Long Asphalted Poems
Long Asphalted Poems. Below are the most popular long Asphalted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Asphalted poems by poem length and keyword.
They have been wandering for decades
Journeying to the land that was promised by their forefathers
A land that would seal the faith of future generations.
They rove night and day guided by a single pillar of light
Looking for the land that was just minutes within sight
But faith had them wondering and pondering
Meandering up steep hills and giant rocks
Roaming around mountain and caves
Looking for that sacred spot.
But they could not find their way home
The road that leads home was covered with tall thick giant grass
Blade as wide as the palm of my hands overshadowed the path
And the visible eyes could not perceive it
Only the spirit of God could reveal it.
Suddenly a bulldozer appears,
And a little man holding the levers
Reversed it back and forth and leveled the dense path
That leads to a dead end spot in the middle of the town.
The bulldozer could not handled the thick mass of grass
That forms little mountains on that anguished path.
Determination kept the bulldozer rolling along.
It pushed and scraped until it leveled the towering grass
That connects the main road to an asphalted road.
Without warning the bulldozer blade broke off in a circular hole
And the little man came from behind the levers and peeped into
the hole and grumbled that he has strained his back.
All of a sudden two men with machetes appeared
And start copping around several mounds
Close to that very spot potato vine sprouted
With blossom forming an archive in the air
potatoes ready for reaping hangs from
vines that juxtapose with blossoms.
Be quiet!
The machete man exclaimed
Stop chopping!
He peered at vines and leaves above
And discovered that the abandoned path is guarded
By a gigantic wasp nest with thousands of wasps standing guards.
They hang from branches and form clusters
that appear as brown potatato blossom
Laying wait in silence to attack their preys
in the patch of bush that surround the mounds.
But they were exposed and dismantled
just before the break of dawn.
©2014 Christine Phillips
I have been trying to pen this verse since Friday night
But the words couldn't jump clearly out of my mind
I twist and turn erase and rewrite but my imagination
was stalled for a while and nothing was comprehensible.
You see everything I do comes naturally and my thoughts are organized uniformly
Whenever I write there is always a sensational passion flowing inside
I know what I am inspired to say but the rhythm wasn't going my way
The message was clear but something kept blocking my influential mind.
I rode away from the crowded space into an unknown territory
just to relight my imagination and appease the higher calling because it was mandatory.
I lie on the asphalted side walk and stared at golden sun above me
At last the words start screaming inside me and I shout them out on this page.
I have the road to myself racing up the exuberant street
Jubilant crowd waving and shouting harmoniously as the procession
move vigorously along the clear cut path speeding up joyous hearts.
At last I crossed the gigantic bridge, dismantling age old barricades
crushing the hateful scorn that hasten me from my bed before the break of dawn.
I watched the flamboyant crowd scaling over fortified brick wall
defying every constraints as I parachute through vacant highways.
Colorless traffic lights everything was just right, no cross roads
Just the sound of nature to rekindled my soul and the sound of music
pounding in my ear, multitude of them singing the highest praise.
I can see them waiting for me as I charged vehemently over the calm blue sea
echoing the sound of victory streamlined with a roaring passion inside.
I shattered looming barriers and break the tormenting spirit lingering by my side
The dark clouds suddenly darted away sweeping the shadows and misery of yesterday
I watched him exit through the empty highway sad eyes bilking at the crowd on the other side.
While destiny stands firm on top of the hill stretching out its potent hand
As she walked proudly and seized her long awaited victory.
I have the road to myself.
Going out of his way, the obliging taxi driver drives to the top of the hill.
A young man gets out, walks a short distance to a vantage point
where his gaze falls upon the village down below,
the old cottages and farmhouses, sprawling fields,
winding lanes, and the clustered trees
where the stream skips by.
an overcast sky
scent of rain is in the air
a lone robin chirps
His eyes roam slowly, taking in little details,
keen to save them in his mind, fresh,
like the morning dew clinging to the swaying grass.
the cool autumn breeze
ruffles hair and memories
stirring emotions
Time is pressing. One last look.
Then he reluctantly goes back to the car.
Soon, it’s speeding along the asphalted country road
heading to the station where a steam train awaits.
A new chapter in life...The city beckons.
sudden drops of rain
spatter on the hazy glass
sad eyes turn misty
---------------------------------------
Written: 15th November, 2015
Contest: Any Poem Written in 2015
Sponsor: Laura Loo (2016)
Placed 1st
Contest: Creative Haibuns (2015)
Sponsor: Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Placed 4th
Of all the things that I have lost
Perhaps what hurts the most
Is that I can no longer go
to where I once called home...
I cannot roam with childish glee
Down through the leafy grove
Nor play with snowballs, dance in snow
Then thaw beside the stove
I cannot use pink muhlberries
To paint my childish lips
I cannot eat the greens I've picked
Right down to soily tip
I cannot brown my little legs
Beneath the blazing sun
Or slpash in cold and icy pool
Until the day is done
I cannot play my hide and seek
With gateman's little kids
Nor drink the flavored Persian tea
Chase dreams through drooping lids
I cannot rub the walnut skins
And stain my fingers black
I cannot gorge on cherries sweet
I can't bring one day back
I cannot pick blubell flowers
Or swing from walnut tree
I cannot gorge on luscious fruit
Those mountains, I can't see
I cannot run through fresh green grass
Nor bask on asphlat walk
I cannot run through classroom halls
Or relish childish talk
I cannot show off gardened home
To foreigners and say,
"This place is really paradise
That none can steal away"...
I had a dream last night that I was back in my childhood home in Tehran, Iran. We lived in a walled, gated compoud that was the property of our church. My father was a school principal and the administration building and dorms were on our campus. We were situated in Shemran, at the foot of the ELBRUS mountain range. The compund was green.....beautiful. We'd swim in the icy cold pool then lie on asphalted walks to warm up. We had a cherry orchard, walnut, apple, apricot, plum, muhlberry, and almond trees. It would snow in winter, and My brothers would jump off the roof of our house into the snow. I can't describe the ache in my heart at not being able to go back. It was an enchanting childhood and no one can steal my memories. After the revolution in 1979, the government took over the property....but they can't take My dreams. I've shared this....painstakingly written on my phone because my dream was so vivid. I needed to share...
Sleepy eyes awake to crashing sounds on window panes
Creeping animals scramble around bristling forests nesting for a spot
while thousands of mad ants crusade in barren fields storing food in tiny plots
Along the busy high way meandering trees parted wide asphalted roads
and thick wavering clouds peak above shrouded path waiting for it to start.
Countless loaded trucks speed down bending roads honking horns
forewarning oblivious travelers not to take a chance
In the center of town busy shoppers paraded the crowded plaza
Ignoring beckoning dark clouds pressing upon them from pregnant skies.
Laughing children swing high on Ferris wheels
grown men tossed up down expanded roller coasters
screaming out of control
amused with laughter.
Unforeseen the gigantic Ferris wheel halted
And a terrifying sound emerged from beneath
Stealing the happy children’s delightful laughter
thick black clouds overshadows
the sounds get louder and confusion drenches the streets
dust and debris flutter in the atmosphere
A thunderous sound spits venomous vengeance
whipping and lashing
whistling and barking
and maneuvers the busy town
it dances from city to city
Wrenching up a destined path
disseminating people all over the streets
But the terrified children grip tightly
Kept calm and ride out the raging storm
©2013 Christine Phillips
A Bus Ride
I had bought a
newspaper in town and was taking the bus home
an hours ride
up to my village. I looked at the
headlines
noticed the paper had no date
was I reading yesterday’s
today`s news or tomorrow`s
The bus was empty this afternoon
it struck me how silent it ran could only hear the swishing
sound of
rubber against the
asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped on this journey outside my house
so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
the steps waiting
just for me.
The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn`t run to me
I hesitated; was it the same house
yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale, a copy of a painting
forgotten rural art
exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP
Not my village
I said to the driver and sat down
“Are you sure?” the driver asked, I didn’t answer
the bus rolled on.
Opened the newspaper
It was Monday.
Sheep
I have read and published some of my old poems
when the world was mint fresh and I believed in the lady in the lake, I saw her swim a moonlit night
know I know she is not there, but a product of my
feverish mind
Sheep, they are dumb, think the pastor is a friend and
his dog means well and even smells like an ewe but its
fur is useless and full of ticks, can't eat grass to feed
itself forever pestering the pastor wanting to show off
when barking at the flock
The sheep and the landscape are equally old seen in
paintings of rustic art, which the pastor's wife excels at
and tries to sell on Sunday after church, which the other
pastor, the one who looks after human flock who think
he is nice but hates them.
Sheep no nothing of democracy, or security they prefer to be fenced in and only get nervous for a second when one of them is called to serve humans' need for meat as they can't count if there were 500 of them or 499 and they grazing go on and on.
How lonely I have become among the olive trees
since my dog died, I buried her in dark soil but dug her up, she is a skeleton in a black plastic liner in the back seat of the car, it stops me from feeling lonely when
visiting the local whore.
The road I drive on my way to the bar has been asphalted, flowers, by the roadside wilt covered in asphalt spray by careless workmen who inhale warm asphalt when not smoking self-rolled cigarettes
and waiting for the day to end
A picture
Behind the mountain, as seen in this photo
I lived, in a small village, for 31 years
The hillside of the mountain only had a few farms
narrow tracks fit for sheep and mules
The houses had narrow entrances because
the people were not of tall stature and lived modestly
and believed in God
The men didn’t live long, and the women usually
went on living twenty years more; the reason for this
I blame the Medronho, which is imbibed too often.
The hillside exploded one-day building activities
for people (tourists) to find Portugal a beautiful
a place to live and get old.
Only when people get old do hanker
for the country, they came from and sold out
that was good for real estate, and prices went up
so much so that the hillside became a sought-after place
almost posh, with garages and newly asphalted roads.
When driving to my home behind the mountain
I had to drive around, but now it is possible to drive over
the top and down, which is good for those who like heights
But it must be said, the old road was more seer friendly
Nevertheless, the mountain is charming in winter light.
PS. The phone was not charged
On a busy Marescaux Road where
No one cared for an injured dog,
Where motorists do not come to a slow,
And honking horns hammer
As impatient traffic competes toe to toe,
There on the asphalted heat
The painful cry of a wounded creature
Pierced through the peak-hour hub of the street.
Out into the throbbing traffic
The Wolmarian girl stepped
Caring none except
for that injured dog– whimpering, pleading,
Fighting with its final breaths.
And the honking swelled and motorists yelled.
From their faces, I could discern
They were void of an iota of concern.
Above the chaos, I heard her whisper
Gentle reassurance to the timid creature.
The Wolmarian girl bent
and slowly lifted her casualty
And walked back to the sidewalk
With ceremonious dignity.
And I have always wished to be as brave as she
Who defied the odds to honour her humanity.