So, without further ado, here are the Esurance Poems of the Road winners. Congratulations to you all!
My Favorite Roads, Khristian Kay
My Favorite Roads are ashen a chalky white of patched and cracked arthritic asphalt aged and bleached there is no centerline no paint no makeup just raw flesh under a midday sun no defined lines limiting access but rather following the collective observable rules of good conduct and neighborly jurisprudence specifically for the
polite travelers the vagabonds trespassing moments
these are not the shiny black roads the glistening star lights
on a sable curtain these are lifelines like varicose veins warped
and stoic and telling the Braille staccato of farm implements
and tractors of horses and bikes and children skipping couples walking over the sticky tar patches plastered like gum or pine sap in the crease of wounded trees these roads tell stories experienced and weathered of time and life of legacy and inheritance of
history whispered through the wind
Western Equinox, Lara Wilber
The road’s gray cradle rocks
summer to sleep with the dusty hum of electricity
and dreams of cowboys on black horses.
At its most beautiful, the sun spends less time here –
Sneaking off with night to hold hands
at the overgrown drive-in, where the speakers hang
from lonely aluminum outposts in the sagebrush.
The hillsides are dappled with goldenrod, ochre –
inkwells for some radical composition of marigolds,
aspen, and flame. Riots of yellow birds.
This last defiant display like the protests
of a child at bedtime. I’m not tired yet…
I’m not tired. Somewhere in the distance reclines
A boy that turned into a blue mountain while he slept.
The Road Home, Joe Carvalko
At nineteen, rebellious, blackboard jungle funk, joy
rheostat — zero. Dig-it Daddio? Cool gloom,
smog in the noggin, stumbling through soda-jerk jobs,
joined the Army. One last time, me and my Chevy,
Penelope, blue ’52, skirts, whitewalls,
’47 Caddy V-8, two glasspacks, cruised
the drag, passed the five and dime, factories, passed
the spent on Railroad Ave., the rich on Country Club
Road, landmarks memorized so like Odysseus,
I could return to the familiar and old, but
after “Nam” it took fifty years to come back by
then it’d vanished in a wake of pot-holes, fifty
gallon drums, fast food wrappers, my Penelope
stripped bare, waving Old Glory, welcoming me home.
Thanks to all our poets
A big thanks to everyone who shared a poem with us. Your words made us laugh, reflect, and ponder … and certainly made it difficult to choose just 3 winners. We hope you’ll all continue to hoist those mighty pens and, as William Wordsworth once said, “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”