Long Roadside Poems
Long Roadside Poems. Below are the most popular long Roadside by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roadside poems by poem length and keyword.
That Other Life
by Odin Roark
Click
Even with flip-flops
The ground’s touch
Goes unmistaken
You’re only a child
But you have traveled this road often
You’ve picked flowering weeds
For your mother
Watched them whither
In waterless bottles
Beneath your mud roof
You’ve held closed your eyes
Wishing for better times
Like now
You’ve squatted your body
Ever so gently
To sleep
Like now
Awaiting the morning
You’ve stared all night
At a starless sky
And another life
Like now
You’ve not wanted to uncurl
The comfort of remaining tight together
Just you
And your dreams
Seems so…
But this is different
You open your eyes
There’s no need to wait
The sun has risen
The wind is drifting sand
Atop your flip-flopped foot
That never moved
Remaining still
So very still
While you wondered what
The second click never heard
Sounds like
But now
You try to smile
You know it must be safer over there
That other life
Away from roadside clicks
Improvised hatred
You don’t yet understand
Your eyes rise from your foot
Last thoughts are of your brother always grinning
Just before he moves his crudely carved queen
His checkmate grin
You close your eyes
You wish you could
Take back your last move
The corrupt officer schemed throughout his years,
Amassing great wealth beyond his peers.
But once retired, his heart did stir,
He dreamed to be known as patriot and social worker.
The social worker preached to keep things clean
Yet dumped the trash where it should not be seen-
By roadside or river the rubbish he threw
A bitter irony the people knew.
The patriots and reformers proud and tall,
As they liked to be addressed by all,
Encroached upon the public land,
Taking more than they had planned.
They speak out against corruption's blight,
Yet ask their children to thrive in its night.
The social activist, with care and knack,
Got government contracts through the backtrack,
Jobs for his kin, all neatly aligned,
Through hidden doors, deals well designed.
The society nods, though it may shove
The life one chooses to live and love,
Need not align with words they say,
Actions and truths may drift away.
~ A Little Post-Election Humor Never Hurts ~
Old McDonald’s had a roadside stand
“Make America Eat Junk-Food Again”
And at that roadside stand was RFK
eating processed food, Ole!
Old McDonald’s had a kiosk too
“Make America Throw Up Again”
And at that kiosk was DJT, version two
With Elon Musk, his 'new best friend’ ...
Now Old McDonald’s has a new lease on life
Just don’t expect to see Melania there, Trump’s wife
But – and this may surprise the ‘H’ out of you
I hear Barron’s got a hankerin’ for Mickey D’s mouth-watering
~ ‘filet of horse stew’
Listening to the mridanga's beat,
the kartal's clappings
rows of cars by the roadside -
invitees poised to enter the mandop
to offer money to the palla
and front row guests.
Now a days,
elaborate rituals in religious ceremonies
introduced by the rich and corrupt
not found in our culture and tradition.
Fear stirs deep
in my unhabituated mind.
These are places of strut,
where true grace is left behind -
a stage for wealth,
for pride and display:
no meaning, no beauty,
but hollow show that grips simple hearts.
The poor ape the rich,
sell land or borrow deep,
strangled by debt's coil they can't leap.
What rises today ?
No portrait pure and right,
but dwindling immoral society's blight.
A strut filled society,
where the native soul lies buried,
overthrown.
Traveling along country roads for many miles. Early morn's sun blinding my eyes. Outside chill blocked by the internal warmth of the truck and swiftly the miles fly by my eyes.
azaleas in blossom
spring green leaves begin to show....
buzzards circle high
An occasional far spaced farm then homes become closer together indicating
a small rural town. The beauty of spring inspired by man surrounds each home.
Dogwoods in white and some pink adorn their yards. So much pride shown in the surroundings. Passing a country town church sign "Find Hope This Easter".
hope springs in spring
roadside wildflowers flourish....
farmers plant their crops
Grancy greybeard(fringetree) and snowball bush decorate some yards. Such
refreshing species to add interest to our drive. Then we came around our home and down to the creek. I was welcoming the swallows that flew around us as we drove through the grass stirring up bugs. So delighted that they are back. I love their aerial antics and they eat so many bugs. Such a nice ending to my day out.
( A Translation of Kazi Nazrul Islam's famous Bengali poem "Samyabadi")
I sing the song of equality,
in which all obstacles and distance are dissolved,
in which the Hindus, the Buddhists, the Muslims
and the Christians have got united.
I sing the song of equality!
Who are you? A Persian? A Jain? A Jew?
A Santhal, a Bhil, a Garo?
A Confucian? A follower of Charbak? Continue. Tell more.
O friend, whoever you are,
whatever books and scriptures you carry
into stomach, on back, on shoulder and into brain,
the Quran, the Puranas, the Vedas, the Bible, the Tripitaka—
the Zend-Avestha, the Granth Sahib—
read as much as you desire.
But why do you waste your labour?
Why are you throwing spears into your brain?
Why do you haggle in a shop when fresh flowers
bloom at your roadside?
The wisdom of all scriptures and ages lie within you.
O friend, open your heart, you will find all scriptures there.
Within you lie all religions, all the prophets of all ages
and your heart is the world-temple of everyone’s gods.
Why do you look for God in the skeletons of dead books?
He smiles into the secret concealment of your immortal heart!
O friend, I have not told a lie—
It is the place where all crowns tumble and toss.
This very heart is the Nilachal, Kashi, Mathura, Brindaban;
It is Bodh-Gaya, Jerusalem, Medina and Kaaba.
It is the mosque, it is the temple, it is the church;
Sitting here, Jesus and Moses found the identity of truth.
In this battlefield, the young flute player sang the Bhagavad Gita;
In this pasture, the sheep-grazing prophets became friends to God.
Sitting in the meditation-cave of this heart, Shakyamuni abandoned his kingdom hearing the call of men’s great sufferings.
In this cave, the Prince of Arabia used to hear the divine call;
sitting here, he sang the Quran’s equality-song.
O brother, what I have heard is not a lie—
there is no temple, no Kaaba greater than this heart.
Translation date: 1/3/2016 Sirajganj, Bangladesh
When I was young and hearty,
I once sowed a measly seed,
And saw with awe
the paltry seed grow into
a beautiful flowering tree
permeating all around
sweet fragrance
pleasing to the soul.
I likewise sowed
a shiny silver dollar,
And with bated breath
waited to see if it grows
into my dream tree:
A tree with branches of solid silver
and sparkling silver leaves,
It will bear fruits of shiny
gold and silver coins and
make all my dreams
to come true!
With glitters in my eyes,
And overbearing anticipation,
I guarded it day and night,
Nurturing it with my
dreams and aspirations.
But days turned into years
And still I did not see
even a seedling spring forth.
Now old and at my wits' end,
I dug up the coin and held it
in my trembling hand;
"Can I have that, Grandpa?"
The boy asked as he whisked
the coin off my palm.
I stared dumbfounded at him
as he ran to a roadside vendor
and bought an ice cream!
~Abdul Malik
A cascade of blood
flowed down the steps,
but the swish of the sword
hadn’t finished yet
Cutting through sinew
bones and veins,
torturing men
faceless no-names
Dripping in blood
and bellowing in lust,
a man with no fear
low sight for the just
Pillaging villages
putting heads on spikes,
raging with evil
with hatred he strikes
Riding through deserts
with bones all around,
these are his leavings
on the roadside are found
A warning to others
don’t knock on this door,
or your head may end up
rolling the floor
Mounting his hellion
he rides the wind,
a horrible form
eyes shine with sin
This evil does travel
and may gallop through town,
bolt your doors
and keep your head down
All through the ages
this evil floods,
gushing through streets
as rivers of blood
She was only sixteen
A lithe bamboo in the river shore
In the family of five
Destined to be a whore
It was easy to want her
Taps on her doors were frequent
She managed to avoid them
Her reluctance was eloquent
Fell in love with the village magician
Wove a net of intense attachment
Looking at the purple and blue bruises
She loved blooming the roses in the basement
She managed to learn from him
A few tricks and would perform
At the market and the roadside
Gradually filling her black vacuum
Would walk along the thin rope
Hanging from the poles fifteen feet apart
The people would clap along
The pigeons grew wings in the heart
She would always do it in his presence
Except that day with her father on the hospital bed
She needed about a hundred dollars
As his life hung by a thread
In the middle of the rope her feet tripped
She vaulted in the air before the wondering eyes
While falling she shouted my amiiii...go
Like the lightening he came down from the skies
He stretched out his arms like a cradle
Took her into his racing heart
The fate looked absolutely baffled
How stylish was her way to outsmart
______________________________________
March 11, 2018
FATE'S FOOTFALLS - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
down south we love our goobers
salt em up and set to roast
eat em by the dozens
drink em in our cokes
fix em fancy in deserts
peanut butter pie
big and small all size and sorts
eat em till the day we die
granny loves to cook em
goobers in down home green beans
adds a bit of crunchiness
to the sunday dinner scene
with newspapers set out on the floor
in front of television sets
cracking shells like walker texas ranger
does good for nothing yankee heads
buy em hot and buy em boiled
along the roadside stand
spilling goober juices
all over the cars naugahyde rotan
finger licking greasy
from out a planters can
down south we love our goobers
like you done heard me said