Best Motors Poems
...to the finessed fowl
humming by my ear tell me
Did anyone ever tell you
just how glad they are
to have you here?
Poignant eyes, azure crown,
that lightasapenny frame...
(how monstrous we must appear!
our human eyes like soccer balls)
We have only God to blame...
...and our senses to thank
for perceiving such a lovely scene
right here in our midst:
organic motors in a danceswirlblur,
taking quicksips of wine
through a toothpick straw
(do I need to make a list?)
Well, how about this:
pleasantly economical,
tenderly blue-breasted,
(quicker than a shuriken star?
you guessed it!)
And O how I would shield you
from anything that came your way
My palms would be your perch...
My fingers be your bars...
But alas, none such as you,
could ever be cast into a cage
(for the angels would rage!
and even the most committed readers
would surely turn the page)
But rest assured
I wouldn't dream deprive you of your feast
of purple watermelon splendor
(those pretty pearls of amethyst
are yours to conquer!)
O Caffeinated Contraption...
O Sweet Dream of Buzzing Thoughts...
You could be crushed like a pop can
at the flippant cruelty of man...
...but who would dare?
blasphemy to merely think it,
'twould be an acceptable breach of free speech
to burn the words that expressed it
(fly free, oh sweet heresy,
into the ashen breeze)
"There's nothing more beautiful than you."
said the God
who placed each feather in
with such gingercare
and thoughtful pause--
(His Cosmic Hands caught
in the Avian Lego Jar,
smirking at the plasticity
of His own laws)
Nightingale, the full moon rises
sing me from the Sassafras:
mock the sounds of motors passing,
trill sweet of the small brook's flow,
warble out a troubadour's tale,
call my trembling dear to me.
Debbie Guzzi
Contest: Night Creatures
Nightingale #5
Date: 1/13/15
Dad had threatened for some time, to reclaim the land behind the shed,
where rubbish over many years, had stockpiled but now instead
of being easy to be shifted, blackberries, docks and thistles grow,
entwining history of ours… and you know we didn’t know.
Mum cracked the whip one Sunday, handing out the different tools
for us to shovel, fork, pick and slash; of course she made the rules.
We weren’t to stop until the rubbish, had been cleared and left to show
a barren space to be landscaped… and you know we didn’t know.
Johnny parked the truck close to where we’d easily load the tray.
First we had to slash blackberries, to open up a pathway.
Old fencing wire and bent droppers, we pulled and tugged. The work was slow.
Plus bits of motors, old oil filters… and still we didn’t know.
The ‘Old Man’ knocked a stump out I can’t remember being a tree,
it disintegrated into pieces; white ant workings I could see.
Plastic pots and old fuel drums, onto the tray we heave and throw.
Just on half the plots been cleaned up now… and still we didn’t know.
A concrete trough and a mattress spring, mesh from an old birdcage.
A kitchen sink broken in two and a pushbike at some stage.
Sardine tins, a barrow bowl, and a seized up mower that won’t mow,
now there’s just one corner left to clean… and still we didn’t know.
A stack of roofing iron near the fence; the last that had to go.
One by one we dragged the rusting sheets… and still we didn’t know.
Dad picked up the final sheet, and then he quickly threw it down again.
His face was white and ‘cripes’ he shook… we ‘bloody-well’ knew then.
ENVY
(Words inspired by Casarah)
Our faces are turned toward Bangkok
That buzzing hive of humanity
Where folk brush against each other
As they twirl and dance
In an effort to maintain direction
Not that we were going to Bangkok
Not that we were currently going anywhere
We sit defeated
Restraining our combustion engine horses
Their promise fuelled motors straining
Wanting to accelerate into freedom
A few fleeting moments
Before being reined in again
By the brakes
Unlike those in the north bound lanes
Unlike those with a clear path before them
Piloting their roaring beasts
Who revel in their delight
Eating up empty kilos of asphalt
In their haste toward a distant destination
A cosy castle or a sweet vacation
Dirt Roads
Hello ole friend, I’ve visited you before.
What can you tell me, what news is in store?
You read like a book, imprinted and deep.
I know there are secrets, you like to keep.
Let’s see what’s gone by, and traveled your way.
Unusual footprints or tracks I might say!
Looks like ole Fred’s been here with his truck,
And after the rain, looks like he got stuck.
Small stroller wheels and a couple small feet
Pulling a wagon, that kid is so sweet.
I see some new rocks jumped up from down under
And oops there’s that pothole, new rattles asunder.
You carry the brunt of Nature’s worst weather.
I see where the flood washed out Sara’s heather.
Now here aways, fences embrace
Where wildflowers blooming, no curb to efface.
And now through the hollow, the trees all adorn
Like trumpets announcing this majestic morn.
The deer and her fawn, new prints in the snow
Your cold shoulder is icy, in minus below.
And yet dear old friend, my thoughts turn to you.
You haven’t changed much, you’re one of a few.
No concrete, no asphalt, no white lines or yellow.
No signs and no limits, you’re a polite kind of fellow.
The stories you’ve seen as each day may pass
The history made, the silence of past
Are imprinted here, upon your great crest
More than my years, you’ve stood the test.
Horses and wheels, motors and tires,
Footprints and hopscotch, puddles and miers.
You’ve seen it all from beginning of time
And still your pure beauty so easy I find.
And now I arrived the place I call home
You’ve guarded me safely when I’m all alone.
I wonder how often anyone cares
How great has your day been, traveling there?
Your drops cool little blue pansy faces,
Satisfy crepe myrtles’ delicious pinks;
The grass has turned back to emerald spring,
And the air is sweet, the air is so sweet.
Fresh caladiums spread affection.,
Outdoor cars are losing their dust to shine,
A/C motors are hushed in your coolness;
And the air is sweet, the air is so sweet.
You have made pine needles soft under foot,
And beckoning books unread to the hand.
You show your gentleness, how you can be.
And the air is sweet, the air is so sweet;
Rain, Rain, Don’t Go Away just for today,
For the air is sweet, the air is so sweet.
Where did I leave it,
the key to my heart
Guess it doesn’t matter
can’t find anyone
To give it a jump start
It’s been so long now
starter motors probably gone
Thinking too hard about
where it’s gone wrong
Want to feel the rush again
Heart beating and pounding so fast
When someone special finds the key
And unlocks the passion at last
I want to feel that lurch
When butterflies flutter
In the pit of my belly
For when he is near my legs turn to jelly
Want to find my book in the fridge
My shoes on the table
Cos my mind is a mess
Concentrate I’m not able
To just think his name
And say it over and over
Like I’ve found the four leafed clover
Will I be that lucky
Or will the door stay shut
And the key lost forever
And my heart will turn hard like
An empty nut.
Sometimes, I can hear that happy, bubbly brook
bouncing over stones and under the wheel…that giant wheel.
It would drone along groaning a wooden song;
each night luring the brassy sun ever toward a distant skyline
by soft chattering of cog on cog and mesmerizing clockwork.
Other times I’m haunted by the gritty rasp of stone on stone
and swirling tendrils of fine dust doing a serpentine dance
through heavy air, reaching like so many ghoulish fingers
grasping desperately before dissolving;
coating my memories and that dusty wood-planked floor.
Yesterday I yearned for simpler times when
I would lazily strum my second-hand guitar
from a mossy log in the shade of our old gristmill.
Plucking those plaintive songs of young heartache
or gleefully accompanying cardinals in a nearby thicket.
But today all that remains is corporate.
Steel rollers chain driven by diesel motors.
A dried up creek bed cutting an over-burdened field
of chemical pesticides and fertilizers to grow
everything but food for my soul.
6/3/2018
Written for The Gristmill Poetry Contest
Hosted by Craig Cornish
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windscreens cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
The fog frolicked in the hollow
Danced upon the verdant grass
Reached down to kiss sleeping leaves
Before its time to pass
Laughter echoed from the woods afar
Wildlife playing steel guitars
Birds sang a tune to blended keys
Their music a groov'n jar
The sun through the haze tops the pines
Fog has settled entertwined
Stillness prevails quiet disturbed
By manmade motors fine
The radiant beams of morn's sun
Filters through fogs clammy gray
Soon the heat will fill the moist air
The poet's night turns to day
A park has been making the news
Because people have differing views.
Those who live very near
Wish that all would adhere
To the rules and stop breaking taboos.
But a younger crowd’s recently found
They could party with no cops around
So they flock to this park,
Even more after dark,
Where their music and motors resound.
Since the park is a public-fed place
The old-timers would always embrace
People spending the day
In the usual way,
Not the mob that’s become a disgrace.
So it’s time for the city to act
When, at night, the park’s overly packed,
For the drugs and the noise
And the crowding annoys
Every neighbor who’s feeling attacked.
What to do when the young and the old
Find their values so often controlled
By the difference in years
Which, quite strangely, appears
To have neither side feeling consoled?
Steady in the arch of an old oak tree,
Where limbs have crackled and fallen,
Lives the North Star, saying “hello” to me,
As I wander and watch the night.
There seem to be stars circling around you,
But they roar with the motors of planes,
And I imagine their tired weary passengers,
Sleeping, dozing, longing for their destination.
You meet me each night on my walk,
Though sometimes hidden by a passing cloud.
You remind me of that Holy Star,
And Hope blinks down from above.
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windshields cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
The joyous moments remain even in semesters,
With every night struck in the hostel terrace to see sky full of clusters;
Spending time with roommates and friends is best part,
Jokes during the time of studies creates a healthy atmosphere with great art;
Never ready to share anything with the colleagues,
Eager to beg for Hotspot when the hostel's WiFi gets fatigue;
Canteen's maggi always fascinates mind and heart,
Food in the mess encourage to buy noodles from the mart;
Attending an hour lecture is a tedious task,
When there is no water to energize in the flask;
Concepts in the class are not so important,
Each one has to put their attendance as their only amendment;
We may not be knowing how to copy files in the laptop,
But to make exact xerox of friend's assignment one never going to drop;
Being the junior-most is always a fun,
Wishing to get treats from seniors in the long run;
Refreshment of mind comes with the arrival of fests,
Which brings out the individual's best;
Talent and hobbies outburst in intro,
Day-to-day knowledge make students like us to grow;
The bond of friendship gets stronger gradually,
Tears came out when the journey to college days end finally;
Machines and motors demands to have attention in engineering,
Life@IET is one of the most memorable thing one gets in his/her belonging.
Leccy Powers in the Air
Nikola Tesla knew the score,
back there, wayback in 1894,
send-em power through the post,
bloody radio antennae, sends the ghost ,
wireless sends the power,
from the insulated tower,
tuned aeriel sucks the most,
fine tuned it is the host,
a quarter wave deflowers,
when electric car un-powers,
recharge from power radio remote,
a constant radio wave, unquote,
or constant flow empowers,
Leccy car you Billy Goat ! :}-
So ac power is in the air,
detected by the car, right there,
powered then the Billy Goat,
tuned aerial , sucks in the voltage, know it!
Leccy car can run 4 sure!
Don't need no petrol, where?
just leccy techs, leccy motors go-at,
says johnson, with a slight unquote,
the new world is to share,
if it catches em by the throat,
the dimwits wouldn't dare,
but some ones got to show it ?
Eg frequency of 27 megacycles cb radio 27,000,000 a second.
So put a 9 foot antennae on you car to receive the signal current?
It works out shorter for much faster frequencies like your mobile phone.
A few inches, a few centimeters etc...
So the sent electricity gets collected at the right length antennae and
runs the leccy motor in your car...sounds cool to me …
id be wearing wellies or gum boots to avoid a shock from the powered antennae 250volts maybe, if I touched it:} kill switches needed hey...
Don Johnson
BEFORE 20,000 YEARS AGO THE ATLANTEAN PEOPLE OF THE RED SKIN TYPE,
HAD SUBMARINES AND AEROPLANES. {VALIXI}. POWERED AND CONTROLLED BY RADIO WAVES TECHNOLOGY REMOTELY..{ARE WE TOO RETARDED TO DO IT???}...INDUS VALLEY PEOPLE HAD VIMANA
FLYING MACXHINES TOO AT THAT TIME....AND WROTE HOW FIX THE MERCURY ENGINE...
Do we have to res-surect ole Tesla?
to get it to work? ac electricity can be
transmitted through the air! as he said...
easily converted to dc voltage by rectifiers...as in power supplys....
like having your own power pole on the car...