Best Unpaved Poems
The golden sun of yesterday
played out in fields of gold
inside the tarping memory of father, handling LIFE
the joyful whistles that he fluted pruned alongside vines
and mothers pumping heart of song lauding in
loud and STRONG
No treason yet no aging bridge no tented hope
just morning glories,
a baby breath away from here
and all the sunlight we'd afford
inside a little yard of sweet explore,
I see,
the lonely eyes of a young girl longing for a friend
a hand held jar for fireflies or butterflies in toe
Pebbles rolled beneath unpaved paths as
dear together raw as butterflies we scabbed our knees
with swivel, in the morning breeze
Like BUTTERFLIES preluding dawn with shiant colors bold,
the summer sun of yesterday played out in fields of gold;
Inside my hiding place a youthful carefree life
still lingers in my heart's enfold,
without the memory, of growing old.
Jan 19, 2019
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Contest: Free Verse Style Only
She was a lonely violin,
in a case all by herself,
looking forward to the evenings,
when he’d take her off the shelf-
After reaching his destination,
he would gently set her down,
and ever oh so tenderly,
remove her velvet gown-
With chin held high, he’d hold her close,
she made him feel so proud,
and then a song she would sing ,
which always drew a crowd-
Together they were magical,
making music quite refined,
he knew that she was special,
of an extraordinary kind-
Late one night the maestro sighed,
a tear rolled down his eye,
this cannot forever last, he said,
for soon I’m going to die-
The violin now knew,
that soon would be their end,
he had filled her life with loving care,
and been so true a friend-
Now on any given night,
walking down this unpaved street ,
some hear a violin’s lonely cry,
so sad , but yet so sweet-
Where to? Just to walk?
Dressed in long garment like ghost?
A question mark in purse… gold!?
She preferred a walk!
Missed her crooked edgy boat!
Just went to walk down the road…
Looking at picture
In the hands of the painter
Van Gogh’s mystery nurtured
He drew her prayer…
In her purse she did question
Why!? Was just a tough question
Wondering how could
That happen in night’s second!
Hefty waters dashing… haunt!!
The chimney trembles!
An earthquake wakes up fixed days!
See a muddy unpaved ways?
Though all wide paved roads
Reach Britania’s bay… north?
Shown on left corner’s foot’s coy
Enlarge picture here…
Her garment is night-time sleep
See the shooting stars racing heap?
Umbrella is closed
Carried lest harsh rain is dropped
Fall signed surprises to roll…
The roof is breaking!
But picture of landscape’s tweak
Is seven degrees… earthquake’s squeeze!
What caused that earthquake?
Look close… hills’ dance! Wave!
Tsunamis launch big headache…
The sun’s round high rays
Amazing view! Beneath slate!
Above roof tops water stays!
Can’t take my eyes off
That white house’ name looks… hello!
Van Gogh meant… white house we know..!
The cleverest knew
Floods and blubbers can dash through
The Atlantic Ocean’s see through..!
Since past styles distort
But now all styles run the show
The broken boat… does not flow!
The ark as in boat..!!
Seems like Noah’s ark… didn’t row!
Got broken on hills… the road!
Looks like Broken Wa-
gon town fits show on sheer Van
Gogh’s print… water’s sketch grade’s class!
Under her smooth feet
Hilltops’ visage… very week...
Vast landscapes flattened… see here?
Till water recedes…
With hefty tears of few years
Trotting in Van Gogh’s tart dreams.
BY: Nadia F. Shahwan – September 2009. The portrait of “White House at night” by Vincent
Van Gogh was the inspiration of my poem-Seven Degrees.
The winter night in Kachikau does not offer a gentle frost;
It drops like an iron sheet across the unpowered cattle posts.
And I am buried alive in the familiar dust,
Wandering the perimeter of a village that sleeps while I disintegrate.
The stars above the Chobe sky offer no map, no light;
They are just cold, distant eyes watching a man lose his grip.
My own chest became the traitor that signed the contract.
It traded my sanity for a handful of plastic illusions,
Hurling me into a darkness so heavy, the local clay refuses to absorb it.
Psychologically, the skin still walks, but the inside is a carcass.
I am a hollow gourd left out in the sun until it cracks,
Stumbling down the unpaved roads, dragging the wreckage of my own name.
My thoughts look like the red mud after a slaughter,
A mind reduced to the cold white ash of a fire that ran out of wood.
There is no clinic in the district that stocks a cure for this type of rot,
No traditional elder who can read the ledger of a ruined soul.
I just carry the weight, step by heavy step, into the dark,
Knowing the soil beneath my feet keeps the receipt of everything I lost.
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
The road to a friend's house is never too long
And never too winding before you arrive;
It's never too bumpy for a happy song
And never too rocky to walk on or drive.
The road to a friend's house is never out of the way
And never too high and never too low;
It's never an inconvenience night or day
And never too rough to go fast or slow.
The road to a friend's house is never too wide
And never too narrow for you to get by;
It's never too dusty to enjoy the ride
And never too wet or muddy to try.
The road to a friend's house is never less traveled
And never not looked forward to;
It's never looked over, whether unpaved, ungraveled,
And never too crowded for me and you.
The road to a friend's house is never a chore
And never different from the distance to yours;
It's never a burden and never a bore;
It's a never-ending welcome into their doors.
CRUSADE
The crusader brandished his stiff sword
sharpened
didn´t want
but beheaded idols
to liberate his inner temple
swift and passionate was his riding
saturated
didn´t want
but unpaved the temples
to remember the first stone
and had peace
on the way he clashed spades
bled
sparked spades
was blinded by light
floated in the void
and saw colors
earthly shades
and then kinetic spatial explosion
of unknown prisms
crossing cross crusaders
irreligious and revering
All the noisy critters, warblers and the morning, young horse rider
have taken with them spring's harmony;
no longer can galloping beats and songbirds make this black, forest
echo with their delightful sounds of felicity;
winter has indeed stripped it of every beam of light and lovely flower.
That handsome troubadour who came from France was happy,
too anxious to get to Florence and live in courts of prosperity
and galloping on the unpaved roads below the majestic Alps
never thought of his mademoiselle who was also dreaming,
drifting to places where true romance lived in sincere hearts,
but sadly this was done on wishful thinking
from a rose-bloomed balcony as Juliet did...
without the intention of ever being wed;
hear her loud cry, " Troubadours don't remain faithful
for long...their desire for adventure makes all null! "
From that castle where noisy ravens gathered,
and shrilled, Marie with tearful eyes looked
over the enchanting black forest dullest than a grey, swelling cloud
which blocked the sunlight from entering her cold window
not frequented by a thrush that stayed behind
for unknown reasons and took shelter in the tower below;
" Poison is a sweet drink and when one is denied love! " she declared.
Copyright ( c ) 20015 by Andrew Crisci
Leaving For Tomorrow
It was a vision or a dream
I had the other night.
It seems to be, time came for me
I must choose left or right.
Dark clouds gathered on my left
I felt some former hurt.
The road the sign called Yesterday,
unpaved and made of dirt.
Familiar was the road I saw
I traveled it for years.
A river ran right next to it
called Tracks Of My Tears.
I quickly turned and looked away
the sun was shining bright.
If only I would learn to choose
and go the way that's right.
The hardest part for me it seems
no way that I could know.
Would never be the clinging to,
but in the letting go.
I chose my way I'm here to say
the ending to my sorrow.
Turning right, away from night
I'm leaving for tomorrow.
Edwin C Hofert
i stand here
on these unpaved roads
kicking up dust
as i stumble
over rocks
castaway
like me
i watch
as you walk
away from the scene
like a hawk
in a tree
i am
unseen
i stand here
listening
to the flow
of the stream
the bird
in the distance
beginning to scream
i gather my thoughts
fragmented inside
alone in the dark
no sun through these trees
i stand here
listening
to the whispering breeze
my lips
as they quiver
unable to speak
i see the storm
approaching
above
all around
i drop to my knees
atop of this ground
i lie here
awaiting
the sun to arise
i lie here
alone
with tears
in my eyes
i lie here alone
unable to speak
july 21, 2020
Make hay while the sun shines.
I grew up as a closeted polypathic nature-mystic
on a marginal, at best, family farm
in Michigan.
This farm was my embryonic home,
an extension of my vastly loved and nurturing Mother,
more than my workaholic homophobic Father,
who most emphatically did create a patriarchal god in his own image.
His farm was for slave labor.
Her farm was a garden for growing healthy wealth.
I loved Mom's Multi-ReGenerational Family Farm
like an extension of my ego-mind and anthro-body.
And, like a turtle without a shell,
when I first headed off to Ann Arbor's University
I brought my happy and healthy ego with me,
eager to begin my new adventure story,
yet I emotionally stumbled,
felt naked and exposed and depressed,
for lack of my embryonic habitus,
my eco-center,
my home,
my interdependently embracing love of sacred spaces
and their seasons of regeneration and degeneration,
growing still and fading without ego me
conjoining.
I was homesick,
but not for Nurturing Nanny
and Fearsome Father
or even Perfect Princess Sister, whom I cherished,
whom I could talk and listen with as whim might invite,
and, although somewhat more of a sore detachment from our farmhouse interior spaces,
my disorienting alienation from Ann Arbor
was as a too-urban outside place
just as my recreating resident embrace
favored my dorm and classroom youth-learning multicultural race
against more oppressive monoculturing times.
To this day,
despite a six week backpacking hike
along California's Pacific Coast Trail,
plundered by surreal vistas and fragrance and light and unspeakable beauty,
when I imagine a meadow, a field, a woodland,
a pond,
a barn,
an unpaved road,
a gravel drive,
a herd of cattle,
a pen of pigs,
a coop of chickens,
a litter of kittens with eyes still sealed shut,
I recall iconic scenes from this sacred originating home,
my eco-memory
calling my doubly-bound ego-enculturing self
back home
to where we permaculturally began together,
making hay while the sun did shine.
As I view flat prairie with mountain range beyond, morning sunshine warms me
and I know by afternoon, fierce storms may gather without warning.
I envy not the urban dweller rushing to and fro amidst stark cement barriers.
Yes, small town life suits me…
I’ll not trade nights laying head on pillow as moonlight pierces the darkness
and coyotes cry to the far reaches like their ancestors before…No, never!
I could not, would not, give up the freedom found in these open spaces
where peaceful Amish plow behind horses harnessed in leather strap.
I proudly tell inquisitors, I met my husband dancing at the old grange hall,
then settled on the ranch his kin claimed and worked three generations back.
I feel safe, protected here among friends in this quaint little town.
Crime is not a factor—not a priority one deals with on a daily basis.
Trips to market bring no snarled traffic, no changing lights of red, yellow, green.
Welcome is felt, not heard from silent voices behind familiar smiling eyes.
On unpaved roads I return as dust fills nose and eyes, making me sneeze
but it’s joy rather than nuisance as I jog along in our old pickup truck.
Here the family is strong, unified—respect for elders required,
blending generations of those who tamed the land before us.
Sunday church services overflow with scrubbed and shining faces
as preachers spread harmony and warnings from the Good Book.
Camaraderie and sportsmanship are taught in this small town.
Proud parents gather in crowds to support their team at each and every event.
Discipline and morals form traditional characteristics of the region,
and authority is respected on all levels, patriotism honored.
Our children do not stray to the bright lights of the city
vandalizing, joining lost souls seeking acceptance on mean streets.
Early evening sounds of slumber echo thru’ thin walls of this old farmhouse
for morning chores greet our kids, us, in this game of sweet survival.
No, I do not envy city folks or opportunities I may have missed therein,
nor do I allow them to bring me scorn, or take pity on my soul.
I gain my worth from one greater, wiser, more forgiving than mere mortals…
I hear the voice of my Creator, and I follow where He leads.
If ever you should find yourself
Lost upon the craggy, mud-strewn trail
Matchless, mapless,
The cloak of sky above you lacking a button of moon
And leaking through,
Sack nibbled to the crumbs
And drink drained dry--
If ever nature-nipped feet
Deem you mishap your way to me,
Mistake me never for your guide.
I am just as damned, just as far astray.
But equally so hapless or no,
I will pat the empty space beside me
And pour half of my canteen into your cup, and
Offer up what's left of the stew
And if you help carry the wood,
I've got some sticks to rub to keep us warm.
We can pass the nights in tent,
Time by swapping stories, every tale another
Skin we shed.
And as we make our way,
I'll be the arm that pulls you to your footing
When the pathway gets too steep
And lend my chewed-through blue umbrella
To ease the onslaught when it pours.
And if the path we know is set in stone
To walk the road unpaved,
I'd take it stride for stride with you
Over the macadamized
Any day;
For what it's worth.
Her dried-up withering petals once shone lovely in the golden sun
growing older now in the mirror’s unforgiving reflection.
She’s lingering among the living, as if her life had just begun
though her heart has lost its resting place protection.
Gone as an expired breath in the silhouette of the blissfully dead.
Too proud to die by our side, she got the last laugh that day.
She changed her address to Heaven and abruptly fled.
Existing now in my past, no longer a reason to stay.
I try to visit her memory often, but it rains there all year round.
I send my love on deathless wings beyond billowy clouds amending.
Seized by sorrow as a bitter tear falls into my glass, soon to drown
The hurt merely turns to memories; some good, some bad, some never-ending.
The woman that I’ve become, she wouldn’t even know,
temporarily lost amid the colorless roses where she once stood.
I can still hear her infectious cackling, like a broken song
that now fills Heaven’s perpetual fais do-do.
She walks in sepia-toned earthly shadows
on the unpaved road of her southern childhood.
~Dedicated to my beautiful Cajun mom, Jennifer Ann Oliver Hubbert. Jawa Turken!
Contest: Open Poetry 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charlotte Puddifoot
Date: May 3, 2021
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Long dry spell so hot
Unpaved road sends billows sheets
Dust in house__ blessed rain
(Remembering when a child, one summer it was more than a month without rain....Then rain
came in huge droplets...Dust would float up from the raindrops that hit the ground...When we
finally got rain, it was like one of the greatest blessings from God.)