"motorway" poems
Balcony Life:
Sometimes I just watched outside, and it was a glorious day.
Children actually played. Groups sunbathed and basked in beer
Ice-cream vans were heard not far from here
Above a plane heading somewhere etched its mark
traced in nothing but just plain blue sky,
for miles, as far as the eyes could see.
Up the motorway, the sun ignites on speeding sunroofs
Toward the Campsie Fells set in a haze of bottle green
The white trickle of yesterdays snow cut like some dyslexic ancient symbol
A place for misspent youth and baking trays on icy days
A hot cheap brand coffee in a chipped petrol-token mug
Perched on weathered wrought iron painted brown like last year
Meant so much in that moment grasped and shaped like glass with glee
I remember that there is life in this here estate sometimes
Watching as you do,
from your own slice of life on your patch of balcony
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:24 AM UTC
Bumper to bumper.
Stormy rain.
Strong gusts of wind.
Bridge closed again.
Anti clock wise delays.
Bored of radio.
Stuck in the traffic.
Light blinks...
Fuel low....
Oh no!
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
Motorway Lamppost
Buzzard with his Evil Face
Watches the Rushhour
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.
Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.
Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
THURSDAY MARKET
Motorway sign says:
"THIS SIGN IS NOT WORKING."
Sign coming into town says{
"THURSDAY MARKET."
Reality appears to be
broken.
And there they all are
long forgotten Thursdays
that nobody wants
no more.
So many used Thursdays to
choose from.
A much used Thursday
from 1963.
A forlorn Thursday
from 1863.
Thursdays come and
gone.
No one will want a Thursday
their dog died
or the wife
left them
or the Wi-fi
went off.
Rainy Thursdays
that nobody wanted
even as they were
happening.
But there's a big rush on
the Thursday to come.
Everyone wants to have
one.
We leave the Thursday
market
with the next Thursday
in the bag so to speak.
It's up to us
to make a good go of it.
It ticks away.
Time tickles.
Motorway sign says:
"THIS SIGN NOT WORKING."
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
I wheel it out, my green and black bicycle
The roads shiny and quiet, the grey skies overcast
I start slow, breathing in the clean morning air
The fragrance of wet leaves and mulch, moss and old trees
I hear the morning song of the birds
And see the blossoms heralding spring
I nod to the old woman walking her spaniel
And notice the beating of my own heart
The rucksack a comforting weight
My breath even and warm in the wintry air
My derriere sore from yesterday’s excesses
The road, glorious, wide, welcoming and endless
Crossing the road, I am struck by the symmetry
Of a lone tree, leafless, bare, proud, naked
And the beauty of an old, stone church
And the wheels of the cycle keep spinning
The roar of traffic on the motorway always a shock
As I adjust, I breathe in the manure
From green fields so vast, flanked by white
And pause to see the muddy, turbulent stream
As I rack up the miles
My heartbeat is a sledgehammer
My legs are on fire
And I feel alive
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
Remember me always
will you?
My cute little smile
and my unselfish ways.
Never forget me
will you not?
The love
that oozes from me.
Have in your head
my funny little sayings
I am not very tidy
but does that matter?
When you are arranging the flowers
that sit in the vase on my grave
You know somewhere I will be thinking
Will they be Forget-Me-Nots
Because I will remember
if you will.
Has he got
the forget-me-nots.
I will perhaps whisper it in your ear
the chill of surprise will drip down your spine
but the thrill will be all mine
when I see the forget-me-nots.
When you are travelling up and down the
motorway in your car regretting the time
you did not spend with me
Fear not, for I will be beside you always
Oh Lord let him read this before it is too late.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
Harsh wind screaming
moaning
with the crisp bite of Autumn night
Dark shadows dancing
tossing
with the branches of bare grey Elms
The lanes are winding
uncurling
in the pale orange glow of headlights
Sudden hedgerows
green
edging the limits of the night
Power-cut darkness all around
silhouettes
strange in the headlight beam
No farm lights distant on the Tor
guiding
beacons of open field and place
Cottages shuddering their thatching
thrilled
chimneys smoking message-morse
Pub signs banging wildly
flapping
in a crazy dance
inside candles flickering
distorted
patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass
Old stone steeple steady
dull toned bell
catching
a ride on the wind to the copse
And still the lanes thread out
beam-born
a ribbon of pebbles and stone
stretching into the night
until they melt
into the flat black tarmac
of the motorway.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
The Crow flies.
Along the 5th motorway car to car,
Past the French coast flying,
Flying.
The ***** black winds, worn and battered
From the ride, the constant ride.
Truck to truck, warm to cold, stranger to friend.
Friend to Comrade.
Preaching my Gospel of love and peace.
The time has come for love and peace.
But the Crow still flies,
His nest destroyed long ago
His brothers and sisters scattered amongst the wind.
The cool, harsh, stinging sea air wind
Of Portsmouth, Southampton, Bristol.
Goodbye, so long, see you soon.
The Crow flies again,
Protected and blessed by Elohim.
The meditating Crow,
Calm to fly once more.
Is this the last?
He promises yes but his heart
Says the opposite;
Fly Crow ‘till you find a better world,
A peaceful world,
A loving world,
A Crow’s world.
So fly Crow,
Fly away and fly safe,
Preaching in the wind,
Travelling in the wind,
Crowing in the wind.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 5:57 AM UTC
The morning sun inaudibly arising,
Yo-yo weather, blue skies and rainclouds,
The familiar view of the long awaited landscape, evoking memories of many a week spent here before,
The warm feeling of - ‘home’
Shadows cast by clouds hovering eerily above a ‘witch’s house’, high on a mountain top,
Two hundred foot drops and winding peaks,
Dancing streams and wide lakes, the deepest shade of blue
Pedestrian cows crossing a motorway bridge,
The timelessness of the ever nearing estuary, lying in wait,
Our second home – the tin house with two doors,
Our place of wild strawberries and happiness and peace.
The estuary sand and the shallow-deep waters, as inviting as ever, gleaming as I walk on by,
The delicate beauty of fresh scented flowers, on a fine summer’s day,
Endless winding roads, following the sun trail, leading to a place far away,
Sheep on the beach, curious and shorn as the evening sun fades peacefully and the serein falls,
Evening serenity and the swell of the incoming tide,
The mystery of the island in the distance, far, far away.
Blankets and dreamscapes and tea in brown mugs,
And dinner cooked on an open fire,
The lights shining in Portmerion at night,
The noceur of the night sky, the silver-white orb, dancing gracefully amongst the stars.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
Watching the motorway
from the cafe'.
resting my feet of clay.
Under a sky of clouds,
that some may say,
have silver linings.
But all I can see is the grey.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 7:12 AM UTC
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars
But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site
A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling
He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid
He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun
So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said
The End
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
The sign said no entry,it meant me,I know it,I rode on right through it and thought that I knew it
all.
The policeman in a court date said that I, just would not wait for the lights to go green and he'd seen me do eighty in a thirty mile zone.
I was sent to a home for the wayward and flighty,a light sentence upon me,could not believe I was not free.
See me, on a saturday and I'm back on the racetrack,known as the M thirty motorway and I'm clocked at a ton by the feds in the lay by,who with sirens mad blaring came a tearing along after me,nicked,apprehended me and again,I could not believe I was not free,
I got four months in Dartmoor which get a poor recommendation,it's no picnic park for the youth of this nation,released in September,though it should have been May and soon after that in a 93 Fiat with go faster stripes,I was striped up quite rightly by the boys in blue and tightly,
handcuffed and roughed up and locked up again.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Feel like my life is when you're driving on the motorway, everything is grey and the same and there. And you occasionally smile and people in other cars but you can't reach them, and you're meant to be on the way to somewhere but it feels like you'll never reach it.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
The peace in this seclusion
Of a tranquil park in green,
With stately trees of ancient years
And walkways in between
There's deep shade under foliage
With sunspots everywhere,
And a velvet sense of peacefulness
Pervading in the air.
But:
Should you step beyond the green grass,
Should you venture onto seal,
An abrupt and harsh transition
Manifests, as quite unreal!
There's a cacophony of engine noise,
The headlong rush of cars,
A kaleidoskope of steel and glass
And frantic men from Mars!
The grind of wasted hours
With inertia breeding dread
And putting up with maniac's
Ignoring stop lights turning red.
There's a quagmire of congestion here
A head ache for the Tsar's
And for myriads of people
Who queue daily in their cars.
There's a White Knight in the future,
There's salvation in the air
For the God's of your deliverance
Will relieve you of despair.
They will forge a mighty tunnel
Deep beneath the grassy park
And divert congested traffic
Out beyond congestion's arc.
Melding with the motorway
To make breathing space for all,
The Victoria Park Alliance
Guarantees their clarion call.
Energetic men and women
Who are planning round the clock,
Engineers and excavator's slave
To work without a stop.
Concrete slab and steel amass
To build the tunnel strong
And sleek attenuators
Keep the traffic flowing on.
Salvation in the form
Of a tunnel underground
Beneath the spreading boughs
Of an oak in green surround,
Beneath the peaceful turf
Of a verdant park as planned,
Found amidst the million souls
Of Auckland, New Zealand.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Auckland City
New Zealand
6 November 2009
www.worthyofpublishing
Nov 5, 2009
Nov 5, 2009 at 9:59 PM UTC
Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions
hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee
all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner
well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
It started at the beginning of adulthood
where the wandering into the new house
became a chore. The doorway greeted me
by snagging my woollen jumper.
The motorway was screaming, the battered gate happily hanging from its hinges.
His image first flashed into my sight,
And when I stared through the fogged up windows
I could still figure out his figure.
Loutish, he sauntered past
On a hillside, desolate.
He didn’t move for three hours.
He was most probably entwining the thorns from the bush
into his complex mind. Maybe
the boy with the thorn in his side
Had been brought to life by this mystery animal
With a mass of unkempt mane.
Unruly, unnecessary, untouched.
The notebook on my kitchen table lay untidily
waiting to be roughened up. I picked it up
and cast light over the paper.
I imagined him doing the same
But his art was thunderstorms
And mine merely a drizzle of rain.
I made progress
and the flowers were growing from my fountain pen.
Confidence developing, I invited him inside
And there were still no words from his unfathomable jaw.
A month later, we became one
and I still didn’t know where his intentions were lying.
I’m a girl afraid, does he even have any?
Ink *** after ink ***
I ran even further in this marathon of confusion.
I slowly slid from his dismissive grasp, his matted paws light
I had drawn graffiti over his portrait.
a permanent marker changed beauty into art.
I crept before his wake, into his sleep
And his lyricism lay imbibed in the walls, the desk, the door.
I felt the gale force energy cry inside
Which erupted like a volcano, turning remnants into ashes.
Face down, mane rough, scars bright, fur singed
Interior managed.
In the morning, I lifted his heavy paw away from me
And placed it peacefully beside him.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Let's go outside
Swifts are scything high
The last to cry the sun good night
Wings are beating then they glide
Let's walk round the meadow
As we like to do
We could be Summer gypsies you and I
Watch each day in pastel shades give way
All is kind, mild and soft
Daylight graced away
As we survey our sanctuary
Far from the maddening, saddening motorway
A fragile film of mist hangs above the meadow flowers
We wonder at the science of it
As nature's breath is blown aside
Like a magic trick
We could stay out here all night
Be Summer gypsies you and I
But we are tied
Signed up to this, bound by that
Anchored, rooted to the workaday
Come inside, for we must sleep
We need to sleep
Let the night its gentle solstice secrets keep
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
*Death drives fast in stolen car
Pursued en mass by cops afar
Down motorway of he and she
Who drive in innocence, legally.
Colliding in cascading mess
Of debris, dust and huge distress.
Face down upon the tarmac now
Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.*
Whilst winding through a country glade
An opulence of deep, green shade,
A confluence of peace and quiet
Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot,
Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch
In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch,
And sunspots sparkle in the shade
This place where poetry is made.
*Juxtaposed, the concrete hash
Where ranting politician’s clash,
Where each, determined to be right
Adopts inflexibility's fight,
To hold to ransom common sense
Whilst seated stoically on the fence,
Committing all to farce and pain
Whilst pointing to another’s blame.*
White waves wash the pristine sand
Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand,
Soaking up the tropic sun
In holiday, now just begun,
Far out I see a distant sail
Which tells a fascinating tale
Of opalescent crystal seas
Caressed by mystic scented breeze.
*Juxtaposed, is terrors threat
Caste worldwide through Islam’s net,
Despite the protestations made
By Clerics, genuine, dismayed,
Permeated far and wide
Through violent death’s perverted pride.
Causing misery obscene
Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.*
Hark, a lark on yonder hill
It’s song, so clear, enduring till
It ends in silence… so pristine,
That tears stream down my face, so lean
And gaunt, so filled with joy am I
With gift of lark song sung to sky,
A gift, so sweet and clean and pure
If juxtaposed, it will endure.
Marshalg
Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day.
4 October 2013
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
In a Ford escort you can get on the motorway and let your self free
In a Ford escort you can paint it black or red or even blue like the sea
In a Ford escort travelling to Wales is a whole different country
In a Ford escort my dad drives it like it's a Capri
In a Ford escort it's easy to get parts for you and for me
In a Ford escort you can fit a big stereo and wake up the street
In a Ford escort you can go to Blackpool and drive on the beach
In a Ford escort you can smoke a cigarette because we have a smelly that looks like a tree
In a Ford escort when you've had enough of the mark 2 you can save up and get the mark 3.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
To toast the official opening
Of our village Millennium Green
Twelve of us went on a journey
To see sights we’d never seen.
With a degree of apprehension
We were all of one accord
With an enormous basket that was attached
To a hot-air balloon we all got on board.
Whooshhh was the noise from the burner
As the pilot lifted up off the ground
But then as we rose up much higher
It was done with nary a sound.
Slowly we drifted Westwards
Then moving slightly to the South
A dozen brave souls in a basket
Gazed at landscapes with open mouth.
Stafford Castle was down below us
Then the motorway passed by too
We soon headed away from Stafford
Then Cannock Chase came into view.
We spotted some fallow deer grazing
Some of them sitting as if to retire
Then the pilot again fired the burner
And lifted the basket much higher.
Finally we reached the maximum height
That we were allowed to reach
Four thousand four hundred and eighty feet
A specific height that our balloon couldn't breech.
It was then that I saw with amazement
While the evening sun shone at our side
A passenger liner flew up through the clouds
It was a beautiful sight which no-one denied.
And did I get such a fabulous picture
Well of course not, I was too much in awe
By the time I had swung round my camera
A tailplane and the sight was no more.
We were coming to the end of our journey
I thought seeing the plane was the peak
But then we saw Lichfield Cathedral
With its three spires that make it unique.
The experience will always stay with me
Of an evening with a view from above
As we floated about in the heavens
Over countryside in the county I love.
©Joe Wilson – A View from Above 2014
‘August 2000 on a Friday evening in glorious sunshine, the balloon
lying in a heap on Derrington Millennium Green in Staffordshire, UK,
gradually began to fill with air as the pilot and his assistant slowly
pulled at it to allow air into all the creases. Suddenly it stood up
and drifted up into the air, though it was still tethered in four places
to the ground. I had no idea they were so big or so tall.’ ©Joe Wilson 2014
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Life's the longest distance between two points:
Doggy-paddling through the present backwards
Understanding words already spoken
Right hand on the wheel, torso twisted
(As in standard reversal procedure),
Looking out the back, advancing slowly,
Careering backwards down the motorway:
We see ourselves in car windscreens becoming
Reflections of ourselves in passers-by.
Decode the numberplates, look out the sides
For chaos, chance and consciousness to coincide
And tell us that we haven't missed our turn,
Forever facing where we can't return.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
the oil of the high grade pollen
coated in sticky honey-like crystals
old school wrap and a vaporizer
instills calm where there had been chaos
oh how the mighty have fallen
offers to go places
live music in an alleyway bar
cocktails till dawn
a rave under a motorway
the Sub Club for legendary libation
and mingle with familiar hazy faces
and yet,
he warms to the four walls of home
the symmetrical wooden rail border
the OCD driven picture placement
the videos in genre specific
alphabetical order
outside the city streets throng
stag-hen crews in costume
tourists off the beaten path
seeking the Water of Life
students drinking the bank of mum and dad dry
mid-week workers letting of class A steam
that for some is clearly too strong
the hordes
of bar ******
pimping their Versace
and Primark combo
any Glasgow bar
where looks could ****
bar telepathy
means he no longer
even has to speak
just have the fiber
to clear the bill
This he calls home.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
I walked past my old house today
it had changed - new modern windows
And doors.
The garden looked the same
Although it wasn't as well kept as I remembered it.
I passed the old Co-op shop
Where I started work at fifteen.
Sadly it is now an antique shop.
I climbed Woodbank, a steep hill in the village
The landscape had changed little
Except for a motorway cutting through it.
The old canteen- where I used to deliver groceries-
Had disappeared without trace.
Also the indoor tennis courts had gone
Replaced by new bungalows.
Yes, a lot of changes have taken place
Since I left in 1957.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
,
.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
Can't believe what I'm seeing,
All the flames and smoke,
Sparks ignite expanding foam,
Skyline begins to choke,
Smoke is seen from miles around,
Drifts across the M8 motorway,
Drifting down Renfrew Street,
Students stand and pray,
Students were getting ready,
Their talent ready to show
The fire put a stop to that,
Some talent just won't show,
Built by Rennie Mackintosh,
In the Art Nouveau design,
A building of world renown,
Some think of it a shrine,
Building damage wasn't too bad,
Fire and Rescue saved most,
Student's art and Rennie's art,
Didn't end up like burnt toast.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC