Best Octane Poems
And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!
When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger
Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact
They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood
Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”
Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings
Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited
They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads
Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies
…
And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?
When will the flinty sheep
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began
Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands
©Drake J. Eszes
Sugar drops and colored gumballs,
An open skyline, an open convertible, and a white ragtop!
Black Perrelis, red caps, and spoked mag-frames,
Pacific Coast Highway, and her stairway to heaven!
A thousand charged horses on pure octane!
My deliverance, black rock cod, and pink champagne!
Her deliverance, Pacific Coast Highway, a stairway to heaven, and romance!
A storybook weekend, and my little red Corvette!
A white and pink plumeria flower, above the ear, and a few warm tears!
Matchbox, Hot Wheels, tracks and tracks, and Dad's Road and Track!
Boys and their silly toys, lost quarters, lost dimes, lost rhymes, and lost innocence!
Those magnificent men in their flying machines!
Liquid sunshine, Turtle Wax, Palmolive, and the softest hands!
Kid's glove leather, hands on leather, and zero to sixty in three or more!
Golden Gate Bridge lit at midnight, and Los Angeles rocking to soft jazz!
My little red Corvette, and my Mother's good sense!
An arching rainbow, a hidden valley, a tree house on Kauai!
From Grand Canyon, to Waimea Canyon, to tea with Diane Canyon!
Charley's Angels, Mae West, Some Like It Hot, from Twiggy to Marilyn Monroe!
Hey Joe DiMaggio, hey Mickey Mantle, hey Smoking Joe!
Pacific Coast Highway on any Sunday afternoon, and my choice of fresh fish!
From pink champagne, to Zinfindel, On Her Majesty's Secret Service!
Sean Connery at midnight, Mr. James Bond and a Russian scientist in love!
My little red Corvette, Hans Christian Anderson, and A Christmas Carol!
Spring takes me for a long walk in the park:
with emerald trees
swaying in the breeze.
And I hear the chirps of a meadowlark;
sung to captivate,
and attract a mate.
A bushy-tailed squirrel scampers up a tree;
and then immediately starts scolding me:
and I can't help but smile.
The grass feels ticklish under my bare feet:
wet with drops of dew
as I wander through.
And after Winter's white, green is a treat;
a feast for the eyes
under clear blue skies.
A plethora of wildflowers is in bloom,
each blossom flaunting a colorful costume:
and I can't help but smile.
Inhaling a fresh breath of perfumed air:
my heart skips a beat,
for it tastes so sweet.
Spring's innate beauty is beyond compare:
wherever I go,
watercolors flow.
A time of jubilation and renewal:
for although Winter can be long and cruel;
Spring's super octane allows life to refuel.
I've walked about a mile:
and I can't help but smile.
Feelings are the octane
of words...they drive our
poetry: A skip and a jump,
tripping the imagination
fantastic!
Electrical power
surges
through my body,
sending high voltage waves
to my brain,
shocking me
to my core.
The beats
are pulse pounding.
Raw energy
flows
through
my veins.
Flashes of rhythm
like a neon sign,
glowing
out from the darkness.
Lightning strikes
of pure power,
raging into fire.
Flames amplified by octane.
Burning away my soul,
until the smoke rises.
And I am lost in it.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
October, 14, 2013
For Nette Onclaud's contest - Groove It!
Heavy Metal
Homemade dungeons spirit up through governmental finance. An alone home to the flight risk, trial sick, authoritative kind. So much time now spent hitting the rewind to come upon the never wanted find inside the attested mind. A proven confinement to so many of 21st century are designed to be low level offended and less related to all of mankind. Circumstantial evidence is assigned to take down this kind.
Rights never amended, as the felonious records are drug offended. Inside the gang life is blended. Friendships are far from being mended. Instead many lives are ended. A never before scene of the wrongfully accused and had been at the criminology since the age of thirteen. There is no remedy for this no vaccine. Most are pumped up and made into a machine who love the daily clink routine.
Orange jumpsuits scatter the yard. Once a slip arrives they’ll pull your card. Heated from the mentality built throughout the year. Constantly lying awake at night not knowing what to fear. Is death near? Corrupt guards take aim with fear in the name but then the high paid lawyer shifts it to a high octane gear. This will definitely give the prosecutor something to fear. The facts are straightened now it’s time to finally steer.
The man in the mirror once publicly crucified humiliated inside, and tried never dabbled in that attack. Yet he still caught all of the flack. Hundreds of nights spent on the uncomfortable nightmarish rack. But here then comes the judge as the least fortunate try to resolve with the new found fact. Leaving here is all he wanted with his freedom and dignity intact. The stands were pact, the jury deliberates, not guilty, evidence not filthy, the gavel tolls, can this be all so real? This is the sound of the governmental deal trying to lay hate to determine one’s fate then to be sealed.
Hungered fuel I'm in trust
When sensed thralls me
It's, it's driven urge to I
Rocket fuelling me
It's high or low approach
Exciting this in me
I'm in catapult to never
Dying in moderns tree
.
we cannot pinpoint the day nor time when God created all that we see
but we know when fire was introduced as a part of mankind's destiny
fire gave birth to many things it's a blessing and a burden as well
it has many good properties but it also burns in hell
that which has the most potential for good has the most potential for evil too
but as long as we don't abuse fire it's Godly purpose will stay true
now Pentacost was the day when all men were on one accord
a Feast of the Harvest to celebrate the goodness of the Lord
on that day a mighty wind rushed over everyone
and all were set on fire by the Holy Spirit of the Heavenly Son
the Holy Spirit is the comforter and the essence of God's kind
the Holy Spirit is the presence of God that soothes our troubled minds
set on fire a burning bush was what Moses did see
in the presence of God awaiting direction for Israels' destiny
set on fire those three young Jewish men when into an inferno they were thrown
for refusing to bow down to any other only to the God that they had known
set on fire to remove the dross and impurities in life
set on fire by the Holy Spirit of Our Lord Jesus the Christ
baptism by fire to be purified by the spirit of the Lord
like on the day of Pentacost when all were on one accord
to be cleansed of all anger, all hurt, all bitterness and all of the pain
now filled with the Holy Spirit energized and enlightened in Jesus' name
an internal combustion has occured for from within you've been set on fire
a new passion has erupted for by the Spirit you've been inspired
now powered by the Holy Spirit infused with the octane that is Jesus Christ
set on fire with the need to live a more Godly life
Pentacost the day when all felt the presence of the Holy Lord
set on fire speaking in tongue yet all were on one accord
spin the lamp all the way down,
lay low the polio eradic skyline.
down to where beds exit through
lime hollow eyelids.
saint isotope on a pillowcase full
of bright neurons.
the mineral vertebrates standing
upright in the name of science shuffle
like ghost in florescent gowns.
a quick flutter of the eyelash and the
spirit returns to liquid.
microwave membranes lying on soft satin,
buzzing radon hewn pixels.
they float like tangerine slices in orange jellow.
strange apron grandmother for a god.
chernobol piety.... long robed orthodox priest
wandering through octane green forest nights.
Black shrouds blue
a dingy hue
This greedy minscus constricts us
~~~Mother Earth's shameful eyepatch~~
A gull's squak gurgled crude
chirping 89 octane birdsongs
forever grounded by fossil fuel fettered feathers
sharp eyes, glazed over, searching the horizon
for a savior from this senselessness
Feed the steely beasts,
produced in fleets,
chrome teeth and audible horns,
the black blood we gave them
and thirst for thanklessly.
Their evolution halted by prophets of profit
We extract that which we cannot put back
veins spew petroleum poison
hemmorhaging
Cuts bleed. Logically
Yet here stands man,
knife in hand
confounded by healing our wounded land
as figureheads foist fingers frenetically
***Inspired by Poetry Soup's Gulf Oil Spill contest!!
There was a diva from Vancouver
Her car was a Octane blue Lancer
Modelling was her passion
Day came, to show fashion
She lay in bed due to a hangover!
It felt so good, like we were movie stars
You were with me, my friends, in my suped-up car
Through the village street at such high-octane speed
Tyres screech, car screams, girls see.
Bump the kerb, skid through the bend
We are men in a car, driving like this mission won't end
Police give chase, blue lights flashing behind
This is where the night changes from fun to wild
Now forcing harder and sharper at corners and bends
One mistake now and it all ends.........
People gather near the pub
Streetlights shine over the blood
Car is dead, crashed into a wall
Friends are dead, seat belts and all!
Policeman is the last one I see
Pain, blood, metal sticking out of me
He winces when he sees the bloody mess
Looks into my eyes with a sad grimace
I hear the siren of the ambulance come
I turn my head to see the paramedics run
I turn back to see the policeman in the cold dark rain
With tears in his eyes he asks me my name
I smile and before I can speak it to him
The sounds all around and my sight go really dim
Then blackness as I hear my father cry and my mother scream
My brothers are so sad, my kitten yowls on my bed in the night,
he can't sleep.
A photo of me when I was in the scouts
A young smiling face with such promise and dreams
Over a coffin with me in.
My father still cries, my mother still screams.
When they draped the flag on your coffin mate
I was dumb, dead with it-
they ought to at least give you one last chance
to dance the dance of life-
you were the grass growing and the earth
firm beneath our feet,
you were the cotton on our backs the day
we sweated for glory on the pitch man!
The ball sailed right through every eye in the stadium
shot like a bolt straight into your hands,
feet that float and fly away, man what a sight!
You were there the day we found the champagne
in Searge's knapsack, we were soused,
so soused we just made it to parade with the west wind in our eyes
pulling the tears onto our faces, the day we went away-
the day we went to the desert
the day they took us in the Humvee
the day the Humvee bucked high like a grasshopper
leapin’ straight up
straight up-
the day we looked and you were a man with two arms and
we cried to see the legs gone, the legs you sent
like two pistons of dynamite
across the pitch like a piece of high-octane rocket-maniac
after that beaut of a ball,
the day we swore we'd come and drink your health,
stack the cans out back the way we used to
and shoot the breeze, bring it all on, let it all out-
we cried, Paul and Johnny- you remember?
Don't know if we cried
the day Crazy Connie died-
So it all comes down
to a flag here on the coffin and the guns
that they shoot to salute when you leave-
Donnie you were gentle and you shook our world.
Newspaper blows along rain-washed streets,
dying echoes of hash tags and tweets
promising hook-ups, flash mobs and meets,
long gone to their bed-sits and urban retreats.
Puddles painted with neon gaudy,
could be Mancunian, Scouse or Geordie,
late night streets, care-worn and tawdry,
home to the reveller, the lewd and the bawdy.
The siren's wail, the drunken fight,
the running feet of the loser's flight,
the screams of anguish hidden from sight,
sounds of the city, heightened at night.
Couples and couplings lurching and lairy,
high on the octane of Jack and Bloody Mary,
wandering zombie-like, staggering, starey,
on late night streets, decadent and scary.
With dawn's promise come different sounds,
the rubbish collectors doing their rounds,
policemen sorting the losts and the founds
night washed away like old coffee grounds.
We claim to love
but foolish pride swallows apologies
wrecks reconciliation and forgoes forgiveness
rendering sweetness bitter
it is an emotional hoarder
an insatiable sin
incessantly collecting resentment
commoditizing the priceless
bankrupting unity and burning optimism to ashes
it is an assassin’s bullet shattering the windows to the soul
it is a death kiss
pernicious and ubiquitous
convinced of its infallibility and yet
the ego is a manifold deception
a blindfold masquerading an x-ray
high octane recklessness eviscerating progress
it is arrogance mimicking affirmation
lending mystery to the vacuous
self-centered gibberish
rippling into infinity
and stripping love of its gist
it is delusions of grandeur
parading naked through town square
and fooling the fool alone