Best Axles Poems
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
There were the usual horse collars, clocks and various sundries on display.
Havin' no need fer horse collars and sech, I quickly passed them by,
But a paintin' of an abandoned stagecoach really caught my eye!
The artist depicted it in a field overgrown with tumbleweeds and brambles.
It looked so very forlorn, its former glory now in a total shambles!
I contemplated this poignant scene and mused upon its past,
And how it may have helped conquer the western frontier so very vast!
I could picture the cranky driver a-cussin' and crackin' his leather whip,
Stingin' the ears of his cantankerous mules urgin' them on to a faster clip!
As they raced across arid deserts and rounded treacherous mountain curves,
How the passengers must've been jostled, gittin' on each others nerves!
I visualized the characters that old stage must've transported to the west!
There were gamblers seekin' suckers, concealin' ample aces in their vest!
Platoons of preachers clutchin' their Bibles were numbered 'mongst the hosts,
And young and innocent teachers were headin' west to teach at army posts!
Soiled doves, plyin' their trade, were headed fer sawdust saloons.
I wondered if the old stage had ever been sacked by outlaws and their goons.
I reckon the old derelict had earned its repose - its axles no longer squeal.
If only that old stage could speak! My oh my! The secrets it might reveal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Categories:
axles, cowboy-western, old, horse, old,
Form:
Rhyme
The eucalyptus sting that burns my nose
And eyes is not enough to mask the tide,
Of eloquent free speech and purple prose,
Delivered from armchairs set side by side.
Although they are so far, they sound so close,
For sounds like ghosts traverse double wide.
From sounds within and noise without my room,
I toss and turn and find I cannot hide,
And from below the stench of death’s perfume,
From some wild thing (or tame) that lately died,
With pier and beam and axles for a tomb,
The lucky beast escaped the double wide!
Michael F Lewis
04/01/09
Categories:
axles, animals, funny,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
When I was a child ‘bout five to six I used to dream that this were me
I’d peel back frame from toys, take apart their guise to see what was beneath
I was ever so careful, every tiny pin, kept safe in a sealed plastic case
Just wanted to see, what a heart looked like, I was told I had my own.
My patients name was Beryl.
A gossip. I didn’t care for her spiteful chirped lies!
Her sideways remarks… and even less for that wondering eye
She followed my each and every move… felt just like papa in one of his moods
As I sliced ‘scalp from Beryl I mused, had she no brain!
How could that be? Why must you make me think of mother again!
Beryl’s chirp had now stopped she stared at me, eyes glazed
Yet I saw her cold eyes glint, had I gone too far?
Tears flooded my cheeks, smearing lines through built ‘grime
I’d only wanted to see her heart!
In shards my door smashed apart like cannons wreck
I didn’t know papa was home! I coiled my wasted skin and tired bones erect
‘It wasn’t your fault ‘nor mine but you’re just like me’
Ok muttered I… just wanted to see a heart!
He pointed to what he called a ‘circular MIL’ then said
‘That’s as close as you’ll get you dirty little flea!’
Then he said his last words… well, his last words to me
‘If you don’t fear me by now, you and the world were not meant to be!’
Then he grabbed me strong by my throat and shook me hard ‘till wires came free
My legs axles departed, left my body completely!
As I fell silent, t’was strange I caught a glimpse of myself
A dirty rigid specimen dissected on the floor
Wires stripped back to copper, ‘cept my copper were white
As I looked at both hearts… Beryl and me… I thought
They were the same!... White began clouding my sight
My heart may not have looked like Beryl’s… but we both just needed that spark.
Categories:
axles, abuse, bullying, children, dark,
Form:
Free verse
TWO KIDS REMEMBERING
There we were
Next to the railtracks in the middle of the industrial heartland of 1950s Tyneside
Martin and me
Summer’s day and no money and no place to go except the drab streets and projects
Just exploring carelessly
Among the factories, spoil heaps, rusty tracks, piles of old axles, oily ditchwater
And enjoying youth
All day we strolled, climbed, jumped, ignored the “no entry” signs, threw stones, felt hot
Until we wearied
And decided to go home with a big bunch of wild blooms for mum bcause we’d be late
And picked flowers
Marguerites from the oil-soaked patches with rusted steel-ingot enriching the soil
Dandelion, daisy, cornflower
From the sand-spoil heaps lining the railtracks for miles, dumped as future ship-ballast
Campion and forget-me-not
Hidden tiny among the broken crates half-emptied of reject rubber tyres
And with armfuls
We trudged our way back through the sterile concrete and tangled barbed-wire fences
We got home
And mum was waiting with dinner, and we washed and ate, and she loved the flowers
And that night
We all talked about our explorations, and the flower collection, and we were so tired
We slept soundly. . . . . . .
Mum kept the blooms in a bucket - or was it a basket? Kids don’t remember everything.
Memory is selective.
.............................................................................
Categories:
axles, childhoodday, mum,
Form:
Verse
Note
(Try to put your best Scottish accent on when reading this one)
Disguarded fae the workplace, rusted red distorted frame.
Mangled handles reachin' oot like a wee disguarded bairn.
Were ye pushed aroon' a factory,heavin' loads or liftin' grain.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Wer' ye wheeled aroon' all day in the snaw an' wind an' rain.
Yer tyre treed is bare noo an' has seen far better days.
You've been a mate tae many wi' the heevy loads you've raised.
Yer bolts an' axles aches an' pains are a burden o' yer past.
Manufactured in the 60s an' for sure wir built tae last.
After all yer toil an' efforts,the flickers gone noo fae yer flame.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Old wheelbarrow,a ponder fae whit walk o' life ye came.
Did you carry sand or rubble, did ye muck oot on the fairm?
Yer buckets lying twisted like a face that's had a batterin'.
As the rain hits aff your rusty hinge, i hear a pitter-patterin'.
Ye look like you've been there a while,as yon weeds make ye their home.
Wi' yer pal lyin' there down at yer side ,old flattened traffic cone.
Old wheelbarrow, a ponder fae whit walk o' life you came.
Your future's no' too bright but we all can say the same.
'Cause oor country's in a rut right noo and it's all hands to the pumps.
The pension age has risen and we're all doon in the dumps.
Old wheelbarrow i ponder,will i fix up yer old frame?
And work ye till you drop (again!) It's oor Governments main aim.
(Well done,good ascent! Pour yourself a wee whisky,now)
Categories:
axles, lifelife, life,
Form:
Rhyme
My shoulders are well oiled axles,
my fists are cannon balls
I am an uncompromised,
uninhibited,
and unchallenged fresh breath of boldness
I am a statue of fastholding,
chiseled down from black diamonds by the strong hand of craftsmanship
I am chaos's more stable second cousin,
and favored uncle to the prodigals, the proliferates, the princes, and the prodigies
I am the lion's heart beat,
the war drum's sporadic syncopation
I am the wolf pack's collective sixth and seventh senses,
keen on the scent of blood, fear, and impending annihilation
I will not sway to the breath of your voice
nor will I stagger at the wind your weather weaves
Advance upon me and find yourself hard pressed against calloused intolerance,
behind which is a wall,
and behind that wall,
an army
I pray you combust into flames and feathers at once
should my name birth from your lips
I pray my night guardsmen have eyes of eagles,
and my trumpeteers have breaths of behemoths should you
ever encroach upon my camp at dreaming hour
I promise to empress upon you pressure,
of a nature that spawns pearls, magma, and passionate revolution
But the only revolution that will come of your resistance is vertigo,
as you spiral downward into abysmal forgottenness
Now heed my words with intent lest you risk the fate of faded bewilderment
May God be my strength as I destroy you
Eviscerate you
Annihilate you
I will obliterate you until the only remnant of your very existence
is but a vague memory,
of a fleeting idea
in a dream
inside a dream
inside a coma.
www.psalmsandpsychoses.com
Categories:
axles, anger, conflict, courage, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
I was pretty cranky when my spanky new bike was janky.
The frame was too short for my body, too tall and lanky.
The tires too fat, too hard to push up boggy maintain trails.
The deal I got clearly a lemon janky, all wrapped in hanky-panky.
The bike looked so nice out of the box, its chrome frame so glint and shiny.
The first sign of trouble was rust on the chain, which made me angry.
Squirts of oil needed on chain and axles, to make pedaling smooth.
Front and rear nuts needed tightening, else wheel retention was dicey.
I set off for ride, bike all fixed up and ship-shaped I hoped,
but the brakes did not work when handle grips I groped,
Disaster averted, just in nick of time, by dragging my feet on ground.
The handle bars were loose, the seat too nippy on bum, but some how I coped.
Back home from first ride, mad as hell, I swore I would return the heap of junk,
I found the guarantee and read the fine print, but my hopes were sunk
when I read that the bike could only be returned to get full refund,if never ridden!
So I’m stuck with my Jekyll janky skunk of a bike, deal a flunk, ego shrunk.
Categories:
axles, travel,
Form:
Free verse
Redding Poem 1
"Oh Noisy Redding"
There at the Thunderbird Lodge in downtown Redding,
I heard the gods screaming from steel axles with rubber
Claws, scratching the timeless asphalt streets with mayhem.
I heard the sirens from the mysterious distances on Market Street,
As monster machines hovered above with roaring determinations,
And the rumblings of the trucks shook the building I slept within,
Like a raging stampede of stallions, coming through the canyons,
In search of prairie grasses and the sap of a million pine trees.
Oh noisy Redding,
You finally drift to sleep in the late hours,
But your Kansas-like silences seared my soul with your plaintive noises,
Something you could have whispered perhaps, but were not inclined to try.
Then in the wee times at vulgar five o’clock, they come asunder again!
The madness machines with roaring engines about to explode like maniacs
On hyper-drugs, make their appearances with screeching brakes,
And grinding steel nerves and hydraulic sinews made of entwined madness;
And time stops, as we wonder what monster has arisen from its grave.
Oh you, detestable ghoul from the grave, why must you scream?
There at the Thunderbird Lodge in downtown Redding,
Oh noisy restless Redding,
You belch loudly as you drink to the new day, and to the last.
Oh Noisy Redding, your maniac trains rumble and massacre the silence
As your old streets grumble like something wanting to get up and dance,
Shaking old hips, as with the tremors of the deep land, the sacred land.
Categories:
axles, america, urban,
Form:
Free verse
Kansas City nightfall
in a rose-petal garden
Take the Easton & George
to the end of the line
He's been put down to slaughter
turned ash till he rose
To take vengeance on the spirit
The darkness that glows
Free dreams may assault you
so cover up your soul
When he finds you in the garden
the future is recalled
Return to Goliath
put your sling upon your arm
Show the glory of the moment
The turns of right and wrong
Cleopatra's in the river
sunlight for the flames
Rain down upon the heavens
the beat beneath the page
Ticonderoga battles dewfall
the blast that forged the seed
That fertilizes feeling
The riches and the reeds
It's a Manmade
evolution revolution
Axles, fractals, tin-can constitution
raining beds of clovers
On a Kansas City wall
Categories:
axles, angst, confusion, death, imagination,
Form:
Lyric
The engine revs faster,
The transmission grinds as i shift,
I turn the music up to forget why im
here,
Moonlight flooded the ground making
everything crystal clear,
I saw every detail of every object as
it flew past my window,
Yet, i couldnt see anything through
the stone wall in my mind,
The car starts to shake as my speed
increases,
The axles groan with every small
bump,
Its finally time to let off the gas,
Spinning the wheel, i could see my
whole past,
Every mistake, and regret and all the
heartbreak,
Without feeling a thing the whole trip
was over,
Not a drop touched my lips,
But i was never once sober
Categories:
axles, death
Form:
Free verse
Wagons packed, gunny sacked
Wheat flour, beans, preserves
Wild nature sojourning
Worn axles, oxen, health
Winter weather challenge
Wealth aspiring visions
Wonder-filled golden hills
5-10-2021
Plieades W Contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Categories:
axles, adventure, america, dream, environment,
Form:
Pleiades
we heard the wagonwheels
the rattling of the axles
the stinge of the horses
the dust they created
we were unmoved
some became frightened
but most of us knew
what they varmints wanted
we stood back to back to make
sure they weren't getting it
they wanted our gold
and we weren't gonna let them have it!
From the novel Big Tramps Watering Hole
published by Dahiser Hussier
and the Bandchoosen Franchise
New York greetings publishing company
copyrighted 1901.
Categories:
axles, adventure, anti bullying, beauty,
Form:
Ballad
Mine fervent aspiring political activism...
Gunning gusto, (while rosy axles grind)
for Bernie Sanders dagnabbit
nipped in figurative bud triggered zilch
prospects to germinate,
cultivate, and amalgamate
late blooming spore port as
schlocky, reedy, quirky, political neophyte,
whose aura, charisma, dogma
enigma, persona... absent gregarious masculinity.
Scant hours after posting Facebook message
Monday February 17, 2020
(regarding becoming linkedin
among Bernie Sanders's supporters
within Southeastern Montgomery Pennsylvania
hinting genuine motive (mine of course)
to join local grassroots bandwagon
electing catapulting aforementioned
Democratic candidate president,
into Oval Office
overwhelmingly elected
Tuesday November 3, 2020
an unexpectedly pleasant forthcoming response
(courtesy Jon Hall seven nine five eight at gmail)
informed yours truly transcendently, telepathically
inspired debate watch party
would be (accompanied when in full swing)
by most popular contra dance bands,
and eminently choreographed counting
topnotch cadres of policy wonks
upstairs at Molly Maguire's Irish Restaurant
(197 Bridge Street,
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania)19460
slated for Wednesday
March 19th, 2020 at 2000 hours military time.
Guess what dear readers...?
Yours truly, (an aging,
albeit eternally youthful
long haired pencil necked geek)
never experienced sought after fraternization
think ennobling rite of northwest passage
comprising electrifying informality
getting plugged into self-described
indomitable enthralling brouhaha
starring none other than
Democratic socialist and independent senator
from Green Mountain state
(by Samuel de Champlain in 1647)
Bernie Sanders exuding vim and vinegar
at age seventy eight
heartily hailing (no kidney ying)
who served in government since 1981.
I showed up at designated place
and specified time,
and got politely informed
courtesy young attractive hostess,
no such arousing, inspiring, spine tingling...
commingling of eager electorates slated,
thus overzealousness (mine)
bit the dust i.e. never got kickstarted.
Categories:
axles, appreciation, business, humanity, leadership,
Form:
Ode
Beneath the city the river fishing is good.
I roam with tackle and pole below those wiggling tapeworms
Wound around the cement underbelly of bridges
Devouring the guts of the city’s glamour
Down here where shadows are long as green moss
And the voices of old black dudes echoes to casts
“Damn motherer, you crossed my line!”
Splash.
To catch catfish on a wad of bread is a worthy fight.
It takes shoulder chest and wrist and it’s not just the fish
But the current of the Grand River pulling us over
That sucks us in like a Thanksgiving ladle
Into a whirlpool of brown gravy spilled on a dinner table.
The trouble with catfish is that they swallow the hook
Beyond the use of pliers
And when they’re too small
We cut the line
With a lack of guilt like Old Testament God
Throwing the creature back
Hoping for a miracle.
Logs are tipped over along the gooey shores
And upon them painted turtles sleep
Sunning like leprosy sores.
Even from down here in the cool mist umbrella from summer
We can see the smokestack vapor
Twisting overhead like a genie rubbed from its lamp
Thin at its head thick at its feet still stuck in its copper mother
Arms outstretched like a Christ-cloud spooking the sun.
There are other mysterious pipes
Lips rust red as strawberries
Bloomed from the banks dripping silver
While mouthing a lullaby
To the muck
Like a whore at the end of her exhausting shift.
A railroad bridge rattles to life
Swollen by the axles of its returning soul
A freight train pounding out the Blues
A rhythm meant for bass and drums
That part we don’t sing
But the swing that keeps our foot stomping
And in that noise
Software girls flutter about like orange ribbons
Untied from the hair of the downtown towers
Drifting along the river trails at lunch
Jogging in pony tails and pink shorty shorts
Fingertips stuck into their cotton ears
Ever on the lookout for us
The creeps.
The trick is to not make eye contact
I mean us with them
The fishermen the engineers the long forgotten wrenches
Screwing cranks turning knobs yanking hooks from helpless fish
Drilling the pylons through chemical gold
That holds up this magnificent city.
Categories:
axles, city, fish, fishing, places,
Form:
Free verse
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
~~~~~
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.
Categories:
axles, poetry,
Form:
Free verse