Long Asphalt Poems
Long Asphalt Poems. Below are the most popular long Asphalt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Asphalt poems by poem length and keyword.
I was looking out the window and saw my neighbor across the street on a ladder, putting up an American flag. Both he and his wife are school teachers.
I took that moment to go over and tease him. I asked if he was putting the flag up to honor my husband.
I have been living here for ten years, and they had never tried to be friendly, except when they needed something. They have two sons and two golden labs. They all-stay locked up in the house with the curtains drawn. If, someone comes and knocks on their door, they are greeted by two frantic and not-so-friendly sounding barks, that bump on the glass window, but their owners won’t answer the door.
They have a motion sensor light over the middle of the garage door. I told him that the flapping of the flag was going to set off the light all the time. He laughed; he hadn't thought about it. I purposely went over to tell him that my husband had passed away four months ago. He was shocked. He apologized and said he didn't know.
With tears, I turned and walked away. When I'd gotten to the edge of the driveway, the tip off my left sandal caught on the edge of the asphalt. The sandal stayed; my arms started flapping, like a young bird in its nest trying to fly. Flapping, flapping, I kept leaning forward, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Trying to righten myself, half-way to the other side, my other sandal flew off. I suppose I might have looked pretty funny, running to the other side, bending over like I was trying to catch a hat that had blown off my head. My arms still flapping, waiting for a landing, face first on the asphalt and the gravel under my feet. All I could think and see was the blackest tar and gravel rising to meet me, how painful it was going to be when my face kissed that dirty tar.
However, by some miracle, I had gotten to the other side of the road and caught my balance. With my heart pounding, my neck and back aching, and the bottoms of my feet sore, I survived not kissing the dirty tar and gravel. It was like God's angel spread its wings and wrapped them around me, and straighten me out. I should have had a very serious relationship with the first kiss, but not that day.
Thank you, Lord.
Thank you, Lord.
12/29/2018
Automobile runs down the highway
It ends
It had no beginning to begin with
So that makes sense
As time continues on
World keeps moving nowhere special
There is plenty of fuel left in the chamber
OK!... so it's a tank
The pedal is floored so something is missing
No road laid out before me like before
No car no more forever
Asphalt and concrete stopped right there
Walking is out of the question in this area
As long as time is fine
And the world is spinning with no constrictions
My condition is simply simple in comparison
Waiting in this place is all that I can do
Hoping the road will begin again
And my car resumes
Shouts of triumph and defeat echo from the fields
day in and day out.
Drivers continue learning in that same cracked parking lot,
living proof that history repeats itself;
different shaking 16-year-olds,
same bumped curbs and too-hasty turns.
And Youth floats on,
floats on by.
The sun sets another day,
and the world is casted in the most vibrant oranges and purples
from the Matron’s final brushstrokes.
The Crone assumes control now.
With a wave of her gnarled hand,
leaves skitter across snow-dusted earth
against a background of gray and dying light.
And I drive slowly,
soaking in sights I’ve dismissed a thousand times over.
I’m guided by memories of times once passed
overlayed across my sight,
and through them I view the old roads I used to speed down
with little regard for life and its gifts.
The asphalt I know is further worn,
further whitened by Winter’s reverent graze.
I am not who I was when I last traversed Stanhope Road.
I am older,
wiser,
my eyes no longer veiled.
Fall has passed me to his successor.
I can only hope Winter will receive me with a feather-light touch
and shape me as gently,
for its bitingly cruel reality knows no bounds.
Blood always contrasts harshest with the snow.
Beneath the city's concrete canopy,
Sunlight filters through the urban sprawl.
A dance of shadows on an asphalt stage,
Nature latent in the midst of it all.
Pillars of industry made of glass and steel,
Create an artificial forest, towering high.
Still, within the gaps, light seeps through,
A modern echo of the open sky.
Within the hustle, a subtle interlude,
Komorebi dapples through the city's veins.
A moment of calm in the urban pulse,
Nature reclaiming what cement restrains.
Crystal leaves and chrome branches intertwine,
Casting patterns on sidewalks below.
A concert of sunlight and structures behold,
A harmonious blend of ebb and flow.
In these quiet pockets, a sanctuary found,
Where sunlight dances and leaves unbound,
Komorebi, a tranquil urban hymn,
Nature's language beneath city's din.
An alchemical raven's gray rhapsody awakens those cynical roses who
Breathe-in the ebony beams of blood-bathed sun, exhaling
Cacophonies that ricochet across these truthful horizons where,
Depressive roars embalm Lilith's lawns. Awash with smoked prairies and
Equinoctial secrecy, my neon lips swathe in life's witchy lies, for -
Flames of fury, lace every lead feather of the pewter crow, that feasts on beliefs.
Grieving charcoal stars swing like souvenirs of deceit when,
Heartbeats of hibiscus moon, shiver and shatter upon my schizophrenic
Ink, carving betrayals in asphalt ashes. "Am I a
Jewel of jinx, floating like a jet-black jasmine across
Kohl orchards?" - whispers time's wistful rebirth in the
Lachrymose lake of death, as conspiracies entwine in cyan cobwebs within
Medusa's redstone heart, tumbling at my tulip-tombstone.
Now, nebulous blackbirds, rise from corbeau cinders, as
Onyx wings of resilience have torn apart and
Pierced every sheath of shimmering faith - surrendering to the
'Queen of darkling serendipity', as her clemency clenches me onto the cusp of
Rhetoric valleys and winds pirouette with a pirate's porcelain wave,
Silencing the saffron of my soulful sculpture, in eternal streams of fall.
Thornless fate has forevermore, been an insomniac illusion and maybe,
Ultraviolet elegies of saturn's rings will become a noose for my dreams and
Viola orbs will encase every dove-dawn in a woeful chrysalis,
When anxiety's darkling dungeon, spreads across rustic realms and
Xanthic Satan dethrones my poinsettia-crown, as survival holds onto the
Yarns of last crystal light within Cleopatra's claustrophobic hope. But in the
Zillionth moment - my heart shall wail in rhymeless refrain - am I the one, lost?
Scoops of gold powder flapping sunny flame
melts into scalding months of humid June.
Shade of ablaze sky, fiery clouds won't tame
soaking sunshine an untrimmed afternoon.
Makeup tinged complexion in denim dress
berries and melons succulent sorbet.
A swim in pool with pineapple drink fresh
hot or cool, doesn't matter anyway.
Wages in lease, forever temperate
eternal possession of bad luck dregs.
Sweltering skin in heat of blood and sweat
toil endless labour, aching hands and legs.
Some buds wither in tar of asphalt gloom
Some color heaven in air conditioned room.
9th August 2019
Sponsor Michelle Faulkner
Contest Name A Summer's Day Redo
Where the humdrum ends
A morning waits when roosters crow in vain,
and stunned eyes are awed by the rising sun.
When nostrils savor the dewy terrain,
as ears tune in to magpies’ chirping fun.
Soon a dawn will bloom and change the asphalt
To hordes of marigolds across lush leas,
where squirrels scramble and leporids vault,
while laughter echoes under maple trees.
There must be somewhere far from the black smoke,
beyond the traffic drone and ticking clock,
beneath the soothing shade of the white oak,
where the grass grows along the freedom walk
There, breeze and soul befriend, and humdrum ends
to trend a new era where life transcends.
I have nothing against bricks,
Until you use them in place of concrete and asphalt,
Then the cursing begins.
What have councils and governments got against,
Those with rubber tipped walking sticks,
Those with crook hips,
Those with worn shoe soles,
Not to mention the slow and the old,
In other words, the majority, of the population.
One would think the number of accidents due to slippery bricks,
Would give them cause for thought,
But no, it only increases the likelihood of more brickwork at mall entrances,
And outside pharmacies.
A curse on your bricks I say,
Maybe if the housing shortage continues the problem will solve itself,
And I can lift the bricks,
I mean the curse.
It was 10:35, August 21
I woke up, and through the window
The rain gone, there's only the sun
I love the rain, I've been loving sorrow,
Perhaps, I'm done for things undone,
And there's nothing really to do
But face my own new year through.
The street was long, endless really
My sweat drew maps on my shirt
The street was long, leading nowhere simply,
All in all, below the asphalt is earth
Despite the wails of motorcycles and cars
Sooner now, I'll be back to the stars.
For now the flowers still smile a smile,
But the food have become tasteless
All that remains of what Time defiled
Sooner too, they'll wilt, in baselessness
Continuing anyway for one more mile
As there's nothing to do, more or less.
The sea wind welcomes me
Like a woman's hand on my hair.
Years drift to the limited continuity
I laughed because I could not despair.
With a pudding in my hand, no sorry
For the sunset falling over me.
Aug. 21, 2026
Written: August 06, 2025
*********
The traffic roars as wounded gulls.
metal beats skated over the asphalt waves,
each honk a fractured prayer,
fleeing the city, restless breath.
I sit beneath a twisted jacaranda tree.
Its lavender flowers unfurl as the sun dips low
Parrots squabble in the canopy—
boisterous, unrepentant, and singing,
stirring the dawn with their raucous cries,
a beauty entwined with longing.
Their melody exists beyond,
concrete and clocks,
I sip coffee—malnourished warmth—
Its bitter essence wedged between my ribs,
where comfort once thrived.
The chipped cup, a reflection of lost trust.
Each face that passes me
is a silent question,
I have forgotten how to answer.
Once I skated these streets
hungry for names,
for the echo of someone to cram my void,
But identity remains a fog
caught between chain-link fences
and fragrant jasmine vines.
Yet still,
I listen for that singular voice
amid the clamorous parrots,
the one that might beckon me back
into the wholeness of myself.