Best Jackhammers Poems
Fast, dusty cigarettes calmly drive a big, small guy.
The worker stops like an old sidewalk.
All skyscrapers hustle noisy, dead cars.
Lord, work!
O, death!
Dark, noisy doors roughly fight a old, big car.
Why does the truck shop?
All flowers grab noisy, small cars.
The job shops like a dead cigarette.
Damn, work!
The slum shops like a hot jackhammer.
Anger, exhaustion, and death.
All jackhammers get misty, grimy guys.
Work, desolation, and life.
the night arrives silent as a shadow
holding many mysteries in his clawed hands
his eyes watch our every move
every song
every dance
every word that we utter
he hears what we say
hears what we desire and does nothing to comply
our hearts beat in our chests like jackhammers
in dark alleys he covers us,
straddles our laps and kisses our necks
trailing hot and cold fluttering kisses about our skin
he traces his fingertips down our sides
under our shirts and across our stomachs
causing us to moan in pleasure
wanting more of this sweet desire
he growls like an animal
tearing at the barriers
ripping them
throwing them to the side
our hands travel to his chest,
trailing our own kisses
running our hands on his chest
sliding them under the fabric of his top
his nipples erect and hard.
he groans in ecstasy
something stirs below for the both of us
something hot,
something wet
our hips buckle
we both thrust
it isn't long after
that we are taken
carried and wrapped up in
midnight's lust
I look around me and all I see are colors
but wonder if they matter at all
for I see the color of all of these wonders
but still cant afford to call
so I have to ask has color mattered
since the day I was born
or is the grey just a color that seems to have splattered
the color of bleeding the norm
it sounds like everything and yet tastes of none
opposites blending under the sun
a Mexican standoff between all the colors
but only the grey would run
it sounds of the freeway and jackhammers at work
without any leeway or quarks
its unmitigated and yet agitated
but the grey will still leave its marks
its the beginning of every and the end of all
mixed all together in one
it can pick you up then leave you to fall
until finally the grey is undone
Sun's rays glint through the glistening pines
Residual moisture imbibes the fawning heat
A cloak of needles hovers over the clandestine copse
Fertile fortress clothes the stunted flora
A whispering breeze bristles through the jaded cones
Resinous scent blankets the blanched meadow
Fondling fungus shrouds the damp floor
Glittering flora splices the distant, tawny terraces
Frothy owls hoot above the hoary mist
Foraging squirrels funnel through the fallen, nutty residue
Hollow bark clamors with the jackhammers of restive peckers
Decaying mantle rattles with the sounds of boring beetles
Cackling turkeys scour the ridges for autumn's latent seeds
Petulant peccaries prat and preen through the bleached undergrowth
Earth-toned stags nestle in the deep thickets
Rippling brook gurgles through the sunken hollow
I grew up as a child
near a freeway construction zone
Took many an afternoon naps
lullabied by the sound of machinery drone
And to this very day
when I hear the sounds of construction going on,
my eyes get heavy
and my ears take flight into the childhood zone
It’s the peaceful sounds of machines
playing the freeway song
Hypnotic sounds of machines droning on and on:
Jackhammers ... pounding drums staccato style
Drills ... metallic violins heard for miles
Bulldozers ... cymbals crashing ground piles
Dump trucks ... horns blasting engine shouts
Sweet transformative sounds,
slinging me across the vale of time
Young freeway dreams
taking me faraway to a future yet unseen
Walking down the street
Hearing all the beats
Going all around
Construction sites
Alarm systems going off
Honking horns
Mothers yelling at there kids
Drivers screaming at other drivers
Jackhammers pounding the ground
Water fountains pouring down water
Coins falling out of hands
People talking on cell phones
Guitars from street performers
Getting caught up into the sound
Just wanting to scream out
Letting the world know
This is the beat
This is the real music
Others join
Wanting to help
Walking down the middle
Of the street
Cars pulling over
People getting out of cars
Starting a group
That stands strong
Stomping there feet
At the ground
Screaming out
These are the beats of the world
Others join
Wanting to have fun
Police come out
To stop us
From having the world go mad
By the beats of music
We go on
Starting a riot
Dancing down the street
And singing our hearts out
No one can stop us
Kids join in
Hitting trash cans
With there hands
Police form a wall
We still go strong
Breaking it down
They know
They cannot win
When we dance to the beat
Of the world
I lay there immersed in the cosset wrap
skin smoothed into endless
the liquid thoughts on languish endless
a stretch of bone in muscle seeking comfort
finding peace for a moment
peace from the ceaseless jackhammers
leave me be
alone in the warmth of darkness
There is no plague of light
a floating “ I ” in a starless eye
only responds in breath, at one time, breathe
at one time breath
and coverts endless thoughtless
it disappears to fumble with nothing else
and hold distraction worthless
a pocket of solace indeterminate
I would sleep but for the intensity, of darkness
freed from the crash jolts incessant
and bark up this coughing “ leave me be ”
as it strains my palms behind my eyes ………………… !
Melt, melt away
and one time only breathe
the colours vanquished
and the darkness intercepted
Distracted by the silence
a penetrating presence suffuses lasting stillness
leave me be
leave me be
empty out the vault and cluttered
that hammered cripple I drag myself through
at one time the only thought to breathe
perched upon the edged of peace
I lay here
I am there
floating formless of liquidity
let myself of empty rest
in the liquid thought … less
Pickled percolating bile
Prances up my prickled throat
Whiskey guides my exile
While arrogance digs a moat
Brain reeking like a dog pile
Mighty flush to spin that float
Jackhammers ravage my brain
As my eyes toil to flutter
Elements of vast disdain
Yelp out within this clutter
Bacchus yanks me on his chain
While I glide in my gutter
Bruises pop out everywhere
Witnessed in that cracked mirror
Vomit caked-up in my hair
Revolt doesn't flash clearer
Locked within my distressed stare
Oblivion creeps nearer
What is this taste on my tongue?
Flavor sticks like a bar floor
Profusely coated in dung
Or perhaps scattered with gore
From my decimated lung
Snubbing to fight anymore
Heaves wobble within my chest
As my legs buckle under
Intestinal aches protest
My ever-loving blunder
Jameson's uncouth houseguest
Possesses me to plunder
I lack triggers of restraint
Base urges strive to throttle
My dim sanity's complaint
Longing shrivels to twattle
Before my spirit grows faint
I reach out for that bottle...
Machete pecks
cycle through a staccato lied.
The music is Jurassic,
a tune rattled in the throat
of a feathered lizard –
the genetic code
of jackhammers.
Apart from the tock-tock
of beak on wood,
their calls are insane.
One could be a jack-ass braying,
one a monkey’s angry chatter.
In some we can hear a pterodactyl
calling from a far distant past.
Woodpeckers are wonderful,
Awesome,
the way a velociraptor
would be awesome
if it could whomp its way
through forests.
Dry, grimy skyscrapers calmly grab a dead, dusty truck.
All rains hustle dead, dead jackhammers.
The job talks like a faceless worker.
Trucks walk like faceless trucks.
Action is a rainy cigarette.
Faceless, dusty cigarettes roughly hustle a small, big girl.
Why does the street walk?
Doors stop like cold jobs.
Jobs shop like noisy workers.
Faith, death, and love.
Grow roughly like a dusty door.
All lights love old, noisy jobs.
Oh, noise!
The cold street quietly drives the corner.
New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawk a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.
Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting that perfect, offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.
Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.
At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.
We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Bryant Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.
Machete jabs
cycle through a staccato lied.
The music is Jurassic,
a tune rattled in the throat
of a feathered lizard.
It pecks out the genetic code
of jackhammers.
Stabs eardrums deep,
a primal stirring
of blood and sap.
The forest echoes
as time hammers on.
The city above us reaches higher and higher
tipped at the top in all its glory with
iconic, prickly, spires,
as long as air rights permit it.
Build, tear down, rebuild, as the wheels below spin round
in sync with the people who dream,
and the unbridled greed.
Sidewalks, though, remain the same,
i.e., concrete
-people come here to compete,
and they prefer the ground
static, unforgiving and mundane
-the cracks house stunted plants,
squat down low, you might see
ants- too.
People are ants when you are on the 100th floor,
and disappear if you go high enough, or if you forget them.
Back on the ground you
might notice concrete, light grey,
doesn’t hide dirt well, but people barely care
-would you continually step
on a light-colored shirt?
and furthermore, is a visual foil to a
galaxy of flattened gum wads,
jet black- gum wads that remind me of opaque black holes
up above the sky.
There are innumerable pebbles too,
studding the walkways largely unaccounted for
by the naked eye. We grid our concrete like
we grid the city -the geometric dividing lines
are narrow spaces like mini streets
-if we are Godzillas, then OCD Godzillas
avoid these streets, but if trying to catch
a bus, that all goes out the window.
Concrete’s biggest foe may be jackhammers
-shuddering in their presence, succumbing
to brute, deafening force -a staccato berating
beat, like an amplified version of the concrete
pounding of feet, of people and pets,
or an even more amplified version of the
gentle tapping of grounded pigeons.
woodpecker
demolitionist
jackhammers
tasty grubs
shutting eyelids at impact
so eyes don't pop out