made
That always reminded you of home
And even though you no longer recognize
The town you grew up in
Or the boy you fell in love with
You shouldn't kiss guardrails
Because they might kiss you back
But not in the way that you were hoping.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
Our temporal lobes have neurons whose sole purpose
Is to recognize faces
You see, humans are meant to be connected
Our bodies should vibrate
From the sounds of emotional resonance
We are meant to be seen,
Really seen, delving deeply into streams of running water
Where our vulnerability makes love with our experience
And this need is so great, that day after day, year after year,
We open our mouths with hope
That our words can share a meaning with someone
But mostly, we are left colliding
Or surviving near misses
Driving through relationship guardrails
Over the edge into desperation
We are left holed up in separate hospital beds
Isolated by IV drips of disappointment
Until we tell ourselves that true happiness is a myth
And the word “soulmate” was intended for everyone else
This used to be me
And it used to be you
When I awoke this morning
Remnants of our laughter were singing on your pillow
There are 86 lashes on your right, upper eye lid
I can almost see them listening to me
Conduits for comprehension
As I speak,
You turn your ear so it can graze my lips
I whisper while I stare at your profile
Blinking, gentle smile lines
And my heart lunges toward yours like a magnet
I have crawled inside your pupils
To be covered with wet, black paint shining
From your spirit outward
Opposite of indifferent
Our faces so close that I can taste you breathing
This strange sensation is the absence of fear
I. See. You.
I have always known you
I can pull the IV out of my arm
Because what keeps me alive,
Is that you know me too
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
the only boy i ever loved
is awake while i am sleeping
the tinman boy lives upside-down
but in my tongue i keep him
while screens have saved us tenfold times
i still sit and mull your visit
those days spent tangled in your hair
i won’t admit i miss it.
you drove stick-shift but held my hand
jumped guardrails and pythons and nerves
painted me with waterfall clay
and careened around my curves
your tongue is strings on violins
and i am no virtuoso
each rusted joint creaks heartless songs
while my will swings to and fro
you’re tension like a tinder box
or a match-head ripe for striking
i can’t speak freely of your hands
but found them to my liking
i hope i am not novelty
or distraction wrapped in ennui
i, for one, am enthralled by you
and how you can’t sing on-key
raggedy thoughts bite (just like you)
of distance and futures and you
sentences always end with you
except when you want them to
the only boy i ever loved
is spiteful and tragic and sweet
the tinman boy lives far away
at least until next we meet
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
Nothing was particularly perfect
But it was found somewhere
Between that and far beyond
Pleasant. Like the second
Sip of a cold cream soda.
Nothing was quite there
But I could still reach
The stars with my fingers
And it was familiar without
Déjà vu and without having
Happened before.
It could have been the thunder
From an open window
Or the domestic backseat
Bass of music that I
Didn’t know. A twilight
Of tiredness too, while
The trees across the spinach
Fields were illuminated.
The sidewash of
The headlights showing only
The front half of ridges
And guardrails and contemporary
Nuances of a roadtrip.
But that was it. It wasn’t
A roadtrip, the destination
Was near and out the windows
Every light was
A step under neon.
It was perfect,
Though far from it
And directly outside of it.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
caged bird - is starring into the horizon
dreaming of the touch of the luminous sun
a wingless creature,
terrified her prison will be swept away into a cruel, humid coffin
...how high
can a mockingbird fly?
in twilight hush's, a silhouette's hasty and restless strides, do not want to stop.
the girl is darting to her death as if there was an expiration date - only that she set it for herself
she walks the line where the shadows close
her eyes scanned the surroundings, weary of undesired company
the place is empty and she resolutely starts taking her steps with more urgency
....how high
can a mockingbird fly?
in the cage, a feather departed on the vexing floor
the puppeteer toying with the girl's body is moving her ahead to the guardrails
a futile endeavour is made to drift away by the bird
now she is not a bird, but collapsed heap of flesh and breakables bones
....how high
can a mockingbird fly?
a jelly leg is now levitating above the edge, bleeding finger tips have asked the waves crashed on the shore, to seal a forbidden agreement
she s promised they will be at their highest when she is ready to let go and later be entombment
....how high
can a mockingbird fly?
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 9:43 AM UTC
The Seine river banks,
with their lack of guardrails, freaked
me out in fourth grade:
"Avez-vous entendu?!!"
My best friend rushed to ask it.
"Did you hear?! (the news)"
A woman drowned!!
She gushed - the horror tale
punch line delivered.
My eyes were wide with
shock and fear - the monster takes
another victim!
The dark Seine river
slithered, like a green snake
- feet from my front door.
There was no railing
- a misstep would drop you some
12 feet, to your cold death.
No parent could save
you - a terrifying thought for
a nine year old girl.
Walking to school, my
brother would sneak up, nudging
me near left-bank death.
I would scream, amid
cat calls and boyish laughter,
despite our au pair.
My best friend, Chloe, shared
my caution, if not my fear,
and loved to tease me.
That rapid river
loomed large in my dreams - as fears
can - for many years.
Last year we were in
Paris and I still couldn't go
near the riverbank =]
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 6:55 AM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
I know that things didn't turn out perfect.
And I know that falling for me wasn't quite in your plans,
not like you counted on all these wounds representing your lovin
but I don't want you to miss out on something worth holding
between the moments of should I go back or look ahead.
Because if I didn't love you, you would know.
I haven't gone to my apartment yet.
I've been sitting in my car listening
to all the decisions bounce off the guardrails I've constructed
on the edges of my brain
where it haphazardly connects to my heart.
You held me the other night.
Lips pressed to my neck,
pulling the sheets overtop us like a shadow
that only you could create with trying to hide
the parts of me I didn't like.
I don't want to steal a chance from you,
because love shouldn't be selfish
and I know that giving up any ties you had to my side
would let you be free enough to let me go.
"You can be mad in the morning,"
you used to tell me
"but don't leave me now. "
Because if I didn't love you, you would know.
I've been pressing on the lines the leather makes
in my driver's seat
trying to count the stitches until the numbers add up
crooked like your spine feels
after some backwards bending over my mistakes.
I know I'll never know forgiveness.
That's why I have to break the bond you have on me,
because you deserve the opportunity to love somebody good,
for the right reasons
instead of just a macramé of excuses and cover ups
for all the times I didn't.
I just didn't.
For all the times I never let you go
when I could have.
Because if I didn't love you, you would know.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
"I'm falling asleep. I'm falling asleep. I'm falling asleep. I'm falling asleep. I'm falling..."
The mantra swirled like in tornado in Kate's mind. The words her mother had last spoken in life as the cancer finally took her, leaving Kate alone in this cruel world. Her father, Richard, had run off with some office **** and left her and Mommy to fend for themselves. Mommy was already sick by then, but Richard didn't care.
"No one does," Kate thought. "Except Mommy." But where was Mommy now? Safe in the cold beyond.
The year following Mommy's death had been no kinder to Kate. The eviction, the hard streets of no solace. The bad things. Always, around every corner, more of the bad things. More...men. And what they wanted. Bad things.
And now, seeing the fog roll in on San Francisco Bay, feeling the wind on her face, letting the salt fill up her nostrils to brine her emotions, Kate heard the lullabies of this ***** Earth calling her name in the cries of the gulls, felt its repulsion, its push, in the cold rail of the Golden Gate Bridge in her hand. Kate had lived in the hammock Richard built over the chasm of Kate's life, and now Kate was so very sleepy.
"I'm falling asleep. I'm falling asleep. I'm falling asleep. I'm falling..." Kate repeated to herself as she leaned out into the night and let go of the guardrails.
"...asleep." Forever.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
I backpedal before flanks of flames,
auburn and angry, devouring the
fractured field; deconstructing
the turn of the century.
The fire jumps up and down,
like a developing polaroid,
asking to be acknowledged
-- to which I can relate, but
I'd like to believe I cause
less destruction.
Closing my eyes, I become
submerged in memory of the
hideous boulevard she drove
down, to the tune of disposable
pop singers; crouching next to
the radio, praying with the servants
of postured finer joys like pirate
rubies and sweet kale salads.
When looking up, through the
windshield; through the life;
a tic scampers from eyelid to
cheek, as the car buckles before
a triumph of a deer; the size of
a Godly Eland, shoveling it's
human feet into the downtown
dirt: an asphalt so slick, we
rose from our seats, as the
God split our vehicle in half,
throwing us into opposite
guardrails; dodging cars,
while it watched us.
Shudders of savored gladness
drip down my hairline wound,
painting my face before I die
and return to the towering blaze.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
He didn't see the patch of ice;
She had closed her eyes for just a bit.
When she looked,
Guardrails tearing...
No time to shout,
Windows blowing out,
Merciful airbags slamming oblivion
Through muffled thudding
sliding,
rolling,
plummeting
plummeting
down.
Silence....
"Some day, if we die at the same time,"
His mother had said,
"We want to be together in the grave."
An ominous request, that,
And one to be perused, ignored,
Revisited now
As her life hovered
"Ten percent," the doctors said.
Shattered body, all alone
.../\.../\....../\..................
Alone.......
They were together again.
"Do you remember what they asked?"
"I do."
"And do you think...?"
The mortuary
Obliging,
Compassionate,
Arranged them
Arms encircling,
Her head upon his chest...
Embraced in life,
Embraced in death.
Lowered gently down,
A warming day,
In spite of snow,
A circling of friends around,
A mercy to have lived and died
Through every harm
Encircled in each others' arms.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
these hard words
are the only fruit my hard-rocked soiled-soul produces,
my alliterations secrete no beliefs, quench nothing,
the poems I don’t write are my most successful,
the songs that comforted, now find no-entry orifice
skin cold wet clammy sweating unsuitable for tilling,
my horizons natural, felled, underground swallowed,
replaced by the man-made barriers, guardrails of words
leaving body, utterances shoutout, exiting non-permissioned
lurch from one guilt-carrying, black leather-straps wrapped,
round my arm, to the ones strapped around my temple,
honorable acts owed, responsibilities fear foundering
unfulfilled lists, griefs, signs of cowardice, badges shameful
deep sighs, open groans, me mean asking questions of myself,
laughed off, city noises turned off, silences of colorless colden,
the sirens loudest inside reverb endlessly, still give nothing away,
a final exam, an all sided, annual checkup reveals nothing but
these hard words
7:48am 10/15/19
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:27 AM UTC
Back road red dirt
Sipping Zima with the jolly ranchers
Hanging with the guys
The girls just too much drama
Having to be carried in
Only 17
Momma shaking her head
Waste basket and a hair tie for me
Growing up small town
Cruising the drag
Drinking at the tin barn
Watching fights turn into love
Memories were made
The ones that'll never fade
Had my first boyfriend
From the rival town
We were the talk of everyone
Twenty years later
Giving it another go round
Had my first kiss
Parked by the y
Being carried in again
Momma just shaking her head
Cruising the red dirt
Mesa's all around
No guardrails to protect
When my heart was broken and down
These are the memories
Ones that'll never fade
Hitting that red dirt
Even to this day
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
These empty spaces
Live to be refilled!
As cogs parade alone along
The paths they've drawn across the courtyard
Crowds coagulate and test
The patience of the ape--
And all the while
With this casual smile,
It is not in my heart to scream,
But as I dream I rue the sins of the bored;
These wasted spaces simply dying to be explored
At least when fires flood the crowded
Roads, the ones that go beyond
The guardrails may still be alive
And living life beyond the pale of
Settlement where sinners die
Those who face arena fights
Each night against their brothers and their
Mother Earth will be the victims
Of their own atrocity--
The boredom of the quivering mass of
Blindness stumbling o'er itself each moement
In the overcrowded streets.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
Bleary eyes and Italian films
I live alone
Or, I may as well.
The man in the movie said
We've got to stop wasting time doing things we don't want to do.
Want, want
"Funny how suicide is do and die"
Is a line I think about a lot.
Railroad bridges don't have guardrails,
Which is dangerous for pedestrians
Or, convenient.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Do not brake
Do not accelerate
Just coast
I am traveling over icy bridges
With deep puddles diagnosed as a mood disorder
But my new doctor thinks its something more along the lines of mania
Just like my aunt
*** holes and cracks in asphalt leading to depressed down falls
Speed bumps filled with anxiety
And a deadly black ice keeps me slipping
Till I’ve lost the little control I had
I’ve started hydroplaning into guardrails made of razor blades
Every time I think I’m in the clear
Onto a warm sunny road
The freezing rain comes back
Blinding me
And I have to travel on another bridge, longer than the last
There are people honking at me to move faster
But I’ve been in car accidents before, I know the damage they do
I do not wish to be flipped over guardrails
A side show for people to slow down and gawk at
I will just coast and deal with the honking while I go over anxiety bumps
And try to avoid depressed cracks
I will not break
I will not accelerate
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
Jump from the building,
fall so quickly the lights
turn to stars and
cannot put their arms around
you in time.
Slit your own throat to watch
yourself drown in creation.
Pull the nails from your eyes
and place them in your coffin —
home.
An ant, imagine, burned by the
flame. Your soul splattered
across the picturesque skyline—
art.
Ink of a life never told across
windshields, across concrete,
across guardrails.
“Just ******* do it.” Your body
ceases obeying its abuser.
Only the mind spreads the
blood of your soul, when you
least expect it.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
a capsule, narrowing tombstones
engraved upon fine misty grass blades
yawning sun, mellow yolk yellow
gleaming across the hurt inflicted on
see the scars, the rugged trenched dug into dirt
sheared guardrails where the car
missed the next right turn,
logged trees weeping silently
invisible to the tuning in the pearls of our ears
a brisk morning with melodies singing
sweet blossoming lilies sticking to the breeze
like saturation sung harmony
visually like honey woven on cream cloth threads,
these tombstones behold pasts of great tragedy
yet what once welted deep hurt
in the hearts of young minds
and delinquent lovers
remain far into the enriches of worth,
no matter the pain struck lightening and cursed
finer mornings will spread its succulent kisses
of mildew honeydew and crisp morning sunny breaths
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:21 AM UTC
today’s equivalent of whipping a horse
galloping full-stride across an infinite field
is extending your ankle
forming an angry obtuse angle
coursing quickly between the guardrails
and the lines on the ground are the arterial walls
and we are the blood in the wind
and we have our seatbelts on
sorry
off
open windows gasping
the windshield cracking
is today’s equivalent of riding to war
yesterday was the universal monday morning
today is the best friday across the galaxy
the stars unwind
forming a reclined man
snoring unashamed, under a bridge, understood
and the lines on his face are the arterial walls
and we are the blood in the wind
and we have patience
sorry
none
open the window gasping
the heart palpitating
is today’s equivalent of toil and sorrow
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
I am yet to find
A way to settle
With the disappointment
That after giving my all
Everyday and work hard
And still fail by this world's standard.
Then maybe I should change my
Own definition of success
And failure
To suit my goal
To keep me within the guardrails.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
It is not expected of men
Any sense of logic
Or any reason.
Maybe we're emotional,
Maybe political,
Maybe ludic,
Maybe Luddite,
Maybe lunatic.
We're attracted to frames,
To guardrails,
Afraid of the ocean,
Afraid of thirst
And of drowning,
Admirers and avoiders of boldness,
Cowardly seeking courage
But hiding when faced
It's raging face.
Maybe it's just me
But, hey, I'm one of you
(At least I put effort into it).
Each of those I see
Is my own extent,
Part of what I am,
And I am part of them
That are part of me.
You look at me as a misplaced past,
The deformed evolution of the perfect
(Or it is only a mirror?)
But I am now a better me,
With a load of sensitivity,
A trigger to a bullet without powder:
The click may tremble your bones
But my sharp edge remains still inside.
What you hear from me
Is what refuses it's own death.
No matter what I'll keep breathing,
For a thousand years
Or beneath the ocean,
I'll still pulse
Out of sight,
Without any shadow,
Bounded by no walls.
I can feel now
The pressure of my fingers in this pen.
It's the same pressure
To vibrate the air,
To load anyone's shoulders,
To explode lips with heavy words,
To keep continents still.
I bear no truth
For my own body is exactly what I can carry.
That's enough for me.
I just train my eyes
To see colors that aren't mine.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC