Long Potholed Poems
Long Potholed Poems. Below are the most popular long Potholed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Potholed poems by poem length and keyword.
Some have Siri,
others have Alexa;
but my GPS
I call it Robert;
for it seems to always
take the road less travelled by.
I see the highway on its little screen;
while I meander
down some potholed lane
that somehow seemed to
have the better claim on Robert.
I swear I typed in ‘fastest.’
but Robert is pre-programmed,
so it appears,
to always take me via ‘scenic,’
perhaps he’s keeping fastest,
for another day.
U-turns are his specialty,
along with narrow lanes
with red signs;
bent in the undergrowth
‘Beware Heavy Plant’
with no room
for the passing there.
Two interviews;
and both that morning,
I’m sure some time, ages hence
I will arrive;
late;
for Robert
took the route less traveled by,
which has made all the difference!
A fast drive through highway
speeds a country landscape.
Music blares loud, gliding on wheels,
with windows down, worries dwindle.
A fantasy flies in a pastel sky.
A bottle of soda opens
a cocktail of champagne,
to drive off that bridge on to that lake...
to slip over that cliff on to that water.
Grip of steering wheel maneuvers
zigzag chasms of adulterated dreams.
Skidding sideways on jagged stones,
lightless lanes, murky headlights dim.
Rules of traffic and chasing police,
fine for parking and driving wrong side.
Potholed roads in ramp of Life's ride,
Love sits close on left and behind.
Journey of survival is a Driver of Victory,
Rear view and Windshield to see along,
till a Red Light says, Stop, you've won it all.
Dated 14th June 2019
Sponsor Julia Ward
Contest -Driver of Victory
Her story of life, her ups and her downs,
Her story of “Just getting by”,
Her story of doing all she can do,
Of achieving enough to not die,
Is written with belief from her tender heart,
Belief of what she’ll attain,
Belief of all the things she can achieve,
By doing them over again,
And knowing she has character to stand by her word,
Can forfeit her personal time,
And is creative enough to solve any snags,
And doesn’t resort to a whine,
The story of her, her rockiest road,
The potholed path that she walks,
Is her beautiful life of happy and care,
With her happiest, beautiful thoughts.
My road deeply potholed,
with those left behind
Resurfaced with pain,
all casualties mine
A road often fatal,
to family and friends
No roses to line it,
as it twisted and bent
When forced to look back,
I see nothing but blood
From my hands to the cradle,
on those that I’ve loved
If you ask me my reason
for acting this way
With eyes straight ahead,
I’d have nothing to say
With the road getting shorter,
compressed in the light
Behind me those bodies,
that questioned my flight
The deeper I travel,
newer endings begin
This toll mine to pay
—heading further within
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2017)
Bake the world a cake and wear your shimmering crown of perfection.
Gorge on pure bites of unearned kindness to feed your grievous bodily farm.
Your dignity is a sight unseen.
Like a spider in mucous your predicament is set, your progress smothered.
We all know your street of benevolence ends in a potholed cul-de-sac.
Vanish down your own sinkhole.
Tears on a fat cheek bleed a needy trail that screams for holy reverence.
A path carved in righteous marble yields nothing but jeers from the gallery.
Consider yourself considered.
Interactions that pass like a kidney stone from bloody stream to toilet bowl.
All is mimicry, all is disgust, and the smile is ill, the smile is façade.
Your smile needs a trauma clean.
I fly wide-eyed into the glinting night,
Along valleys with man-made stars aglow.
Thrills and sorrows on both sides line my flight,
Neon rivers flow restless down below.
Grandiose dreams from serried rooftops crow,
Million-watt schemes fuel every lofty light.
'Neath a sky scraped by monoliths of gold,
I fly wide-eyed into the glinting night.
Avenues wind like serpents of delight,
Sate designed desires that with lucre grow.
Fresh-minted wonders glut to gild each sight,
Along valleys with man-made stars aglow.
Manic hustle hijacks the threadbare soul,
Calls the mind daily to the ring to fight,
Ten baubles purchased for each scruple sold,
Thrills and sorrows on both sides line my flight.
Gray ghettos sprawl to host the loser’s plight,
In potholed lives the city takes a toll,
Broken windows exhale long peals of fright,
Neon rivers flow restless down below.
Yet the sidewalks gleam for all to behold,
The fittest triumph above wrong or right.
Where virtues are haloed, vices extolled,
And breathless energy scales a new height,
I fly wide-eyed.
When I was but a boy
in the small village of Cold Springs,
I lived near a cantankerous old witch.
At least, that's what the gossip implied she was.
Her name was Almeda Hamilton, and she was a hoarder.
Of course, we knew nothing of hoarders back then
and most everyone thought she was plum crazy.
She'd trap and skin groundhogs and squirrels,
salt their hides and stitch their raw pelts into fur coats.
Pew, you could smell her coming downwind for miles.
She lived off-road in a patch of trees
in a dilapidated cottage crammed with garbage.
The irony is, her father once owed the whole county,
and she was an heiress,
suffering from a severe phobia and mental problem.
Years back, or so the story goes,
her fiancée had left her at the altar,
but her father had built them that house,
and so, she stayed there a recluse.
It was rumored she'd buried hordes of cash,
and when she died, alone in her filth,
her property was potholed by fools trying to find it.
I confess, I felt sorry for her then, and still do,
for the lady got mistreated by the world,
and on its behalf, I apologize.
(Free Verse)
03/18/2020