"viaduct" poems
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
Is it my priestly duty
to be denied?
love—time and all else, at all cost!
while he went home alone to watch a movie?
Another victim
sacrificed
having squandered all my pieces in his game?
Trudging home
along the river
slow, in snow
I parse my losses
At the outskirts of a homeless camp
I pause below a viaduct
hauling passion by a leash
warming hands
avoiding hovel-eyes
Flames flicker on our faces
receiving absolution over embers
of a burning embrace
There trace
in glowing holocaust of skids
in human bleatings and crumblings
our smoke rises— pure obscure
Appease with boozy-blur
the icy, stinging God of winter stars...
G’nights inaudible as blessing
Am I derelict enough to be worthy?
Fallen far enough?
from the porches of prosperity?
to escape it all?
That wedding white
the newborn’s head
that numbing denial of decay?
Am I depraved enough to make it?
to the pages of your tragedy— minus poetry?
But the angel said
“The poetry’s more!”
Than leaving me—beyond you
...in the shambles of my words
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
It will not have been a long time
that my parents sent someone with me
when I went to see the trains
after school and at the weekend
Far too often, they thought, but
I liked to be there, on the bridge
at the station, especially in this town
you could see old models pass
I know them blind, by their sound
the vibration of the viaduct
their smell if it doesn't blow too much
and the Doppler effect
It is mainly freight transport
yet the town is connected
to the big world
and still there are children
on their toes
to look over the wall
and I never saw a daredevil
scrambling on top of it
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 2:43 AM UTC
Everyone is an island,
But everyone is trying to connect the island with the main land through a bridge!
Everyone is trying hard to get the soil to grow!
Thus, everybody is busy building their own viaduct!
They build it,
With their own materials of heart and soul!
But when storms come hearts are split and destabilized,
Some time liquefy in rain water! And Bridges break down!
Again it is becoming an isolated island!
So, in the race of edifice,
Everyone is searching for material of strongest and vibrant heart,
To build the bridges sturdy and eternal!
But hearts are delicate and soluble to state of affairs of life,
So, it breaks and link fall down, and
Every one becoming island with its own soul!
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
The time has come to hit the road,and
make some tracks
in shutdown mode.
It's easy to be put upon when you're just one and have no heart to fight,right or wrong it's so long chaps
we've had our laughs and there's no more to come.
I have spun new shoes to fit these feet and now I'm heading off to greet what's in the next face that I meet, I fear the milk of human kindness has run dry,its teats are shy,my lips are parched.
You'll find me underneath the arch that runs beneath the viaduct,fucked or not,shutdown's what I do and one day you might do it too,'til then when Big Ben strikes the hour at nine and I dine alone chilled to the bone and when you find me,be kind because I carry a weighty load which make more tracks in the shutdown mode.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Waste (wāst) v. (1.) To use, consume, spend, or expend thoughtlessly or carelessly: For hours on end we laid waste beneath the plastered moon. Our hands mimicked the stars weaved between a silked sky. The grass imprinting tallies into our back.
(2.) To cause to lose energy, strength, or vigor; exhaust, tire, or enfeeble: The tar wasted your lungs. It was the nicotine talking. We could never have a safe argument and now you are telling me that I am too much of a nice guy. Nicotine is the crutch between the crunch in the cracks that pry through the truth. (3.)To fail to take advantage of or use for profit; lose: You wasted an opportunity to be with me. You are missing the reverberation of our laughs under the viaduct, and the tickle attacks when we played hide and seek. (4.) a. To destroy completely. b. Slang. To **** ****** The cigarettes wasted our relationship. My eyes couldn't take the second hand jaundice, being the second pair of wells you flipped your wishes into, this second pairs of eyes that understood you. Now they draw blank when they see you. (5.) Garbage; trash. You had the audacity to keep your lips coiled to the cigarettes, than throw them in the waste basket. Countless weeks of me having to take them off your counter, from inside your purse, your backpack, I chose to become your waste basket. I carried your four year burden in my pockets. (6.) Regarded or discarded as worthless or useless. You were a waste of my time, a waste of my feelings, wasted space in my life.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
For fity miles
she rode on a rare Steed
to show her endeavour,
never saying whether should would dither -
a hearth must be prepared with care
a heart's evermore if it is sincere,
dreaming of the future under a
Trestle viaduct,
she recalled tact,
your typical daughter
with thin waist
and flaxen hair
could be changed by the World,
instead she had the courage of choice,
to embroider a kindred yarn
and perform revival folk
to kinder Columbine kingdoms,
perchance early to rise?
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
is in the spaces between the words where the unspoken
can make imagination leap oceans in a single bound
let us be a tad explanatory,
the accuracy of hi)s(tory,
starts with the evolution
of his revolutions,
his tree rings are
2.481481 multiple
of some of you
and this vantage point
just is,
neither dis or ad
my window fire escape is in NYC,
mon arrondissement est Le UES,
my-e-scapes, my e-names,
multiplying and manifold,
all revealed and revered,
even the state sanctioned one,
the nomination law-approved,
all are in the consciousness and the conscience
flowing in his thousands of writings,
all delivered
by the ancient viaduct roman
in the cerebrum of him
by the whim,
by the command of muses,
by their voices becoming,
now residents in his head
those tasking demanding, never satisfied,
poetry gods/goddesses remade the human,
plucked him to be a science project,
began by teaching him observation,
the meaning of colors
in comprehending feelings
by employing the senses five,
working as a team coordinated,
a team of superheroes
(POW! BAM! SPLAT!)
armed with the powers of
kindness, modesty and a
love for the sensuous,
that speaks volumes sensual
with no words, and the sound
on low
and together then, extract
the elements and plaster all into story
with the truth and fantasy interspersed
all his accumulated lovers,
future current and past,
look over his shoulders
as poet composes
suggesting constructs and textual emendations,
this's and that's, and don't forgets,
and some,
what does it matters...to this unusual text
fear nothing, except restraint, make knowing distance,
a precarious safety net, at best, no, not your best friend,
safety comes from the roots of who you are,
and so simple, there they are, written out for you,
in a thousand plus easy to follow steps
it is not distance that's the issue
reminds me, Herr Professor Albert,
(who takes the fall colors thru his eyes)
but time, yours, his, the chiefest enemy,
unless you can bend its curve
in shared poetry intelligible and cloudy
<•>
4:14am
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
A viaduct looms over my daily commute; trains rattle above.
I pass through its belly each day.
A canal ambles beneath one armpit,
Scrubland loiters under the other.
In the belly , glaring headlights inch forward towards their kin;
Metal, rubber and glass jostle for place,
Engines thrumming.
Shiny shoes pinch and stiff collars tighten;
Fingers start drumming.
Deadlock.
Gridlock.
On the indolent canal a barge floats serenely, fat fish meander and
Skinny - legged moor hens tiptoe through the reeds.
An old man in rough tweeds pokes his stick through the scrub land on the other side,
Searching for blackberries.
Lights change futilely; amber, green and red.
Engines rev and teeth grit.
The belly rumbles.
Ducks fly in and land on the still water of the canal.
They swim in formation under the bridge.
On the other side the old man sits to eat his fill
His fingers purple with juice.
Clouds scud, a breeze cools and the sun appears.
Collars stiffen, indicators tick, nails are bitten
As the cars inch forward.
The bloated belly heaves
As a few cars cross the border to meet another impasse.
Concentric circles appear on the surface of the water
And gnats flicker above it.
A family of coots sets out for a morning outing
And a kestrel hovers above.
Deep in the undergrowth field mice
Scurry away from the old man's boots.
Dry sticks snap under his heel
and the sun warms his thinning pate.
He takes the slow path through the undergrowth,
Meets an ancient lane
And strolls the familiar path home.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
While transforming his aesthetic liberty
into narcissism
he gambles with expressions
Turning the locutions of credos into beauty of tenets
trying to find amorous melody of life
he always lost in lushly thoughts
recreating a brazen space for new celestial cities
he is blissfully poetic.
He is a bloke compelled to dream on
Harbouring hope, conceiving the ambition
Delivers the ultimate…
Even at the tragic ******** release
He is still a Poet.
Being Utopian is his
second nature
forgetting
the cultured bites of
trauma in dogmatic ethics
He assuredly tried weaving
a carpet of viaduct
between the actuality and contentment
Yet, every time failed to
realize the power of reality
bouncing him back from his Felicia
After all he is a poet.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
Tears form Swarms in the Cavity of my Gut like little insects,
Playing house where you used to be.
And Underneath the viaduct
Where my dreams camp out with book bags
Jammed full of inexorable fates
Strapped to their crippled backs,
You prey and gather a stockpile of encyclopedias
About loss and what comes after
Aware of your hands, I've always been
How they complement your intentions
Picking pits into delusions like nervous tics
Knowing I'll always beg for more
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
A rock . . .
well really the brow of a rock . . .
its heart lay deep and hidden,
but when I lay my cheek against it
in the heat of the summer it cooled
and I could feel the great primeval thump of its heart
comforting me, when nothing else was understood.
I clutched this great rock,
my only constant in a life of changes,
while the earth itself, with me holding on tight,
flew at increasingly careless speeds
throughout my teenage years.
Beneath the arched viaduct it squatted
uncomplaining of the shafts of steel
and the weight of the stone it carried;
my teenage weight, of little importance.
It was always there when I came,
in dream, or even reality
taking the time to be calm and listen
as I told it of my hurts and young confusions.
One Summer, I foreswore all others
and promised it my heart,
if it would only turn it to stone,
and though the Rock it listened,
I knew the answer without us having to speak;
I was being selfish
and it would have given all of its
great and brooding strength
to feel, just a little, of my pain.
©Copyright Niall OConnor 2012/2014
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
His name was Jim
He was a dandy
Her name was Kim
Trancendence candy
Held each other tight
Cherished is the night
Homeless, not loveless
© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 11:47 PM UTC
i bought a chevy impala station wagon
off the fire chief of hackensack
it was safety yellow and glowed in the dark
had a ball on top but the chief took it with him
still a switch for it on the dashboard
way cool
until the master cylinder snapped
on my way down a steep viaduct
with my two kids in back
no brakes all the way down
splashing into a busy intersection
at the bottom of the hill
sure wish i’d had that siren
cooler still was the car before
bought for one dollar from my uncle
who’d inherited it from his oddball best bud
a scientist/author of a popular cosmology of the universe
it was a 1973 gold dodge coronet
the name conjures ancient cop shows
a huge sporty firebreathing beast
eight mighty pistons and an oil leak
i drove it for two years
until the vital fluids gushing out like the mississippi
forced me to abandon ship
the greasy kid across the street found a buyer
we waited for him one saturday morning
around the corner sailed the identical car
same color gold, same year 1973
couldn’t have shocked me more if two statues of liberty
came crashing into each other in hudson bay
the four cuban dudes driving up were thrilled
cannibalism in their eyes
my car was stripped for parts as they disappeared
now i have a new minivan and ball-busting car payments
nobody gets cooler as they get older
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
The rain lashed tar of Monday morning rush
A Midlands sky of cloudy faces set
In silent fury at this urban crush
Of octane dreams propelled and fuelled with debt
Dacia Duster, works traffic only
Concrete, concrete, concrete, exit ahead
Lane closes in four hundred yards. Lonely
A cone lies knocked over, crucified, dead
Oldbury Viaduct, M5, repairs
Queuing likely, expect delays. Fiat
JC07 GOD... we sat
Unmoving like that for hours, hours
Staring at the railings hung with flowers.
'Inspired' during an Easter time visit.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Monday morning murk,
rush-hour standstill.
Faces.
Solemn miles of traffic.
Dacia Duster, Qashqai Two.
Works Traffic Merging Ahead.
Cones.
Toppled idols
of the new religion.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC