"roadways" poems
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
Full moon, black pony,
olives against my saddle.
Though I know all the roadways
i'll never get to Córdoba.
Through the breezes, through the valley,
red moon, black pony.
Death is looking at me
from the towers of Córdoba.
Ay, how long the road is!
Ay, my brave pony!
Ay, death is waiting for me,
before I get to Córdoba.
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
16.4k
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.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
Mid-20 doldrums never really wore off
still slay the summers with smiles
like punches
Still walking wounded through the bad joke lanes,
questions clamped under your tongue,
with an aching brain
Can't believe we thought we'd left a place.
Still rattling 'round inside these tin can
roadways.
Carrying cards after we fold the game
Poured pretty comforts down our throats--
so many candied gas tanks.
And I agree: these couches
are feeling more like graves
Will our crutches craft our coffins
'til we bobble routine plays?
Nothing changed before we knew it.
6-year blink, it's all the same.
It's just that
Mid-20 doldrums never really wore off.
Still blur the border between wants and needs.
Still **** our thumbs when all the
lights turn off.
Still check our pulses,
then start laughing loud as
knocking knees
Can't believe we thought we'd left a place.
We're still too comfortable with our own kind.
Still fall in love with the same friends
for just a few days at a time
And I concur: these routines
are looking more like chains
Will these crutches seal our caskets?
Would we notice anyway?
Nothing changed before we knew it
6-year blink, it's still the same.
Mid-20 doldrums never really wore off.
Still chasing sunsets and a 10-cent dream.
Still rattling 'round inside these tin can
roadways
Still placing patches over fraying seams
Still checking pulses, still on quaking knees.
Still too scared to make up our minds
Still turning parties into 3-day headaches
while we pretend like we can take our time
Can't believe we thought we'd left a place
Still slay the summers with smiles
like punches.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
My heart's ablaze
I'm so amazed
cluttered in clichés
in a daze
I'm dismayed
too many long driveways
Life's fortes
as we graze
upon the gaze
in a haze of haze
trapped inside this maze
our voices phase
into the next of days
Oh did we raise
with utter rephrase
glancing sideways
into stairways
how I hate your ways
as much as I hate causeways
too much decay
along the edgeways
inside the hallways
roadways
screenplays
my heart strays
on into Sundays
and Tuesdays
I hate the weekdays
they're gateways
into other days.
© 2012 Christina Jackson
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
I feel his eyes on me
Whenever I cross the room.
It is mostly when there are others
Present and we must share ourselves,
Expended over people
And places. The spaces
Before we fall into our wine stained
Non-marital bed. The grape blood reminds me
Of my own. On my own, fledgling ******* and acne,
Elaborately false *******
Where I would never have my fill.
A child-man I forgot.
Or remember only as a token,
Cardboard textured orange peel
In a breast pocket never worn. I forget
Most everyone
Now that he is
In my life. He obliterates
All else like light pollution.
Not of fluorescent neon or slogans
But an exploding star
That dims all else
In my peripheries. I am
Diminished also in his love,
Both wholesomely and then in a sense
Where I lose my ‘I’.
It is in his shadow
Where I live. Small comet
Hidden in the black of velvet,
Licked by the spit of his flames
That scald me
And bathe me
In equal measure.
I am more than this
I know. Or guess. His tailor hands
Though, are efficient and caring. They
Do not create me, but he threads himself
Into my sides
And drops a stitch
Only to adulate the rhythm
When he enters me. When he enters me
I become burgeoned and full and blood fills
The rusted roadways
That shine blue
Through my pasty prism.
He finishes. A gloom fills me. Not
A gloom, more of a nothing and he is
An obliterated star once more
And I his aftermath.
He has killed me with a kindness,
A ghost only when witnessed, kissed.
I have long since forgotten whether I have
Been taken prisoner
Or gave myself up.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
the brain and mind are not the same thing.
a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.
it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.
the mind has no such manuals.
it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.
it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.
it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.
the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;
hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.
away from people who haven’t quite learned,
that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 2:37 AM UTC
the holiday season
has just begun
and the death toll
on the roadways do stun
drivers
driving
far
too fast
for
these
maniac
drivers
the
dice
is
cast
drivers
consuming
too
much
beer
and
wine
the
outcome
for
them
is
the
end
of
the
line
drivers
taking
uppers
to
stay
awake
they're
putting
their
lives
and
others
at
stake
some forethought by drivers
who get behind the wheel
may obviate the death statistics
which grow with zeal
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Wider roads
Reclaimed our abode
Lesser spaces
More roadways
Leads nowhere
Classy vehicles
Steering for long
Congested traffic
Life comes to
A standstill
Homes push away
Further from heart
Electronic signals
Directs our journey
Everyone back home
Waits for none
This is a journey
With a passion
Without a rear view mirror
There’s no looking back
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
the previous listener, who did so faintly and in a manner foreign to me, sat reasonably as I do now, or perhaps lain starry and jaded on some soft lawn riddled with the paused movements of those who watched, clouded with distraction, the life of a sweet nothing drown in descent from above as they cheered and screamed for it, for that meaningless treasure tainted by the vanity of their own desire, ignorant of the listener, of her own treasure then forming, as something warm and enduring in the seat of her chest, something to brood, to analyze, to cherish for a length, at great odds with the fleet and trivia that so dominated the struct of their noire.
but the listener had none of this, gulfed from the shaking and pressing, shielded the same from its symbol and write, opting to push for those few golden moments most certainly approaching her as the rest wraithed past, softly and shyly granting the scarcest and most shamefully starved of treelines, roadways and ballparks and wire staff, knowing but keeping that the few she would most deeply and fondly remember would be just these.
and so the listener and her lover stood past, sweeping over the artificial earths with little concern, not pausing or skipping for a moment to witness the wonder in the world around them and to soak up some indefinable fraction of its infinite offerings. from lain block to patch grass they strode, searching for their one moment, for that which so surely stood staunch and unmoving at some near point in their passage, but which always seemed to elude them, to taunt and hang and cackle in the face of their steadily growing contempt.
and then, as the crowd deserted their peaks for the safe and steady and trough, allowing those moments of elation to slip from them with ease, the listener let likewise all that was precious to her from her grasp, and fell into a similar place, one of deserted lows and recollections of the brightness that lay behind, of those very moments that felt their way independently into her heart and her soul, and left her love beside her, forever looking up into the dark.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
The weather seemed better from the day before
While the sun was backed by low clouds,
And the wind was getting a brisk touch,
The cold on the fringe, the snap of a finger,
The feeling could all be turned round,
The snow, piling the roadways
Feeling it not far from here,
With November upon us (November can you believe?)
And Christmas, that 'time of the year'
Each date, each principal, each feeling of time
Passes quick and full and blows by like the breeze
With a smile for the things you can do,
A happy feeling for the things you will do
A snag, but a feeling of 'I tried' with the things you cannot do,
All this, all these, all of it wells inside you and feels
Like the rush of the wind on a blustery day
With a feeling that somewhere, home, you know it's there
One can feel, your words, your skin, your heart
And can feel it with a smile,
Can feel it with a warmth, and a protective arm
Can wrap around you, and in the silence,
You know, it is there.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC
Postman
and poet?
love letters in mail
Accountant
and poet?
precision, detail
Archeologist
and poet?
sifting for feelings
Electrician
and poet?
a jolt
leaving one reeling
architect
and poet?
drafting with words
Zookeeper
and poet?
singing of birds
Bus driver
and poet?
observing life's roadways
Minister
and poet?
perhaps how he prays
Lawyer
and poet?
though about win or lose
her poetry just might amuse
Economist
and poet?
Aren't we all that?
though we wear different hats
distilling things downwards
saving on words
whoever you are
whatever you choose
listen, observe
welcome your Muse!
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
Stars are history lit by lightyears of time
There is one for every being that ever lived
Every blade of grass, every greatest mind
That is why they are uncountable
(The value of life cannot be measured)
Light travels in years and years
Faster than cars every drunken day
It’s no wonder that it starts the planets spinning
Sets the universe in a haphazard dance
(Though music doesn’t conduct in the absence of air)
We don’t see stars like the dinosaurs did
We see stars as they existed back then
A lightyear is a tower with a thousand floors
On every one there’s a doorway filled by glass
(These lives are not yours to live, not yet)
You and me, we’re all condensed explosions
Speckles of supernovas and molecules of galaxies
Humans are a thousand sparks of history
Condensed into one hundred years
(The past repeats because it is always reborn)
Dreams are a symphony played by chance collisions
Seconds in a blink of eternity’s eye
Yet a single thought can flash-bang a revolution
Save a life or take a future
(No matter how you’re small, you really do matter)
We can map space to the edge of our sightline
Make quadrants for fire and roadways for brightness
Though it’s hard to draw lines through thinner than air
To hold electricity in a loop of motion
(Mastery over kinetic does not a monarchy make)
Every day we walk through echoes of motion
Fading into combination and reflecting forensics
Don’t dust for fingerprints, dust for enlightenment
The inspiration in the flowers of a fairy ring
(Eternal dances with skeletons always have the best music)
Shake hands with the ghosts of every stuttering memory
Life is a game played with actions, not words
We the people has always meant people, not person
That’s why East Coast waves echo on West Coast shores
(Midwest sings salt ’n dust chemical rain)
I’ve met people capable of infinite kindness
I’ve been beaten down by unconscious hate
It’s always a game of chess in this world
No one has less than twelve reasons for what they do
(Except with love, which is madness, which doesn’t count)
Every star has a person to belong to
Every past holds hands tight with the future
Every spark has a little bit of kindling
And the crescendo of dreams shifts the world on its foundation
(Burning bright means so much less than helping others catch flame.)
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Tonight Ill lie awake waiting for the reprieve of sleep that will never come. My eyes will bore holes in the night sky for stars. Like a moth eaten blanket that covered up the outside light. My heart will sink to the center of the earth like stones and heavy metals. Arms crossed hugging myself so tight. Thoughts twist and curl through my mind like the dark waters in the sound. I’m sitting upon the breakwall that I’ve built, held steady by the mortar of my past life. Prior planning leads to stable landings.
The water leaked into the cracks that you made. I sandbagged but it meant nothing. It was like dutch fingers in cracking dams. Contents pouring out to water Holland’s tulips.
I held steady so long but recent lapses in judgement left me open and waiting.
This time, like the last, I read the weather report wrong. Sunny days relapse into clouds and rain. My stray into meteorology took me down dark streets at night passing empty parks with vacant swings and lonely slides. Houses filled with slumbering occupants. Tired streetlights lighting up void roadways like ancient nightlights. Somehow I managed to find my way home. Back to where I’ve always been. Stagnant between the surf and the cliff face, I sink to swim
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
You are my former palace,
my walled city,
the cradle of my disinhibition.
You are my intricate
system of roadways.
(I know you by heart)
You incite rebellions
in my sleepy villages
and send me postcards
from dangerous places.
You are my lost transcripts;
we know each other the way river
knows sky— a cosmic nod,
a reflection of always.
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 10:06 AM UTC
in
the land
down under
retired folk
get on the roadways
touring extensive countryside
their destinations do vary
some go to the coastal strips while some
do the inland trek in the red hues
we call these older folks the grey nomads
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Your esteem's
Like the leaves
Crackling
Under footsteps
Under trees
Falling backwards
From your own "words"
Splattering
On the concrete
House of Cards
What a pity
To pity in yourself
To pity in good wealth
To pity in good health
And what a pity
You built it a city
Open Sewage
Clogs your roadways
Your gritty, ****** self loathing city.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.
And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.
But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.
For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.
A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.
Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.
And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.
Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?
Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?
These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.
To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.
And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
#*
It was midnight
the moon sailed through the clouds
Winds howled
so did the wolf
The insects trilled
while in the distance machines drilled
Roadways to resurrect in the dead of the night
Snow covered land, white
no sign of the Sun
Do not follow the shadows
they can mislead
Puzzled and incomplete
Mystery of the truth
In pictures framed*#
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 1:56 PM UTC
If I may presume to summarize the concept,
"Eminent Domain,"
The Big P People own the Right of Way
And the little p people
Have temporary possession of the opportunity
To get out of the Way,
Or to be smashed under the wheels
Of Big P Progress.
Appropriate compensation will be paid,
Of Course,
And living spaces provided
To the little p people,
While the Big P People thunder by on their new highways,
Overpasses, airports, causeways, and thoroughfares.
Reclamation will be done over the torn earth
To re-bury the unearthed little p people's dead,
To restore damaged aquifers,
To "replace" trees and grasses "just as before,"
Never mind the pipelines,
The concrete roadways,
The railroads,
And the power lines....
Eminent Domain...
Rhymes with Capitalist Gain,
And little p people's pain....
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
Trotting over roadways,
on a volatile wayward ride
destination destiny.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Blistering between the false hope of liberty
and the dream of a destiny
beyond the stars and the cosmic intricacies
of filtered rituals of nonsense, I stayed stymied
on the crutches of traditional customs
and conventions of writing.
Even the telescopic vision of a faraway
fantasy did not change rapidly
until the burning smell of a laissez-faire life
drove me into the strange new highways
of poetry.
Before too long I re-directed my attention
to writing, reading and contemplation
all of which came together
in an implosion of thought.
I wrote my first poem at the tender
age of twelve
and never stopped racing down the
roadways of writing
tyres burning
and speedometer ticking
Who can stop a getaway wordsmith
from breaking vocab records
for daring the unimaginable fantasy?
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 hours ago
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Fresh night air breezes past me,
Funneled down though parking garages,
Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants
And through the smoke of every kitchen employee
Burning on the back street.
The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment,
But goes mostly unacknowledged by all.
Thus the wheel turns
Cook, clean, run, serve, smile
Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling
Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat.
Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
the city and it's music
every changing
the city and it's music
daily rearranging
you can hear the distant thunder
kept in time by city drums
a beat of urban tires
that makes the city roadways strum
the wind blows through the subway
you can hear the wires hum
it's the city making music
shut your eyes and listen some
the band has no conductor
there are horns and there are strings
there's a bass back from the buses
listen to the joy it brings
it's a concert in the city
by the city and it rings
the bells from downtown churches
and the piegeons flapping wings
you've an orchestra around now
listen close, it never stops
from the cars racing through downtown
to the whistle blowing cops
it's a different kind of music
it's got a rhythm that just pops
it's a gritty harder sound
that echos to the building tops
cars, trucks, people walking
all are part of this great band
and the best part of this music
is it's spread across the land
each song you hear is different
nothing ever comes out planned
each city has a cadence
listen close, the show's at hand....
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
there is a moment
between the decision to make a mistake
and actually making it,
when you think about
how the power lines
make lace spiderweb shadows on
the sidewalk
and how the the sunlight and
the moonlight have the same
sparkle
and you wonder if your choice really
matters,
because daisies will still have
candied orange centers and
it will still take fourteen hours to drive to
Bangor to an airport with
one bathroom and airtight security
so they can take your toe nail clippers
before you board your flight home
and realize you
left an hour before sunset
and somehow it's underwhelming
to be so far above the
sun.
there is a moment
between the realization that you've gone too far
and taking the step over the line
when you see the cracking
of the pavement
and go to buy a roll of duct tape
because there's nothing duct tape can't fix
so you spread a thin layer of
love and adhesive
on the concrete
to keep the edges of your heart from
splitting open,
but you trip and fall into the hole
you were trying to bridge
and you're right back where you started
trying not to break your momma's back
but the gap is too wide to jump
like those kids on the playground
tracing cloud colored circles
in sidewalk chalk around your head
just trying to make you understand.
so before you decide
to make that mistake
trace the lace shadows on the
roadways and
tape your
heart together
so you can draw a
staircase to understanding
and
follow a trail
of innocent eyes
to a place where you
don't feel so lost.
because there are no mistakes
only choices to make
and now is the
only moment
to make them.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC