Best Lorries Poems
That night, in a strange place
I was like a fly
Circling a street light
Reeling…Reeling!
I felt so alone
Fear wrenched my throat
Couldn’t predict
When I would be charred to death
I had heard,
In the cover of dark
Everyone was a robber
Or a masked assassin!
Without a roof over my head
I was like a mole
Smoked out of its hole
And exposed to blaring light
Had it been my own town
Where I knew
Every nook and cranny
Like the lines of my palm
I wouldn’t have minded
Being so helplessly stranded
Or left in the night
At a distance….
I saw the faint silhouette of hills
Like dreadful dinosaurs crouching
Also the outlines of buildings
Reminding one of the medieval haunted castles
Stray dogs, mangy
Were raiding the trash bins.
I don’t know why then
I enjoyed their company
I could hear the falling hooves
Of cattle, led to the slaughterhouse,
And the lash of whips falling on them,
Echoing the shrieking of a banshee!
Saw an auto lying upside down
Fallen unwary in a pothole
A line of tanker lorries
Seen halted by the roadside,
Like the bogies of a goods train
And their drivers went home,
To sleep with their mates
Behind the cover, I saw
Two figures leaning;
A man and a woman
Night owls at a mating serenade!
I closed my eyes,
Covering them with my palm
In that unearthly hour
An eerie fear gripped me.
Tension was building inside,
Like a balloon being bloated with air
And how my mind longed
To slither out of that hole
To curl up in the warmth of my home
Far… far away!
Categories:
lorries, angst, fear, lost, night,
Form:
Free verse
I have dreamed so many dreams of life in Texas
Of cowboys and of the history I'd find there
So many hours I have been driving
but all I see are oil wells everywhere .
Long dusty roads and lorries hauling
Miles and miles of heavy industry
but just as I felt my spirit falling
A vision of loveliness appeared to me .
Calling to fill my car with fuel
Perhaps a diet coke to quench my thirst
Sat behind the counter on a stool
An angel giggled as I cursed .
She was so pleased that I was from England
She said my accent sounded like a song
She listened intently to my story
Then bluntly told me where I'd been going wrong .
There's a nice hotel in town if you are staying
You can pick me up at seven by the door
You're a nice guy but I hope you don't mind me saying
No guy ever needed my help more .
I drove her to that honky tonk at seven
Those jeans so tight I swear they're made of paint
With every word she spoke I felt I was in heaven
Those green eyes would make the toughest cowboy faint.
We danced then I sang her a ballad
My rendition of always on my mind
We kissed and we talked for hour on hour
Never have I met anyone so kind .
I walked her safely to her front door
A ranch style house on a leafy avenue
She gave the kind of kiss that shook me to my core
The strangest most beautiful woman I ever knew .
In the days that followed I found Texas
It was everything I ever thought it could be
and all the while my wonderful honky tonk angel
Was right there sharing every sweet moment with me .
Categories:
lorries, romantic,
Form:
Narrative
The icy snow sparkles in the midday sun
as we glide down on cardboard toboggans.
Scarves wrapped thrice around our necks,
overcoats buttoned to the top.
We feel no pain as we tumble off,
just laugh, and run for another go.
In the distance other children are skiing,
planks tied to their feet, sticks in hands.
Younger children have built a snowman,
coal taken from parents' bunkers for eyes.
A by-pass now runs through our playground,
this vast green used for childhood games.
Traffic cones line our slalom run.
Cars skid where we used to slide.
Lorries drive between our goalposts.
where a fantastic goal was scored.
And where a superb six was hit,
road markings show us the boundary.
Progress has left us with childhood memories
the new generation will never see.
Categories:
lorries, childhood, children, happiness, nostalgia,
Form:
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I HATE your Gymkhana,
I loathe every second it's run.
I dread all those horses and obstacle courses,
and everyone else having fun.
Now Mummy is frantic, the panic gigantic;
my pony won't go in the box.
She's shouting and screaming (and often blaspheming),
when Dobbin sits down on his hocks.
We stop in a field, by others well heeled,
their lorries all parked in neat rows.
My Dobbin looks grotty, all rumpled and spotty;
their ponies are plaited in bows.
I get in Show Jumping my usual dumping,
when Dobbin refuses the last.
I'm beat in the Bending (and cry without ending);
my pony is not very fast.
You're calling my name? Is this all a game?
And now you are pointing at me?
What me in the line, at Prize Giving time?
Oh, my? Have you answered my plea?
Miss Garner, Miss Garner. I LOVE your Gymkhana!
It's been such a jolly good thrash.
The Rosette I won has made it such fun;
my Dobbin has got a bran mash!
~
For Francine Roberts' "Children in Rhyme" Contest by Charles Clive.
Categories:
lorries, children, sports,
Form:
Verse
Thursday morning
Day aff
Time to have a think...
Down the M9
To Edinburgh
And walk across the Forth Bridge.
In the car
It's not very far
Only 26 miles,
Last day of sun
A'fore it rains a ton
Time for a few wee smiles.
Wind in hair
We must be there
Across the Firth of Forth,
Batteries charge
As the bridge looms large
So does the presence of the Lord.
Forth rail bridge
The diesel sings
As trains float over its tracks,
The red tinged steel
Matches the sun's feel
As it works on our head and backs.
The path looks long
The curve rolls on
Approaching Queensferry north,
Cable and steel
Engineering congealed
On the magnificent Firth of Forth.
The bird's eye view
With the seagull crew
Reveal the Firth's glory,
Where the bridges float
With the sailing boats
On this Edinburgh prairie.
Clock turns one
The walk is done
We leave the water and lorries,
Waste some time
Write another rhyme
As my wife and I smell the coffee.
Categories:
lorries, life,
Form:
Rhyme
They wait, waiting to break the law of any country, they rush in their thousands to gain access to the tunnel**. Why, what do they envisage is at the end, a pot of gold, reality is another camp, until they are sent back to country of origin. These are the poor people who have tried to reach the shores of the UK. Spent their meagre savings to reach this goal,
it stands for freedom
dark mouth, with forbidden depth……
sign says your welcome
** referring to the Tunnel at Calais that connects UK to rest of Europe, thousands of refugees are waiting to enter illegally by storming the tunnel or hiding in back of a lorries. So Sad.
Categories:
lorries, sad,
Form:
Haibun
I stare at the world through slats in the blind
Which are partly obscuring the dazzle at times
There's nothing particular to spot there today
As even the birds seem to have all flown away
But once in a while a tractor growls down the track
Hauling a jangling old plough or a planter at back
Then later the post van is speeding here with the bills
Soon I watch our Postie get in and out of the chills
In past times we chatted when the dogs were inside
But now I'm in here while they bark out their pride
He'll stop at one house though and sample some tea
But there's nowt going on - it's his sister you see
Just across the river in the giant glass houses there
All trays have been cleaned and stacked with such care
Not much more to do now for a good month or two
Soon be time for their rest in the warmth of Corfu
Not far from their place is a great old machine yard
See bright yellow lorries sport scuffs where they sparred
With anything that didn't yield to their determined path
'Another post over' you may hear their drivers laugh
A few hundred yards more just out of sight on the bend
Is a specialist scrap yard with old machines that they mend
And sell back to farmers for much less than when new
In these cash strapped times there's a few more in view
When times past we ambled my old dog Griff and I
Some walls were crumbling and I thought they might try
To patch up or rebuild them but still they survive
If they fell in a high wind it would be no great surprise
At the jetty quite near there is a boat on the Glen
A spot where a while since I fed our ducks and their friend
The swans have moved on now and the grebes cannot be seen
For the best pickings have gone though the waters still green
It's time for a drink now so maybe I'll potter off to
The kitchen where there is much less of a view
Some soup and a sandwich will be nice I do think
Just as soon as I've washed all the pots in the sink...
©Rhumour
October 6th 2008
Edit February 2016
(Note: this edited version is different from that in the paperback 'Rhumour Has It'
Categories:
lorries, life, poems,
Form:
Rhyme
the streets are scarred for good and we know it
after the hits of untamed hearts
after this abstract damage of cyclic returnings
there's a window in my chest
a sight of iron garden and crystal steam
where colour of poplars recalls
moss in the living room
and her veins in the dark
the skies are striped of equinox sabbath
over the cities full of empty people
cities full of mannequins
over the valleys of sordid poppies
perfumed mists and magnetic trees
as my shoes walk around the moonlit woods
through cobblestone plains, by mythic fields
the war of kisses rages in gravel pits
on days like these
these octagon days
and there's a storm in the kitchen sink
there's debris for dinner
the orchestra of germs in a room of dahlia
invokes all the nymphomaniac angels
all air rats and arachnid armies
with passion of cold-blooded lovers
oh, what a circus!
that's why my luggage is haunted
in floodlands, ready to depart
for the taxidermy heaven
for I'm the king of the sandcastle
just a smoke child on a paper planet
with glass floors and concrete shoes
and yellow lorries in umbrella lakes
with my brain lantern and pet mallacoderm
the rabid rooster will guide my way
down the bronze boulevard
with chocolate six-shooter in my hand
only because the streets are scarred by our love
and we know it
Categories:
lorries, imagery, lost love, surreal,
Form:
Free verse
hear others out there, just beyond my wall-wrapped sharing space
they break on through, sneaking inside my head
far above, front-nosed pilots point high-flying seated people tubes
passengers squeezed in tight, some feeling dread
as jet engines cloud-buffet, amplifying reverberations
chimney-chambers funnelling their muffled sound
momentary fear spills downward into the peaceful living-room
then gone, soon forgotten, on journeys bound
clank and clang, lift-arm lorries crawling slowly by the gateway
sin bins scooped, coloured cravings half-consumed
cascades of clinking glass crescendo, bottle-bank vomiting noise
rapid cadence, ambient drone resumed
programmed heat, timed with boiler clicks, powering-up, igniting
cold metal creaks around expanding joints
curtains swish, blinds roll open, bleary blinking, homely morning eyes
aural sequencing as the day appoints
distant yowl of hooter horn, duly departing commuter train
car doors slam, abrupt jarring intrusion
gauntlet-running mothers compete with pavement-blocking pupils
fumes linger, safety scarring delusion
radio din, depressing electro-magnetic compression
shovelled earth beside the thin blaring-out
men again dig doggedly, patching patches for the umpteenth time
careless strike, gushing hiss of waterspout
road tyres clip, manholes rattle, drum the brief mid-morning lullaby
rise and fall, the doppler siren speeding
two-wheeled tiny engine buzz, irritating as it nears the ears
loudspeaker hails, vies for votes its pleading
post person presents the parcels, delivering rat-a-tat-tat
cats scurry as scratching dogs lunge and bark
then sudden bang, spread-eagled pigeon, wingspan on window-pane
stunned, fluttering, hoping to reach the park
Categories:
lorries, day, Lullaby, morning, sound,
Form:
Verse
Here I am to tell you a story
of an old and broken lorry
and it's friend, the old garage,
they were both heroes once.
Back by decades it happened once
that some guy bought a garage.
Believe me was the man surprised,
when he saw a lorry inside.
The lorry wasn't in the deal,
but there it was and it was his.
So the man soon decided,
that with that car he wants to ride with.
He popped the hood, made sure it worked,
turned on the engine and went to work.
He did the same each workday morning,
until one he got a mysterious warning.
It was strange and it was yellow,
it said the garage was being hollowed.
Of course the owner didn't like it,
so he sued the city hall and by god, he won.
The town had evil plans before,
they were going to build a shopping mall.
But since the little garage had stayed,
all nice old building stayed there and smiled.
Overnight the city loved him,
the people smiled and gave them gifts,
it lasted for some weeks
and that was it.
They all forgot the nice old man,
his big blue truck and the sad garage.
Now the city plans a scyscraper
and guess whose garage is again on the papers.
Categories:
lorries, children, friendship, funny, history,
Form:
A mouse!
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
No one lived inside the large house.
Well, no one apart from a tiny mouse.
There once was a large family.
But they moved away across the sea.
So the house was left empty alone.
No, one could call it at home.
Apart from just one little mouse!
Who had the run of the entire house.
Suddenly there was uproar.
Lorries parked outside galore.
With furniture stacked in their backs.
This was carried into the empty house.
But no one saw that tiny mouse.
The one who lived in that large empty house!
Soon there was laughter crying too.
All these things to the mouse were new.
And as the days swiftly past.
Mouse knew he had a family at last.
No more was he in the house alone.
Now it really was a home.
As time did pass mouse he knew.
People knew he was there too.
But no one try to kill that mouse.
As all knew it was also his house.
He often watched his family.
But nought of him could they see.
Then at night when all humans were in bed!
Mouse would tidy all crumbs away.
Some, he stored right way.
So if this family should one day go!
His larder would be full just so.
As before when left alone.
He could stay indoors in his home.
No worries of the world outside.
No need to meet other mice.
As what he had was oh so nice.
A large house, now a home.
Where he was free at night to roam.
And it was what mouse now called a home.
This is another poem written at the same time as An Elephant. (TnmA)
Categories:
lorries, animal, family, happy, humorous,
Form:
Take me back to a time when have a Pepsi was for merry people at Christmas,
When General Electric fairy lights hung on real trees and pine needles fell,
Father Christmas smoked Pall Mall cigarettes because they were the smoothest,
A present of Tupperware for your mum was the very best present in the world.
Back to a time when Lional train sets made a man of a boy and a boy of a man,
Sammy Davis took Alka Seltzer as it eased his holiday headaches making him well,
Where Tide washing powder made every husband the most smartest man in every town,
And another happy chubby Father Christmas drank Coca Cola because it was the best.
A time when lorries slowly drove along roads selling wood for Christmas real fires,
A new Hoover would take care of any mess that was caused by the most crowded party,
Carlings Red Cap beer was the perfect drink for the perfect party with no hang overs,
And Crushed Rose Lipstick and transformed every woman from a house wife to a princess.
Woman should gain weight stop being skinny and tired with a plan that made you fat,
But the best of all were cock-eyed, cross-eyed glasses that made your eyes look normal,
And Woolworth's was the shop to buy all your Christmas presents to delight your family,
But for a young boy the best present he could ever get in his life was a new bicycle.
Categories:
lorries, history, christmas, time, christmas,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The Van-Boy got out to open the gate still in his head last night’s date
He did not notice the green signal light a train was coming though not in sight
This crossing was notorious and set at an angle getting some drivers in a tangle
But this was not on the van-boys mind when the driver he waved to come behind
The lorry driver thinking it was safe engaged first gear and let off the brake
Up the incline he had come no chance to go back now the journey begun
A careful driver all his life he knew that this dangerous crossing had taken a few
He looked down the line and to his dismay saw the Train coming quickly his way
Nothing to do now must hit the gas and take the consequences be it his last
The lorry sped over the lines so quick the bottles and crates rattling and the driver
sick
But luck would be upon his side and the lord above was to be his guide
With the memento of the weight no time to straighten through the gate
The lorries breaks were not enough to stop this speeding it was tough
The poor old fence post standing for years if it could cry it would be in tears
Out from the ground with a tearing sound the lorries front bumper tore it round
Well when the driver drew his breath and realized how close he came to death
What would have happened to his family if the worst had happened where would
they be
I hope that Van-boy will never forget his stupid mistake nearly caused an accident
But I am sure he can remember too the words the driver shouted as the air
turned Blue
Train Crossings are lethal so take your time and wait for the proper signal to
cross the line
Categories:
lorries, funny, people, satire, work,
Form:
Rhyme
I remember when I was a little girl
And the Rag and Bone man came round
On his cart pulled by a horse
All manner of things could be found
A washing machine with a broken ringer
And a bicycle without a wheel
He used to give my grandma two pence
For a bag of meat bones leftover from a meal
The bones were used for knife handles
And the grease extracted used to make soap
We’d give them to him in a potato sack
Tied around the top with a piece of rope
I remember one day the ragman
Knelt down on the ground
Searching between the paving stones
Where horseshoe nails could be found
Over his tired shoulders
He would carry a small bag
It would contain bones and various metals
Plus numerous pieces of coloured rag
One of the ragmen who came to our street
His name was Henry Moon
If we gave him something for his cart
We were rewarded with a goldfish or a balloon
It was a hard life being a ragman
People now wouldn’t see the sense
In working from early morning till night
For the measly sum of six pence
You still see rag and bone men about
No longer with a horse-drawn cart
Driving around in short wheel-base lorries
They have scrap collecting down to a fine art
They still pick up broken washing machines
And bicycles without a wheel
But some people still prefer to fly-tip
Dumping unwanted items in a field
We live in a throwaway society
No longer reliant on Mr Rag and Bone
It’s easy to get rid of scrap items
We just need to pick up the phone
Categories:
lorries, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
Hail, frozen rain blew down from the west ,a biting shattering wind, changes puddles to ice,
Head down keeping the hail from stinging my face, it’s blown sideways so cold feeling sick,
Overcoat soaked right through to my skin, my teeth chatter loudly, shivering uncontrollably,
Down on my luck, no job no home, nobody, absolutely nothing just the clothes on my back.
So cold and bitter there is nowhere to go just walk about to try to generate some body heat,
Must have shelter some warmth, a peel of thunder rumbles far in the distance, what a day?
Through the falling hail, ahead there are some village shops, maybe a big canopy is down?
Maybe a doorway to stand in, or an alley, it is so cold and wet, would a shopkeeper mind?
Holes in my only pair of shoes, squelching wet bubbles, my feet frozen like never before,
Wind from lorries cars passing splashing, it's wet salt used to stop the road from freezing,
Thundering clouds get nearer the wind blows harder it looks like the worst has yet to come,
An old man, too old, scared to be wandering and sleeping rough, how to get out of this mess?
At the village now leaning against a shop’s side walls not enough shelter still facing the wind,
Agony, pain every movement the wet clothing touches my skin making everything so colder,
How do people like me survive this cold weather, but they do there are many armies of the road?
Just to be sitting by a roaring log fire clothes getting dry and having something, anything to eat.
As the thunder cracked overhead the hail turned to sleet and the sleet turned into hard frozen snow,
The wind got stronger, a real gale, again it pushed my soaking wet clothes harder against my body,
In better days things took for granted, a lovely house, that had a real value, never known before,
What drove me to drink, if there was a choice today a warm fire or a bottle, it would be a bottle?
Standing by the shop wall the wind got stronger, swirling in wind traps, coming from everywhere,
How to get through this storm, the cold, the wet have beaten me, just cannot take much more,
The man from the butcher shop walks over and tells me, rudely, to go away, but where is there to go?
Walking to a nearby park sitting on a seat, no shelter my eyes closed, warm tears ran down my face.
Categories:
lorries, sorrow, fire, clothes, fire,
Form:
Prose Poetry