"stoplight" poems
Too much, too fast.
Breathless at a stoplight.
change
fast
must
go
I HAVE NO TIME
everything/everything/today/tomorrow
Always with the rushing, barely feeling, barely knowing where I am.
Now there's nothing.
It's a break, slow and stale.
What do I do?
There are four or five things maybe but none feel right and I can't bring myself to move.
I try one thing,
then another.
No drive,
meaning,
purpose,
feeling.
Not even my eyes can focus on anything.
Skipping, blinking, nothing.
Slow.
Give me back the whirlwind, or give me gravelike nothing.
Nothing is right.
I need power to feel and peace to fight or I am already dead.
Please.
I'm trusting You.
Please.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 10:21 PM UTC
it’s unsettling how many people i’ve had to beg to forget me, lately. how many i’ve tried to convince that i really am as insignificant as a stranger you made eye contact with for a moment at the stoplight. for so long i was begging so many people to stay, to keep holding onto me, even if it wasn’t in their best interest. all i wanted was to be selfishly adored. now all i want is to be left alone.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Hello Chicago
Flat carpet-town of corn meal
steel spears at the northern junction
of Cahokia and some unknown dream
No lillies grow here sir,
no tulip fields
though there are many Dutch
a little up north
Wisconsin, dontcha' know?
Family blood rains through the Chicago river
named of the blood of a slain tribal wonder
wanders
with the roaming buffalo
I sat at the top of Sears
(Willis)
Tower and peered into the foggy distance
and made out the shores of Michigan
through Indiana
the leftover rains of a continental freeze
churned the earth to butter and carved the arteries
and bowels
of today's earthly body
And when we drove in from O'Hare
in the late hours on incessant stoplight highways
counting down the streets
thinking maybe they'll go all the way to
Mississippi
just a long row of
Concrete
I saw the brick tower
of a decrepit Frito-lay plant
where they cooked their corn and potato
into succulent
can't eat just one
little snacks
for the whole of america
to enjoy in backyard barbecues
and convenience stores
and grocery outlets
All across the planet
Now with the trucks they come and go
up to and whizzing past Chicago
on to greener states with greater relief
with hills and lakes and winding streams
Different sections of the sculpture
Cities eroding into the pleasant coasts
quaking and breaking into tiny stones
a monumental David
cracked in the gallery
bird **** corroding the silicates
unpolished and immortal
words
Chicago!
oh you mighty city you
built from sod and sweat and dew
of new morning
I see your towers
you dreamer, you
But your towers are in Dubai,
and Shanghai
now
The world moved on
and forgot everything about
that magnificent mile
burned to make you earn
new toys and fancy things
from far beyond your winding river streams
But you didn't die
amazing, how much they tried
to rust you out
to bleed you dry
no,
Chicago,
you keep your ***** rivers flowing
all the way to the Mississippi
flanked by modern Roman concrete
all the way to the great green sea
out into the puddle that surronds
the Amerigo
Chicago
don't you give up that river dream
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Sa unang limang segundo, berde.
Sabi mo mahal mo. Sige, andar.
Sa susunod na dalawang segundo, dilaw.
Magmabagal ka muna.
Pagisipan mo kung tutuloy ka pa.
Sa huling segundo, pula.
Tigil na.
Wala na.
Maghintay ka nalang.
Magiging berde rin ulit yan.
Wag ka na mag-beating-the-red-light.
Pagbabayarin ka pa ng pulis at sasabihin sa'yong, "Nakita mo namang dilaw na yung ilaw, 'di ba? Ba't tumuloy ka pa?"
At ikaw naman 'tong nagbubulag bulagang sasabihing, "Akala ko po aabot pa ako."
Akala mo lang.
Akala mo kakayanin mo pa siyang habulin pero hindi na pala.
Akala mo maaabutan mo pa siya pero nakalayo na siya.
Akala mo.
Akala mo lang.
Pero mali ang iyong akala.
Sana.
Sana pala huminto ka na.
Sana pala hindi mo na hinabol.
Sana pala noong una palang, inalam mo na.
Sana inalam mo na, na di ka na niya mahal.
Kaya nung naging berde na yung ilaw, umandar na siya.
Pero nung umapak ka na sa gas upang habulin siya,
naging dilaw na yung ilaw.
Sana doon palang, tumigil ka na.
Sana doon palang, nagdahan-dahan ka na.
Pula na 'yung ilaw.
Tigil na.
'Wag mo nang pilitin pang habulin siya.
Pero ito ang sinasabi ko sa'yo,
Sa pagkakataong ito'y maging berde na muli,
Wag **** hintaying maging pula ulit ito.
Ang mga busina ng kotse sa iyong likod ang nagsasabi sayo, "Umandar ka na. Berde na ang ilaw. Ano pa ba ang ginagawa mo?"
Umapak ka sa gas, hindi para sa kanya.
Pero para sa sarili mo.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.
The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.
Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.
Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his,
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft carries smoke and cedar.
distant wildfires.
Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement,
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.
Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.
Somewhere past Brockway Summit
a ridgeline blooms orange.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
torn jeans
dimples
station wagons
shifting eyebrows
eager hands
wry smiles
chapped lips
cheap beer
deep-set eyes
pirated music
hates his birthday
stoplight-kisses
star-gazing in cornfields
****** knuckles
broken minds
lanky limbs
poetry books
scruffy faces
jet-black coffee
calloused hands that still feel soft
adventurer's heart
jumping fences
midnight tokes
always gives you hickeys
always opens your door
worn sneakers
chewed pen caps
late for work
old windbreakers
dirt under his fingernails
omniscient smirks
expensive cologne
good intentions -
but is bad with goodbyes
hates himself for making you cry
broken cigarettes
aviator shades at night
a perpetually furrowed brow
and a laugh that sounds like autumn leaves as they crunch beneath your feet
m.f.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Mirage
I sit up in bed and rub my blurry eyes
is that you I see coming towards me
no it's just a shadow on the wall
it was nothing more than a mirage
walking down Cypress Avenue I can't believe
there you are across the street looking my way
wait oh no it was someone else completely
it was just another wishful dream I see
buying my groceries for tonites dinner
wait is that you I seen turning the corner
I rush to the end of the aisle to find
it was your memory playing with my mind
I was sitting at the stoplight on Maple Drive
I glanced over at the car in the lane next to me
I can't believe it must be you sitting there
I waved and you frowned it was just a mirage
I see your face in every little thing I do
I just can't get you out of my mind
maybe I should check myself into the ward
I think I still have that doctor's card
last nite you told me that you would go
to the prom so I bought you a nice corsage
but you weren't really there were you
it was just another dam mirage
Gomer LePoet ....
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
A Trochee Christmas and its Several Interchangeable Anapests
Brought to You in Some Desperation
By Your Local Chamber of Commerce
(Second Trailer Past the Stoplight)
Christmas in the Park
Christmas on the Main
Christmas on the Lake
Christmas on the Strand
Christmas on the Square
Christmas on the Farm
Christmas on the Beach
Christmas on the Mall
Christmas in the Mall
Christmas on the Block
Christmas on the Coast
Christmas on the Gulf
Christmas on the Hill
Christmas in the Keys
Christmas on the Quay
Christmas on the Quad
Christmas on the Range
Christmas on the Ranch
Christmas in the Vale
And this year, Christmas at the 'Gras!
But no Christmas without anapests, ‘kay?
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
A quiet life
A country life
Where the grass sways in the breeze
And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights
A far cry from the city
Gone are the endless vibrant lights
Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts
In this place of air almost too clean to breathe
They stroll
A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign
Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first"
Fast feet and hot dog carts
Italian ices on every corner
Fifty-six blocks to a destination
A world of choices
A billion footprints at a time
Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose
Everyone is invisible and naked at once
The green haired freak and the business man
The limos and the gypsy cabs
The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities
The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers
A hundred miles for supplies
Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun
Soot filled pores and too much traffic
Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities
Crickets and junebugs
The world closes at eight
Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell
The slow pace of growing grass
The warmth of a winterless Summer
Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
His shadowy brim tipped down and in
No face to place, no trace of chin
Revolver cradled loose and low
Cylinder whirs, chambers roll
Trench coat long, dark, and lean
Black boots gleam with choicest sheen
Right hand rested 'round bony grips
Left hand fans and never slips
Who are you?
What do you want from me?
Why are you here?
Your purpose is hidden
Your message unclear
Never a word muttered
Not even a sound
It's always the same
When you come around
Got to find my keys
Get out of this place
I'm weak in the knees
My heart's losing pace
Jump in the car
Pedal meets metal
Check my rear-view
For signs of that devil
At the stoplight
A peripheral glance
A sideways glint
A figure askance
Shotgun rider
A figment with a plan
The devil may care
But my mind made the man
©Jason Cole
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
rock on, baby.
slow dance to nirvana
at the stoplight in the deep south of
town
and never let him damage ya
BUT if he does
chip his tooth
and write on his
skin
clenching a permanent marker
in between your teeth that's
blacker than your soul
could ever be -
"I'LL SEE YOU WHEN THE SUN
SETS EAST...
DON'T FORGET ME."
-z. vega
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
We were unknowingly stuck at a broken stoplight as I was watching you dramatically mouth the words to Use Somebody by Kings of Leon. I was cracking up in the passenger seat but all of a sudden the song changes and I'm wondering why the light is still red.
We brush it aside and listen to the next song while paying close attention to the stoplight cycles.
The third song comes on and at this point everyone is aware something is up. We look around for that line up of cars and sure enough.
Cars from behind are turning around and cars in the front of us take the safe right turn instead.
It was funny.
The way all the cars reacted at the same time. As if a plane with a banner was in the sky saying: THIS LIGHT IS NOT FUNCTIONING.
All this to say that sometimes, if not always, humans are secretly on the same wavelength.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
But I'd rather be where you are, in New York City.
Able to feel the crisp air turning my cheeks pink
and chilling my little knuckles,
to feel you wrap around me as I shudder with every tiny snowflake.
I'd rather be walking along the streets,
with every stoplight in our favor and every cafe open,
welcoming us in for coffee and cake.
I'd prefer you in a long black pea coat and you prefer me in green.
I'd rather it be near Christmas time in the empty part of the city,
where no one can hear you whisper to me.
I'd rather the bakery scents draw us nearer and nearer,
through the park,
down the alleys,
to the heart of Manhattan
and capture us with pungent tarts and little pastries,
waiting,
wishing.
I'd rather you kiss away the crumbs from my cheek
and feel your scruffy jaw against my neck.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
There is nothing but me
And this stoplight at the end of the universe,
Green, yellow, red
Then green again.
Independent of judgement,
From all who look on.
Their opinions don't matter,
I walk along.
There are others beside me,
Their choices their own,
But save for this stoplight,
I walk alone.
Just a blank slate
Free from doubt,
free from fear,
It's just me
and this stoplight here.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
Stoplight Lynching,
Drive-by Reaping,
Soul snatching police officers,
Throat tearing teacher’s with a theme
Violence in the genes,
Scheming while masquerading what you are to be,
Playing charades because social acceptance is in,
Evolving from barbarism to greed,
Juxtaposed Imposter,
Judicially Jaded,
Think you can wield a blade,
When congressional dribble will bleed you away,
Martyr Mishaps,
Minds without maps and easy to catch,
A congregation in need creeds,
Stoplight sinning,
Drive-by finishing,
Soul savoring deities,
Throat slicing teachings,
Ignorance is a conquering king,
All encompassing,
All controlling,
Ignorance is a conquering thief, compromising our mental capacities for the sake of Almighty Themes.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.
A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”
Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.
People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.
Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.
So long, mom and dad.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
Driving,
reaching the stoplight,
but not knowing whether to stop,
slow down,
or just keep moving forward
because ****
What happens when theres no rules?
Love happens when theres no rules.
Green
Yellow
Red
All at once.
THATS MY HEART RIGHT NOW.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
when i was little, a kid I rode the bus with told me that alligators lived in the sewers. I still think of that to this day, and watch my step around street drains.
when I was even younger, I asked my mom how the stoplight turned from red to green. She said "theres a mouse inside of them and some cheese. When the mouse goes to eat the cheese, then the light turns green!"
I believed it.
And some days, when i'm driving aimlessly through town, I remember the mouse and the cheese when I get stuck at a light.
I've always been afraid of drains, whether in pools or bathtubs. Maybe it stems from the kid who told me the alligator lie. But either way, I still hate them. Possibly even more than ever.
I wish I had more memories of my childhood. The older I get, the more they become blurred, erased it seems. They survive through family photos stored in closets and old tapes with the wrong labels.
But for some reason, I do tend to remember the bad memories. Those never leave my mind. Like the alligators.
Now I am 29 going on 30. (Living the last couple hours of my 20's as I write this actually). I feel nostalgia setting in and I also feel sadness. It is officially the end of an era. My twenties will soon be a thing of the past. Just a moment in time.
We constantly grow. From baby to toddler, child to teen, and on to adulthood we go. Each year delicate as the last. Learning more about the world and the way things work.
I now know how traffic lights actually work. And I think I am certain alligators don't really live in our midwestern sewer systems.
And I'm also not ready to turn 30.
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 11:12 PM UTC
i.
in him like the sewing needle of god’s mother; is lightning.
in you a koan.
ii.
now that she wants the surgery removed
they tell her
the womb
is a hook
that looks like a womb.
iii.
everywhere work.
stalks
pitch
the golden blood
of brooms.
iv.
mother in her rocker
her eyes
tire swings
her tongue
a cat’s tail.
v.
fourteen
my sister
martyrs herself
under the monkey
mad
in the stoplight.
vi.
in a church
hangs a coat
with a man
in it.
vii.
does not break loose
like they say
all hell.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
This one is for the old souls—
for the minds sustained on stories
and the lips that speak only
in combinations of words dusted
with jaw-tingling purpose.
For those who can find salvation
in a good bass line
and the disciples of that
aww sookie sookie now—
for the air guitarists
who will only ever make it big
going solo at a stoplight—
for the pairs of eyes
that can’t help but see things
the way love is felt:
inexplicably with hungry fascination.
This one is for the old souls—
may the world always be
your zealous oyster,
producing enough pearls to fill
an Olympic-sized swimming pool,
and may you always be
brave enough to jump in
wearing only a smile.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Jesus hangs from my rearview mirror,
forced to sway from side to side to the Devil's music --
Big Brother with His ever watchful, weeping lenses.
Most nights I ignore His chimes as He bashes
other charms and mementos on silver chains,
but from the corner of my eye I pray for forgiveness
as His aura changes from red to green.
Sins and skidmarks are left behind the white line
and ***** palms -- wet and hope streaked -- drive the wheel home.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
sun and moon stand side-by-side in the great starless sky of this Monday Sunday Tuesday workweek
with ambulance stoplight caution I leap from crevice to crack of the ***** cement walkways that tear across snowy fields
staring at the world around me - faces as solemn unreserved apathetic mirrors of nothing in their corresponding souls
pair them off in dialogues of the triumphs of the fabled GPA - its ********** growling dripping fangs embedded in their minds since sloppy second-hand birth
and I cry out and I cry alone for these are the summers winters springs falls etc and so on of my discontent
for I am a man among gods
gods of capitalism and communism and social disorder and bureaucracy
gods of music and poetry and written spoken words and fashionability
and the only false evidence of such godly aspirations remain on my body as fading bitemarks on my wrists from when once I tried so valiantly to tear my technicolor blood from these incontinent arms
but even in such times as those there was no salvation but for yellow-staining death sticks clutched between shaking fingers and melting shots fired down raw fleshy throat in rapid secession
the gods I hold so dear have left me for whatever come what may in these places of my mind filled with words and thoughts and images of your everything thrashing against nothing
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 11:44 AM UTC
You told me you loved me amongst the crowd of a Steelers game while we were searching for a hot dog and soda. Not the most enchanting, but perhaps I watch too many rom-coms for my own good. I think I've always just romanticized each aspect of a relationship and all the major moments based on what media told me meant the most.
Opening my eyes now, those special moments aren't always at a candlelit dinner or by a fireplace, many times they are at a cookout with your friends or the zoo with my nieces and nephews. The beauty of feeling something so deeply that you just have to say it, even if it's in front of a porta ***** at a church festival or the stoplight on your way home, that's the real love that people feel.
So when I tell you I love you while sitting on my couch on a random Monday night, know that I mean it. Know that every muscle in my body wanted to tell you because I didn't wait for candlelight or an array of stars, instead I told you in the most real way, our way.
We will still have those romantic moments on a boat under the moonlight or the fireplace of an old house, but we will also have those passionate moments where we couldn't keep our feelings in anymore and the most appropriate place just happens to be a crowded train on the way downtown and an airport bar. I love you and I'll say it anywhere.
-t.s.
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 9:55 PM UTC
You bought me spaghetti. That was nice of you,
we carried it to a bakery and bought cupcakes for dessert.
The rain hit us
and the plate of spaghetti warmed my knees
and you bought me a book of classic love poems
that said nothing about how you would break my heart later
and I cannot write this poem anymore.
We sat on two different benches,
one in front of my college and another by a long stoplight
holding your beautiful gifts in my arms.
It was the first time
you loved me where everyone could be jealous of us.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
can you picture me?
spinning with you by the sea?
kitchen scenes, bedroom nights.
waiting for you at the stoplight.
can you picture me?
wrapped within your arms?
so close and warm.
completely out of harm.
can you picture me?
at Hollywood High
breathing in your gentle sigh.
inhaling so deep.
ready for us to take the next leap.
I can picture you.
a beautiful picture in my mind.
a treasure i did find.
a line that I did cross.
my virginity lost.
I can picture you.
with anger and silence inside.
melting somewhere, my arms too wide.
adversaries washed away.
reassurance as you lay.
I can picture you.
the bronze of your skin
the warmth hits like a wind.
on this cool ivory skin.
can you picture me?
these petals still immature.
never as I were.
I can picture you.
putting a bandage on my wound.
your smile making me a new.
your domination--a form of protection.
your words my progression.
I can picture you.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC