Long Driveways Poems
Long Driveways Poems. Below are the most popular long Driveways by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Driveways poems by poem length and keyword.
the sun exposed
above mountain's edge
through the folds
of dawn's rise
carmine sky erupts
mimicking fire
that burns beneath
in the crisp morning
the earth gasps in breaths
of pallid air
as it rises from the cracks
of asphalt and dirt
the smell of sulfur lingers
the narrow streets are unkept
a few stone walls remain
at the edges of driveways
where houses once stood
the cemetery sits on the hill
behind a weathered fence
yet the grounds are well maintained
if you walk passed the edge of its lot
a mound of dirt well traveled
hides an abandoned highway
about a mile long stretch
still divided, guardrails intact
the danger, no trespassing signs
won't keep the people out
the colors allure
fascinating you
with the graffiti
that covers every inch
while hundreds more
walk daily
down that forbidden path
looking for a place
between the buckles and folds
to have their story told
on the highway of fame
(centralia is a place in pennsylvania where a coal mind started to burn under the earth...people were forced to sell their houses to the state and the few that stayed are allowed to remain but cannot sell or will their houses to anyone, upon their death they state will get the houses! it still burns but less fierce then it once did. they have removed the signs from the highway but once you get close it's easy to get gps to lead you there and when you see people and vehicles line the road by the cemetery, there is the highway, partially hidden by a mount of dirt that was supposed to keep trespassers out~)
The Old House and the New Home
©2011 C. Brent Cloyd
I’ve lived in houses in the country side
There with my family I did abide
By the dust and gravel of a country road
Much pride was taken in our humble abode
I’ve lived in houses perched on a hill
Many of which are not standing still
They provided shelter in their time
Provoked memories that make life rhyme
I’ve lived in a house on a city street
Where the neighbors came out at night to meet
I’ve lived in houses made of wood and stone
On avenues where children could safely roam
I’ve lived in houses of mortar and brick
Where driveways were paved and the grass was thick
I’ve enjoyed houses far better than most
Where friends would come and I could serve as host
But my current house seems like a foreign land
Where everyone wants to lend me a hand
Living in this place is not my desire
Of this arrangement I easily tire
The time has come for me to leave
To this old house I will not cleave
I no longer want a cottage here below
To a fine home in heaven soon I will go.
I long not for a mansion or streets of gold
But just a place where I will never grow old
A place where pain and sadness are never more
Where happiness is found on every shore
I am eager, yes ready, to move out
To possess my new home with a shout!
The promised home Jesus went to prepare
Death please come quickly, I want to be there.
All night unto dawn
a gentle sweetness – a soft rain
a comforting...
slow dreaming droplets
in a watery falling.
I overhear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
The mail van trundles-by
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
then a solicitous quiet
as the land listens to itself
breathing.
The sky is wet but not drowning,
it floats on flowing wind-waves
that wash against my mind
as a tender caress.
All is well,
the world is a child again.
Sails of snow
Hoisted
To the roar of northern wind
Wires wild
Leashed to masts
Banging like spoons on pots and pans
Sea of Earth lurching
Beneath
The creaking planks of our house
On we go
Tossed and turned
The bow of our kitchen
Cutting through slaps of whitecaps
Windows sinking
Chimney smoke whipping from the rooftops
Bushes plumed and weighed down
To their knees
With buckets bailed of snow
Swaying low
Like the last herd of wooly mammoths
Dragging themselves down the street
A march to oblivion
The storm subsides after three nights and two days
Though the trees continue to throw snowballs
On their own
We emerge
Michiganians
Terrified sailors
Transformed
To butlers and maids
Sweeping and dusting
Shoveling and chipping
The destruction
From the wrecked decks of our driveways
Signaling at dusk to one another
Through flashlight Morse code
All is well
All is well
We survived.
When used as directed, proven to be clinically effective on some of the following conditions: term papers & science projects, monthly bills & quarterly reports, Christmas shopping, pregnancy tests, motor vehicle inspections & oil changes, diet & exercise programs, campaign finance reform, colonoscopies, learning second languages & musical instruments, vacations of your dreams, changing careers, getting married & having children, changing smoke alarm batteries, cleaning out closets, garages, basements, junk drawers & attics, shoveling driveways & walkways, doing something that really makes a difference in the world.
Satisfaction all but guaranteed to result in continued use of product.
(If your symptoms persist, consult someone who actually gets things done.)
(The Days That Followed)
The dust began to settle, but the silence didn't lift, The skies were clear and empty, a strange and sudden shift. But then the colors started, a bloom against the gray, As we woke up to the morning of the distinct "next day." Do you remember how the porches changed, the windows and the cars? A sudden sea of stripes, a sudden field of stars.
It wasn't ordered from above, no mandate or decree, It rippled out from house to house, from sea to shining sea. The tattered cloth from attics, the stickers on the glass, The small lapels on heavy coats watching the seasons pass. We signaled to each other, a code we understood: I am here, and you are here, and standing here is good.
Then came the twilight gatherings, the parks and village squares, The Fracturing of darkness with the light of silent prayers. Do you recall the paper cups, the wax upon the hand? A million tiny flickers lit the contours of the land. We stood on high school football fields and city capital steps, We stood in quiet driveways, taking measured, deeply breaths.
The fracture broke the frantic pace, the rushing and the race, And left a gentle patience in the open, wounded space. We looked strictly at the pavement, then we looked up at the eyes, And found a kindness waiting there, a comforting surprise. The way we held the doors a bit, the way we let folks in, The way that grief had peeled away the thickness of our skin.
We healed by being near, by simply standing close, The remedy for terror was the thing we needed most. For in the days that followed, when the world felt fragile/new, The Fracturing revealed the bond that held us—me and you. The candle burns down to the wick, the flags eventually fade, But never lose the memory of the promise that we made.
White powder is softly falling out there,
And the temperature is getting low,
But I, in my soft fleece, am warm in here.
I hear the sound of those having a scare,
As they slide down their driveways even though,
White powder is softly falling out there.
Cars and trucks are still wrecking everywhere,
For no one knows how to drive in the snow.
But I, in my soft fleece, am warm in here.
The FedEx truck has crashed right over there,
And people rush to the stores even though,
White powder is softly falling out there.
Cars are sliding ‘round and drivers despair.
They call the garage to give them a tow.
But I, in my soft fleece, am warm in here.
Everywhere there is yelling in the air
As chaos comes with the covering snow.
White powder is softly falling out there,
But I, in my soft fleece, am warm in here.
I begin again
on the same path I take every day,
past the familiar fences, hedges
and duck under the same
sag of overhanging trees.
Past the house
with the sociopathic dog,
the cottage still hung
with christmas lights
from months ago and a pink
weatherboard bungalow
whose front yard is populated
with mushrooms
and garden gnomes with
a recalcitrant peeing
into a fountain shaped
like a scallop shell.
Then the opulent splendor
and stand-offish demeanor
of a thicket of town houses all with
porsches and mercs parked
crooked across manicured driveways.
And next door,
an old mansion that hasn't seen
a coat of paint since Elvis
strut the stage, curtains drawn,
the structure stately in its ruin,
defiant in old age, sliding towards
demolition or resurrection
with its secrets still intact.
Then, at the end of the street,
a vista of the river mouth
opening into the wide reaches
of Port Phillip Bay. I take a seat
and begin, as I always do,
to rummage for a poem,
a starting line or two,
for something profound to say.
Today, a blank silence,
a totally empty haul except
for what I saw as I passed
along the street and have
recorded here
which is probably better
than having nothing
to say at all.
Tomorrow I might try
to go another way.
It started with a news report,
where a well-dressed man did exhort
that everyone should stay inside,
big thunderstorms were on the fly.
A curving arc across the map,
and the danger that comes with that,
not whirling clouds that rip and roar,
but another threat is in store,
The great tornados go from ground,
to storm-cells high above the down,
Derecho strikes laterally,
a blunt-force trauma built of breeze.
At first, I just remain upstairs,
but not near windows, back from there,
trees and shrubs in the neighborhood
begin to wave, that is not good,
because the blowing does not stop,
more branches now begin to rock,
leaves start stripping off, flying fast,
every which way, wherever cast.
I hear some creaking form the walls,
the gushing of the wind’s loud call,
branches start breaking, tumbling quick,
smashing against siding and brick,
strewn on the roads and driveways black,
but then come a much louder snap,
the main beam of a neighbor’s elm
comes crashing down, and I can’t tell…
Has it come down upon their car?
The rain picks up, I can’t see far,
drops horizontal from the gale,
mixed in with icy slugs of hail.
The wind keeps going, doesn’t stop,
big branches fall across the lot,
walls now vibrate against the blow,
soon I will have to go below.
Thirty minutes, it’s not ceasing,
hurricane gusts send trees reeling,
it’s trunks now breaking, smashing hard
into the rooftops, and the yards.
The fear now says it’s time to run,
down to the basement with hard thumps
echoing from the storm above,
I think that I have seen enough.
I’ll call the insurance company tomorrow…
. We worked it out on paper and realized if we saved our ten cents a week allowance,
it would take years to pay for them, so we decided we needed to get a job. So began our
first enterprise ‘Hal and Elaine’s snow Removal.’
Each day after school we would go door to door offering to shovel the snow from
sidewalks and driveways for a fee of twenty- five cents. Each day we would return home
with our frozen hands clutching a quarter and our minds clutching the visions of those
bicycles as we prayed for snow once again.
Mom had taken a job working from home. Each night she would soak piles of
leather pieces to soften and stretch over balls of twine to stitch together the next day
making a baseball. She was paid five cents for each one that met their standards. Mom
stitched hour after hour, day after day until her fingers bled.
Dad would come home from Camp Borden after many hours of hard labor and
army maneuvers to have supper and make us giggle and laugh with his outrageous stories of
the day’s events. After supper he would leave again returning much later with red and blue
paint stains on his hands and a tired smile on his face.
The days flew by in a blur as we shoveled up and down the streets dreaming of
those bicycles that grew more solid with every quarter we put in our piggy banks. I would go
to sleep each night and ride through towns and cities and over hills and through valleys until
I heard the sound of buoy bells ringing in the harbor.
I would pedal faster and faster, knowing I was almost there. I could see my old
home just down the road. As the bells got louder, I would slowly awake to the truth as the
alarm clock wound down on the night stand. Once again I would head off for school and
stand daydreaming, peering at that gleaming bicycle in the window of the bicycle shop.
Suddenly – Christmas was almost upon us and we needed to buy mom and dad a
present, so we pulled the plug on the piggy bank and tool our loot, a total of four dollars each
to Woolworth’s
continued in part 3.....