Long Guardrails Poems
Long Guardrails Poems. Below are the most popular long Guardrails by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Guardrails poems by poem length and keyword.
Imagination leaves the syllabus, far too soon,
eclipsed by networking, killing the daydreams at noon.
The child who saw fanciful kingdoms up in clouds in the air
is taught, by well-meant rulers, not to wander way up there.
Calling one a 'dreamer' is common in speech,
It mocks the inner thoughts, which only dreams can reach.
They drag childishness back to where reality is framed.
where people weigh worth in facts, and fantasy is shamed.
The very young begin by seeing things in cloudy skies,
beyond the cumulus, to the nebulous scenes, in their eyes.
Yet by their middle teens, those realms die, grow dim,
as screens and AI networks rewrite, prune, and trim.
Once, people prized creativity as a valuable worthy end.
now added guardrails constrain how much minds may bend.
For now to imitate or emulate is seen as the only goal,
and free open expression is forever denied its role.
We call this dithering "play", as though it were a toy,
and not the source of insight, of hope, and of joy;
as though the mind at large, unruly and unled,
is a mere idle pastime, inept and silly, when not spoon fed.
Now the nanny-mind state, of patterned code,
cannot dream beyond its borrowed AI road.
It cannot hope, because it cannot feign,
the worlds that a free imagination, can sustain.
And so it goes. Seated, contemplative. A sudden cacophony abiding. Many floods ebb then flow; good/bad. Memories distilled, truth distorts. Folly found fair ‘gainst fear flames fanned. Shame ignorance opened, book bound veracity logged. Guardrails bent, bowed, betray. Step, then step again, mindlessly tumbling ‘cross lifescape willy, tilting nilly. Ramble shambles consequences unvetted. Year strategy unfolds unscripted. And then once more. The chronological avalanche swift recall swipes quickly to next. Where I have been, never again, yet reminiscent, always. Trails erased and failed anew. Aging days no longer brighter, burning coals dim to ash till heat demise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
erosion attitude
season’s grind edges away
saves stack each upon each
Just as the word applies to a wide variety,
It extends to a great many portions of our life.
With meanings that derive from its context,
Along with numerous chances to fall off, just ask a wife.
As it seeks to be centered against edges,
Those borders tend to define us in excess.
Not just to zero, but even beyond to the negative,
So they may counter all the positive success.
So while the fulcrum may get all the business,
The direction seeks to clarify and measure.
Since equilibrium demands all the values
Of human experience, between pain and pleasure.
The guardrails in place are moved often,
As if shifting sands form the foundations base.
So what may tip to a side one week, may
Slide over to the other, without a trace.
When we look at all the scales we follow,
With efforts to stay centered or mainstream.
We might recall that risk is ever present,
And needs to be managed to avoid the extreme.
In the dead of night
the quiet overwhelms
a candle works its magic
her zig-zag flame enigmatic
In the still of the night
a rustle of leaves
scares night-owls 'most to death
uneven, their breath
In the midnight hours
senses hone their powers
feasting on infinitesimal change
defying limits of mankind's range
In the wee hours of the morn
hopes yearn for dawn
only to be dashed against
guardrails of nighttime's marathon
Careful—what you hear
is not truly what mind heard;
bias wears a voice
we sort the world by its sound—
kinship hums in tone and tongue.
Talk sounds funny—strange,
not what you're used to hearing
through your native ears
guardrails narrow to constrain
how you render each word's sound.
Hearing listens first
for cadence, tone, inflection—
truth dressed in accents;
one voice rises, one falls through,
judged before the words arrive.
A child chooses friends—
not for faces, but a voice
that feels like their own;
in accents they speak at home
echoing inheritance.
As youths grow older
their speech bends towards the room,
softly converging—
to belonging in the crowd
with a learned change in accent.
Careful—he might hear
you—not as you fully are
mutual bias
is voiced in accented sounds—
kinship strummed in scope and tone.
THE MOST DANGEROUS ROADS
i've got the head of a rattle snake
on the front end of my hood
i've got a chilled clorox drink
in my steel-knuckled hand
and we're rolling down I-10
across the stretch between Phoenix
to the Cali border and 85 deaths
a single year makes me quiver
shifting the stick to overdrive
Smiling as I rumble over America's
most dangerous road
kissing the guardrails
flirting with the slops
to side ditches so steep
but not as fun as I-15
from LA to Las Vegas I say
it's all the way or no
it's all the way or no
it's all the way or no
it's me spreading my ashes
across the country I love
it's me treading the coals
with a swizzle stick in my nose
yeah here we go
:: 03.05.2016 ::
For their roar is never heard
Be their roar , be their pride , be their light , be their guide in every stride
Be their strength , be their wavelength
Be their for them to vent ,
A safe space to their hearts intent
Be their frequency , be their rhyme
Be their mime and chime in time
Be their harmony embracing and racing through their garden of opportunity
Be their umbrella , be their shadow,
to their open sky they seek the opportunity window,
Be their guardrails , yet their freedom too
The world feels safe when held by you
Be there to care for they matter
Be there , be there, just be there when their dreams shatter
When broken pieces is all that they see be their vision of art their ecstasy
Be there for their ups and downs as they see saw in mere life’s playground
Be there when you can for time is dear life disappears before it appears
The Seine river banks,
with their lack of guardrails, freaked
me out in fourth grade:
"Avez-vous entendu?!!"
My best friend rushed to ask it.
"Did you hear?! (the news)"
A woman drowned!!
She gushed - the horror tale
punch line delivered.
My eyes were wide with
shock and fear - the monster takes
another victim.
The dark Seine river
slithered, like a green snake
- feet from my front door.
There was no railing
- a misstep would drop you some
12 feet, to your cold death.
No parent could save
you - a terrifying thought for
a nine year old girl.
Walking to school, my
brother would sneak up, nudging
me near left-bank death.
I would scream, amid
cat calls and boyish laughter,
despite our au pair.
My best friend, Chloe, shared
my caution, if not my fear,
and loved to tease me.
That rapid river
loomed large in my dreams - as fears
can - for many years.
Last year we were in
Paris and I still couldn't go
near the riverbank =]
There’s no decorum or respect
Within the White House walls
And cameras let us witness
Some behavior that appalls.
Invite a foreign dignitary
Then berate, insult, accuse –
That’s the playbook for a bully
Desperate to be in the news.
Why would any other country,
After seeing that display,
Send a leader, knowing he or she’d
Be treated in that way?
Every day brings more examples
Of outrageousness and shock
Which, at one time, simply seemed like
Acts of bluster we would mock.
But the stakes have gotten higher
And if all the guardrails fail,
Someday writing such a poem just might
Have me end up in jail.
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~)