The Road, A Poem About Road Safety

Summary

"The Road, A Poem About Road Safety" is a poignant reflection on the human cost of road accidents, memorializing those lost and cautioning travelers about the perils of the road.

Abstract

The poem "The Road" serves as a solemn tribute to the lives tragically ended by road accidents, depicted through vivid imagery of roadside memorials, ghost bikes, and the aftermath of crashes. It paints a picture of the emotional toll on families and communities, with descriptions of flowers, teddy bears, and candles marking the spots where lives were cut short. The road itself is personified as an indifferent entity, both a friend guiding travelers and a foe harboring dangers. The poem is an excerpt from the book "Collect Call," which explores themes of modern life through stories and poetry, and is available for purchase. The author, writingelk, uses the poem to remind readers of the road's potential for both connection and destruction, urging caution and respect for its power.

Opinions

The poem conveys a deep empathy for those affected by road deaths, emphasizing the emotional impact through evocative descriptions of makeshift memorials.
It suggests that roads bear silent witness to tragedies, with remnants of accidents persisting despite efforts to clean and reopen them.
The road is portrayed as a neutral, uncaring force that enables travel but is also a stage for human error and its devastating consequences.
The author seems to advocate for road safety, using the poem to raise awareness about the dangers present on every road.
There is a subtle critique of the societal cost of road accidents, as well as a call to action for both drivers and road users to be more mindful and cautious.
The mention of the author's book and the recommendation of an AI service at the end suggest a belief in the value of shared stories and accessible technology to enhance understanding and safety.

The Road is a poem in solidarity with all those families who’ve lost loved ones to road deaths.

Lilly white roses, yellow, pink, and red. Freshly cut flowers piled high in a bundle. Monuments of sacraments amidst the flickering lights. Of the many burning candles. Heartfelt offerings from strangers and friends. For one whose life on this very spot, met its fatal end.

I see them there, a teddy bear, on well-carved lawns corner lots. I see them everywhere. Bouquets and crosses mark the sites of loved ones’ losses. That bridge once crossed means innocence loss, and another mother cries. Papa sighs, crying, sighing, for a child who’s not coming home. Much too soon gone.

Ghost cycle painted white. Chained up against corrugated lampposts beneath city lights. There, on the corner where his last ride ended in doom. It’s an exhibit there in memory of one, gone too soon.

Holes burn black in asphalt that marks well the spot. Twisted metals and debris there I see fragments of the impact, which sends unsuspecting souls to yonder homes never to return here. Dangers, they say, lurk on every road, some real, some imagined, beware, users, beware.

Firemen’s hoses’ powerful beams, wash the bleeding down a sewer stream. Yet, while one walks these shiny streets, the bloodstain whines beneath the feet. Those trucks and cars with flashing lights, as seen from far through the still dark nights. Weary troopers, fast losing sleep, must reopen these roads so with brooms they sweep. Mop, wash, and scrub the surface clean, of all that’s left, of a mother’s treasured dream.

Calvin drove his Cherokee Jeep, down a ravine sloping steep. Into the icy cold water, it sank deep, nose first down, and bubbles came up. Then snow fell down and covered him in. Yet the road just keeps on twisting, turning, winding along. She marches to the beat of her own tam-tam. She doesn’t care much about all that vroom, vroom, vrooming along.

Honking flashing, flipping crashing. Rolling up in mangled wreck-less abandon of foolish exuberance as wrapped up, in the hearts of the simple and the young. She’s just the road, friend, and foe of the wayfaring man. She takes one from point A to point B and all other points in between them. Other than that, she doesn’t give a damn.

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An excerpt from my book called “Collect Call.” A collection of short stories and poems of the times, available wherever books are sold. If you don’t see it, ask for it, they’ll get it for you.