urban beauty and concrete truths
O stalwart shield of the careless and rash
Egyptians of old built cone temples for
Orange Angel, you stand, constant and true
Your sacrifice diverting each fatal crash.
What divine hand shaped your perfect form?
What gods stole your color from the sun's rays,
Infused it into that primordial clay
And kissed it to life with the breath of
How many pass by, never knowing that they
Are sheltered beneath your wings of gold,
Kept safe from the clutches of Death so cold.
But thankless, unmoving, and faithful you stay.
O Sentinel, your spirit no human could tame
Without you, our roads would ne'er be the
(Courtesy of Sam
Cones can be.
Cones are me.
Cones come forth, scar-i-ly.
Cones are nice.
Cones hide mice.
Cones will be my friend.
Haiku to a Cone
Warn the chicken of the pond
Save our feathered friend.
-Edgar T. Conebury
O Cone, all alone
Unable to reach the public phone
Upon the road you stand
Valiantly, you defend
Us, the unwashed masses
From deep holes and hollows
From the car wreck that horrifies
From the collapsed highway
We think not of your sacrifice
Nor the terrors you face every day
Cone All alone
Dearest Orange Friend
Oh little cone so dear
I could flip you to catch my tear
It drops from my silent eye
When I blink
The rising sun's red glee
Gleams across the asphalt sea
The hidden hole I spy
Close at hand
My mangled cycle lies
Beneath the brightening skies
I see up close the orange
In the hole
Who hid you down so deep
Who hid your orange,
that creep Your color will not rhyme
Still I write
Our day-glo friend is gone
Smashed flat beneath the dawn
The paving crew draws near
Fills the hole
A steaming grave I see
A hot, blacktop patch for thee
No eulogy, I deplore
Cone no more
Cone Sculpture in San Francisco