Best Motorist Poems
The Automobile Mechanic
The automobile mechanic was originally
a car owner who carried out his own repairs
during the turn of the 19th Century.
These days, it is a person who endeavours to fix
the car problems of the everyday motorist
he is part engineer, detective, and miracle worker
all rolled into one, when the motorist expects their car
virtually fixed at a moment's notice.
He is truly a modern day unsung hero to most
who keep their car in tip top condition
although the mechanic seldom gets
the credit that he or she rightly deserves.
Dame’s Rockets grow atop her grave:
Pinks, whites and purples flourish here
in this cemetery enclave
where no one has visit in years.
Her oblique, weatherworn headstone
stands aside a nearby roadside
hidden amid weeds, unbeknown
to motorist who pass where she lies.
An effortful deciphering
failed to clarify her birth year
Born April first [obscured] in spring
Died forgotten this much is clear
except for these fragrant bouquets
that perfume above her grave today.
Liberty Hall
The halls are packed with Liberty,
She cries FREEDOM on the streets.
The halls are packed with Liberty,
The children forgo their sweets.
Let's have a Ball
Smash and grab, fire asunder
Take what you can, who cares!
Come on people, lets' plunder,
Don't worry about the stares.
It's your Call
Hey coppers, we're over here,
What are you going to do in blue?
Like Goliath you have the spear
But we have our stones too.
England's Fall
Forever England, forever scarred,
A scared community up in arms,
Houses burnt, vehicles charred,
Come citizens, sound the alarm.
Murdered All
Standing up for justice,
Protecting innocent blood,
"That's when the motorist
Ran them over m'lud".
England's Rise
To arms people of England
And bring your brooms to sweep
Up those in the gutter and
Take them off to the Keep
It's Our Call
We'll clear our streets of chard
Of glass and wash away the blood.
We know that recession hits you hard
And poverty's doors opened the flood.
The PM's Call
To those of you who caused this pain
I say to you again and again;
"We shall seek you out, bang on your door
To prison you'll go and join the score."
The Rioters Ball.
To the party the hoodies went
Headline news and infamy gained,
Lusted and busted, their energy spent
Their futures ordained and chained.
Whitehall
The doors of power convened in suit
And Judgement Day sprang to life.
Murmurings and guffaws of repute
Resonated like Churchillian days of rife.
If lawyers get de-barred and clergymen de-frocked
Does it naturally follow and make sense
That electricians are de-lighted and cowboys de-ranged?
Need some answers, no sitting on the fence!
Can a motorist be de-fined, a balloon's mood de-flated
This silliness surely must stop
Do dead mailmen de-liver, are old ships de-ported
Better stop before I call a burly cop
Do musicians get de-noted, dry cleaners de-pressed?
Now hold on, I'm getting quite upset
Can models be de-posed, do tree surgeons de-bark?
Haven't heard any answers as yet
Do skirts get de-pleted, has your hair been de-parted?
This must be some kind of a plot
Artists quit by de-sign, symphonies de-compose?
I think about de's things a lot!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Instead of walking briskly, I often shuffle:
Watching TV I’ll cough, sniffle and snuffle:
This riles my wife and creates a kerfuffle,
Then flipping channels - her feathers I ruffle!
Such are the things that please me now!
Will nap in the chair, till dinner is late:
Or eat peas from my knife: to aggravate.
After jay walking, the motorist I berate!
Will say what I think; tell others straight
What’s on my mind, which makes some irate!
But they’re the things that please me now!
I lecture my children - it’s something they hate:
Bore them with old tales I repeatedly relate,
It drives them to tears, so they often state,
Or makes them angry! I love to infuriate!
It’s more of what pleases me now!
Slurp my coffee and saucer my tea ;
Dunk my biscuits when in company;
Will openly burp and quite often loudly,
Which makes others blush by acting badly,
Just doing a few things that please me now!
When my wife calls: I’m not to be found,
Should she call louder? I hear nary a sound!
Offer unwanted opinions that shock and astound,
Argue for hours, stubbornly standing my ground,
Sure these are things what please me now!
But when day is done: I head off to bed,
Though never admit to things I’ve done or said
As tomorrow might be too late - I could be dead,
Will mumble I’m sorry for the dance she’s been led,
That’s the time for what best pleases me now!
Rhymer November 27th, 2016.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY : LXII - LXIII
LXII
If ever I had a country with streets under graffiti
And if ever I were the Minister of Transport who travels about for free
I'd give a free ride to the Minister of Justice Home Secretary and the Chief Executice - yes, all three
To this township run by the waxworks looked-up to Caïd son of a refugee
To watch how I paint every allée rue boulevard and avenue with zebra-crossings down on my knee
To remind the Police the Pompiers de Paris politicos and motorists that the speed limit on the stripes is under thirty
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Transport who travels about doing nothing for free
And even if I nerver ever had no country with no streets under graffiti
LXIII
IF ever I had a country with streets under graffiti
And if ever I were put in-charge of the traffic by the Transport Secretary
I'd tell the World that no-where else in the Universe(s) a migrant Tunisian speeding motorist can toss up and knock down an octogenarian pedestrian and get off scot-free
That is on a zebra-crossing at the entrance to a primary school right under a speed-limit signpost marked in red " 30 " thirty
Where the victim's heart shocked into arhythmic beat coped with cranial trauma multiple head-to-toe wounds fracture writhed in pain in the thick of winter in over an hour and a half's agony
First denied and later delayed for years Police and Fire-Brigade reports minimise the octogenarian's condition as a mere inconsequential injury
That is, if ever I were put in-charge of the traffic in this lawless over-migrant-run township territory
And even if I never ever had no country with no streets under graffiti
© T. Wignesan - Paris, September 7, 2018
Texting whilst driving
Should not be a crime
I've got me a truck
That stops on a dime
I steer with my knees
Now isn't that cool?
Good God Almighty
Just look at that fool
Driving straight at me
And texting away
We're going to crash
And ruin my day
Hold on a second
Life just isn't fair!
I'm ending this text
On a wing and a prayer . . . .
MY CAR MY BUCOLIC.
The speed of my automobile exclusively,
Depends on the wheelman which earth born,
Crave where the passengers await it's destination,
Seeing an endless road ahead.
Every four years is it's renewal with the,
Hope of getting to the promise terra-firma,
Where the Israelites peregrinates to,
With despondency from it's adversaries.
Only the strong survive to drive the car twice.
Oh! My wrecked car needs help;
Oh! My foolhardy driver needs help
The despoiled car got it's wound from exterior
Forces; where there is no necessity for protect
Asthenic tyre dawdle the speed;
The engines that fabricates the car now hassle,
Each other with hopeless range in anger
In this car, life live by the way car live life.
My enfeebled heart deems of the,
Mechanic who can revamp my sick car
My position calls for change which we need;
Marooning us inside the darkest tunnel to fracas,
The predators which we see not.
Let's have a heroic search,
Seeing not the vices of the past motorist.
Wheel the car oh driver!
Wheel the car to the right path
That the passenger serene
Wheel pass the motor park where other,
Cars swift with competition among them
My car my bucolic with countless myriad resources.
By: ADEBOYE JESUTOFUNMI?
ZEN DOG DAY
DOG:
A’m jest trucking on down the road
Hangin loose got no heavy load
[Stops in middle of road and proceeds to scratch every part known to man or dog]
Motorist behind blows horn]
DOG:
Now I hear a horn playin Hey! Hey!
Well Zippety doo dah dey!
I can feel some cool music hatchin
Just as soon as I finish my scratchin
MOTORIST:
That was my motor horn you heard play
To ask you just get out of the way
I’ve an important meeting with top brass
So kindly move your canine ass
DOG:
Well I got some important itchin
That can’t wait for my position switching
My doggy ass is in its proper station
For sedation of my irritation
MOTORIST:
Now listen you son of a *****
My meetings more important than your itch
DOG:
Wow! Now don’t you talk about my old lady.
[After final scratch]
You can pass now, so go in peace baby
MOTORIST:
If you’d moved sooner I’d have saved time - near ten minute
DOG:
And with that time, what would you then have done with it?
[Aside]
That’s my philosophy for today just to start out
Jean Paul Sartre you can eat your heart out
If lawyers get de-barred and clergymen de-frocked
Does it naturally follow and make sense
That electricians are de-lighted and cowboys de-ranged?
Need some answers, no sitting on the fence!
Can a motorist be de-fined, or a balloon be de-flated
This silliness surely must stop
Do dead mailmen de-liver, are old ships de-ported
Better stop before I call a burly cop
Do musicians get de-noted, dry cleaners de-pressed?
Now hold on, I'm getting quite upset
Can models be de-posed, do tree surgeons de-bark?
Haven't heard any answers as yet
Do skirts get de-pleted, has your hair been de-parted?
This must be some kind of a plot
Artists quit by de-sign, symphonies de-compose?
I think about de-strings a lot!
I'm sick of this twisted English
Never meaning what it says
No medals for plain speaking
Ever awarded these days.
Free Cash the machine said
But it turned out to be a skank
Later on that week the B's
Took it back from my bank.
Diverted traffic this sign said
So I followed the direction around
Just a queue of angry motorist
And of diversions not a sound
This door is alarmed it says
For god's sake give it a pill
Who wants to always walk
Through doors depressed and ill
An automatic washing machine
So the price goes up a quarter
But it ain't automatic because you
Add powder, power and water
They must think we are idiots
The language tricks they try
But I suspect we are the idiots
'cos we still go out and buy.
Limerick crochetés: Once cheerful Alzheimer motorist
Once cheerful Alzheimer motorist
Drove stolen car on a real tight fist
Drank oil at petrol pump
Bought used golf balls from Trump
Got called to White House as Chief Theorist
First advice he forgot to give Chief
“Show House anagram on handkerchief!”
Got kicked upstairs to roof
To count suns water-proof
Saw shooting stars making much mischief
Forgot to keep his mouth right tight shut
Five gallons of oil came rushing out
All West Wing caught fire
Also Code Nuclear
Kim Jong Un lit cigars in a fit !
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
I am sitting under the old oak old tree whose roots and branches have withstood the test of time. I am sitting under the old oak tree with hard woody roots descend in into the deep and spirally arranged leaves, with lobed edges, and a nut that looked like an acorn, borne within a cup, reminiscing the passion of time and the species that live through the ages is divided into old world and new world clades crossing legs between time and destiny.
Here I am sitting under the old oak tree watching the traffic moving swiftly in the street and impatient motorist honking their horns and the handyman across the road is cutting my neighbor bushy lawn, and singing a woeful ballad perhaps Mozart or lyrics composed by Beethoven and I am absorbing it all.
Here I am sitting under the old oak trees where endurance and strengths are born and the new age begins, it has spiral around its roots and melody in the trunks that speak the truth and ignite power in mind of the youth.
The power of ancient wisdom lives in the old oak tree with twisted elongated roots that turns across the stream and anchored deeply in the ground, and thick trunk parachuting in the air and glory springing up everywhere and new boots on a journey to the east take a rest underneath the old oak tree.
If you listen carefully to the roots, you will hear the voices of truth as they surround the pinnacle of your soul. The branches are spreading and the leaves are in harmony with the breeze everything you need is underneath the old oak tree.
The Corrupt Cop
By Elton Camp
The cop was parked in bushes, well out of sight
When he saw a new Lexus, it gave him delight
The out-of-state tag was what he wanted to see
Because really easy picking this one should be
He dashed down the road with siren and lights
The cop had no concern for the citizen’s rights
And no reasoning did the cop intend to take
As for proof he had a radar gun that was fake
And just as he had done countless times before,
He swaggered to the victim’s passenger door
“I see that you have no respect for the law at all.
For this violation an expensive ticket does call.”
Rich folks like you speed like a bat out of hell
And for public safety that isn’t going too well
You think this is nothing but a tiny, hick town
And you can do anything if you come around
The motorist said that he hadn’t done a thing
But only a smirking laugh did the denial bring
“To talk your way out of this, no need to try.
I’ve got the proof and the radar gun don’t lie.”
The driver didn’t argue but thought “Damnation”
As he realized that a speed trap was in operation
“All right then, please tell me where to go to pay
It’s getting late and I really need to be on my way.”
“Friend, that office is now closed for the night,
If you’re in a rush, that’ll put you into a tight.
Because since you can’t pay the fine today,
It’s in our comfortable jail you will have to stay.”
At those words, the motorist’s face turned pale
He was frightened of the cop and of his jail
“You’re passing through so I’ll accommodate.
Pay me now in cash and then you won’t be late.”
John Denver Poetry Contest
Anthony Biaanco
Gathered around a campfire
Folks sing, clap, and dance
Take me home on country roads
Rocky Mountain high
High above an eagle circles
A passing deer pauses
Other critters awaken
To listen to John Denver
... sing
... of nature and relationships
Where his songs light the fire
And where his heart lights the night
With wholesomeness
... and sentiment and nostalgia
As the night warms on
And more logs are added to the fire
The intimacy grows
A pipe is passed around
Along with a bottle of whisky
As women and men gather closer
To the man, John Denver
Seated in front of the camping fire
... and holding fort to his songs
... with a guitar in his arms
the sunshine on his shoulders
Bespeckled with his blond shaggy hair
Denver fills the air
... leaving on a jet plane
... timeless, down to earth and fun
For this night he played to the crowd
... the Rocky's came alive
His good side, he's the life of the party
Where the exterior of the man is admiring
Denver graced the cover of 40 Albums
Covering four decades
His superlatives include
One of the world’s best-known and admired performers
Songwriter, performer, actor, environmentalist and humanitarian
He also loved poetry (poet laureate), dabbled in aviation and Nasa
However, it would be pretentious to exclude his bad side
... and this is where the passing deer from above sheds a tear
... and perhaps many of his fans
Because behind all that charm is a curse
Denver, according to many accounts on the net, was bad
He was a bad human
A bad drunk, chronic smoker, wife beater, and a bit whacko
Denver died in 1997 in a plane crash, in a plane that he built
Today the Rocky's are full of nature and life
With tall mountain ridges, forests, lakes, and rivers
And well-traveled trails, like the man
Somewhere a motorist is pantomiming one of his songs
... and smiling