Best Fenders Poems
Just scrap metal in your bellow?
Is your pedal, mellowed old?
Poor old friend, you've lost your wheels
You dream in color, of rubber burning,...
where coughed exhaust, was left behind.
Now we're lost, two junk yard pals
Relics, that have rusted time.
Just a pile of dented fenders,
suspended… here, in desert sand.
Jammed and stacked, we'll make a pact
perhaps the two of us can make a dime.
A part of you, a part of me.....perhaps they'll make some artsy thing
Snap, crackle, hot and Popular Mechanic,
They should come and fix us up
Woe is you! You junk yard dog,
something smolders in your trunk!
Smells of socks, perhaps a skunk?
Once so dandy, someone's bug
Not so handy, you can't move.
How many horses, under that hood...?
I would push you if I could !
Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours
I'd paint you blue, and paint you bright,
If I could, to set you right
New transmission, lubed and oiled
Anti freeze to make you sneeze
Honest Engine, we'll get our kicks,
I'll fix you up, and grab the stick
Headin' down Route 66........
Get off me blockhead......we are fixed !
_____________________________________________________
12/10/14 For The "East Jesus" contest: Image number 5
Sponsored by Roy Jergen
Behind the fence, not there to play, two junkyard dogs are on the prey
Engines scrapped, and fenders bent, and shattered glass now pays the rent
Heavy pedals, limp and wasted, rusty metal, paint that's faded
It's much too late to get our kicks, Route 66 has led to this !
Now, these old friends sped past their prime, perched up on blocks and wearing time
Do they need new carburetors? ….And we should check the tachometers
Their teeth and pride are all knocked in, piled high they hide, in "auto-bins"
How many horses are under hoods? Would they tell me if they could?
Easy riders rocked the day, now planted-crops in fields of hay
Castaways, just piles of parts, where some are savored for their hearts
Hear the squeak of this old seat, and that one has an oil leak
Anti-freeze won't save the day….and frozen gears won't melt today!
I wish that we could turn back time, and see this jewel while in its prime
Nose to nose, in scattered rows, while rubber hoses rot to slime
Leaky oil soils shoes, ….And black exhaust is hot perfume
Is there heaven for old cars?……."Car 54" , oh where are you?
New transmission, with permission, or could we get one realigned?
Kick the tires, it's retired……..but with some love it might be tried
Find a jewel, don't be fooled. Could there be a life inside?
Excitement sparks, and spark-plugs start, I have a new idea in mind !!
Now were talkin' ……..I'm not walkin'…… I have plans to drive
Cough exhaust, but it won't cost as much, if I just try to
exhume this guy, the one I'll buy, will be my pride and joy !!
__________________________________________
6/23/16
Contest: Rusted And Busted
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
The College Caravan
Last night we loaded the minivan with her
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chest of plastic drawers
stuffed with clothing, toiletries, school supplies, and posters.
While our vehicle is tightly packed, her room stands hollow;
drained of stuff and spirit, except for the furniture she left behind
like the last icicle melting unnoticed in the spring thaw.
Morning’s excitement, today’s foreseen guest, found her passkey
so early, she displaced the alarm clock, announcing her presence.
On the verge of adventure, our cramped van vacates the driveway,
eager to meet the other jammed vehicles joining our journey.
Sporadic chatter splinters moments of spurned monotony,
spanning the miles amassing in our rearview mirror until …
A hatchback hauling a heavy load leads our line exiting for the rest
stop, where the parking lot hosts vehicle after vehicle stuffed with
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chests of plastic drawers …
Our re-entry acceleration runs smoothly, courtesy of a
clamshell-covered car graciously slowing to permit our advance.
From sedans to SUV’s, the right lane is flush with fenders and
families, forming a cohesive chain whose links approach “The Exit”
signaling for the deceleration lane. The college caravan, flowing
onto the exit ramp and through the green light, turns and winds
along Main Street. As the minivans, hatchbacks, clamshell-covered
cars, and SUV’s pour onto college campus USA, they’re carrying
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, chests of plastic drawers,
and, of course, the proud, nervous parents …
escorting the Freshman Class of 2018!
E. V. Wyler
I remember it like it was yesterday. I was probably twelve when Mr Kimball, who lived across the street, asked me if I had a bike. I said “no”, and he asked if I would like one. The answer was obvious. I followed him to the cellar where, leaning against a wall stood an old Iver Johnson bike frame with two flat tires and no fenders. It was beautiful. Mr. Kimball said if I wanted to fix it up, I could have it.
I wheeled it home, washed it, and painted it black. My dad and I removed the tires to reveal two rotted inner tubes. My dad said I would have to buy new ones and he would help me put them in. It took me two months, working two paper routes to earn the money necessary, but I finally had them. Good to his word, my dad and I put them in and used the old bicycle pump in the basement to inflate them. I cannot tell you the ecstasy and exhilaration I experienced the first time I rode that bike. It had multiple speeds, depending on how fast I could pedal.
I went everywhere on that bike. You seldom saw one without the other. I remember saving enough money to finally buy fenders. The were shiny chrome and I thought they were beautiful. But as is the way with young boys, after having them awhile, I decided to customize them by cutting them down to half size. In my infinite wisdom, it never occurred to me that if I rode it in the rain, when I got where I was going, I would have a streak of mud down the middle of my back. A minor detail.
From time to time, I would fasten a stiff card to the frame so that it would contact the spokes, making a sound not unlike a small motor. Or at least I thought so.
That was so many years ago. Since then I have graduated to cars and have owned many. But I can't think of one that I liked better or that meant more to me then that old second hand bike.
***A Parenting Tale***
He must’ve been
Just barely fourteen, but still off as
A ninja filling a pillowcase
with chocolate on Halloween.
Although through all other days
his ken was an avocado green,
That is actually a deep
nubby, buttery green.
The older teens, always girls,
Stood leaning on the fenders of their parent’s cars,
Twirling their lemon curls around
Still child-small index fingers
While foot tapping to some unknown
Time until night cloaked our court.
Then, with a wave of the girl’s arms,
our son collapsed to fit out through
Keyholes or go with the autumn mice
Under the garage door, to slink
From one girl’s car to three, where
Not one pair of pink lips cou answer
me if her parents knew her where?
Hardly a surprise then one night
near ten p.m.,
When authority alarmed, fist-knocking
on our front door. Police?
What is the, aaa, problem, sirs?”
“You’ve a son we’ve gotten word of.
Is he home?” Yes. Well, yes.
Certainly, yes. It’s bedtime…
He comes down, cool from his room to
Join us in the hall, looking face to face,
so sliced-olive green.
The officers, wasted not a second.
“We’ve a warrant for a missing girl,
A friend of yours said you knew.
Have you seen Anna Joe today?” No.
“Have you had company tonight?” No.
“Have friends up there with you?” No.
Then to us, “We’d like to go up to look.”
I was mother-so-proud assuring, “He
doesn’t lie. I’d’ve heard company.”
Within a minute, the parade came down
The stairs: handcuffed girl, officers
with son between them and coming to
Stand by me, supposing it was safe.
I screamed, “You lied! To the police!
To us!” Then, I swung my arm back
And forward again with force from
Knowing how he’d dealt us into danger.
I smacked him hard and loud
in front of the police in that
Scrapbook moment of parenting the idiot
Events of a bean-green teen, which also
ended musical car nights on our
court.
————————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 2/6/22
Mint condition - brand new transmission and loaded. I used to fit that description.
You should've seen me brand new. My owner had the only key to my ignition.
But one day I heard him say he was selling me and moving away. That was the
End of life, as I knew it. New owner left me in the rain. My seats got stained
And I was covered with dirt. I couldn't look at myself in my side mirrors.
Under the hood my belts were worn, can't recall when my oil was last drained.
Tires patched, fenders dented, then he hatched a scheme to sell me for junk.
In a tizzy, like some old Tin Lizzie, I knew I was bound for the graveyard of cars.
Forty years stuck in this place, torn apart like I've been wounded in wars.
Useless now because the best parts of me have either been stolen or sold.
Lordy, I was zesty, zipping and zooming down highways. It stinks to be so old.
Rust! Corroded with it from my hardtop all the way down to my hubcaps. I take
Umbrage with anyone who thinks I'm ugly. Look beyond my flaws and you'll
See that my classic lines are still beautiful, just shabby chic. You don't have to
Take my word for it. Google me and take a gander at the beauty I was in my
Youth. Don't be uncouth and crude. You'd be rude to call me an old rust bucket!
Bumper still feels like it's intact. In fact, my front grill still seems to be in place
On this old worn out body of mine. Headlights long busted, hood rusted shut.
Doggone it! I can't see too good any more with broken head lights on my face.
You thinking about restoring me? I heard the rumor. I hope it's not scuttlebutt.
6/14/16
Got yourself some new wheels, huh?
I can hear the squeals of rubber burning
I cough exhaust…left behind, oh gosh! I’m holding just a pile of dented fenders…
suspended… Your bucks spent. Engine Red..that foreign bred truck!
Snap, crackle and Popular Mechanic…Look at the maniac go….!
Holy, Moly….must be rolling in dough!
Woe is me, a junk yard dog, pile of junk, smelly sneakers left in my trunk
There he goes….who knows where….how many horses…under that hood...?
Should I know? I’d fly too, if I could. Just scrap metal in my bellow.
Heavy pedal, limp and wasted..used to be his favorite girl…kept me polished, waxed
and oiled…now I’m soiled. No garage..no umbrella, who gives a rip? Worn out
engine, give up the ship! Cast away…..not in style…gave a ride to Gomer Pyle
“See the USA in your Chevrolet"…, ‘cept that I ain’t got no carburetor
See ya later gator…what’s the hurry fella? Did ya see the light was yellow?
Red light, yellow light…. see if we can make the green
Going green….going green,….does that mean his hybrid’s clean?
Anti-freeze, it makes me sneeze….can’t I have some oil please?
Give ‘er the gas, let’s see what she’s got!
OH.. forgot!…ain’t got my tires..I’m retired
Pubescent male migration, arcing over sunless streets
Hear that squeak……doctor told me oil leak
Honest Engine, joined the pack, no Pontiac to take that ride
Is there heaven for old cars? Car 54 where are you??
I got my kicks on Route 66, running relays, no baton, just open freeways
Son of a gun…give it the gun……vroom.. vroom… run… run!
One door closes, need new hoses, or I don’t go nowhere… no how
Pile of rust, I’ve been busted, up on blocks…what a crock!
My teeth and pride are all knocked in…windshield wipers brush a tear
Windshield wipers swipe the years…skid marks show behind my eyes
Teeth and pride are all knocked in, guess I’m just an old has been!
______________________________________
a stream of consciousness
There's something about suspenders and Rear-enders
And even if you may be running into fenders
To me and many, it might not be a big deal
But suspenders may get caught in steering wheel.
It did seem to start becoming quite drafty
When I saw someone cunning and crafty
Drinking many margaritas which were mixed
Which apparently is how people get their kicks.
To a Hill-Billy high balls may sound strange
And minds have been known to mentally derange
Then a dead end street you had ended up on
Just ran out of gas when it was all gone.
Red light, green light or could be caution
Mixed with margaritas create quite a concoction
Or even Coca Cola mixed with much rum
And lots of lime, you should also add sum.
Soon I realized and as a matter of fact
Can you imagine the incredible impact
Bloody Mary Margaritas were a disaster
And pretty near put me out to pasture.
James Thomas Horn
www.poetrysoup.com
I learned something the other day that I never knew.
There is a form of poetry known as the clerihew!
'Tis a form of rhyme about a luminary of some fame,
And the first line must contain the feller's name.
Alexander Graham Bell, as every schoolboy has known,
Was the genius who invented the mysterious telephone.
'Tis well known that he is credited for this famous coup,
Uttering the immortal line, "Watson, come here - I want you!"
Paul Revere is famous for making a daring midnight ride,
Heralding, "The Brits are coming!" to the countryside!
As a Boston silversmith he also gained a modicum of fame.
In this enlightened age we still "revere" his name!
Henry Ford satisfied the masses, we may all agree,
By manufacturing the venerable Ford Model "T".
He said, "You can choose any color as long as it's black!"
He even tossed in fenders, a crank and a sturdy jack!
Ben Franklin was a multi-talented feller indeed,
Noted mainly for helping develop our nation's creed.
Perhaps also known for suffering a shocking jolt,
Fooling around with an occasional lightning bolt!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Smiles express, tears depress;
friends dwindle, fools abound.
Efforts fail, hearts confess;
eyes beckon lies confound.
Rivers flow, souls, shutter;
doubts linger; passions flame.
Truths falter, words stutter;
fears fester, feelings blame.
Bonds erode, friendships bind,
teardrops fall, dreams desist.
Insults hurt, beliefs blind,
egos bruise, pains persist.
Grapes ferment, needles sting,
gamers play, babies cry.
Bellies ache, fenders ding,
eagles fly; soldiers die.
Failures fade, hopes renew,
spirits haunt, debts amass.
Hugs assure, hurts construe;
sails unfurl, heartaches pass.
Every joyful Christmases of distant past
were all very special and memorable.
Except for one unique Christmas unsurpassed.
I recall it was an unforgettable
day, with presents under the lit Christmas tree.
My parents and I gathered at Christmas morn,
I dropped to my knees. I found, I was torn, gee!
So many gifts which to open first. I was torn.
I looked about the room, there against the wall
stood a very large clumsy wrapped Christmas gift.
I asked, "Can I open that one first of all?"
I pushed all the other gifts out of my way
to get to the one large clumsy wrapped ultimate gift.
I unwrapped with quick fingers, the welcoming gift.
I tore at the string and wrapping. Then, ecstatic
screams of joy, tears, and wails it took my breath away.
There was the Schwinn bike I saw in “The Attic”
store window that my heart simply craved and yearned.
My parents looked at me with pride and joy and said,
“Merry Christmas!" My heart gleefully turned.
My eyes were fixed upon the bike with a smile;
it was the most magical moment of any Christmas.
It was a bright red, with shiny chrome fenders,
and tassel hanging down the ends of the handle bars.
I rode all day.
They were all special and memorable memories,
except for one unique Christmas.
11/29/2017
Jolly rancher bought a car with no wheels,
with no tranny, no fenders, and no seals
he has prepared horsepower
and the platform was a dour
but he just couldn't reject the cowboy deals!
Written: May 1st, 2022
3TH PLACE CONTEST WINNER
High Noon Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Checked by HMS.COM
Lines 1, 2, and 4 Have 10 Syllables each
Lines 3 and 4 Have 7 syllables each
Winter
Old man winter back again
Dinged fenders, frozen pipes
Frozen toes, stolen breaths
Old man winter laughs again
Wet floors, mismatched gloves
Soaking boots, frozen doors
Old man winter strikes again
Cool Moe B
Back in the day we used to pray
Others say it ought not be that way
Snake pit, lion's den you need someone to be your friend
Your a soldier in the army of God
Cool Moe B in the place to be
Rocking them rhymes in the land of glee
A city kid playing high on his grid
Shook the bananas pole with a tea leaf
Downtown hoods shooting dope in the back alley
Fixing with the switch homeboy got a nervous twitch
A beacon of honor in his high vested swag
Shooting pool in the patio needing a place to go
Smoking weed watch it bleed it will knock you to your knees
Brillo pads for fenders is it any wonder
The soldier in the middle playing second fiddle
Take me back to those good old days getting lost in a purple haze
Hoops dreams watch the bitches scream
Another dip of an ice cream flavor
A stereo or capper me and Eric B with a nice full plate of fish
Sorry that I missed burning this switch as we go free style
You think all I ever need is a full tank of gas
But my old fenders and taillight need repair
I grow weary of the way people stop and stare
Whenever I sputter and belch as we pass.
No proper chick will ride in my torn front seat
The evening was a total waste of my time
I should not complain, it was not on my dime
But, please, could you turn down the beat?
I’d hoped we might run into swell-built Christine
With the high-end Chrysler rear-end jack job
But you persist thinking you are the real heartthrob
While neither of us approaches being pristine.
You might grow into a reasonably handsome hunk
And luck out with a good job, two gals on your arms
Do not worry about me, I won’t sound any alarms
By then I’ll be only the remains of this pile of junk!
written May 20, 2021
for "Personification Poem 150" poetry contest
sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
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"Personification - Comments" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Evelyn Cheung
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