Poem | |
Legs are wonky
He’s been on the beer
He’s gone wonky
Full of Christmas cheer
Been a long night little donkey
You need to sober up
If he arrives on your doorstep
Be warned that he’s half cut
Eyes gone wonky
He’s had too much beer
If he heads to drive a vehicle
We have much to fear
Any one who drinks and drives …. really is an ass
20th December 2014
More great poems below...
Poem | |
Sitting with her now
How did she get so old?
How did I get so old?
So many pills
Green, blue, white, red, yellow, orange
All kinds of shapes
Round, oval, oblong – big and small
A tackle box with markings
Monday through Sunday
We talk and laugh . . . then
A knock on the door!
I’ll get it
A police officer – young, clean shaven
As I open the door
I jokingly yell . . . He’s here to arrest you mom!
Sir, I do need to speak with your mother. . .
What, Oh . . . come in
Mrs. Meade, did you hit another car?
Her face showed confusion, concern . . . fear
With a trembling voice . . . No officer, I dd i d not
I followed the young man to the garage
A scrape, red paint, a missing mirror
My heart sank
Thinking to myself – is she lying?
Or does she not realize what she has done?
Does it matter?
The time has come . . .
As I hug this frail old woman
Shoulders shaking, tears soaking my shirt
I whisper in her ear
Do not fear . . . everything will be OK . . . . I love you
Standing there I realized
Our roles had changed
Come my darling
It is time for you to live with us
Happy Mother’s day
I do love you!
May 10, 2015
Poem | |
in the sun
The skin became the bark of a tree
the soul turning to brittle scars
for uncaring worlds to see.
is a pile of
old owl bones
sewn into banks of midnight creeks...
even the plump, over ripened ones
no longer look at me...
but if their car was desert flat,
their oil grim reaper black
they'd paint a wormy, water colored smile...
slide it through my barbed wired heart
so long as I could spin the jack...
so I spin it until their potholes turn to satin-
in the sun
the mind has smoothed over
like pebbles in Saturn rings..
a forgotten spice in the conversation of life
an hour later the word snuggles up to me
Tomorrow or forever( which ever comes first),
I'll stay wrapped inside
till my skin turns back to ivory
to an easter egg yesterday
to a time of bouncing ball and spinning jack,
when the mind was a great silky nest...
the face a flowered meadow place
where watercolors swirled all day,
the heartworms kept at bay.
I'll stay hidden within the briar,
till the jewels of memories sooth
every scar - every stripe,
the molten knots of cruelty,
till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
until then only my curtains breathe...
...stayed in the sun
Poem | |
Princess just wants a new car.
I have told her that hers will go far.
'Oh, it's really not cool
driving this crap to school.'
'Do I need that emotional scar? '
'The kids will all laugh at the rust.
When we race, I'll be left in the dust!
I will save up some cash
then we'll make a mad dash
to the car dealer surely you trust'.
'He will make us a wonderful deal
and I'm sure you will know how I feel.
I will love you so much,
My siblings... I won't touch.
Just get me behind a new wheel'!
Now she'll be cruisin in style.
She'll be happy for only awhile.
There will always be better
and we'll try hard to get her
a car that will make princess smile.
Poem | |
(Bill's 62 Ford Pickup)
She was very old, but she was quite grand,
she'd climb any hill, plough right thru sand.
She was loud enough to make your ears ring,
yet passing those hot rods made your heart sing.
She rattled like a chain, her beauty was gone,
upholstery was shot, we laid a towel on.
When she came to us, headed for the dump,
with her floor rotted through, rust on her rump;
Mel said "I'm through with her, take her if you want,
but you'll need to 'fix her up' she's begging for paint."
So we traded services, and chose the color blue;
Bill wired Rich's body shop, so we could use it too.
We patched all her holes, bought out the parts store,
gave her a hi-speed rear end, restored her 4-on-the-floor.
Her new body was sleek, cab and bed all one piece,
many people stopped to beg, "Sell her to me, please!"
High-rise manifold and cam, new brake system and clutch,
260 C.I. V-Eight engine, 4-barrel carburetor, dual exhaust.
Hounding those salvage yards took quite a toll,
but at sixty-five R. P. M. , she could really roll.
She took us back and forth, as we built our new abode,
lived up to every task, hauled many a heavy load.
We didn't throw her away when her job for us was done;
we sold her to a farm girl, who's taking her for a wild run.
We reminiscence about her as we rest in our new home,
we often miss the old girl, now that she's truly gone.
We wish someone could take us and do the same good turn,
give us a brand new chassis with energy to burn.
We'd like to join our old Ford, being restored now and again,
to our original beauty, with a souped-up power plan.
More great poems below...
Poem | |
I have a friend by the name of Tim,
He keeps in shape when frequents the gym.
His Kelly green Mustang he drove
And smack'd it into a cove.
The witches got him and ate one of his limbs!
Poem | |
Inspired by the song "Last Kiss" by Pearl Jam
You had just gotten your first car, a 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air,
We were only seventeen years old and neither had a care,
You came over after school and asked me to go for a drive,
We longed for freedom of the road, we never felt so alive.
Always the gentleman, as you opened the powder blue door,
But, after tonight you would be doing this for me no more,
I remember how the moonlight shined off of the chrome,
When you picked me up and I would never return home.
I cannot ever stop thinking about and replaying our past,
I still remember your soft kiss, and it would be our last,
Because, this tender embrace would never happen again,
There was no way that either of us could've known it then.
The impact was so sudden that I felt almost no pain,
As the car swerved out of control into the other lane,
It all happened so fast, there was no time to scream,
Now my existence is a nightmare, just some bad dream.
My body grew cold fast, but I could still feel the heat,
Of the warm blood dripping down onto the leather seat,
I lay there silently, nearly lifeless, held against your shoulder,
It was then I realized that I would not be growing older.
The radio faded away as I closed my eyes for the last time,
What happened to me was an accident, and not a crime,
I will wait for you on this spot, by the very same tree,
Where most people don't notice, but some of them see.
It's an anniversary, it will be 58 years around midnight,
The misting rain and lingering fog will keep me from sight,
As the headlights go flying by, shining from modern cars,
I'm hoping one of them will be you to take me to the stars.
When I do leave this world, side by side we will stand,
And this bad dream will finally be over as you take my hand,
I am waiting to go to heaven, only you can bring me there,
In your brand new, powder blue 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air.
Poem | |
Andrea was late - drove at the speed of light
Traffic cops chased her - she got such a fright
The cop got out his book
Gave her a stern look
She’s off to traffic school so she now gets it right
Posted with full permission of Andrea (speedy) Dietrich
2nd April 2015
Poem | |
I’m stuck in traffic
Crawling like a slimy slug
Why call it rush hour?
4th April 2015
Poem | |
When an Ode Operator named Jan
hits the road in her Sonnet sedan,
she keeps Lines in their lanes
riding Rhyme's rough terrains
and drives home every Poem that she can
This limerick was written
for my Soup buddy Jan Allison.
Thank you for your playful
input and positive support -
you are appreciated! xoxo
Poem | |
Sipping cherry limeade, driving in the car parade,
we're cruising in the Lone Star state.
Didn't want a bucket seat; the thing it couldn't beat,
was sitting up close to your date.
One hand on the wheel of daddy’s Oldsmobile,
my arm around my brown-eyed girl,
feeling pretty sporty, radio on Top Forty,
I was cooler than the Duke of Earl.
The lady of the cruise had her penny loafer shoes;
her bobby socks were turned down twice.
With a little eyeliner, she couldn't be much finer,
too much and it wouldn't be nice.
There’d be no wild oats under those petticoats;
she’d never go all the way...
just a perfect flip-up 'do and cute look number two
practiced in the mirror all day.
Hear those tires squeal when I make the rubber peel
for the fly-boys waiting on the bus,
to take them to the base where they don't feel out of place,
not cruising like the rest of us.
I was the drag's head honcho as we pulled across the Concho
and we saw the lights along the riverside.
We'd had quite a lark there at Neff's amusement park,
playing Putt-Putt and going on a ride.
The cheerleader squad rode a killer hot rod
with a spinner on every rim,
a perfect tuck and pleat on every single seat,
courtesy of Wanda's Auto Trim.
Candy apple red, it would really knock you dead;
it was a drop-top Pontiac.
One was there to steer and three were in the rear
posing up on the back.
Those football beauty queens in their skin-tight Levi jeans
were followed by their biggest fan.
Checking out those lasses in his Buddy Holly glasses
was the nerdy little Aqua Velva man.
In his stainless steel braces he grinned up at their faces;
they iced him with a haughty air.
He never would forget it; they would later on regret it
when he became a multi-millionaire.
A four girl bevy in a big finned Chevy
were riding west on Sherwood Way,
four guys right behind in a pick-up state of mind,
all ready to make their play.
Thought they were the smartest cruising pick-up artists,
but those gals were pretty astute.
When they stopped and the guys started telling all their lies,
the chicks started putting on the cute.
We turned the car around and headed back downtown,
cruising down the boulevard.
Stay cool daddio, bear right at El Patio,
and take it down Beauregard.
There were lots of pleated skirts and those button-down shirts.
The flattops were everywhere galore.
From a Lincoln Continental, we heard an instrumental,
Mister Acker Bilk's “Stranger on the Shore”.
We slowly pulled through BJ’s, listening to the deejay’s
announcement of the next hit song.
Leaning on their doors with their Brylcreem pompadours,
two hoods were playing Mr. Wrong.
Completing their disguise, they slouched with narrowed eyes
and did their best at looking mean.
With a twist of his pelvis, one was doing Elvis.
The other did a fine James Dean.
Like a sweet potato vine, the bride of Frankenstein
was entwined around the Marlboro man.
With the passion of their make out, they should have gotten takeout
and opted for a bigger floor plan.
With her black beehive hair and his fancy western wear,
they were putting on quite an awesome scene.
I had to give a chuckle at his huge silver buckle,
but those M.L. Leddy boots looked mighty keen.
I pulled the Olds on through, and we bid BJ’s adieu,
and I put us back onto the street.
With those four whitewall tires, we made for McIntire's
to get ourselves a bite to eat.
We stopped for some fuel, over near the school,
in those days they came right out to you.
Best place on Earth, ‘cause with a dollar’s worth,
they’d check your oil and clean your window too.
The drive-in, painted green, was quite the social scene
with people mingling car to car.
Everyone was caring; the drinks were all for sharing,
(especially when in a mason jar).
She ate a big banana split, and then left me for a bit
to comfort an old friend not feeling right.
A moment more to linger with that final steak finger,
then I took her home and called that one a night.
That was many years ago, but some things you don’t outgrow,
and I think back to when I was a teen.
When doors were left unlocked, and children safely flocked,
unchaperoned at night on Halloween.
And sometimes at night, when the stars are big and bright,
and I’m deep in a Texas state of mind,
I think of that lass who was in my high school class,
And I wonder if she thinks of me in kind.
August 10, 2012
Poem | |
8/13/14 For Judy Kono's Footle Contest
Poem | |
We are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
Except Monday mornings and Sunday nights.
What are they on about, at this place that I seek
That is supposed open 24/7 days a week.
The pub is open we have an unlimited license,
Let’s have a drink before we go to bed!
I’m sorry we are closed the doors shut at eleven
That’s what the snooty landlord then said.
The helpline is here no matter when
Give us a call and we can help you then.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, the phone rings on
A tape recording says, “Sorry everyone has gone.”
My car has broken down the man came to fix it
“It doesn’t work” he said sratching his head.
“There a computer on board and I will need to record
All the things that are broken down” he said.
But I need my car; I looked at him hard,
And he gave me a wizened up frown.
He plugged himself in, then said with a grin.
The computer says it’s fine, the engine is strong.
But the car doesn’t work you toothless little jerk,
The computer plugged in must be wrong.
“How can it be wrong it says the engine is strong?” he gave me a shifty look
“To be honest missus if it ain’t on the pute, perhaps the answers in a book."
He could find nothing wrong, the onboard computer gave a bong,
But it still said all was okay.
The tow-truck they called out with its ramp and its chains
Now they have taken my poor car away.
Modern life is so frustrating; we have everything at our fingertips
There is 24/7 that does not mean that, and fury does exit my lips.
If its 24/7 and help lines constantly, a car that is run by computer.
Why doesn’t anything work, I feel like the jerk, can somebody lend me a shooter.
I want to blast and to break all technology of late
It’s driving me to drink and distraction
The open all hours pubs are now closed,
And my car is still out of action.
The bank is closed, the computers just died,
The telephones gone on the blink
The TV HD, it is fuzzy like me;
I think I’m going to put my head in the sink.
The oven would be better, but its electric not gas
So I don’t think it would work as well
I want to end it all, not practice for the day,
The Grim-Reaper points at me, and sends me to hell.
Therefore, I’ll fill up the sink and put my head in the drink,
Oh, blast, who is that at the door?
It’s the water board here, we are just making it clear,your water is off for a week.
Typical, I have no car and it is too far
To walk out and jump in the creek.
Poem | |
Why is it that pressure feels so heavy?
When pressure isn't solid.
Why is it that tears of anger hurt more?
When anger isn't sorrow.
Why is it that life is a challenge?
Life should be a gift.
Why is it that car was there?
In that right place. At the wrong time.
Why must I live my days in memory?
Ten years still don't block that moment.
Why can't I be stronger?
Make you proud of me. I know you're watching.
Why is it that you didn't look the same?
In that bed. In the hospital.
Why did I hug that woman?
The one who hit you. She brought a plant.
Why did I say 'She'll be okay.'?
I hoped. Knew it wasn't somehow.
Why did it have to happen right after our phone call?
Two more seconds you'd still be here.
Why are we left with all these questions?
Spoken out into empty air.
Why am I still here?
There must be something I'm meant to do.
Poem | |
As the December portion of life's treacherous journey arrives,
We tend to contemplate things that have happened in our lives.
Strange that we can recall events that occurred fifty years ago,
But now can't remember what day it is, adding to our woe!
Writing notes to ourselves regarding things that must be done,
We forget where we put them, leaving many things undone!
Tying a string around the finger to remind us of our obligations,
We wonder what it is doing there, adding to our frustrations!
Where the car was left in the parking lot is anybody's guess.
To find it is akin to the Israelites wandering the wilderness!
We misplace the house and car keys, causing panic untold,
But that's just another cross we must bear for growing old!
Going to another room to do something, our steps we retrace,
Having forgotten what we went there for in the first place!
Running amok searching for lost glasses causes us much dread.
Usually they can be found perched upon the crown of our head!
Those dreaded senior moments are part of growing old I suppose,
But if I may, here is something that I would like to propose:
Well, I declare! I forgot what it was I was going to say!
Maybe I'll think of it later to suggest another day!
Poem | |
Headed home from a business trip
Tired, spaced out, grouchy and impatient
Pushing the limit to beat rush hour traffic
Fast closing on an old jalopy van
Suddenly blue smoke and debris flying
The back tire must have bounced twenty feet up
My first thought…’Stay STRAIGHT, you bastard!
Careening violently left, it flipped many times
(Several objects were ejected from the doors)
My next thought..."This is NOT my problem!"
"DAMN!" Slam on the brakes at the last second
Then it hit me. I was the first on the scene...
I would guess it took a full minute to cross over
Cars whizzing and blowing by in both lanes
Obviously it was not their problem either...
(Someone else has stopped, they'll handle it!
Besides, there's a game coming on tonight)
I waved my arms, screaming curses and pointing…
A woman was lying near the wreckage,
wailing in robotic, shock induced screams
Left arm beneath her back with her right arm
twisted at a bizarre and unnatural angle
One man was thrown at least twenty feet off
(Ironically, he seemed the least injured)
He kept trying to get up for some reason
I rushed over and asked him to stay down
"Okay, but the baby!...Where is the baby?"
('A baby, you mean there's a BABY??')
"Yes, our BABY...Please go find our baby!"
(‘Oh no, dear God please, no...no')
The median was a wide, steep-banked grassy ditch
The van was tilted slightly sideways on its roof
Legs rubbery and trembling, stomach churning,
sweat streaming and stinging blurry eyes,
I staggered over to the wreckage, knelt down
and peered through the passenger side window
Empty… (‘Oh no, dear God, please, no…no’)
Stumbling around back and then alongside,
scanning the grass and then around front
I almost tripped over it. There he was
Maybe five feet from the bumper he sat upright
still tucked safely away in his baby seat
kicking and cooing, giggling and drooling,
obviously having a wonderful time
I collapsed to my knees, bowed my head down
and feverishly began to unbuckle him
but quickly thought better, fearing unseen injury
Instead, I took his head gently with both hands,
kissed his forehead and nuzzled against his neck
(Babies have that particular scent, you know)
I recall glancing upward to clear blue skies,
muttering and mumbling incoherent thanks...
Poem | |
A true story....
Well I lived in Sioux City for a little while
Another job site, hubby and I have covered some miles
While there, my mother in law came to visit
She drove Elvira, the biggest Buick ever made
No doubt about it!
I drove mom around to see the highlights
If you've been there, you know there's nothing but corn in sight
Suddenly the cars in front of us started to slow
Wondering which way around this pillow they needed to go
Well some went left and some went right
Some straddled over it and seemed alright
Mom said baby, it will be OK
Just drive right over it
Elvira won't notice anything in her way
I lined up perfectly and over we went
Thought I'd made it until visions were sent
Into the rear view mirror of down floating everywhere
And it wasn't pleasant!
I could see people on the sidewalks laughing, I pretended not to care
As millions of feathers floated through the air
Really embarrassed I drove on about one hundred feet
Then Elvira stopped dead right there in the street
Somehow the drive train had caught the cotton cover
Ripping it to shreds, wrapping it round and round so tight
Until it killed the engine dead
Now I know God works in mysterious ways
But He proved it for sure this very day
In a parking lot next to where Elvira had died
Was a complete race car driver's pit crew - no lie!
An 18 wheeler with trailer in tow
Guys dressed in uniforms, patches aglow
With traffic backing up behind us
They came over to see what was all the fuss
I said spitting feathers out of my mouth
I really don't know, I'm from down south
They opened their trailer and out came the jacks
Air hoses and tools, they got down on their backs
From under the car I heard laughter and jokes
They'd seen cars stopped by everything but a pillow!
Well I thanked them and shook each and every hand
They wouldn't accept money, said the entertainment was grand
I often wonder who they were and if they remember Elvira and the pillow in Iowa land....
Poem | |
When you hear the car door shut
You know whose home
You pretend to be asleep
But he’s not fooled
Trying to hide under the covers won’t save you from what he’s after
He’ll take it from you
He doesn’t know any better
You are “his” after all
You cringe through every minute, hoping it will be over soon
Then, there’s the relief
He’s passed out
You’re free again, for a little while
This was a good night
There’ve certainly been worse
The nights he arrives home while the kids are still awake
These nights he gets his kicks at everyone else’s expense
He has fun tickling the kids
Perfectly harmless, you try to convince yourself
You watch as he pins your daughter to the floor
Sitting on top of her as he tickles her sides
“I can’t breath! Mom, help!” she gasps
You’re afraid to make it worse
He laughs incessantly, while your daughter struggles under his weight
“That’s enough,” you say in a calm but stern voice, hoping not to set him off
He ignores you as always
You turn and walk away, hoping he’ll soon tire of this game
He runs out of steam five minutes later
Your daughter learns that she’ll need to protect herself
Next time she hears the car door shut
She runs down the hall and locks herself in her room
Is she safe? Are you?
You anticipate what’s to come.
You listen as he stumbles up the stairs
And down the hall to her room
You hear him try to open her door and then pound on it with his fist
You picture your daughter huddled in her bed, petrified
You imagine she’s thinking the same thing you think when he comes to your room
“Go away. Please just go away. God, make him go away.”
You hear his frustration build as he kicks his foot through the hollow core door
He’s done, he’s pissed, he’s going to bed
You fail to see the whole picture
Your oldest daughter begins to “party” like dad
Your middle child takes sanctuary in her room
And, your son starts to experiment with self-mutilation
We all have our coping mechanisms
But, why are we so afraid to face the truth?
Pretending there’s no problem, won’t make it go away
Hiding from it, won’t make it better
Dad suffers from depression
His treatment of choice is the bottle
He loves that bottle more than anyone or anything in the whole world
How’s that bottle treatin’ you dear old dad?
What misery will you hide from today?
Whose joy will you steal?
Whose hope will you crush?
Isn’t it time to start facing the truth?
Poem | |
Over the top of Tammy hill
came Tully’s motor car,
Tully never drove it very fast
nor ever very far.
In his youth he’d taught us all
How to pilot our ride,
It was a job he did very well
And in it found his pride.
But now Tully was an older gent
And he was a pretty good driver still
for a man who couldn’t see.
So when it became known to all
that Tully was on a drive,
It was best for them to stay inside
If they hoped to stay alive.
Whenever he detected movement
in his line of sight,
He’d steer his car right for it
and do so with delight.
He’d assume that he’d happened upon
some traffic on the lane,
It didn’t really matter to him at all
if it was an auto or a train.
All that ever mattered to Tully
was that he found his way to the pub,
And he was about to spend an evening
of Guinness and Irish grub.
Then one night I’d had enough
and was in fear of poor Tully’s life,
The thought of the blind old man
behind the wheel added to my strife.
So I lifted the bonnet on his ride
and removed the distributor cap,
When I was done I was greeted by
some locals as they began to clap.
When Tully finally stumbled out
he found that his ride was no longer game,
He took out a pistol and shot it dead
As if it a horse that had turned up lame.
Now Tully has moved to town
And can walk wherever he goes.
Off in the direction of the wind
And follows wherever it blows.
And when a car comes down the lane,
To the side he’ll frantically dive.
He’ll shake his fist and yell at them,
“Who was it that taught you to drive?”
Poem | |
We live in a place
Just up from the track
Barbagello raceway it be
The cars and the bikes
They race there all day
And this is exciting to me.
They gear up their motors
Making din that disturbs all around
But me, I just love it
Oh, I really I do
From these races such joy can be found.
The wonderful roar
That these motors create
Oh, how it thrills me to bits
Bikes are my favourites
But I love the cars too
I adore it, I love all of it.
When weekend is over
Everything goes so quiet
Until the next time comes along
And me, I can’t wait
I love it, it’s great
The noise makes my heart sing a song
Vera Duggan, 11 June 2014.
Poem | |
Do you know what grinds my gears?
Its been building in me for a few years.
People driving and texting, just letting their mind linger.
They almost hit me, then cut me off, then give me the finger.
Then the teacher tells everyone not to text during class.
She starts lecturing and all heads go down like a ceremony at mass.
They all just sit there and talk and text away,
or just sit there and get frustrated at the games they play.
Another thing that gets under my skin and must go,
is when people talk to me, using phrases and words I don't know.
For Example, my friend spent some bones on a whip and got a bucket.
What? Is everyone all right? What happened? He explained it.
What that means is he spent money (bones) on a car (whip),
and its a piece of crap (bucket), and it won't last on a long trip.
Another is: I got a trick that we can flip and make some mad.
I'm not sure what he said, but I could end up in the most wanted ad.
Then he explains, he saw a nice car (trick), that we can buy and sell (flip),
and make a lot of money (mad). So a bucket is a trick and trick is whip?
Why can't you just say car? Because it sounds cool and you know it.
You sound like an idiot and I can't even understand you and I'm a poet.
I don't get why this world has to be so frustrating and get in my head.
He's gonna skeet and drop it til then, so I have to figure out what he just said.
**For Natalie Fllikkema's contest “What annoys you”?
Poem | |
There was a man who had a horse
Means of friendship and transportation of course
Everywhere the man did go horse was there for show
This horse began old to grow
To the used car lot the man did go
Selecting a car with many horses you know
Not knowing it was a lemon he bought
Now on the car he constantly sought
Parts to replace what would not go and
On one side the man would stand
Peering into the broken car with plan
On a stump on the other side
The horse would stand trying to guide
His friend on where the problem did lie
Also he was studying the working parts
Trying to figure out how all those horses fit inside
Poem | |
Have you ever seen
The ‘Baby on Board’ car sign
It shows a warning ---
Having child problems inside
Makes the car now dangerous
Poem | |
The streets are crowded
And the sidewalks are full
The city is filled
But yet for us it's dull
We have no meaning among millions
Yet we stay here still
And these peoples judgement is killing us
It's like we're held against our will
So lets run
And run so far away
Away from all the people
Cause we don't want to stay
We will burn down our homes
And turn our memories of this place
All down to ash
And leave without a trace
Through fields and forests
Through every song and every chorus
Passing by every place we want to leave behind
Will soon be forgotten and out of mind
We'll get matching tattoos of a telephone booth
It will be a symbol of our youth
Showing that we will never stay in one place
Saying that we live our lives at our own pace
And we will sleep
In beds where no memories lay
Yet the comfort will be perfect needless to say
And we will find another bed for the next day
We're singing without words
We're screaming with emotion
A silent song that only we can hear
A soundless commotion
We are alive and we are okay
We are free and have nowhere to stay
But we prefer our life that way
And we have a lifetime to say
And run so far away
Away from all the people
Cause we don't want to stay
And we may shed tears
For all of our wasted years
Where we were apart
But now we're free and our life can start
And we can see the world from our own view
Seeing everything like it's brand new
And we can watch everything with our own eyes
All day and night till our body dies
Our lives will be endless
Filled with grace and happiness
This is our life from day until night
Because this is what feels right
Poem | |
A dark room with a small wooden desk, no lamp
A thick pad of paper and a typewriter, never used
Like a museum exhibit, though they aren’t allowed to gather dust
And dead flies and moths, a pack of playing cards
I never learnt to play, but still they’ve turned yellow with age
The shelves full of books, thumbed and read a million times
The pages fall out sometimes onto the slanted shelf, broken
The cascade of over-used books falling into each other
A literary car crash
The carpet burnt by years of clumsiness, dark and worn
The ceiling stained by years of nicotine, the cigarette smoker
Looking on at a world frozen, the books are the only living things
Read a million times and thumbed to death, the dirty pages blending into each other
The faces and the timeless, frozen authors and poets, trapped here forever
In the corner, a lonely television set, never used and not even plugged in
The lonesome keyboard, beaten a million times, my voice recorded
The German tongue, screamed above piano murder, the manslaughter of my violin
A cultural car crash
The curtains, white to ivory to ashen, unopened in an age
Time to let the world come in through the never-before-seen window
I sit upon the bed and watch the silhouettes gather, their vagabond army
Creeping over everything with their tired and dirty little hands
The books I’ve read to death, the literary suicide, gathering in a spot of light
Like flocking birds fleeing for the winter, their matted feathers and scabbed legs
They can’t fly anywhere, trapped here, my favourite victims, dead within the covers,
Like broken pigeons trapped within damning cages. I close the door and leave
The untouched car crash