Best Engine Poems
Build me an engine –lady of my dream,
Let it be powered by eternal steam.
May patience be your tool of design,
Planning completeness with a cunning mind.
To drive the pistons of a soul’s production,
We need fire with extreme combustion.
This fire from the fervor of powerful prayer
Will create the steam with warmth to spare.
The engine comes to life with a blast and a toot,
And begins to harvest the spiritual fruit.
Run on my soul, with speed aplenty;
For the harvest is rich and the prayers are many.
Diagonal snow
Glides effortless through
the countryside of the
Amputee windshield
For the passenger side
Has always had a reticent view
Steam rises loftily
From a topless treat
Of gas station coffee
That which further
Obfuscates the scene
Mousey and silent
Each flake falls
Like the wings of
An owl unhurried
Speckling the air
With flurries of tiny
Feathers
If snow is a blanket, is the
Earth a frightened child?
Is there a force, a specter
So haunting it summons
A crystal storm that beguiles,
Sure, a burden to some
But a spectacle for all.
High beams undress
The night, slipping away
Its silken onyx sundress
In its unblinking gaze I
Recall conversations with
Someone I no longer see
Hoping for fireplace romance
Surrounded in snow globe scenery
I try not to live
in the squall of regret
Even if every drop
Falls so softly, I must
Simply keep my foot
On the petal, and listen
To the engine’s counsel
Its kind whispering pistons.
she set a polish to the brass pipes
with a careful hand she worried them
hours like a silent moving contemplation
she worked her way from one end of
the massive machine to the other
knowing every rivet
every dent and scratch
the hot steam leaving a sheen of sweat on her
the machines labored breathing filled her ears
alive to her she spoke to it
in a loving soft whisper
she felt the gauges and levers
with the familiarity of mother and child
knew its every creak and groan
with the heart of unconditional loving care
a steam engine is a living thing
a breathing feeling entity
a life of brass for bone
coal fire for a heart
powerful
deep
living
it loved her as much as she loved it
I was riding the railway tracks of my fissures
Deep into my darkest inner thoughts
Lost and dying in the snowfall of my winter
And back again
From a mental anguish like a splinter
Never slowing down to quench my thirst
From a desire to be first
And so you appeared... Mr. Coalman
Power to you, Sir!
And so I take the shovel of coal
To start the steam engine and commence my travels
Darker than the pistons you feed
To master my trade
I see the white in your eyes
I smile at the glint exposed further down
And continue like a rollercoaster...
On through the tunnels
On through the loops and slides
The shovel never leading my hands
With sweat soaking my shirt
feet never leaving my boots
Stubbornness of such single mindedness
I want to extend my hand to say
“Thank you! Thank you for everything
For all the warm nights
And safe journeys thus far
Over undulating mountain sides and unstable bridges
Just as you feed my fire
On this scenic journey,
A life still on track with the passengers I chose to bring along
For the ride you steer in spite of my doubts and fears”
my great obidance
as
a train slipping
of tracks into a manor of faiths
my dream is the concusion of are dreams not knowing
the wings of fortune
a cristal clear disire
reaping into flamelike arts
rippels of destanation
like a huge addiction
qualety's blemished
a new stainted letter of the deposite into grace
feeling how the leaves are shivering
clouded by emortial savior
destend to become the quial
of are justiced parking hit's line
that he's is smoking daddie's weeds
on a drifters hook of pray's
THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT CAN
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
There’s a little engine that we all know
If we treat it right it will just go and go
It’s relentless, it continues to pound away
There’s no time off as it pulses day after day
As engines go it’s at the top of the list
Hard to believe it’s about the size of a fist
As far as reliability goes its hard to beat
In full synchroneity the rhythm is sweet
On occasion there may be a hiccup or two
But that wee engine will usually come through
With all the technology at our disposal
We can’t replicate an engine so noble
Activated for service then year after year
Adjusts the rhythm as the actions may steer
It runs on auto, self adjusting as needed
Dependable, reliable, rarely depleted
If a human reaches the plateau of four score
That wee engine has beat 3 billion times or more
Should it suddenly stop you will surely depart
Please keep on chugging our wonderful heart
You don't have to
go through life alone
or obsess about obscurity.
To you, every ounce of faith
Will work.
And pure prayers said should be
communed with the Source.
And as you hold
And look to better things,
That Source forgiving ways pays.
You'll see things your visions
Never dared to believe.
The future starts now,
Like morning dew.
*
fire engine scarlet red
is the color of the fire fighting Amaranth dead
who hide there sinful Liability
as they wave at me
from beyond my walking concrete grave
to let me know, that my time is
finely being bleed to the color of
broken swollen face Cordovan red
with a nod, the oldest
of the human fire fighting apparatuses
give me a sinful smile, while he drives The jungle Junction
to let me know all the wale (a plank around the outside of a ship)
heaven can watch me as they push me to jump
and that not, a soul will catch me, when i fall
I am theirs to control
mine, mind is not my own
and not a person can i ask for help
for they are organized
all the way up, to the political
rusted system, of no investigation
of your just Rosewood dead...
and your malted color lips wear
the evoked yellow color
and smell excreted Urine
reddish brown puppet...
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(did not fix-keep as is, 5-5-2017)
her velvet mind
swallowed me whole
in one bite
noble i tried to encompass her fairest face
in words sweetly written
but knowledge awaits the little engine that could
chug chug chug up the hill pushing his boulder of wheat
till just as he reaches the top he tumbles back down again
so he must repeat till dooms day
so he must repeat till he learns the golden rule
there are no rules just fancy ways to cheat
just better circus clowns with speedy little lies
just bitter old men soaked in old wine
cursing with one fist feebly upraised at the ignorant sky
her velvet mind so smoothly takes away
more than was intended to give
but its an ignorant little engine that could
that tries to shortcut his break-even chances
that tries to cheat the cheaters
Moving body car
Mouth plays engine sound, hands drive
Happy childhood game
The shaking starts as I think of our past together, as the mental
machinery shudders into action, an organic search engine that chews
through the years looking for clues, as my heart shudders in rhythm
I choke on these very words, as they run from my heart onto the page,
my tears, the salty lubricant keeping the wheels of torment spinning
in my head, churning out these feelings that will not seem to abate
Our pain was like an avalanche, crashing and smashing everything
that lived on the mountainside of our life together, until it finally
obliterated the tiny place of hope that we'd built at the bottom
It sits there now, the detritus of a love left out in the cold too long;
frozen to reduce the risk of fire, a fire that had burned out so long
before, that even the sparks of tragedy could no longer set it alight
A wrecking ball of anguish, the agony of two damaged souls clinging
to one another for so long, that they'd pulled the skin off in those
spots where their fingers had clutched at the others battered heart
Perhaps it would have been easier for one to have ripped the heart
from the other, straight away, ripped it bloody and beating from their
chest so as to sooner end this unending flood of torment for both
I cannot bear to look at the smoking pile of emotional debris that
remains, lying atop the memories that were hurtled to the bottom,
to be buried once and forever; only to keep poking out in the light
And yet, I must look; I can't look away, guilt won't let me turn my face
fully to the light; what if/what if, my brain asks, when my thoughts turn
quiet in the night, questions the mind strings like a boolean algorithm
Do you cry still, when you hear the roar in your dreams? Have you
found a new memory to dream of, or are your dreams now, of the other
side of the mountain, where, with hope, a new fire is being lit?
I pray that you aren't still looking, as I am, at the underside of your
soul, searching for answers that may never be found, for reasons,
when there are none but the winds of fate that blew us together
The Child I once was and knew so well
Has faded into a harden shell
I won and lost a battle here and there
But, yet the war it rages everywhere
My wisdom do earn and over rate it
And yet, still others will debate it
Faithful trust, just turned into dust
Life was de-veined, derailed, just a bust
I must, I must, I must
Postponed and deflated
Under rated Twas some others fate
I entered into life; a little less, then late
Who dare such a thing?
Whom could bare such; without wings?
Debased I can not sing
Gone Is my wedding ring
With Burning Passions
Set a blaze; my eternals rage
Bones and flesh are melted, as the Ice
I take one more hit, a final slice
Fathers and mothers race
A child left with out a face
Flames grown and have over whelmed
Limbs deformed and burned I squirm
I did not ever learn
I was Burned
Sirens sound fires burn
The loneliest of hues
While I listen to
The Fire Engine Blues
A thought by Sinbad the Sailor Man
Emotions spray isn’t particular to a selected few
but self control reigns supreme if
the mind’s lock succumbs to the key of maturity.
A negative impact steams out of the boil of behaviour when;
the eye swells through the accumulating poisonous fluids of greed,
the hand finds cover in gloves of selfishness,
mentality drinks the wine of sentiments,
appetite suffers an absolute anarchy from instincts,
anger smokes in a mind highly inflammable
and hunger trespasses the out of bounds
encouraged by the effrontery of hormonal quests.
Character and attitude have no race, tribe or fraternity
hence human exhibition is distinctly individualistic
and the DNA of actions, solely created by its carrier.
but like a group of similar bones with same skin cover,
one can stand tall to be notable like the fore-finger.
May the year
14
in your fist
Be dream
Walking on your feet
In your field
Taking you to fly
very high
Scattering every joy every love very peaceful vast
Within Your flying engine
The year
14
creaky!,Jerking!...creaky-knocking!,It sounds like a champion,
moving faster than a snail on wonder land,
Sneaky and dangerous than a scorpion,
It sounds pleasant and funny like a bunny;
Thick smoke emanating from its big nostril,
Cough!cough!..and jerk!it moves on a lonely road,
This journey we must terminate for this terminal disease,
the heart is failing,let`s seek for a cardiologist...
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