Was it a car or a cat I saw
that jumped the curb in contempt of law?
Mad? Am I madam!
Bare is macadam-
No signs of auto tire or cat paw!
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
That’s my cat with toy car on its paw
At street’s macadam…
Mad? Am I madam?
No, you’re praying* while flexing your jaw.
1Thessalonians 5:17 Pray without ceasing.
March 1, 2026
3rd place, "Palimdromes" Palindromes Limerick Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May; judged on 3/17/2026
Civilization
They take root
and sprout up like
the corn that used
to fill these fields.
Acres of grassland,
fertile farmland,
and the houses
grow day by day.
Trucks filled with
house parts, baseboards,
light fixtures, windows,
sinks and toilets,
concrete for driveways
ply the muddy streets,
soon to be covered
with macadam.
Forests decimated,
their precious oxygen
gone as the logs
are hauled away
to the paper mill.
Nature gives way
to more civilization.
Animal habitat destroyed.
The tracts mushroom,
first one, then two,
then a hundred, a thousand.
Houses complete,
lawns are tended,
concrete covers patios,
everything neat and tidy
a paean to overpopulation.
He ventured from
the wooded square acred forest that remained
in search of food and a companion or two,
there was neither;
down along the rows of $600, 000 homes,
5000 square foot monoliths for two and a child
fenced in against the surrounding world,
traveling along, alone on a desolate
macadam paved roads
and the concrete stepping stones
that ached
in the touch on his swollen hooves;
it was the three o'clock hour
the darkness surrounding the early morning hours,
no traffic sounded on the pavement,
he stepped cautiously listening
straining to reach the other side
as the car reared its fender against him
it raced away pushing him to the curb
where he lay slowly dying
stretching his life into extinction
lost to the progress of mankind.
Like thunder scolds
the big trucks roll
eighteen wheelers rumbling
turning, rounded tumblings
static cling above the blacktop sounds;
each load heavy and unmarked
catastrophic diesel sparks,
rhythm pounds loud along the tarp,
tractor trailers clapping along the ground
from the midwest highways bound
slipping thru the backroad byways,
juggernaut bartering the tolls on a skyway
four wheelers piggyback tows
convoy escorts ever on the go;
beating down the macadam and concrete
trucking down the inner streets
transportation, what a feat.
On occasion
I slip out of the comfort and sanctuary of the house
going with the flow of traffic
steady, in the slow lane, scanning the byways,
those familiar places that I know well
having traveled up and down the macadam blacktop
wondering why everyone is in such a hurry.
I pause at the red lights
waiting for the change to green
ignoring the horns anxious to move before their time.
that fast-paced mode, rushing, edging forward
then breaking when the light hesitates
then off we go into the flow
just another stranger, faceless, impatient, angry
at the speed limiting their moves
wanting to be away from here to there
a destination temporary in passing
or permanent if returning home again
passers by, just another stranger on the road.
(An Addingham poem)
‘There! Where every curve
injects another memory.’
Analytic beauty that
nestled in verdant valley
allows the mind to review,
where archaic dry-stone walls
enhance the ancestral ghosts,
impeccable trees, nature’s
guardian to one’s heady days,
inscribed when lovers called.
Now historic brows lost
within the village face,
expressive meadows
from a bygone age did
grace now lay in waste,
every thistle upon
throstle nest cut down
and stone barns redundant.
For cement and brick
replace the gathering blooms,
fertile soil lay under macadam
and house numbers
supersede the hawthorn hedge,
and old ‘Bram’ on horse and cart
daily down moor lane
long gone and dead.
Oh. Them old manifestations
embedded, the labour
of many a village son,
where leaf and wood
do part but once a year,
after seasons of regrowth
give way to winter’s ascetic sun
that rolls across Rombald’s moor.
‘Oh. Yes, the sun, one thing
that man has not yet changed.’
© Harry J Horsman 2021
WHAT SHE SAID
She said to me “You will not walk again.”
But I say I will. Even if only atop waves
That roll in over the shores continuously,
Or waves thrown about in tempest and
The invasions of such unforeseen storms as these.
I was taken aback and I
Shouted, “I don’t believe that!”
So, she pronounced it again,
“You will never walk again.”
She was slashing at my paraplegic knees, trying to
Wrench away my God-gifted hope: to tear from me
My full armor of God: to cause me to doubt the true
Love of God’s inseparable devotion as my ABBA!
But I will keep working to walk again, perhaps less
Briskly than I do now in company with angels, by
The grace of the Holy Spirit and alongside Jesus
Into a land far from the desolate, flat macadam
To where her words transported me...For
I SHALL walk on beyond lamentations, beyond
Pacing on embers and ashes, to walking on
The calmed waters after such doubt was spoken.
**********. ************* ************
(C). Sally Young eslinger 8/2020
Peace
The day chilled rainy and gray
allowed the wind to sweep and sway
each and every tree that held tight its leaves
now released them to the slightest breeze.
Driving down the blackened road eroding
macadam faded into a multitude of leaves exploding,
the palette of beige colors warmly frayed
into a mix of shaded cool arrays.
Indescribable in the autumn beauty
the hues slipped down in skeleton nudity
of floating pale greens and burnt orange umbers
with mustard yellows and crimson passioned wonders.
The brilliant glow of a yellow pineapple sunned pear
could not match the creamed corn eggnog glare
where profusive light streamed in pink merlot blush
as colored magic sketched the last of autumn's brush.
O’ dear look-
the garden of lilac
and cheery is
alive
But- butterfly is dead
bees are flying
distractedly
Lover and beloved
on opposite doors
of garden
News are fractured
in fractional
lands
You’re walking
against feelings
on tears
I'm walking afar
on the queue
of ants
The soaked river
shore rubs out
memory
The soggy footstep
misleads our
feelings
The sun is going
behind the lap
of mountain
No fragrance of
wonderful news
in my inbox
Per bit of breath
feels lonely in the
orbit of moon
Cheap wine’s dealer
is coming in
boozy odors
Macadam, rocks and
pebbles plays game
of shock together
For next day all
words lock up
my ink pot
For coming back you
and wonderful news
I'm waiting
-October 30, 2018 Chattogram
The road
It stretches out before me,
the yellow center line
holding my attention.
It tells me that humankind has tried
and made its mark known and imprinted here.
But from the woods, the trees stretch their trunks angling across the tarmac,
A canopy of leaves umbrella across the lanes
dropping leaves upon the blackness,
The colors blend the black macadam
into reds and yellows and greens.
The sun etches streams thru the branches down to the lines
and flows around the bends.
the road disappears and nature reclaims its place
If only for the moment, the world is clean and pure again,
alive with living and life.
Squirrels and birds clatter in the trees and brush,
running and racing thru the leaves.
A truck rumbles in the distance.
Everything suddenly scatters
and man leaves his mark
yet again.
Trailers sprout from desert floor
Tombstones marking the graves of my aspirations.
Tumbleweeds snag remnants of dreams
And blow across macadam prairie.
A highway carries hope far past this place
Of broken dreams and suffocating despair,
But me the mountains trap; they surround me,
And I'll not see home again.
Let me bash tambourines and praise the mind-body continuum
Grind out the miles, suffer the sweat.
Find me a hill to break if only in my mind
The foot-step's prints on the macadam
Invisibility obscuring the pain I must have.
The anguish broken to bits again.
My ears pop with the inspiration of all ages.
My thighs approve though my calves complain.
For a long instance my psyche melds with my physique
And I am one.
Magnolia walls
that lay like beaches
around this island bed,
neon pollen throwing crosses
from windows pane
as Friday nights vocalist
vomited lyrics into hedgerow mike.
Macadam stretched between penguin houses,
black ice with diamond eyes shone
as she stood in spotlights glare
of the last bus,
never knew her name only her stare,
sweeping the damp street for sanctuary
away from needles making love to junkies.
Bump and grind persona pulsed
like an aftershock through the cotton night,
and even the shadows thrust
through an endless swirl of hidden pleasures.
Tomorrows regrets,
and how I see a world content
to keep revolving, while I am forever in dusk
asking questions, pleading answers
from the nameless faces beneath my tomb.
Again and again, I scrape through the sand encrusted
macadam pavement, avoiding patches of sunken sorrows,
embossed in tv jingles, uttered from the lips of politicians,
grinning, toothless, at the wandering
immigrants, eager to find no home.
Against the soundtrack of minimum wage, scores
of campesinos work double shifts, avoiding traffic
tickets, the long dark hallway that leers at happiness,
trembling in freedom.
Only Sundays promise solace, playing soccer
with friends, the air biting with the coming winter,
warmed by bowls of steaming menudo.
Once more, the crows, perched on highway lights,
mock the empty alleyways, where crushed beer cans,
and broken tequila bottles litter the sunrise,
unwilling to quench my thirst,
…..unwilling
To quench
my thirst
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