Best Blacktop Poems
The relativity of wealth and poverty
Amazing.
Einstein’s formulations pale
In juxtaposition to universal carnage.
Obese pigs of a glam,
filled holes of cultural blacktop.
“Get your plump white asses off the necks
of the weak!”
“Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”
The cyclic nature of problem and solution;
“Ahhhhhh,” Eldritch Cleaver where are you?
“Thump, thump, thump,”
The arterial pulse of a puss infected
gangrenous limb
“YES,” whiteness
Raw, heedless, mercenary killers of diversity
Pristine sinks
Seek purity
GOD!
Categories:
blacktop, history
Form:
Free verse
The unpredictable yaw of rolling seas,
as in life pummels us from side to side
randomly dictating its capricious ways
lacking logic the tossing grips us and seeks to take our lives
Death, like the ghost of Christmas past,
comes and expresses a tale of coldness and desolation
under the guise of light the dues it extracts from the living
accumulate like wrinkles on our faces the years pile on
The uncertainty of pandemics sends people into despair
mental frenzy engulfs societies
people wring their hands with worry
what happens if I get sick and lose my income?
At night I hear the sound of eighteen wheeler trucks rumbling
On the blacktop toward companies that make copious profits
past the foothills where coyotes cry nature's lament
exacerbating my approach to a precarious and worrisome future
Sometimes, I feel like a watermelon cut in half
exposed to the desert heat slowly drying up
or a taco at Christmas time or a paraplegic in a footrace
exposed in those places where I don’t belong
Leisure time for the working stiff is so elusive
yet now all I’ve got is time and plenty of it,
but there’s no leisure in it only worry
and does not give me needed rest
The yaws of life
seldom deviate from its variant course
but like ships at sea rising and falling in a tempest
our minds proceed at an ambiguous yet dangerous speed
With our hearts frozen in a delirium of past disappointments
they vanish the happy times into the ether of regrets
still we cling to those cherished happy time memories
when Life was more accepting of our youthful indiscretions
Our Ship of Life moves predictably toward an unknown horizon
unsteadily shaking us from side to side, up and down
like loose apples bobbing in an ocean
with our paths uncertain unfolding as we hold on.
Copyright © norberto franco cisneros
Categories:
blacktop, life, perspective,
Form:
Didactic
Slow or fast
we think behind a slip stream,
a contrail of the gone;
of what went by a momentary window
long ago.
Asleep under a blacktop,
street-cars roll over my me-mind,
the crunch of old bones
crackles like thin ice.
I am recalling a time
now set in resin.
Desiccated bugs bite through,
gnaw at half-painted pictures.
Lost paths
for the somnambulant dead.
Elephants gather to revisit graveyards.
Alive in a memory,
but let’s not call this 'living,'
double, treble dipping
into the time-worn.
Such old imagining's will eventually
kill every analog clock
with their own internal hammers.
What am I writing now?
Yesterday and tomorrow sway
like old measuring scales.
Should I think like a Greek,
or a Jew,
arise and dance
shaking my head back and forth
as if awakening
to every fleeting pause?
This is what I am writing
upon the underside
of a road...
an odyssey of sorts
one taken by a horde of lemmings.
A talking point
indicating how I got here
recalling this and that,
but then again
nothing is now real forever.
Categories:
blacktop, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
I was not told that I would be dark as a shadow in a solitary hole.
No not my soul, but the flesh that doesn't match the man who birth
me; but all of the one that spent seven months moaning for my release
I was not told that it would be my Achilles heel to everyone's jokes
and punchlines as they all fought with bare hands and I with a muzzle.
Words aren't suppose to hurt, but living in a shadow, how could I see
the light behind all the dark remarks that tainted my very existence of
living.
I was not told that love was color blind and that many years later I would
only see happiness when reaching for the light. that I would also be
criticized for not seeing color like many of those I grew up around. Yet,
their skin too would match the blacktop that we all once played as friends.
However, no one told those that kept me in the shadows for all those years
that I am light. No not skin tone, but my heart that holds anyone that I come
across in my life. I'm lighter than a feather on my feet which allows me to
never stay down, for I am light and the shadow that I once was vanished as
my eyes opened to the sun.
Categories:
blacktop, beauty, black african american,
Form:
Free verse
The cob webbed city sticks to my dirty skin,
as I pass through its predator strings.
On the corners are hustlers, men with wigs and worn heels,
selling their wares, fighting with women,
over property rights.
Traffic moves slow, crawling along like a large slug,
melting into the blacktop.
Your eyes get accustom to waves of heat,
rising like dragons from the burning street.
The musky smell of filth singes the air,
while old men linger by drug stores and bars,
smoking old cigarettes they found, coughing.
Hey buddy, do you have a light, some change?
Still, I'm alone.
A wanderer, born from tainted soil,
surviving on wits and will.
Stopping at every liquor store and chili parlor,
searching for pennies.
Knowing each minute as a day,
as I stick on the soles of society's shoes.
A reminder they don't want to see.
That young is old when left to fend for themselves,
and evil is a weapon never born from a gentle touch.
Gray days are constant,
as life becomes motion with unintended reasons.
Stopping long enough to disappear in the city's web.
People passing by see only dirty shoulders and backs,
leaning against graffiti walls,
trying to stay out of the rain,
until the doors open and the soup line moves.
It's there I feel human, before wandering back,
to my rags and cardboard.
I'll try to sleep away despair as humanity passes by,
with their cold collective misunderstanding of misery and pain,
carried on the backs of the unfortunate homeless,
as we lay in the garbage of society's world,
crying without tears, holding on,
until we just let go and fall into the abyss,
where our bodies are then removed as Jane Doe.
contest A Poem Time Forgot
Categories:
blacktop, paradise, drug,
Form:
Free verse
a bar door is ajar, only fading voices
echo into the void, from nowhere...and afar!
Here n there, trash drifts
ghosts in flickering neon.
Broken, floating, bloated
dead down eons halls
a last of white.
Crimson taillights roar along
an empty blacktop...
Ruins of ages-lost buildings hang together
like frozen corpses looking
into desolation‘s aftermath.
This boulevard is desolate n oblique
as enigmatic engines park n die
on this macadam late at night.
Carriages lurch, coughs, wheeze
electric spark, circuits churn
something burns.
...unmoored from the known.
Something in death throes
as hollow oblong boxes
glide shakily to a halt.
A vehicle, an unknown thing,
a machine of divine madness
silhouetted against the falling ash of sky.
The smell of burning rubber
a stench of ozone, the cry of the void.
Drift along a wind-swept boulevard
as streetlights wink on
while headlights die
in empty skull sockets, lie...
A white filigreed smoke drifts
as it stalls and hums
sputters and dies.
A drifting murmur of voices drift
whispers of lives lived out swift...
Eyes reflect and dance in the darkness
over a vacant steering wheel!
Light flickers briefly under the hood
deep deathly hums fade.
Only the tick of a cooling engine
echos into the frosty air.
As shadows puddle in endless despair
something stands at the end...
...of desolations boulevard!
Categories:
blacktop, allegory, allusion, analogy, anger,
Form:
Free verse
Truck Stop Time
The frozen wind cracks its whip
And slits my darkened lips
One on top of the other, dry.
The warm blood hardens scabs crusty on my
Four o’clock shadow
Four o’clock a week ago.
Eyes half open
Two thirds shut
Cold air bites my ass
And my nocturnal pupils pinch
As I walk into the Pure Oil Truck Stop
I-75 at state route 309
Two o’clock, snapping my fingers to Conway Twitty
Two o’clock a week ago.
These grizzly-bear beer-bellied, hauling ass
Gnawing on their Texas breakfast, eggs and home fried forks
As I sit down in the faded sexual leather booth number three
The insomniacs and drunken loners tip their noses
Shot by snow outside.
“Give me a coffee.”
Thick as muddy-cat-****-snow
Marshmallows?
No, ’cause I can feel my big toe thawing out
Below my Levi’s, greased by Jack Daniels, that
Couldn’t stay down to keep me warm
When I was really cold
A week ago.
Coffee arrives
Graveyard attendant with a whore’s body
Tight faded sexual leather
Burnt taste buds as the coffee oozes down
Over the J.D. and the roast-beefed intestine.
Arby’s a week ago.
Razored lips
Wet again as I get up leaving a quarter.
Whores get cheaper, the air gets meaner, I get tired
A week from now late night emissions of Jack Daniels
Coffee will pass back up by my lone tonsil
Trucks will pull out, warm CO2 **** on the blacktop
Whores will look out the windows, warm
I’ll walk down Leonard Avenue
The bird will be nipping
Nipping at 2:23 a.m. a week ago.
Categories:
blacktop, drink, loneliness,
Form:
Free verse
I'm singular.
I'm night-driving.
With vibrant hum
of standard speed.
I'm glowing of dashboard.
Utterances of am talk
alien abductees and remote viewing.
Barely diverts my musing.
I night-drive
periodically.
A rite of wanting
Control, of the wheel.
Arm out window
night air cooling me.
Headlight on blacktop.
A yellow metronome.
This nights topic , I'm.
A question proposed,
by a small man in robes.
I started the list:
I'm a modern Tom Sawyer
an ebb-and-flow.
I'm this psycho-manic jester.
Dharma junkie, with subjects.
I'm Charlie Brown on acid
but who love the dog.
I'm a skin head hippie.
A guy with no wrist watch.
I'm a independent film critic
speaks religiously of Fight Club.
I'm these and other clever observation.
I stopped at a neon diner for tools of thought:
Coffee, pen, paper, and consumers of isolation.
Filling a page of I'm
looking for a singular
a true answer.
Just finding personas
and learned traits.
It came to me this I'm.
While leaving the tip.
In my wallet a picture of my children
looking full of me.
Categories:
blacktop, philosophy
Form:
Free verse
this one goes out to all you symbolphrenics
wink wink light the fuse and
bow only before your own image
for we are each a TV studio
with really huge detector molecules
recall that consciousness is tunable
you need only space your characters
and employ the 11th Commandment play fair
since my next act will be
to answer all your questions
and awaken you into a fairy tale kingdom
touch your finger to your temple
and smile for the first time
or play dumb and ride your rocket cycle
like there's no other traffic
from whence gallop dustily
the Fusileers of Wrackworm
sputtering judgmental patriarchs
make me vomit up my existence tax
hail the King and his syphilis
a Macy's parade of commitment
yes mice fart alongside the elephants
and what you don't know can
tear your guts out with surprise
but his dreams were tentacles
because this is all highly experimental
and nerve wracking
have a beer relax
tear off some 30 mile road kill chew
best jerky squealing wheels can buy
2-D carcass straight to your door
with the buzz of hot flies
with the hot buzz of flies
in a two lane blacktop
sun baked desert minute
your reward for coughing in the theater
did you get the message
a colorful example of paintball diplomacy
smelling of chainsaw oil and circus sawdust
in a diary of hard edge opaque metaphysics
his only safety the anchovy hunters
were never as numerous as their prey
never apologize to yourself
it just becomes habit
the semioticians could
dick with that for hours wink wink
being deaf to the tea kettle
selling loneliness as a communal experience
so hey kids let's learn something new
and dine with the revolution
the information revolution you sod
well besame mucho you brute
pain is not a higher nerve path
style monsters invade the sky
maniquinkind doomed and destroyed
I suppose every language
has its upper crust dialect
so few palindromes when you need them
with a leak proof lid what would Tupper wear
the customer can do no wrong
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Categories:
blacktop, how i feel,
Form:
Free verse
Autumn trees and the sky of the early dawn
mix together like crayons in the sun left too long.
Red orange yellow on a background of blue,
the haze of the clouds adds a subtle pink hue.
Fallen leaves on the pavement scrape the blacktop
as the wind stirs and spins them then suddenly stops.
Collecting in piles they crunch under feet,
Then scatter again as the wind sweeps the street.
The sweet scent of red apples rides a cool breeze,
Their crimson round shape dangling from trees.
The sun of midday warms their smooth waxy skin,
long gone are the blossoms from where they begin.
Honking of geese as they fly over head escaping
the winter and coldness they dread.
Necks stretched long, wings spread out wide,
with beauty and grace they take to the sky.
Evening comes early, the sun starts to fall
Coyotes are baying, to each other they call.
Stars fill the sky in the darkness of night.
The man in the moon casts a silent light.
Categories:
blacktop, autumn, beauty, october,
Form:
Free verse
I needed some time, some space to think
And it was either take a walk or drink
And since I knew drinking would solve nothing
I put on my shoes and I started walking
The wind blew the chilly air
Through my unkempt locks of hair,
But I hardly felt the biting cold,
Walking with memories warm in my soul
The street was dark, cold and silent
It was funny the places where my mind went
While I slowly walked across the blacktop road
No destination in mind where I would go
It's funny the things you will remember
I recall a day in mid-December
And how suddenly, nothing seemed the same
After that man at the door called my name
I followed him into a secluded office
Where he would tell me his diagnosis
And suddenly I felt my beating heart
But the rest of the world had just stopped
I felt a hand in mine get tighter
I don't think the room could have been quieter
I shook my head in total disbelief
Too numb to feel anything, even grief
The question asked, "What does this mean?"
But the answer didn't mean anything
My head too fuzzy, my thoughts too jumbled
I turned to my love to speak, but mumbled
I don't remember what else he said
Because of the swirling thoughts in my head
It took three days before I could even think
Which led me to tonight: walk or drink
So I walked and I thought and I truly remembered
Dreams of the past, love treasured forever
Friendship and laughter, sorrow and pain
As though I was reliving my life over again
Little things that I'd sorely taken for granted
Things that didn't happen the way that I planned it
Promises made and ones that were broken
Love that was shared, love still unspoken
The frosty air filled me with a sense of renewal
Inside my soul was fighting a duel
The angel, the devil, both battling demons
Inside of myself I fought to redeem them
I don't know who won the ethereal battle
And I'm not sure right now it even matters
Where once I believed everything for a reason
I'm finding that harder and harder to believe in
Categories:
blacktop, angst, confusion, health, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
A Love Poem
Get under my shoe.
Crawl down there and flatten.
Spread yourself, ooze
Between the cracks of my heels,
Solidify with old gum and dog hair and
Stay there.
Squish when I tip to the balls of my feet,
Sink into cement,
Drown out in the moist heat of
Baltimore sunshine.
Stick to the blacktop,
Leave small chunks of yourself behind to
Dry out and crust over
For a dog to nibble,
Or a bum to piss on,
Or a crow to pick at
He’ll peck out your eyes,
At least what’s left of them.
I’ll track the rest of you home through
Back alley water and random piles of
Dog ****.
Then I’ll loosen and scrape you with
An old gnarly stick,
Fling your remnants across my front porch and
Walk inside,
Without thought,
Leave you there to
Ponder your ****-and-scum-covered existence before the
Noonday rains come and wash you away.
Categories:
blacktop, forgiveness, funny, girlfriend-boyfriend, love,
Form:
Free verse
Each time my Auntie Rosa went to shop in the High Street,
She’d bring us back a pink-iced bun; it was our special treat.
We’d take them up to Grandad’s (we preferred to eat them there)
We’d scoff them in the kitchen, in his big old Windsor chair.
And Grandad made us thick black tea, as thick as tarmacadam,
And carrots from the garden (if the rabbits hadn’t had ‘em!)
He tried, I guess, but honestly, his cooking was quite ropey,
And since he washed his plates in Daz, it always tasted soapy!
He kept rabbits out behind his house (some of them were tame.)
In the front grew antirrhinums – ‘bunny-rabbits’ once again.
Their soft and furry noses looked exactly like each other:
Each flower a tiny replica of its herbivorous brother.
His house was full of assegais, elephants and gongs.
He’d tell us of his voyages and sing us salty songs …
He always wore a waistcoat and a greasy old flat cap.
He still walked with a sailor’s roll, the nautical old chap!
When Grandad wanted 'baccy, I’d go down Kit-Cat Lane
To the musty shop in a wooden hut - ‘The Cabin’ was its name.
T’was just like in a cowboy film, with barrels and all-sorts;
But best of all was the real stuffed bear, moulting on the porch..
Sometimes we’d go to Gordon’s house. His garden had a swing.
We’d crawl under his veranda, and discuss Lee’s brother’s Thing!
Gordon did love swimming! He went in the sea each day.
He went in once too often, for he drowned out in the bay.
Those summers on the island seem so very long ago.
These days I can’t remember why it is I loved them so …
But sometimes, when a nasty pong comes drifting from a drain,
It smells just like the Canvey dykes, and I am there again …
I’m padding down a sandy path, between two slime-filled ditches,
My hair is wet, my skin tastes salt, my swimsuit rubs and itches.
I turn the corner of the lane; the graveyard smell is gone …
In Grandad’s garden, there’s my Dad! He’s come to take me home!
For the uninitiated (or simply younger!), an assegai is an African Zulu warrior's long spear,
and tarmacadam is the stuff you put on roads - blacktop!
Categories:
blacktop, childhood, nostalgiahouse, old, garden,
Form:
Narrative
New Orleans thieved my heart at the start of spring,
my stomach dropped along the bayou
across to Mobile on train.
She stopped long enough to sing
in keeping with the rain.
Atlanta's pink sky roaring,
sore throats to spotted ring,
caught a cold thru Chattanooga
winding north then west thru mountain bends.
To Tennessee, the accident,
where money grew on trees.
Stashed my pack behind a bush
til night passed by in a rush.
Waited for the sun to rise,
high above Tallahassee plains,
to warm the fire ants and cement
to return south on blacktop highway.
Categories:
blacktop, life, travel, write,
Form:
Look, there's a white line, dead center of this empty road
Wow, that sun is hot out here...
and here I am sitting on the edge of this blacktop world
waiting for a tow .......crying out loud......why, Lord, why today?.....
Some shortcut huh? You might call it a back road error in judgement...
leaving me sitting in this no-man's land of desolate boredom....
a missed appointment, a frustrated friend waiting, while all I can do is
look at heat waves billowing up in the heat of Indian summer and watch the
peafowl grazing in the tall brown weeds behind me, ......hunting grasshoppers I suppose....
Territorial hens and cocks at their banquet
One patriarch, with his vast train, it seems he reigns aloof ..sitting there,
in the shade of a vagrant oak. At least there's one tree helping to shadow the place where I sit and oh yeah, that lone hen, wandering onto the white line, and looking at me, (with disdain, no less!)
I am an intruder, in a world I don't belong....she knows it.....should I apologize? "Okay, ....sorry you Chickadee!" "Whattaya expect me to do?"......
Hmmm..... that fading white line................
how do they get it dead center of the road, I wonder?
I have been sitting here for nearly an hour, sigh.............and that long, long, line.......
going to nowhere..........strange..........how you can be
mesmerized by a long white line that meanders into the distant horizon...
Wonder how long has it been since I've had such a moment
just a small moment to contemplate such a trifle...
a narrow white line in the center of an asphalt road
Who put it there? What sort of man? Who drives the machine, that paints this line?
Did he do this all day...draw these straight white painted stripes?
Does he give it much thought? This artist,...this Da'vinci of roadways?
Does he think of the life he might save....or the order this brings?
His touch of white on a blacktop world?
Does he do this all day.....day after day?
This artwork to pay for his wife's medicine?
Or for a son's braces, or a daughter's tuition?
Trivial contemplation, perhaps, crazy maybe to ponder by the side of a road.....
You say.....it is just a white line......so what??
To someone....even a trifle....a white line on asphalt....
might be important......
Categories:
blacktop, introspection, me,
Form:
Narrative