Best Honks Poems
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town, so real...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve. I weep
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
------------
Truth Contest sponsored by Anthony Slausin
Re-post 5/28/2019
Categories:
honks, anger, angst,
Form:
Lyric
I waken to a rush of sound and light.
Somebody honks a horn as cars whiz past.
My friend has driven us into the night
and to a place where life is moving fast.
I sit upright so I might take it in.
The skyline is a smear of pulsing glow.
Resplendent is this blur amidst the din
of traffic. I see artwork of Van Gogh!
A starry starry night could not compare
To how this city looks when I’m half blind.
But now I grab the glasses which I wear
for my nearsightedness, which tricks my mind.
The street lights - still so bright - are right and clear
when blobs of luminescence disappear!
The scrambled word is T A R N D A I
Written 10/3/14 by Andrea Dietrich
For the "Find the Puzzle" Poetry Contest of nette onclaud
Categories:
honks, light,
Form:
Sonnet
I can’t bear that rock in my shoe,
As I sit, I glance up mesmerized by the sunset’s view.
Seven deep in a grocery line,
The wonderful innocent stare of a baby and mine align.
Two minutes ‘til the microwave dings.
I’m lifted on wings while the voice above nostalgically sings.
Dropping my change all over the ground,
It’s a wonder these tiny ants can amass such a mound.
Traffic slowed to a halted gridlock,
Listen to the honks leading that swaying vee of a flock.
Keys locked inside my car,
The horizon is so clear today, I can see so far.
Coffee dripped upon my shirt,
I’ll go in and change giving my darling a romantic flirt.
My dog drops a load on their lawn,
To their magnificent flower garden my eyes are drawn,
Drive thru with limited crew,
I don’t think I’ve ever seen that particular sunrise hue.
If only I could stop on my own accord,
I would readily see creation’s beauty gifted from my Lord.
Categories:
honks, beauty, creation, environment, god,
Form:
Rhyme
canada geese honk
one, two, three honks only proof....
spring shrouded in clouds
one, two, three, four and more in a V fly
headed home to catch the ladies eye
Categories:
honks, nature,
Form:
Haiku
The carcass of beauty spent and done
picked clean by the scavengers of time;
whose fading memories of summer
ask for no quarter and offer none.
Winter winds tango with scattered leaves
in step with a different drummer;
spinning fragments of color and light
into chromatic threads, Autumn weaves.
A scarecrow showing signs of neglect,
looks outlandish, with no crops in sight;
a hobo haphazardly homespun,
on guard, with naught but mud to protect.
When fledgling goslings learn how to fly,
geese follow the monarch butterfly;
and flock south, their honks splitting the sky,
bidding Summer's withered bloom goodbye.
Categories:
honks, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form:
Rhyme
How can it be that autumn so soon again is stealthily approaching,
With its pleasing sounds, scents and varied hues steadily encroaching!
The bouquets of summer have faded and their petals they have shed,
Now, the maple and aspen assume their gorgeous robes of gold and red!
Anon, their bare limbs reaching for the heavens as if in supplication,
Will be adorned with garlands of snow to enhance their decoration.
The haunting honks of geese is heard as they flee the cold and snow,
Guided by The Master Compass from whence they come and whither they go!
Old Harvest Moon hanging from the ebony sky will emit its mellow glow,
Providing perfect ambiance for lovers strolling hand in hand below!
Happy revelers will enjoy hayrides, marshmallow and wiener roasts,
Lounging about glowing fires spinning tales of spooky goblins and ghosts!
Soon, hordes of pirates, witches and fairies will be prowling the streets,
And stopping by to make their annual plea for Halloween treats!
Thanksgiving Day is on the horizon, a day set aside for counting our blessings.
With tables laden with green bean casseroles and turkey and its dressings!
A special day to honor and thank our Valiant Veterans will also be observed,
And to remember and thank their supportive families for they also served.
I can say without hesitation that autumn is my favorite season of the year,
And since I am in the autumn of my years, I especially hold it dear!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Categories:
honks, autumn,
Form:
Rhyme
Gray shrouds cover my way
sets the tone for the day.
Our silent sun sends
rays running round corners
slowly beams burn off -
melting morning misty mind.
As I tread these stone slabs
rapt in wonder of this awe,
great stone bones in it all.
Metropolis makes stirring sounds
anxiously awakens around me.
Rails screech like prehistoric birds,
wind whistles through tunnels twirling,
chatter and honks and hums.
Hear humanities' street symphony.
Parkways sever city canyons.
I cross white striped asphalt rivers,
pass primal Ponderosa stone spires.
Wary walls of glassy eyes glare at me.
Watch my droll daily drudge passively
through towering hollow statues.
I arrive to hug my office door,
seeking some soulful signal.
This inner city, my sentimental friend:
now I'm fearful this soon will end.
Put my face flush on its stone skin,
felt a mounting tear in my eye,
trickled out down between,
turned my head to kiss its skin.
Felt raspy, tasted of grit.
Like kissing a corpse.
Then pulled back and looked up
its everstill edifice to the sky.
Poses the query who am I?
And there I stood a while and thought.
How can we be one?
How can it be me?
Color Pencil illustration G. Gaul
Free Verse Philosophical look at inanimate
stone city structures and the
universal concept of oneness.
11/17/2019
Categories:
honks, body, city, feelings, friend,
Form:
Free verse
Early morning on the road,
Babysitting duties call.
Traffic outbound's mostly light,
Heading to the suburbs' sprawl.
Suddenly, it all slows down;
On the GPS, a flash -
Point three miles up ahead,
There has been a major crash.
At a standstill, we are trapped;
Nothing really we can do.
Even with the updates, we are
Stuck in lane without a clue.
Not a siren to be heard.
Not a horn, impatient, honks.
Every driver is resigned
To extra minutes in the Bronx.
Inbound cars are flying by
Yet we suckers sit and sit,
Trying hard to take a breath
And, hopefully, avoid a snit.
All in the surrounding cars
This morning share an equal fate -
Even though we left on time,
Each of us will show up late.
Categories:
honks, car,
Form:
Rhyme
I engineered an intricate design,
determined to be action,
not thoughtful stasis.
But, isolate and distant --
a preserver of decorum --
formal, unexposed, and safe --
with bounds determined
by tight, sane strictures,
I did not struggle,
could not escape nor abandon place --
became, instead, a creature
habit-ridden: a cousin
to the circus seal
that honks a horn
for fish.
Categories:
honks, allegory, angst, depression, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
Snowy fields are disappearing fast,
Patches of green are starting to last.
Robin redbreasts are the first to nest,
Indicating we'll soon see the rest.
Northern winds morph into warm breezes,
Gently ensuring life unfreezes.
Ice starts to thin in the streams and lakes,
Shuttering and groaning as it breaks.
Cold nights warm as longer days begin,
Offering spring a chance to creep in.
Migrating geese head home, as they fly
In numbers so great, they fill the sky.
Noisy honks seem to propel them forth,
Growing louder as they head back north.
Smelts and trout swim up rivers and creeks,
Only spawning for a few short weeks.
Odors take on a sweet earthy smell,
Now, wafting from where daffodils dwell.
(Acrostic)
3/19/2017
Categories:
honks, beautiful, daffodils, imagery, seasons,
Form:
Acrostic
The restless night had ended
abruptly. Caught between dreams and
consciousness, the town was arching towards
the sprinkled light of dawn. A perpetual regularity
reigned over the dusty path that led wayfarers and commuters
alike in and out of this forgotten cluster of humanity. Somewhere
out there, a man cursed, and, as if to answer, a woman laughed. A
repetitive metallic clang—the whines of an iron plate being hammered upon an anvil—
twisted with a dog's tedious, short barking to form a discordant ladder of dread, telling how the day might turn out. Punctuating that were the weary shouts of
the night guard. An advice. A message. “Awake! Morning is here.” “Awake!
Morning is here.” A woman walked beside countless others in a long, silent
procession. Steps measured and heavy, hardly disturbing the dirt, eyes ever
forward, locked at the sunrise. Life hadn't been kind to her. At forty-five she
looked sixty. It was just her luck that age had been frivolous enough to come
early, and sketch a crude lesson at cubism across the pages of her skin. The
grey streams on her hair had become a roaring river of high
monsoon. The frozen, dark pools of her eyes had given way
to the smokestack dullness. On that day, like the day prior,
she had woken up with honks of a garbage truck out on the
street and drunk the cheap, inky tea that she
had made for herself and her son.
Bathing under a valveless tap, she
had put on her helmet, and set out.
The siren from the jute mill had blared
with an obscene loudness and promise.
She had to answer. She squared her shoulders
and trudged on, reeling back into the open maw of her
her slow, almost languid death, like a cassette on rewind.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 31 / 12 / 2016
Categories:
honks, aubade, death, humanity, life,
Form:
Concrete
"Radio"
Snippets of classic jingles ring diabolically in our brain
Converging good tunes for bad products
Their repetitive nature send shoots rattling and ringing
Over and over again, gee, have a little music with you commercials!
Morning shows ruled by the man/child
With bleeps and buzzers assisted by stupid honks
The horns that we hear on the road are secondary to this drivel
All good things must come to an end, but the bad things seem to live forever
Prattle comes to propose what they got is better
While their mothers actually cringe from embarrassment
Sensationalism is at its best as we hear it with frequency
Why can't they shut their damn clap traps!
Sipping our coffee, listening to the latest and greatest
Please hit me upside the head, yes, that's what I said
As DJ's can't play it enough, they are broken records
Or Disfunctional Jerks
The AM propagandists scrabble for words as well
Floundering for babble their mouths never go static
It's shameful to hear such political trash, too often recycled
Influential to the old folks who want to vote every day
I thought in many years of past, the radio was supposed to be harmonious
Giving choice singers the chance to put out euphonies
And pieces of dreamy pleasures in classical, operatic and such
Pianos in pianissimo, to revel in the somnorific sweets of Chopin
All I here nowadays is a bell
The one that tolls for them to stop
Because chatter and blather rule the air waves
I turn the radio off
Categories:
honks, slam,
Form:
Free verse
What is that roaring, throwing dust in the air like stampeding water buffalo I do not know? Spinning and running up a tree It might eat us, whatever it is. Dropping some fruit We can see better from here. Look it has four big eyes and long white fangs. You think that is strange, look at its feet it’s got four alligators for feet, what kind of creature could this be? Look its got a man, in its see through belly and one long whisker on the side. POW, fire from the whisker and a lion drops near it, then honks like some deranged goose. Holding one another and shaking in the tree. What shall we call it? How about we call it, after the terrifying shrill you made. You mean we made JEEEP! JEEEP!
Categories:
honks, allusion, animal, car, humorous,
Form:
Free verse
She steps up to the plate –smiling
The smile that fills you with hatred and embarrassment
When so often it is present.
This is no laughing matter.
The unliked by the team,
But still the needed captain.
The field is watching, waiting.
Bat up, she stances.
Eyes narrow.
The players tense –mechanically.
The pitch from empty space,
Creation of the batter’s mind,
Carefully crafted to tie the game.
The crowd groans.
She swings.
And off goes the game.
She motions to first.
The ball whizzes through the air-
First the infielders –chasing –running –pacing
Staccato across the red.
But they are no match –the ball continues.
She accelerates to second.
The inner-outfielders, the bridge, take over,
As if squeaks and honks can stop it.
They chase, to fill the empty space, but relent.
She crescendos to third.
The far-outfielders, at last,
The most important players of all.
Long, deep strides cover much ground,
But they cannot compare.
The ball is gone.
She made it home.
There is silence in the field.
And the crowd goes wild.
(In 8th grade, I really didn’t care for my band teacher, but loved band.)
Categories:
honks, baseball, childhood, metaphor, middle
Form:
Free verse
Silently bathed in avocado,
you soaked in the fragrance of a blanket
At midday, crunched your teeth
into something sweet and yellow,
no flower still no pretty petal;
I’ll make our evening coffee, I’ll make amoretto.
Why is it you liked amaretto
so much? As if the melted avocados
weren’t enough, to stare at petals
in the dark, stained blanket
etherized beneath a star shine yellow
Stare, as I stare at the white crevice: your teeth
that are your smile, your teeth
that become stained with the last sip of amaretto,
stained with our silence and the color yellow.
Like the silver knife who’s blade slips through the avocado,
and I wish for more minutes in a day to sit on this blanket
And more staples in this life to puncture the heart of a petal
Its mushy translucence conveys innocence, oh petal!
How I’d much like to forget and sink, or clap, my teeth
in rage but here upon this blanket
exists no rage. Here is where we sip our amaretto
And can think of nothing but the next bite of avocado
When, failing words, failing thought, a yellow
taxicab honks distantly, barely distinguishable from the yellow
buzzing bee in my hair. Swiftly landing on a nearby petal
whose delicate arms, the juice of the avocado
gently outpours from gaps between our teeth,
lover. Lover of the sky, lover of chocolate, and amaretto.
Lover asleep on cushioned soul of the yellow blanket
baked in brilliance from the sun, yellow blanket
under our footsteps, under our yellow
bodies painted in the sensuous scents of amaretto
with gum like innocence floating over any petal.
Don’t get me started that I need to brush my teeth
When yours are green with Avocado
and leaf, like the print on the blanket, yellow like yonder petal
whose strong scent reaches the taste of my teeth, stained coffee yellow
from the over-indulgence, avocado, amaretto.
Categories:
honks, happiness, yellow,
Form:
Sestina