Best Cranking Poems
Leaderboard paradox
Bard, crank or chatterbox
Irreconcilable
Most undeniable
Two titles possible?
Can't have all three
Flourish and elegance
Meter and relevance
Grasp of the elements
Sensitive delicate
Post the best poetry
For all to see
Building community
Post with impunity
Dishing encouragements
Never discouragements
Attaboy lunacy
Nice job! Spondee
Magnitude, quantity
Content moronity
Quality suffering
Sputtering, stuttering
Faster through brevity
Haiku for me
Where is the paradox?
Chatter and atta-talks
Raising poetic stocks
Moving up leaderboards
Elevates all their scores
Best that you just ignore
All your competitors'
New poetry
Elegant, painstaking
Beautiful, time-taking
Longer time finishing
Numbers diminishing
Falling so rapidly
Not even on page three
Drop productivity
Maybe you finish a
Poem or three
Status? ridiculous
Leaders? superfluous
Seek to equilibrate
Advocate, animate
Irreconcilable
Paradox schmeradox
Sharing delightfully
Cranking productively
Poetry supersedes
All rivalry
—————
For the “This or That, Vol 10” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Title: Irreconcilable Paradox
Date written: 02/17/2022
Categories:
cranking, community,
Form:
McWhirtle
I remember!
Cranking that old wore-out handle on that ice cream maker, until I thought my
arms were going to fall off. Having a big smile on my face, as I turned and
turned, pushed and pulled on that old crank begging my big brother, the whole
time to “Spell me!” so I could set on an old rag on top of the ice, using my weight
(as it was) to hold that ice cream maker in place.
I remember my grandfather coming out of the house, out on the back porch. To
make sure my big brother and I was “Doing it right.” as if, there was a wrong way!
He made sure that we
had plenty of ice, plenty of rock salt. I can still see him sticking his little finger in
the weep-hole to make sure it didn’t get stopped-up. That was most important to
him, as he
always got the first bowl. I don’t know why? He clamed, he would get the first
bowl, to make sure that salt didn’t get into the mix. Funny to me, he never made a
salty face as he was eating that first bowl.
I remember, watching my grandmother making that “mix” she picked the
freshest eggs, measured just the right amount of vanillin extract, I loved the way
her kitchen smelled. I watched her chop the bananas peal the peanuts, stir it up
with the cream and sugar. She hummed “Old Rugged Cross” as she made that
sweet ice cream mix, it was as if she was having fun; like the turning of the crank
for us boys, work for sure but still fun!
I would eat light, as that banana-peanut ice cream cured while we had supper,
waiting for grandfather to finish his third helping, we had to wait, he always got
the first bowl, I don’t know why?
Categories:
cranking, family, loss, old, grandmother,
Form:
Free verse
I remember reading a short story by Hitchcock. Three friends walk and converse as they make their trek home from work. Huddled in mind,
independently fearless, the cold air or hot night baring their souls.
crows on line watching
remembering silhouettes -
chalk line to be drawn
Three, two, one - for one must eventually walk alone. Walking the line, confident, aware of every shadow, lurking, stillness jumps out.
Hesperus midnight
moon scantily clothed in shroud
clicking of high heels
Let go the chain, the arm-in-arm armor. Pallor of countenance as pinking blush of rush hour fades into dusk. You can almost see fingertips reaching out, moving away.
vertiginous spin
heightened intensity fights
thundering heartbeats
One, why her? All alone. Path is familiar and unknown. She spots someone near her residence. She runs like a stallion. Her horseshoes clip clopping on cobblestone. Key shaking, cranking, releasing. Safe.
Safe in a prison, of sorts. Safe, wrapped in her place of warmth.
the rocking chair creeks
only for a little while -
shower curtain shrieks
Each lady found a friendly front door and the backside; that closed out the cold or was it warm air? The third lady, warming her tea, hears the clearing of a throat behind her…
the stories complete
but my imagination
runs away with me
Now, I’ve told this tense tale, as I remember it. Three, two, one,
the ladies parted ways. Two will meet again, but the last one, ripped from the pages of time, lingers.
suspension of peace -
invalid looks through window
placed there by Hitchcock
Categories:
cranking, fear,
Form:
Haibun
Big-Mouth Bass
An April morning, as the climbing sun
tipped up in sight, and lit the coming day
and colored red, after a storm was done,
I cast my plug, a stinger--red and gray--
to where it looked the likely place to me,
where hides the hog--from minnows swimming by;
then feeds upon those minnows, carelessly,
as pops the sun into the morning sky.
Upon the water, mirrored flat and still,
I raise the wake, so slight--then let it lay;
and cranking in, so slowly then until
I hear the chomp--that warns he's set to play!
And all the minnows cheer me in my quest
of battle with my most unwilling guest!
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Categories:
cranking, father, fishing, life, nature,
Form:
Sonnet
Last night,
You beat my meat and blow my mind
Later, you overwhelm me
With every single grind.
Cranking and cranking
Untill my hunger roars.
When you turn around in that apron
I adore your every curve.
I like it hot and juicy
Alittle pink in the middle.
I can't wait to see that steak
Hit that hot cast iron skillet.
Put some onions on that steak
Perhaps a few mushrooms too.
Girl, you know I love your cooking
But I love my desserts too.
Categories:
cranking, foodlove,
Form:
(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who
learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman,
the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a
"common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.)
The Candyman Can’t
Some legal battles have the power to thrill,
while others never have, and never will.
Some touch on human themes which really matter,
and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter.
This present case is hardly OJ Simpson:
it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on
listlessly, with abstruse reasoning,
no sex or violence to give it seasoning.
One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets,
in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets
its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine
of our salvation, two lives intertwine
when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms
around the corner. Disagreement looms,
for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s
destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind.
The law of nuisance really is quite funny.
It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”.
What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and
defer the dollars? How to countermand
the duty-breach-then-damages regime?
Suppose we interpose a better scheme?
Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”,
we stop the harm? The problem goes away!
This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions
by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions).
So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds
by order of the court, and Bridgman found
his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel,
for no good reason. What to do? Appeal!
(For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs
drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!)
Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes
for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes
because some quack dislikes the earnest hum
of my devices. Why, then, did he come
to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility?
Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery!
I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges:
it’s swallowing his antimony purges!”
But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel
that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel
enough. Their Lordships said behaviour
that’s unacceptable around Belgravia
can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter
has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter
if they have noisome noise, and have to live
in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.
Categories:
cranking, london,
Form:
Couplet
We were a country where people roamed free
where you drove cross-country without paying a fee
We were a country where folks dreamed big
outside of Washington where men wore wigs
We were a country known for ingenuity
not for divorces, abortions, and promiscuity
We were a country built by entrepreneurs
not by bureaucrats cranking out horse manure
We were a country where a man said what he thought
not what some PhD. thinks that Mao taught
Yes, we were a country, alright
not a chorus of banshees from the left and the right
Categories:
cranking, freedom, history, nostalgia, today,
Form:
Couplet
A lot of fancy gizmos befuddle me in this technological age,
Where perplexing computers, texting and twittering are all the rage!
I can empathize with the feller who renounced horse and buggy days,
To subdue the baffling horseless carriage that became all the craze!
Clyde Schlunk reluctantly retired his faithful horse and buggy wheels.
He was the first in town to own one of those new fangled automobiles!
'Twas simple to harness a horse, feed him oats and shoe him all those years.
Now he must master complex clutches, cranks and shifting gears!
'Twas hard to break years of habits spent driving a buggy and horse.
He still had his buggy whip near at hand in the automobile of course!
When trying to stop the machine he'd yell, "Whoa! Nellie! Whoa!"
As he tried to avoid a tree or slid through slippery sleet and snow!
His erratic driving terrified chickens, horses and little old ladies,
As he whipped about that sedate little town like a bat out of Hades!
The only pain he suffered from his horse was a kick now and then.
But when cranking the carriage he busted his knuckles over and over again!
He still hollered "haw" to turn to the left and "gee" to turn to the right!
Did the town folks' ridicule bother him? Not by a blame sight!
Clyde never learned how to control those forty horses under the hood.
He couldn't rein 'em in causing all sorts of havoc in the neighborhood!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Joyce Johnson's "Your Very Best" Contest - February 2011
Categories:
cranking, funnyhorse,
Form:
Rhyme
Lately for Christmas I unplug my little Christmas tree
and then I enjoy hitting the hay while trying to conserve
my heating bill by not cranking the temperature up all the way.
I even try to leave it off if I may.
I pile the covers way up high and have a last thought before
Santa's elves take me away to that North Pole location
behind my closed eyes.
In my peaceful and joyful bliss MR and MRS Claus invite me in.
There's a warm fire to greet my line of vision and nice soft sofas
to sit down and relax in, in order to enjoy more fully
the sweet little visit.
MRS Claus a gracious host is she as she offers me my choice of hot
chocolate or a nice cup of hot tea, of course I choose the sweeter
of the two, along with nibbling on a chocolate chip cookie, just
baked fresh out of the antiquated yet fully functional oven.
The conversation is bright and lively as Santa walks in wearing
his red pajamas underneath a very rich looking robe... red with
a white satin sash.
Holding a lit pipe he takes a puff to warm his cold nose.
There was a large, real Christmas tree over in the corner of the
living room, decorated with strands of real gold and longer strands
of silver tinsel strewn randomly through out the large branches.
After our more than pleasant visit was over I turn to leave the Claus'
very large home and saw the elves leading the reindeer to their very
large stables to retire for the night.
Then my dreams started to turn to other things, but not before
I heard Santa say to all a Merry Christmas and to all a good night!
by S.E. Clark
Categories:
cranking, christmas, dream,
Form:
Free verse
A Sequel
To
The Weathered Old Barn
By: Tom Wright
11-3-04
A stranger came by just the other day,
with an offer that set me to thinking.
He had seen my old barn from the state highway,
and up my driveway he sped just cranking.
He was typical city, I could tell by his clothes,
from his hands, his car, and his talk.
The old barn leaned as the south wind blows,
and its distance not too great to walk.
It was a handsome barn back in its day,
before years of snow, and howling winds.
Its paint now gone and wood is silvery gray,
Its tired old tin top flaps, sways, and bends.
It set me to thinking as eyes surveyed the field,
and I asked, ”for this barn why such a yen?”
He replied this old barn would have ample yield,
to line the walls of our new home’s den.
He said, ”try buying paint that looks like this,
weathered from storms and summer’s scorch.
In our new home it would bring pure bliss,
with planking left for planters on the porch.”
We’re much the same, you and I, you know,
but it’s the inside in us where beauty grows.
Our hair turns silver gray and our steps slow,
and why we’re left, rest assured, God knows.
As our years pass, he uses our hard wealth,
laboring at beautifying our spotted souls.
We should thank him daily for good health,
as we endeavor to play life’s given roles.
But some day soon the time will come,
when our tabernacle too, will be hauled away.
So forsake him not, as is the manner of some,
but faithfully serve him until that day.
Then we may add beauty to our father’s realm,
because of past seasons that have gone by.
Friends, are quiet angels, keeping us at the helm,
when our wings have forgotten how to fly.
Categories:
cranking, age, friendship, health,
Form:
Lyric
picking up his pen, cranking the motor
every grass-plot ready to develop a field
the Farmer jostles on, selecting fertile earth
dust lazing up behind his ink-sower
the sky a translucent tent over his head
the visions he plants
like coarse grain ready to sprout
in the onlooker’s mind
his machine treads parallel rows
each line behaving like another
his machine drops pale seeds
each plant-speck a potential thought-harvest
his machine turns at the earthy corners
each boundary concise and defined
his sowing done at this speckled dye-black field
the Farmer turns his pen to another
transforming the wild prairie
into orderly stalks
waving with whispered timbre
Categories:
cranking, nature, on writing and
Form:
Free verse
my buddy John's Bertram a wood antique
I fixed the engines while he varnish teak
so there we were Joe, John, and Kelly
with a cooler packed with bait so smelly
early in the morning waz headin out the creek
big blue marlin we'ze goin to seek
40 miles past the thirty fathom curve
dropping lines for the bait we serve
John watched the lines Kinda like a cop
we had two on the bottom and 4 on top
did everything me'z could do with me'z fishin power
then John grabbed the hook up on the 3rd hour
all of a sudden it looked like a good day
when the Blue jumped we said "marlin on the way!"
the fish was pulling, screeming out line
"hurry! get John in the harness on time!"
"oh man! the stories we'll tell on the way"
"only if you get that fish in today!"
myself, Joey and Kelly, we placed our bet
while John was cranking,"I'm covered in sweat!"
there we were just having a laugh
as Joe leened over 1 hand on the gaff
the marlin came up threw Joe's chest with it's spear
then the line popped and they both....dis..apeared
.......................
we tried hard to find our friend in trouble
...............................
looking a long time without even a bubble
......................................
......................................
....................................
.."why didn't I grab Joe! I'm just a Fool"
we didn't go home, till low on fuel
it was hard to tell Joes wife about the fack
that Davey Jones took em and won't give him back
In memmory of Barefoot Joe McPhearson 1963-1996
by Joey's best friend Capt Mike
ps I want to say thank you to my readers and I read all your
comments and love then all. I am sorry I don't comment back
much. I am a boat mechanic and am very busy this time of year
how ever I can't wait till next winter so I can talk to all of readers.
now stay tuned for the next episode "The Soulmate" which not a
lovey dovey poem but a gut bustin laugh of my the exwives and
all of my sailboats that I ran away from them on. to be posted
monday morning for your enjoyment! Capt. Mike!
Categories:
cranking, adventure, friendship, funnyblue, fish,
Form:
Rhyme
The Old Girl
Yep, I bought her back in the 30’s,
Right in the middle of the depression,
Man who sold Lizzie to me cried real tears,
I’ve remembered that through the years.
Many a mile she has rolled us,
Through the desert in the dark of night,
Running hot and carrying water,
That was the way, all right.
To Grandmother’s house we drove,
Year after year on our two weeks free,
(But lucky I was to have a job),
While the babes slept sound in the leather back seat.
Oh, the memories we have on those sandy trips,
Exhausted from bouncing on rough roads,
Stopping and cranking and gassing up,
Hushing the girls with a comfort stop.
I stalled her in 1940, got a Chevy ’36,
But kept her like the good horse she is,
New paint, new oil, retired to show,
Come on, I’ll give you a whizz.
This is what my Dad might have written about his old Model T Ford.
Categories:
cranking, car, character, memory,
Form:
Light Verse
The Fulton fish market
Day breaks early on the misty water front
the streets wake outside South Street
to sounds of fog horns fading in the distance
Morning comes alive to the music of work
sounds of carts moving opening of gates
screech in the distance cranking wheels
box cars lining up to the morning rush
men’s voices yelling across the distance
as the morning sun circles the horizon
a rush of workers and people coming
to market near the tidal seas
buying selling moving
Portrait scenes in watercolor
light streams in reflecting off the rows
of fish
Raku tones of silvery pink and metallic hues
of baby blues
small fish big fish
Herrings silver slick blue fins
all lined up in old wooden carts
some wrapped in newspaper some in brown paper
Cod sardines mackerel trout
fish from near and far
from open seas to open streets
Workers drinking coffee
steam rising from cups in chilly morning air
a living working breathing market
on the ports of NY
where voices chant ancient songs of day
rumbling feet against the cold blackened streets
lifting hands calloused and swollen from long days work
The warm glow of reflected light of midday sun
against the grey sky
high lights bathe the withered faces
people stream in to shop and talk
women with wicker baskets gently
holding small children’s hands
pass by the narrow spaces
whispers of salty air flow through the gentle breeze
Categories:
cranking, appreciation, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
Questions
Like poison injected, coursing through my veins
Like soot inhaled, choking the air I breathe
Questions
Like screaming, deafening in my ears
Like oiled cogs and gears, cranking in my head
Questions
Like thick, enveloping fog, blurring my vision
Like a ravenous cancer, eating and spreading
Questions
Like a metallic taste, needing to be spit out
Like flooding my dreams, stealing my sleep
Questions
All consuming power, sealed behind ruby lips
Sown tightly shut, with needle and thread
Shauna Riley 1-21-11
Categories:
cranking, confusion, life
Form:
Free verse