Best Pavement Poems
They elude me now ...words
Drinking befits a drowning man possessed
Swimming off this broken page
Baton winning in a relay race
I breached the ribbon sliced with chest
Joy! I gasped
Grown tired of my own riddles
Those halting jagged lines
Conversely I committed
So disrespectful of my crimes
In dispatchment utter lunacy
Forgiveness once again!
Ive come to claim my lost respect
My place so quick forgotten was
So Zeroed out of ten
Twelve steps from cursed enslavement
Danced to music uncontained
Toi-toi in lone detachment
Side stepping their allure
And tangoed with enticement
And cha-cha'd with no cure
Then dropping over hurdles
Burning through those barricades
All over all these obstacles
So help me God I try to change
No longer need prescription
Still sometimes do I crave
Unshackled is your prisoner
Dispossession freed this slave
There is something about that -ism
A mystery by name
Other than recovery
Benign this deathly game
Be it known that happy healing
Doubles, behind the curtains of shame
You were so
full of life and
uniqueness and inspiration
to those like me
looking for a voice
to cry out and be
oneself, shuffle off
such mortal coil
and fly high above
the elements of
repetition.
Yet I saw your
roots now, they
run deep, breaking
free from the cold
pavement and saw
life jetting up
You friend are birthed,
live die and are
born anew in all
uniqueness. You don't
conform to one mold
but are willing to
change with the seasons
of life and just be.
Be green
Be red
Be brown
Be puke-green
Be old
Be young
Be new
Be you
you are the teacher
of this poem
Be yourself
and look up from
the pavement of
repetition
The freeze-thaw, freeze-thaw
of Newfoundland winters
plays havoc with the pavement.
Cracks become divots.
Divots become potholes.
Potholes become trenches.
Trenches become craters.
Exaggeration? No, not really!
And what lies buried beneath?
A treasure trove of history and mystery
rarely, if ever, to be uncovered.
The past in the past in the past...
in the present.
We stand on the shoulders
of all those who came before
until, one day,
we become a part of before.
Pause for thought.
As the street artist draws on pavement tiles
Asking money but getting smiles
The street urchins would offer a hand
Not to greet but to earn a rand
And as the pedestrians would walk
They pass by these fields of withered stalk
And look away or look afar
Unwilling to look upon poverty’s scar
Yet if they looked they may just find
A human being of flesh and mind
A whale washed up on life’s cruel shore
Who is happy with less and ask no more
But when you look then you will see
A world grown cold, “it’s all about me”!
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
Slowly We Are All Falling,
Some Just Quicker Than Others,
Some Will Have An Arm To Grab Before Hitting Bottom,
Some Never Bothered To Pack A Parashute,
And The Others Are Just Enjoying The Fresh Air On The Way Down,
Awaiting To Become A Pavement Pancake
If we have a hand to hold us we may never had fallen
And if we had an ear lent someone would have heard cries for help
My parachute is broken, no ever listened, and the held let go of me
Before we, land the only thing left to think is,
i wonder if anyone has any maple syrup
he eats my toe
bit by bit daily
as his dinner
PINE BLOSSOM PAVEMENT
I never left the soft sunshine,
reflected across the satin smooth pond, deep in the forest,
with flowered edges of pink ladyslippers, wild roses and daisies,
to slope old deer trails...... foraging mushrooms, wild garlic and sage,
I'm still in awe as I pass by city trees, reminded of old growth
red and white pine, towering over my humble path,
whispering wisdom.... as their crowns gently sway in the wind.
I pour myself a glass of tap water.... but am refreshed again,
as I drink from the secret spring I discovered
bursting forth, the true 'Source of the Mississippi' a stone's
throw from Lake Itasca.... on Elk Lake
sirens wail, but sleep still comforts me.... with haunted loon lullabies,
and melancholy frog symphonies,
I still eat fast food, but am nourished by line-caught fish
rising to my bait... as fog lifts with the sunrise,
I barrel down the freeway.... while still paddling silently
into sunsets filled with looming shadows of the voyageurs,
all around the city sounds.... yet I hear cheerful warblers and
the midnight bark of the doe, calling her fawns,
gasses from sewer vents confront me.... but I smile!
as the skunk marks his range,
I'm back in the city,
..... but think in the forest
back in the city....
but think in the forest
I am new lava flow
covered in dense sand,
the Mojave Desert of the soul.
I am the arid places,
the barren areas,
the well packed pebbles
too tight for seeds.
And in rare events,
when rain releases a prayer,
I quickly
let the waters blow
though my hardened runnels
and glow like a nude vegetable.
Dean Walker
Pavement Turd
Brown turd in the sun. Just like the bloody song. Brown turd by the wall. The dog's done a big crap over there. Ready for the unwary. Look at the brown dog turd. It steams in the sun. Freshly laid. Almost a work of art. Don't step in it. You'll really smell bad!
the laces are caught up
& torn down the side
the words that once held up
have long been discarded
tender silk & flesh,
now covered with lines
let our scars remind us;
we're still alive
Reflection
In awe of the lights
Presented in a shimmering show
Rain water accentuates the mighty view
Shining lights glow on pavement
What a grand sight
Reflection
Russell Sivey
This walk
is my only escape.
My feet—
the concrete—
a closeness so sweet.
Soon the bell will ring,
and the ridicule will begin.
But for now—
the concrete and me,
the rhythm,
my thoughts.
A sweet escape,
wrapped up in a steady pace.
Where will I hide today,
my grey friend,
when away from your steady strength?
The library?
The canteen?
The willow tree?
Oh, pavement,
I ponder and long—
let me melt into you.
Another day
will surely break me.
But if I somehow
make it back to you
as the leaves fall in the afternoon,
it will be you and me once again—
and a steady beat
of heart and feet.
On the humorless steps
of a somber public building,
I paused awhile,
Looked down and saw
something mischievous
that playfully peeped
Through a dark crack
there on the concrete,
grayish, glum pavement.
There it was, a delicate,
bright yellow flower,
swaying alone and tiny
In the light urban breeze.
In dazzlingly radiant abandon,
it gratefully, though mutely, said:
"Thank you!" to the sun above
that, by looming skyscrapers,
was always partly hidden.
.
In this hurried, crowded, chaotic world
Many broken and lonely people are hurled
Silent thoughts invade their mind
Loveless, Unwanted they trail behind.
Can you hear the silence in this crowded place,
Do you even slow down, to look at his face.
Stop a little, lessen your haste,
He is solely dependent on our bit of waste
Don’t be a coward arrest your hesitation
He has no where to go this is his destination.
Reach in your pockets, take out some dime
He has nothing of Value just loads of spare time.
I used to be a businessman, worked in a skyscraper.
Here is my bed, cardboard and newspaper
I once was proud, clean and rich
But then life left me broken the heartless
She wiped out my children, my wife
I just gave up living wanting no life
So here I sit in tatters on this crowded street
Surrounded by silence, begging for a bite to eat.
Can You hear the silence of his broken heart?
or is it easier judging him, taking him apart?
Why does he drink, not find a job
he is useless ain’t he? Just an old yob...
Drink keeps him warm, and dulls his senses
He has built many walls and put up his fences.
On this crowded London pavement this chilly night
A complete stranger, broke silence and shared his plight.