Best In Gear Poems
The old truck hadn't been used in a while,
But it should be good for a few more miles.
Under the hood, the engine was rusty,
And the interior smelled faintly musty.
Assuming it would start--we all wanted to know...
When we put it in gear, would it actually go?
Someone called,"All the tires are flat".
But a little new air would take care of that.
Better get some fuel, since the gauge is on "E".
Wash the windshield, so the driver can see.
No problem to let it coast downhill to the mechanic's shop;
Next question:Are the brakes good enough to make it stop?
The truck was so bad, it had no heater fan.
But the Master Mechanic had a Master plan!
He took it to His shop for the needed repairs.
'Twas quite a long time that He kept it there.
He tinkered, and cut, and removed lots of stuff
Solving problems we had thought were real tough.
He put in new hoses, gaskets, and such.
What a joy to watch His skillful touch,
As He cut away the old to make room for the new.
Finally the day arrived when he was all through.
A great crowd gathered around the shop door,
To behold the new creation, there on the floor!
It was washed up, and pumped up,and all the fluids were filled.
Even the body He had been forced to rebuild.
Fresh paint;new tires;and the engine a'humming.
It was ready to face the world oncoming!
When flaws seem difficult to be fixed by man.
Stand back, and watch the touch of the Master's Hand.
Charlie Pelota
It’s easy to remember the good times
Never thinking about the pain
Rose colored memories of sunshine
We forgot about the rain
Times were so much harder then
Sometimes not a penny to our name
Fighting just to make ends meet
But I’d go back there just the same
It seems we were much poorer
No luxuries I recollect
But we worked for what we wanted
We had a sense of self-respect
There was an old coal stove in the living room
That would heat our home at winter’s start
But the real warmth was generated
By the love within our heart
Sometimes the car wouldn’t start
It had a manual choke
We’d push it to catch it in gear
If we had a dime we weren’t broke
If you had chicken pox or measles
They’d put a sign on your front door
We had hand me downs to wear
And credit at the grocery store
Everyone worked somewhere
Most of them at the mine
Mom did the wash with a wringer washer
And hung the clothes out on the line
So I’ll take those rose colored memories
As though they were a priceless work of art
And put them where they will be safe
Deep inside my heart.
Thinking back over my every breath
so many taken through all the years
couldn't count them they're so many
mixed up amongst joys and fears
Looking back now from the dead
having lived and loved so dear
my special loves Jean and Christine
were truly great kept me in gear
My adopted parents showed direction
to be honest truthful and good
allowing me to be free but in line
meeting all my need as well as food!
But to my God is my truest love
showing perfect love to me alone
sending His son Jesus to earth
for my sins He did perfectly atone
God was my constant help and hope
despite my stammer enabled me to cope
giving me joy within by His presence
so now to heaven I've gone to elope
America, a breakthrough, an idea, an emancipation,
a beginning, a hard fought war, uncivil, a dream.
America, a balance, not teetering, yes - tottering
on ideals. Ideals that freed slaves and women.
America, when the world was caving in from the East
and West, with bruised and bloody knees, praying.
America, its red white and blue; its stripes and stars.
In its stitches, we recall the mess, the yesterdays.
America, the bold and brave, the steadfast, dreamers.
An experiment, a Republic with enduring life.
America, a melting pot, well-spoken, pilgrims, big shots.
Don’t we have it all…we do…best not to lose it.
America, its flag big and tall, its tiny Southern towns,
its grand ranches and endless sky; its bright cities,
its colorful canyons and mountains, windy plains,
its tumbleweed and cactuses, its Yellowstone cliffs.
America, a playground for visitors, a new world.
It’s the cowboys, Indians, the rich and poor.
A mixed bag of dreamers, trying to make their mark,
allowed more than a buck, getting their butts in gear.
It was Washington’s rejection of a King, an idea of
4 to 8 years, a balance, three cheers, a circle unbroken.
America, blessed, beautiful, sparkling with pride,
sweeping the sidewalks of time, never forgetting
but always moving into the future. Let’s not divide.
Pass on to our children love, warmth, fortitude.
America, change us? America, rearrange us?
America, keep its safety, its dream, its place?
America, let us wave, welcome and behave, be wild,
be spoiled, be a harbor and a chance, hope in God.
On the course at Coomealla where the Murray River wends,
Golfers hit their balls and miss the kangaroos,
Now their aim is not to hit them where a fairway shot extends,
For a wayward shot can see us golfers lose.
We had walked our way around the course and had two holes to play;
Kenny James with me, and slowcoach Timmy Wright,
We were lucky ‘cause there’s not a ‘kangar’ in the way,
But the clubhouse balcony is in our sight.
It isn’t only kangaroos that tend to be a target causing strain
That makes the likes of Timmy’s golfing crook,
He find’s the red gums and the black box, time and time again
When playing shots not written in the book.
So for half our day out on the course we’re hunting Timmy’s ball
In amongst the drying grass and brittle bark,
But today he’s concentrating better and we wonder after all
If we can make the clubhouse before dark.
We’re starting to get fidgety with Timmy stalling on this hole,
Where the clubhouse balcony has come in sight,
For Timmy’s looking up and down, and measuring control,
Then checking if the wind direction’s right.
But Ken got really narky, and then he pointed at the tee,
Shouting “Tim, for God sake have a swat!”
Tim looked toward the balcony, “The wife is watching me,
So my swing has got to make the perfect shot”.
Ken looked up at the balcony, and scratched beneath his chin,
I could see his mathematic mind in gear,
At first he shook his head and then he added with a grin,
“Forget it mate, you won’t hit her from here!”
Get out of bed
and just get it in gear.
Don’t give me excuses;
I don’t want to hear.
Now follow my rules,
you’re doing it wrong!
You wrote me a poem
but I asked for a song.
I think you are deaf,
cause you can’t be that dumb.
You say “treat me better”,
so prove you’re not scum!
You’re lucky to have me,
nobody else would
put up with your bull-crap,
I treat you so good.
He kept on and kept on
he thought she would break
but as he would learn
he’d gave more than she’d take.
Next night when he came home,
she’d set herself free.
On the mirror in lipstick
she'd scrawled, “Ah, Bite Me!!”
05/31/15
Submission for Bite Me!!
Hosted by John Lawless
So what's up? Santa Claus!
Are your reindeer in gear?
Are you ready to kick off the holiday season?
I hear you only come once a year.
And that's down the chimney.
Ho! Ho! Ho!
I hear you threw out them ole rubbers.
Them ole galoshers, must of been hurting your feet.
Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa Claus!
What's up?
When your reindeer fly down, and land on my rooftop.
That really thrills me!
And when them sleigh bells go, ring-a-ling-a-ling..
That really brightens up my Christmas.
So what's up? Santa Claus!
Are you ready for the New Years?
I'll bet you ole Rudolf's nose is shining bright.
Right this moment.
What's next on your Christmas list?
Maybe our house?
Don't forget to turn the lights out..
Ho! Ho! Ho!
What's up? Santa Claus!
What's up?
Christmas Humor-By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2001,2014..ALL rights reserved..
For we do not have a spirit of fear
but of power, love and sound mind-
due to grace, our Savior is so near.
With his strength, not shedding tears-
he leads and I gladly follow behind-
for we do not have a spirit of fear.
His unconditional love I hold dear-
I, formerly held captive to bind
due to grace, our Savior is so near.
The truth of his "Word" is made clear-
better learning one cannot really find-
for we do not have a spirit of fear.
My mind renewed, now I truly hear-
struggles of life are not such a grind-
due to grace, our Savior is so near.
Focused praise keeps time in gear
on a path of order I'm now inclined
for we do not have a spirit of fear
due to grace, our Savior is so near.
Music and your muse
What moves you to write?
What puts your pen in gear?
Your muse you say! Hmmm!
Muse is the root word to
many things like Music
musing, museum, amusing
etc.
So then, what moves your muse?
makes you feel something
is it Music?
Music moves the world in
one way or another
Music makes you feel
one thing or the other
So music moves your muse
and your muse moves
your pen.
Music makes you think
makes you muse.
If music is funny and
you don't have to think
is that why they call it
amusing?
If you listen to the blues
then you may give your muse
the blues, then you will
write sad words of truth.
If you listen to rock music
you are rocking your muse
you may end up writing
views dazed and confused
If you listen to classical music
your muse may be beholden
when listening to beethoven
and be emboldened to write
words that are golden
If you listen to jazz music
all jazzed up and improvised
your muse will be enthused
and your writing more stylized
So next time you wonder
what moves you to ponder
about what moves your muse
put on some music
classical, rock or the blues
and put on your dancing shoes
Then put your pen in your hand
see what ink on the page lands
let your music move your muse.
John Derek Hamilton
April 08,2016
Two minutes left, then midnight's here.
You know my dad has made it clear,
tho we're engaged, for sure, my dear,
to curfew rules, we must adhere.
Just hold me tight, and do not fear-
your time to leave is almost near.
Don't let two minutes interfere
with our sweet kisses, so sincere.
Love words I whisper in your ear;
you kiss my lips- my souvenir.
One minute left, let's persevere
before we part- you disappear.
Kiss me again- let's get in gear,
fill up this minute in our sphere
of lasting love that soon will steer
us to that day- our new frontier.
Soon, we'll be wed with joy and cheer;
now, our time's up, without a tear,
must say goodnight, but still cohere
in thoughts, until you reappear.
Two minutes gone, midnight's austere;
those curfew rules stab like a spear.
When we are wed, with joy next year,
midnights till dawns- we'll pioneer.
February 5, 2018
~1st Place~
Contest: ''K'' Contest, New Or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Judged: 09/14/2021
Theme Chosen: Kiss
----------------------------------------------------------
Note:
The old days of the mid to late 1950s were very different.
I was engaged at 18, and my parents still insisted that I
was home by midnight!
He’s special to me
Not a bad trait in his body
Kind to the bone
He’d give you his last penny
I couldn’t fault him
I wouldn’t know how
My eldest son
I am very proud
He does well at school
His brain is in gear
The exams will phase him
He’ll pass
He will be in the clear
He helps in the home
Likes his money
Earns his crust
And never goes bust
I would be lost without him
You don’t know how much
I couldn’t explain
If we ever lost touch
Although that would never happen
For he is my son
The love I have
Is always and forever true
There is this space called my Poem Place,
Each morning I rush to settle in.
My standard routine, warmed by caffeine
gets in gear once I pick up my pen.
Picking up my pen means I begin
with my computer and my notebook.
Microsoft Word and Rhyme Zone ready,
I open Farlex Free and One Look.
Now all I need are "thoughts" to proceed.
I click the icon, Poetry Soup,
Forms are the tool that makes my pen drool
And blogs spark my mind to regroup.
Reading is spice, but what's really nice
is when ideas flow through my brain.
If I come up short, my next resort,
Members' contests, my mental food chain.
Myriad prompts serve my pen with verve.
Once I bookmark the ones that appeal,
my turn at bat; I choose God's format
to see what rhyme and Reason reveal.
written 12-28-2014 with revisions 1/18/17
Sponsor Beata Agustin
Contest Name POEM ON POETRY MUSE
Don't walk away and leave me here.
Come back and wipe away my tear.
You had just what it took.
You could have wrote the book.
You always got me back in gear.
The flies like molasses clinging firmly to his back,
as aimlessly he ambled along the dry dusty track.
Like a wave of the ocean the flies would swarm to his face,
but were expertly dispatched with his gum branch mace.
A battered farm ute lurches forward to a stop,
"Give ya lift inta town mate, in the back ya can hop".
"Na me legs are work'n fine, they're not painted on
With a shake of the head, put in gear and the ute was gone.
Go into town? he thinks to himself,
don't need a fancy shop, picking food from the shelf.
Felt the grub in his pocket, some heavy salted liver,
maybe catch a fish or two from the Murrumbidgee river.
Below a sun bleached hat hangs a face lined and weathered.
A broad happy smile with teeth barely tethered.
Does anyone know him, does he even have a name?
Where is he from, has he a family to lay claim?
When he beds for the night and sets up his camp,
unrolls his swag using the fire for his lamp.
What thoughts surround him, what goes on in his head?
Will anyone care when life ebbs and he's dead?
The life of a swagman is elusive to most,
He's just a brush stroke on the landscape appearing like a ghost.
A happy go lucky, vagabond, traveling pilgrim.
But just like us one of Gods precious children.
The Robin knows the time of day,
the time to stay, the time to fly.
The story goes, or so they say
this is the way to Lora Lai
Pinch me once, pinch me twice
or better yet, don't pinch me at all.
Just do your best, defeat the test
then grab the bar and never fall.
Climb the rocky road to dreams.
Jump for joy as you arrive.
Keep your heart idled in gear
with your head in overdrive.
The journey, though long
is gone in a flash
What was, now isn't and
what remains seems brash.
Topsy-tervy we then pause.
We rant, we rave, we analyze,
We lip service poor advice
from those who recognize
That we like all the rest
who flip and flop and flail,
who complain, cry, yet fail;
have the sign upon our door,
- - -beware of fate- - -
Ours is but to run the mile
to shell the peas one at a time.
Not to ask how many more
buckets lie just beyond the door.
And in the end it shall be said
We did the best with time we had.
Charles Henderson,
Dec 24, 2016 ©