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Details | Truck Poem | |

Love Poem - 29

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
redundancies and repetition,
items that people throw into the wind,
kick around and step upon.

I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn.
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.

The old man who sits in a rain-filled gutter,
seemingly oblivious to the water sluicing down the hill,
splashing against his clothes -
fists raised up to the heavens in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly beloved wife....

....I fell in love with him too.

I fall in love with things that some people deem as insignificant,
ugly, morose, dirty and immoral.
The more I fall in love, the more I love each passing moment,
including the pain, torture and misery that may appear along the way.

If I write down treasonously treacherous words,
the reader could assume such words to be rooted in rage
or a cynical outlook. But the words are actually born out of love -
I love every single word in existence.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while still maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with the woman 
who is too shy to have a proper conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be very ugly,
when in fact, she is an exquisitely gorgeous woman.

I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of rotting seaweed on the shore,
the way her hair smells baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
hypnotized by the essence the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat who after watching the moving truck drive away,
slunk around the alley in search of scraps -
over the years, she has proven to be
a most respectful and loyal animal.
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms when it shines
through the cracked antique windowpane
which I simply cannot find the presence to replace.


And as for the people who think that my love is a whole
different spectrum of emotions,
or how it is impossible for someone like myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day....

....well, I love them too.





April 6th, 2012

Details | Truck Poem | |

Redneck Santa

T'were the night after Christmas, 'n' the house was all dark
Not much money for 'lectric in the ol' trailer park
Ma waitin' tables at the club on the base
Jist me and my sisters alone in the place

A big ol' blue norther, t'were a hard winter storm
We's all snuggled up close, jist tryin' ta stay warm
The trailer's as cold as a well digger's ass
Cause they come out that mornin' and turnt off the gas

I shore kinda hated to git out of that bed
But ol' Mother Nature made me git up, instead
I'd gotta go out if I wanted a leak
'Cause the toilet had bin all plugged up fer a week

Outside it 'peered warmer, which was a suprise
As I peed on the tree, sumpin lit up the skies
Them lights shined down on the yard, and I froze
Shore prayed it warn't one of them weird UFO's

As I stood thar turnin' round and around
There was white stuff fallin' and coatin' the ground
I grabbed a big buncha it up in my mitts
I thunk it was snow, but turnt out it were grits

I heared a big motor runnin' up overhead
And down come a monster truck painted all red
It bounced on the front 'n' bounced on the back
Then the driver clumb down 'n' grabbed a tow sack

He was white-haired 'n' husky, with red overalls
With ZZ Top whiskers 'n' blood-shot eyeballs
A red John Deere work cap was perched on his nut
And a WalMart white T-shirt half-covered his gut

He look like he just come off'n the farm
'Cept fer them tattoos of elves on his arm
As I stood around there jist like a complete dick
He says, “Boy ain't you gonna say crap to St. Nick?”

“Yes siree Bob”, says I, “I got sumpin to say.
I'd shore like ta know where you was yesterday.
The toilet's stopped up and we's all out of heat.
Ain't got no money and they's nuthin' to eat.”

“I was fixin' ta make it on time”, he then said.
He look kinda sheepish, and hung down his head.
“But I stopped at a bar when I finished my rounds.
And run inna St. Paddy at the Hare 'n' the Hounds."

"Ya know that he's the very best pal of St. Nick.
But there's none who can put 'em away like that Mick.
And the next thing ya know, we's over at Chances
Where that Tooth Fairy is doin' ten-dollar lap dances.”

“The Tooth Fairy a stripper? That done give me the chills!”
“Yessir”, says he, “Where ya think she gits all them bills?”
“Jist a minute”, I goes. “Where's the reindeer and sleigh?”
He turnt even redder, and then looked away.

“Well, we had a poker game goin', I thunk I would win.
I was holdin' four aces and bet everthang in.”
There was a palpable silence, a terrible hush.
“Then that damn Easter Bunny laid down a straight flush.”

“Well, I cut cards with a redneck and won me that truck
But as for the reindeer, they was squat outta luck
They throwed a big barbeque, and cooked 'em up slow
But I must say them reindeer's good eatin', ya know?”

No Dasher, no Dancer, no Prancer and Vixen!
No Comet, no Cupid, no Donner and Blitzen!
For hung on that red-painted monster truck's nose
was eight pairs of antlers, lined up in two rows.

“Anyway, I brung vittles for you and the girls.”
And out of the sack pulled six freshly skint squirrels.
“I jist bagged 'em thar in yer neighbor's back yard
Fry 'em up well, boy, with plenty of lard.”

I goes, “Them squirrels is rilly fine eatin' fer shore,
But ta git past tomorrow, we's gonna need more.”
says he,“Well, I's a bit short on cash fer today.”
And he give me six lottery numbers to play.

Then up drives my ma with bad blood in her eye
Draws out her six-shooter, jist primed to let fly.
Then lowers her arm down and commences to bawl
says, “I love you, you bastard, you tol' me you'd call!”

He says, “Boy, looks like it's not healthy to linger
Sticks his mitt out 'n' goes “Just pull on my finger.
The truck is fer you, son. I bid ya goodnight.”
And on a column of wind, he plumb riz out of sight.

I feels fevered and flushed as I stands there in awe
And I reckons this redneck St. Nick was my paw.
A voice far-off hollers, “Merry Christmas, now, y'all!
Then adds, “Don't fret none baby, jist wait fer my call!”

December 19, 2013
P.S. Them lottery numbers worked out good. We
bought a double-wide on our own lot 'n' a giant
TV and had still had lots of money left over fer
me to go to big rig truck driving school and Ma
to that there beauty college.

Details | Truck Poem | |

Prayer

One more morning,after one more night,
One more thanks for keeping things right,
One prayer to bed,one as you rise,
Good morning God,thanks for another sun rise,
Prayer is the fuel that keep us going,
Through troubled times,pray for strength keep rowing,
And without fear step out,face the unknowing,
Although all around negativity blowing,
Every day,even one positive seed,try sowing,
Within my veins,God love is flowing,
God is my friend,the devil,not interested to know him,
Here comes the garbage truck,over there throw him,
Don't just say you love God,pray show Him,
Remember prayer keeps us,spiritual growing...

Details | Truck Poem | |

Sunbonnet


She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.


Gene Bourne.
07-17-14




.

Details | Truck Poem | |

ARE YOU DEAD

My truck idles noisily
spitting and sputtering like a mad dog
being doused with a bucket of cold water
to slow an attack     where I sit 
behind a metal guard rail at the crossing

Or should I say your truck
You were the one who searched salvage yards
for lights     fenders     a working transmission
It was your baby     not mine
I just watched in tolerant amusement
as you painstakingly restored it
to its former fifties glory
I helped you christen this old truck
in that grove of pecan trees beside the tracks
The trains rumbled past     so close
I felt vibrations struggle through my body

I sit here watching boxcars pass
squeaking and squealing over the tracks
lurching from side to side as if debating
whether to break free from this metal convoy
and unable to choose the right moment
You chose the right moment     the one right for you
Or was it only the one wrong for me?

In later weeks you came to my bed every night in those
silly Christmas pajamas     and rolled the board of your body 
onto its side to stare at the wall
presenting a stiff back I was afraid to touch
We drank coffee in the mornings     only the whisper 
of sugar granules falling into liquid    breaking the silence
I never saw you leave

They said after seven years you could be declared dead
Are you?
Do I count the years before you left?  
I looked for you in the pecan grove the morning
I found your truck in the driveway with no sign of you 
No tracks left behind     No trail left for me to follow
I watch trains     count flat cars and boxcars
wonder what they carry     and what they left behind
The train will always be found by following 
the iron rails running through its immediate past
Unlike you

A boxcar passes    bouncing past the windshield
I see a face peering from the opened doorway
Only a face     Clothes and body have merged
into shadows of a dark interior
It is the face of a hobo with tired yet excited eyes
It is your face
You once watched trains with me and told stories 
about the life of freedom hobos found riding the rails

Did you become a hobo?
Are you free now?
Don't you want your truck?

Details | Truck Poem | |

That Day, A Life Crushed

That Day, Life Crushed



I was resting on a lake dock that was in deep decay
it ran fifty yards out into the seamless water
that day my baby brother had went to swim with his friends
a normal summer day that shone with splendor
and peaceful was the soft blowing wind
only fate was awake and moving ever foward


there I was in peaceful solitude , resting
gazing at the lapping waves as they spoke
ignorant of what had taken place only moments before
the passing of a young and promising life, my brother


sun still beamed, wind still blew and life changed
a truck came racing across the bridge
I saw my best friend waving at me franticly
then I heard, I knew tragedy had befallen somebody
somebody I loved dearly


Moments later, the force of truth crushed me into a ball
it was as I feared, a death, an unimaginable horror
my baby brother was dead, my fourteen year old baby brother 
gone, gone , gone!


Electric current had destroyed his life
destroyed my life, sent me into a seven year rage
I said my goodbyes in a quiet rage and vowed that God, 
God would pay for this!
And so it began a terrible journey into a dark abyss 
one that consumed and slowly ate my soul
my soul it ate with relish and glee


I became a punisher of God!
Yes, such misery did I heap out by the bucket
by the ton and ate it's glory until-

Seven years later, light came into me as I slept
I woke one morning to find that the one punished was ME!
God had told me but I refused to hear
Now I heard and that truth crushed me again!


The road back took time but seven long years was over!
life returned, joy returned!
Majestic love returned to reclaim it's treasure-- my soul!


My soul rejoices to this day,
this day I see God stayed with me as I ran away!

I, he that runs no MORE!

Robert J. Lindley 06-30-2014

My first ever write about my brother, Billy Joe Lindley
fourteen year old and the girls adored him,
that summer electrocuted by a faulty electric pump at a 
friend's house by the river. 
1976, I think about him every day since, he was an angel compared 
to me and why, why did I live!

Details | Truck Poem | |

The Writer In Me

Is a soldier
He uses original paint to avoid crises during his war paintings
To avoid worries he frames experience in simple pictures
He knows tears can erase many water painting on written walls
The writer in me is so mean he never falls

He dribbles my own calculated footsteps
Like mistakes and lessons when you walk pass six plus six plus six
Everything stay fixed
He staples his lips in smiles
Equalizers are irritating to adjust during rush hour gossips

Mini enemies minimizes energy to maximize external intentions
In real time the writer in me anticipates to test drive defenseless expressions
He smiles in mirrors defining his images of a convincing writer
The writer in me intends to testify less physical intentions
Like expressions written in useless reactions chasing perfection in tender loving courage

The writer in me is so dodgy
Dishonest but real in realistic dialogues diluted by real facts
An idiot so like a student translating Sepulana into meaningful alphabets
He paints images upside down so readers can read what’s not written
He escaped judgement day buy judging his days
The writer in others like those other writers who read and walk their readings re-think history's footsteps

They speak statements under shadows of their own pavements
Writing is the stupidest weapon 
It does shoot at bees spreading in million ways to play hide and sick
Love sick no approval from eggs to donate farts
Rotten farts from realities long boiled eggs

Hide and sick is the hardest champion ship driven by waves between chewing gums
Some dirty behaviors are thirsty for improvisational gums
The writer in me whispers a lie in a group of nothing
And receive awards for hearing nothing 
Painters can paint you pushing a wrong truck of your own hustle 

I wonder how it feels seeing the seconds between a picture snapped from a 1994 digital camera energy
Those expensive nothings that will always be something
The writer in me knows the answer to all combined maths and history's favorite soundtracks
Freedom is a prison located in your mind

© Raymond Ngomane 

Details | Truck Poem | |

The Old Truck in the Master's Hand

The old truck hadn't been used in a while,
But it should be good for a few more miles.
Under the hood, the engine was rusty,
And the interior smelled faintly musty.
Assuming it would start--we all wanted to know...
When we put it in gear, would it actually go?
Someone called,"All the tires are flat".
But a little new air would take care of that.
Better get some fuel, since the gauge is on "E".
Wash the windshield, so the driver can see.
No problem to let it coast downhill to the mechanic's shop;
Next question:Are the brakes good enough to make it stop?
The truck was so bad, it had no heater fan.
But the Master Mechanic had a Master plan!
He took it to His shop for the needed repairs.
'Twas quite a long time that He kept it there.
He tinkered, and cut, and removed lots of stuff
Solving problems we had thought were real tough.
He put in new hoses, gaskets, and such.
What a joy to watch His skillful touch,
As He cut away the old to make room for the new.
Finally the day arrived when he was all through.
A great crowd gathered around the shop door,
To behold the new creation, there on the floor!
It was washed up, and pumped up,and all the fluids were filled.
Even the body He had been forced to rebuild.
Fresh paint;new tires;and the engine a'humming.
It was ready to face the world oncoming!
When flaws seem difficult to be fixed by man.
Stand back, and watch the touch of the Master's Hand.

                                                                                                      Charlie Pelota



Details | Truck Poem | |

Emma and the Pies

Emma was a pretty girl, 
And was pretty wild.
She never minded what people said, 
Nor did she mind her mother.
Mornings when she left for school
She also left her books, 
Everyone would look at her, 
And also gave her looks.

She loved to comb through magazines,
Yet never combed her hair,
Her dad thought she should step it up,
So she’d step in puddles.
Now Emma wasn’t really bad
She just had had bad habits,
Deciding to turn her life around,
She turned right on the street.

Now as the child was trucking on home,
She saw a truck come at her,
The driver was screaming “Are you mad?”
It seemed he was mad at her.
She stood and watched the truck tip
Heard a tip, get out of the way.
The driver jumped out and flew in a rage,
While thousands of pies flew through the air.

As the pies began to land
On people and on land,
They all turned red, orange and blue
Emma almost felt blue too.
Now as she stood there looking sweet
Tasting the sweet from her dress,
Absolute anarchy went down
As people bent down to delight in a good old fashion pie fight.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.13.2014
Plenitude of Pies Contest 
8th

Details | Truck Poem | |

Trucker Joe's Lament

He lost his job, now drives a rig. The pros are small; the cons are big. A sleeper cab is his abode on tedious and lonesome road. In Old West days, a steed he’d mount; now yellow lines he cannot count. A steady stream, long have they flowed on tedious and lonesome road. A ribbon flat, it sometimes winds, descends or climbs until he finds it’s all one constant episode on tedious and lonesome road. By some he’s loathed along the path. For taking space, he’s shown their wrath. Sparse traffic lessens not his load on tedious and lonesome road. He drives and while he drives, he yearns for life’s return; his stomach churns. He knows his hope but can erode on tedious and lonesome road. For the Solitude Contest of scott thirtyseven (Some truck drivers have a very hard and lonely life and it's even worse when they work for companies that couldn't care less about their welfare)

Details | Truck Poem | |

APPLES - MULTIPLE HAIKU

It bounced off the truck
And then rolled down the highway
Apple turnover

-----------------------------------------

How 'bout them apples
When Jonathan McIntosh
Won the spelling bee

----------------------------------------

Apple of my eye
Jenny had the sweetest smile
For another guy

----------------------------------------

Right down to the core
When that apple crossed the plate
An infield dribble

------------------------------------------------------

Just one little hole
In that shiny    red apple
Just one little worm










-------------------------------------------------------------

Details | Truck Poem | |

Andrea's A Devil

That Andrea’s a devil.
Would you ever guess
a pointed tail lies well-hid
underneath her dress?

And don’t you know it’s with red
that she paints her hair?
(Camouflage for two horns 
covered up in there.)

While good folks are dreaming of
mansions. . . .she is not.
She’s just basking in the sun
where it’s nice and hot.

Thinking she’s some unicorn
sipping at a brook.
Instead, she’s in her bed with. . . 
a grisly horror book.

And her fascination with 
numerology;
Now doesn’t that sound “fishy?”
Or is it just me?

Acting like a little imp
almost every day,
she becomes annoyed if life
is more work than play.

Whining on the internet
of her small bad luck
while her hubby busts his butt
driving semi-truck.

Yes, Andrea’s a devil
And I ought to know
‘cause she made me write this poem
just to tell you so!


*inspired by my desire to do a parody
on Linda Marie's poem she wrote for me,
"Andrea's an Angel." (this one is much 
closer to the real me!)

Details | Truck Poem | |

A Pregnant Lass

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her - 
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread:  “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire - 
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

Details | Truck Poem | |

Cowboy Hoe Down

On a Sunday in the evening
The old barn becomes a hall
Social place where every weekend
The town folk go for a ball.
 
The inside is decorated  
Lights are lit, the banners sway
By the walls barrels and cartwheels
Wooden stools and bales of hay.
 
Everybody loves a shindig
Where square dancing is the craze
Violins, guitars and banjos
Hillybilly music plays.
 
There’s a guy who’s always present
He’s the handsome Cowboy Kurt
On his head a leather Stetson
Dressed in jeans and chequered shirt.
 
Carol comes in golden pigtails
Gorgeous looking in flared skirt
She stands out; her smile is charming
She is hot and likes to flirt.
 
Cowboy Kurt looks quite appealing
He taps his feet to the beat
As other couples are reeling
Pretty Carol takes a seat.
 
Kurt decides to mosey on up
And lay his heart on the line
See if Carol would share some grub
Perhaps a swig of moonshine.
 
Tiny Carol surprises Kurt
Chugging down half a bottle
She eyes him coyly, looking pert
Then starts to jig full throttle.		
 
Stunned Kurt is reeling to and fro
As wee Carol takes the lead
Dance floor clears; they put on a show
Kurt looks like a tumbleweed.		
 
Music wouldn’t stop fast enough
For Kurt who couldn’t square dance
Carol is made of tougher stuff
And has high hopes for romance.
 
Totally lit and loving it
Carol trots to the outhouse
But when she returns, Kurt has split
“Where’s my man?” Carol does grouse	
 
In his truck Kurt has hit the trail
Head still spinning from the dance
Carol sits upon a hay bale
Hoping he’ll return to prance
 
After the hoe down was over
Banjos and fiddles tucked away
Cowboy Kurt was still a rover
Out cold on the hay Carol lay.


------------------------------------------------------------
Written 6th October, 2014
A collaboration by Paul Callus and Carolyn Devonshire


Details | Truck Poem | |

COOKIES

Now they say that girls are made of sugar
And spice, but good girls finish last my friend.
For there is one truth for all women kind,
Come hell or high water we will fight
For our right to indulge ourselves in 
The need for perfections greatest
Confections, COOKIES!!!
Yes we will take don’t that cookie
Puppet clown, dressed in blue,
For there is no fiercer monster known
To man, then a women who’s cookie
Faddish is left unsatisfied.
Peanut butter to chocolate chip,
Just pass the milk and watch out dude,
For women shall be the first to dip.
Call us the two fisted women of the 
Raw dough generation, we don’t 
Real care, just pass grandma’s old 
Cookie jar.
Roll me down the bakery sweet, 
No fragrance smells finer then freshly
Baked what ladies, COOKIES.
Sugar me sweet it’s the ladies favorite
Treat, by the bucket or truck load it can’t
Be beat, frosted or plain, it matters not,
But without Milk its sacrilege that is
No doubt!!
Now chocolate maybe the vise five to
Seven days a month, but cookies rule
As the male race drools, because honey
There is no doubt women will take you
Don’t for what, lets all say it ladies around
The world, all together now, SAY WHAT
COOKIES!!!!!!
By the way did I tell you my favorite
Food in the world, of course it’s very
Obvious, COOKIES!!

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO POET DESTROYER
And to all women


Details | Truck Poem | |

His Old Pick-Up Truck

He begs me to come, but he's run out of luck You won't catch me dead in that beat-up old truck! It was painted blue...now the color is rust But you can't be too sure...since it's covered in dust!... The engine must idle, (about an hour is good) You can feel the vibration, around the whole neighborhood A life is at risk, if you go for a ride! The windshield is broken, and leaks rain inside It makes a weird noise, rides bumpy and rough The dashboard is littered and covered with "stuff" The seat cushion's torn, and it pokes at my rear The dog sits beside us and licks at my ear There's no place below us, for resting my feet There's a hole in the floor, O my God, there's the street!!! The windows don't close, so there's more than a breeze Wrappers from Twinkies, a Burger King box... One lonely old sneaker, and smelly old socks Half a stale donut smashed down on the floor Darn!! The dog beat me to it, and is looking for more!! The muffler is loose, you can see the sparks fly Dirty looks from the folks, who get smoke in their eyes When we drive by the neighbors, I duck my head and I hide I'm no Prima Donna....but I've still got some pride!! He loves that old truck, he calls her a gem! Make him choose between us??? ....I'd be out on a limb!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For Verlena Walker's Slamming Battle Contest

Details | Truck Poem | |

The Cow At the Car Wash

By Elton Camp

Tex had a longhorn he hoped to sell
But it was too dirty to do very well

It’d been lolling in the mud and dust
To get it all cleaned up was a must

So Tex pulled into the car wash bay
He put in coins and began to spray

He washed the critter nose to tail
Got it all ready for the cattle sale

But loading it back onto the truck
He got gored and was out of luck

So here’s the moral to this tale
Wash a cow and it may impale

Details | Truck Poem | |

The Ballad of White Bird Pass - For Truckers and Those Who Love them

Dedicated to those who work day and night in all kinds of weather to bring us our stuff.  We all know we get cranky if we don’t get our stuff!

My daddy was a truckin’ man, back in ’63 hardly ever home with his family of three. Mostly drivin’ Idaho, highway 95. Drivin’ in the winter, hard to stay alive. He headed up to Grangeville, loaded with some gas had to cross the twister — dreaded White Bird Pass Road coiled like a slinky, full of mule-shoe turns. Wasn’t any guard rail then, just some earthen berms. Middle of a blizzard, wasn’t fit for beast nor man. Daddy had no choice, there was no better plan. Chained the drivers like he should, headed up the hill. Taming curves on snow-packed ice, required an iron will. A mile from the summit, the blizzard took a break What my daddy saw, surely made him shake. A wagon full of cub scouts, some mama at the wheel crossed the line a skiddin' — he likely heard her squeal. In a fatal instant, a fateful choice he made he saved a pack of lives, but his truck went o’er the grade. A jackknifed trailer skidding weighed dang-near fifteen tons but it saved a tearful mother and dozen mother’s sons. Somehow Daddy managed, to make that truck a dove, it touched the wagon’s bumper, like a gentle velvet glove. In the mirror he watched, as he headed out of sight, the wagon gently kissed the uphill bank, ending one bad plight. The choice he made that day, became my daddy’s end. His truck rolled down the hill, his very final bend. Now there is a new road, on that very hill Modern, straighter, safer, because of daddy Bill. If you’re ever out that way, be sure to stop and read the sign: “A hero lived and died here, way before his time.”

Details | Truck Poem | |

Favors

Colton was a bartender,
computer hacker for the government.
Three days after i heard the zip
he moved to Korea.
He had glasses and made Malibu Rum margaritas
so good that I couldn't stop sipping on his heart.

Now Harrison was the thrasher.
Homemade tattoo guns,
baggy sweats and paint.
he wanted to stamp EASTSIDE into my chest 
so that my breasts would remember his touch.

Cooper was the football star
three times my weight.
He stopped my breathing
as he laid on top of me.
Shh, he whispered. We don't want to wake them.
We smoked in the back of his truck after the fact.
He kept my lipstick stained cigarette
so he would remember his best blowjob, he told me.
As he drove into the dark 
I watched him with broken eyes.

Peter was the musician,
asked me to come to one of his gigs
so that he could play a song for me.
He closed his eyes during the entire song
and told me that he was picturing me naked.
We were in the back of his car.
It was pouring, cold, and uncomfortable.
Thanks for the favor
he mentioned.

That is when I began giving favors as a past time.

1 hour for ten addys.
Okay.

2 hours for a line.
Okay.

30 mintues for a cocktail.
Okay.

Favors faded.
Okay, they said.
and i screamed into my pillow.

Details | Truck Poem | |

I Ran Two Miles Today

I Ran Two Miles Today  
  
By Elton Camp

Being too fat I really do despise
One solution is plenty of exercise

I’m proud to be able to say
I did rather well with it today

A sudden inspiration I got 
Started running on the spot

Nothing would make me slow down
I zipped across sidewalk and ground

I had a goal that I wanted to meet
And wasn’t going to take defeat

As the goal I drew near
Onlookers began to cheer

“Go chubby,” one called out
“Onward! another did shout

I kept running until I was ready to drop
That ice cream truck was hard to stop


Details | Truck Poem | |

MY BUBBLE

MY BUBBLE

My name is Darryl, and I live 
in a bubble.
As The rambling red truck 
collects all the rubble,
The children laugh at me as I 
stare at the stars.
The noise gets louder from 
the trucks and the cars.

My mum yells to me, "Darryl, 
stay out of trouble!"
"Of course I will Mummy I live 
in a bubble."
And in this bubble I guess I'll 
stay.
The children look on, eyes filled 
with dismay.

I asked my mummy why I could 
not play.
She told me that I was just born 
this way.
"What way is that, with no arms 
or no legs?
You replaced my parts, with some 
bolts and pegs?

Was it one..two or more than a 
couple?
Or was it you who had built this 
bubble?
I bounced my big bubble down to 
the brook.
I slept a while and then a bath I 
took.

I cleaned myself from my head 
to my feet.
Then the rain came and I had 
to retreat.
The drops were huge, the size 
of a truffle.
It was so cold, I sniffled and 
snuffled.

Bubbles are good when you're 
out in the rain.
They keep you dry and from 
getting a stain.
Please, believe me, I don't 
mean to complain.
I've got to break out before 
going insane.

Big Bubbles are limited, couldn't 
I see?
All this time trapped when I could 
have been free.
I popped the bubble while dancing 
around.
There were those kids that were 
putting me down.

They looked at me, as if they saw 
double.
"That's right my friends, I lost my 
big bubble.
Now I am free and just like you.
To do what I want or do what I do.

I can laugh and sing or climb a tree.
There are just two things I can 
guarantee.
"The sky is blue, as far as I can see.
And to be trapped in a bubble is just 
not for me."


BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Details | Truck Poem | |

on the clock

the music starts to play, 
its driving me insane,
memories of nights, 
spent in our mock fights,
i swear these words are true,
as i tried to wrestel you,

and one of us is going,
one of is going down,

i push you to the seat,
but your back on top of me,
our tounges are tied in a fight,
my nails dragging down your sides,
our eyes stare with passion,
but theres no time for relaxing,

cause one of us is going,
one of us is going down,

the heat is growing intence,
but the truck still sits in silence,
the back seat cousions our falls,
as i push you to your back now,
i match the beat of our hearts,
and im loving how this works,

cause one of us is going,
one of us is going down,

the music rings in my ears,
sick puppies is all i hear,
and the chorus becomes my goal,
i swear its one we both know,
told you that id win,
but we both will in the end,

cause one of us is going,
one of us is going down,

every time i hear the song,
my heart beats right along,
to the memory of that night,
and my breathing becomes tight,
hard to stop and think,
when all i see,
is me on top of you, and you on top of me...

Details | Truck Poem | |

Maurice Gets a Surprise

By Elton Camp

For the entirety of his married life
Maurice had been ruled by his wife

For anything that happened to occur
He had no choice but to answer to her

Just ordering him around wasn’t enough
Since Zelda was often violent and rough

Any disagreement she’d always win
Even if she had to use her rolling pin

They were driving one day when “Smash!”
With a Mack truck they had a bad crash

Bystanders took a look with dread
And found both of them were dead

Since Maurice, his former life did hate
He was glad to stand at the pearly gate

From domination, he expected relief
Without Zelda bringing him any grief

He thought heaven would be so grand
Then he saw Zelda, rolling pin in hand

The sights cut poor Maurice to his heart
“What happened to till death do us part?”

Maurice said, “St. Pete, if you don’t mind
The route to the other place I’ll try to find”

Details | Truck Poem | |

All Hat and No Cattle

They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
With thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen
And on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen

You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot
For the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread
I'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread

Just a bunch of blowhard braggarts in a cowboy masquerade
But they had the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside
'Cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside

As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind
In pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen sixty-nine
With two high wooden sideboards and hay bales bound with twine

Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs
But he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained, high-heeled boots were dusty gray
He kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay

He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'Cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"

As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer
As the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near

They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide 
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."

Details | Truck Poem | |

The Little Fir Tree

There was a plantation of fir trees
for some unknown reason, most of them
were three to four years old but one,
it was only in its first year of growth.

When Christmas drew near, the loggers came
and started to cut down some of the oldest.
The little fir asked "What is going on?"
The other trees said its Christmas time.

They will be taken into people's homes 
then they will be decorated and lit up.
Parcels at their feet sharing the joy
of Christmas, a real honour to be chosen.

"I want to be a Christmas tree," said the fir.
You are much too young and far too little,
they take most trees when they are four,
you will have to wait and do some growing.

"I want it to be spring, it said not winter
then I will be able to grow big like you".
Soon the loggers had finished cutting down,
now there were large gaps in the rows.

The little fir thought lots of sun helps,
at last the spring came and with it growth.
The little fir stretched as high as it could
filling out as it reached upwards for the sun.

In the morning men came and started to plant
soon there were lots of little trees around.
One worker said," strange there is one little one
should we cut it down". "No leave it to grow bigger".

The little fir grew all through the summer
enjoying the hot lazy days while it could,
it saw many changes over the weeks and months
as autumn passed away the land cooled down.

Then came the snows of winter, a blizzard or two
the snow lay heaped around the little fir's roots.
It will soon be time for the loggers to come
then all us four year old's will be Christmas trees.

"I wish I could be a Christmas tree like all of you".
"You will have to grow a lot more before they take you".
The little tree sighed, it so badly wanted to be one,
next day the loggers came and took the older trees.

Once more the rows looked very bare and also bleak,
the little tree hunkered down to wait for spring.
Then one day a little girl and her dad came
they walked down the rows looking at all the trees.

"That one", she shouted, "dad", pointing at the little fir.
"It is rather small, would you not like a bigger one".
"No, no", said the little girl, "that one is perfect.
I can reach to do most of the decorating of it's branches".

Fantastic thought the little tree, I am a Christmas tree
they gently cut it down and carried it to their truck,
when they got home they put some growth power on the base
and planted it in a great big pot that was a shiny red.

The tree looked around the room in awe struck wonder
there were flashing lights around the snowy windows.
Cards strung over the fire mantle, so very colourful,
streamers hung from corner to corner looking so gay.

Then they started to put baubles, tinsel and lights
and a lovely angel to go on the top it felt so good,
at last the little fir would know what Christmas
was like, it watched all the fun as the presents.

Were passed around and eagerly opened with sighs
and shouts of delight, the tree smiled at their joy.
Now finally they sat down and ate their dinner
with many toasts being passed, at last it was over.

Then next day they took the little fir outside
and put it in a cold frame to protect it for the winter. 
oh wow! it thought I will be a Christmas tree again next year
and so the little fir tree got it's dearest wish.

written 12/20/2013 

contest Children's Christmas or holiday Tale