Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nayana Nair Feb 2017
I see these places that will remain

as strange as they are to me today.

I see these little people scattered on the streets.

I see them locked away in a world not their own.

This lonely expanse on this never ending piece of earth.

And I see these toy like cars and trucks.

Somehow they don’t belong together.

I try to guess (,to think)

what it feels like to live in such small world

and not on this huge earth.

I guess they don’t know what I see from here.

That life had a dead end.

And at that end

either

we can choose to be in tinier coffins

or

we can be a part of never ending sky

and this ever nourishing earth.
JR Rhine Dec 2016
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.

A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.

When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.

I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—

A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.

What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?

Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—

delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.

Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.

The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—

The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.

A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.

Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Here i sit to ponder at a world lost and deprived of wonder, a park bench my throne fitting for a life so somber, i watch as you pass an ephemeral moment lives intertwine, i come to know you through all that you show, but our serendipity was cursory, as i all to well know l.
I see into your lives moments at a time
In that fleeting second i yearn to be there, ache to feel what you feel. To learn what its like to be another for i will never even know your name or your struggle. Nor will you mine.
Your eyes grazing over the world, grazing over me for i and the bush are both one and the same, both wilt away when the world is cold and shudder when the winds of fate tear away at our shells.
Your smile reflects off the window but it shines to deep beyond the glass pane cutting into mine, straight into my soul ******* me back to a time when my life was as bright as your high beams going forward just as fast stay young stay pure stay happy because when your not the brakes slam on and everything seems to stop.
George Krokos Dec 2016
It seems to me that angry people drive big loud cars
and try to get around or go against what heaven bars.
____
From "Simple Observations" ongoing writings since the early '90's.
Sumit Ganguly Dec 2016
The wish trekkers
invented speed- wheelers
for feather rides
in ebb or tides.

We call these- automobiles
which frequently change plumes and styles.
We invest sweats for comforts,
save time and use in trades or sports.

Their utility changed from luxuries to necessities
now these run in frontiers, villages and cities.

4th Dec.2016
Sophie Wilson Nov 2016
I waited for An Epiphany until it got dark,
fixing my gaze on the back-lights of cars
blinking against the depressed black sky
I waited for you, you went and got high.

I met a boy once with eyes wilder than mine
who wrote poetry about me for quite some time,
after I broke his heart when we were fifteen,
from that summer, I was nobody’s prom queen.

I died a hundred deaths when I was sixteen, sweet
dancing with darkness out on the street.
I had pretty clothes so pretty I clothes I wore,
Hidden beneath were secrets, nightmares, flaws.

When I was seventeen I started to smoke,
scared of broken dreams and squandering hope.
My mother said I have an old soul,
underwater I feel ninety years old.

You tell me twice I feel everything too much,
Eighteen years-young, kiss to kiss, touch to touch.
I drove you out to the Peaks one night so you’d understand,
picked you up later, took hold of your hand.

Now nineteen and still half grown,
tiptoeing around myself when I’m alone.
Hold me close, follow me through my head,
to my dark thoughts, be golden thread.
F White Sep 2016
I mourn for skunks.

The squashed, flattened masses
***** mashed, their stripes scattered
Matted  masks disguising unseeing eyes
Through how many fields have they run?
Once sweet babies, small noses, downlike fur
fleeing to their final place from green leafed bowers in a terrible act of asphalt bait n' switch

Let us all grieve the sacrifice which,
Unto the motor gods
Has been served.
Copyright fhw 2016
JGuberman Aug 2016
Tell me mother
as you kiss your baby
that no one died today,
that no one was a martyr
or a hero,
and that all who now sleep will awake,
and that the sirens that now sound
will be the only death recorded,
and that the drivers without cars,
and the cars without drivers,
will each find a partner
for as long as they need,
like the Palm Doves in the park.

Tell me mother,
that as long as you
love your baby
all mothers will love theirs
and no mother will again mourn
the foreheads without a kiss
and the kiss that has no forehead
to receive it.
written on a bus in Herzliya, Israel 22 April 1990 (Holocaust Memorial Day).  On this day air raid sirens ring out across Israel at which point all traffic comes to a halt for a couple minutes. Drivers exit and stand next to their cars and pedestrians stop in their tracks and stand at attention while the sirens wail.

It should be noted that this poem had originally been written as a piece for Holocaust Memorial Day, though as the 20th Century bled into the 21st, it is clear that mothers and children all over our world are suffering untold miseries be they refugees escaping tyranny or victims of civil strife or war. This therefore is dedicated to all mothers and children.
Next page