Best Pickup Truck Poems
April first drives up in a new Lamborghini,
Everyone knows it is one of her foolish tricks
She will be driving a beat-up pickup farm truck
In thirty days, when time comes to start the planting.
April, she flounces between winter and summer,
Calling herself spring but she is, frankly, confused.
By the tenth, she is tossing around snow flurries
She grins crazily; our warm coats are put away.
Next day or so her temperatures are soaring,
The snow has melted, and we are donning our shorts.
What the old folks always call "Blackberry Winter"
Strikes with vengeance, temperatures in the thirties,
April says maybe that heavy sweater will do.
She laughs by tax-filing day with strong gusty wind
Though ornamental trees are beginning to bud,
There's talk of late frost, April does not seem to care.
Another few days, and she lets the top down so
Warm breezes are embracing the faint scent of lime.
When April suggests a warm spring is here to stay
A blast of Arctic air nips buds with frosty dew
In a warm day or two, sure enough, April comes
Driving her pickup truck full of mulch and manure,
April plants the sturdy vegetables like kale.
Despite late frost, the tulips will soon burst open
Gentler rains, and April may settle down for good.
SIXTH PLACE WINNER
Written April 11, 2021
for "April Poetry Contest"
sponsored by Regina McIntosh
My car is old and fallin apart
Sometimes it doesn't even want to start
It has a hood the color blue
I really wish for something new
A lotto win, a ton of cash
I'd buy a new one in a flash
Maybe with a little luck
It could be a pickup truck
She had golden hair and a pickup truck
The girl was pullin' a U-Haul trailer
She came home to stay and to change her luck
Just to get shed of a blue eyed sailor
The girl was pullin' a U-Haul trailer
Promises were packed with purpose in mind
Just to get shed of a blue eyed sailor
Who lied and wasn't the marryin' kind
Promises were packed with purpose in mind
Cowboys she knew would replace that young salt
Who lied and wasn't the marryin' kind
Men who rode horses possessed no such fault
Cowboys she knew would replace that young salt
Then she would be free of men who might row
Men who rode horses possessed no such fault
She could just smile again and dance real slow
The girl was pullin' a U-Haul trailer
She came home to stay and to change her luck
Just to get shed of a blue eyed sailor
She had golden hair and a pickup truck
5/20/2017
For contest Favorite Pantoum for Lara Loo
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
(Sing to the tune "American Pie.)
I long, long time ago, I can still remember when,
Junk food made me smile,
And I knew if I had a chance,
That I could make my fatness dance,
And maybe I was happy for a while,
But McDonald's made me shiver,
With every burger they'd deliver,
Bad news on their doorstep,
I couldn't take one more step,
I can't remember if I cried,
When I passed size twenty-five,
But something touched me deep inside,
The day I knocked back French fries.
CHORUS....
So, bye, bye, McDonald's French fries,
Drove my chevy away from McDonald's,
didn't have a bevy,
I said goodbye to whiskey and rye,
Singing no more apple pies,
That's the end of obesity fries....
Did you go to McDonald's biomes?
Did you know you're changing your genomes?
Eating all those pesticides?
Now do you believe they love you guys?
Might as well eat dead flies!
And can you change evolution in real time?
CHORUS.......
I was an obese teenage bronco buck,
Driving to McDonald's in a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck,
The day I ate landfill in those French fries...
I started singing bye, bye obesity fries,
Drove my chevy, had no bevies,
And the burgers were dry,
This is the day I knock back French fries.
CHORUS.......
I met a girl who sang the blues,
]She'd passed turning size twenty-two,
I asked her if she ate junk food too,
She just smiled and drove away,
I drove down to the store no more,
Where I ate additives years before,
But the junk food store didn't care anyway...
CHORUS, CHORUS.....
(song lyrics)
Verse 1:
Now I can’t go fishin’, ‘cuz ya’ sold my rod and reel
Can’t go snow-racin’, ‘cuz ya’ sold my snowmobile
And I got flaws - that’s for sure - and sometimes run amuck
But the final straw that I can’t take: Ya’ sold my pickup truck
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Verse 2:
I didn’t care when ya’ bought that stuff on TV’s QVC
Or ‘cause ya’ always thought of me as your private Money Tree
Or catalog-orderin’ ever’thing from within ol’ Sears Roebuck
But I’ll be danged if I’ll sit still since ya’ sold my pickup truck!
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Verse 3:
So I went and saw a gypsy gal, and a curse on you imposed
To put sand in your chewin' gum and runners in your panty hose
And all your clothes and accessories to never, ever match
And chiggers in your bed sheets - so you’ll always have to scratch!
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
Verse 4:
I seen ya’ last Saturday night at Bubba’s Bar and Grill
The image of you in stripes and checks remains within me still
And them red chigger welts upon your nose and face
Tells me that the gypsy curse is workin’ ever’ place!
Chorus:
You can burn the house, shoot my dog and stomp my ol’ guitar
But when you sold my pickup truck, well, Honey, ya’ went too far
MY OLD FORD
I once had a '50 Ford
I bought it just because I was bored
It had been setting in a farmer's field
Where it had stopped and wouldn't yield
I hooked it behind Pa's old pickup truck
And out across the field I struck
Headed for the shade-tree mechanic's house
Knowing he would cuss and grouse
I parked this junk heap in his yard
He grumbled and sputtered long and hard
But went to work on it with skillful cunning
Certain that he could get it running
Get it running is what he did
I tell you, I nearly flipped my lid
My friends and I, all that summer
Rode the dirt roads in that little hummer
Until one day, it finally quit
And we knew that was the last of it
So I dragged it back to the farmer's field
Where it still sets and will not yield
28 August 2011
I've been doing my current job for 32 years; lots of travel, places and people. A few memories stick out; my own Book of Hours, it would be almost one per year.
The first job I was on was Four Corners Power Plant, near Farmington, New Mexico, on Navajo Nation land, where the turbines brought electricity to the people, and the smokestacks brought death to the indigo plants in the area. Shiprock, the volcanic mountain, stands to the west. I was working the nightshift, and one day went to see it. After sleeping in the morning, I drove west along US Highway 64, toward the mountain. On the way, I passed a slower moving vehicle, a red pickup truck with lots of people in it, four in the cab, five or six sitting in the back. Locals, Native Americans, Navajos.
The mountain was superb in shadowed relief as the afternoon sun went lower. I got good pictures in the clear air, under nothing but blue sky. At 8 p.m. I'd have to be back in to work, so the time came to return east toward the hotel. After a few miles there were flashing lights in the distance; as I got closer I saw they were Navajo Tribal Police vehicles.
There had been an accident - the pickup truck I had passed had run off the road. It was where the highway went through a cut in the hills, red rock walls rising on either side, red sand and dust below. Bodies wrapped in white sheets, out of place against the red; blindingly white, impossibly white, shouldn't be.
I drove past the scene very slowly, and now I don't know if the three Navajo Police officers were moving or not. I see them standing stone still, burdened, slightly bent over, heads looking at the ground, with that big, beautiful blue sky above them. Shock and sadness stepping down from above, grief being born. Navajos are quiet mourners, and I wonder if in the great cycle of all things, of which death is a part, the spirits were then walking away, softly, across their hearts. Law enforcement is no stranger to traffic accidents, and tragic loss of life is sometimes seen, but this was more - this was their people.
Tell me
What you see
When you
Look at me
is it really what you thought
it was?
And I've
had enough
of things like love
and bitterness.
Got no one to thank but the
clouds in the sky,
but why, why do they seem
so grateful?
Sign me up for the winter
cuz the summer's got me down
When I see all these hard bodies
it makes me frown
I think that he understood it, but refused to accept it.
He was past getting old, but he was still full of life and love.
He said to me one Sunday morning, "They took my truck".
His children took his truck to stop him from driving.
To Ken, driving was control; driving was freedom.
To him, he was losing the control of his freedom.
We all were born to be free, and I also understood,
but I am certain I would be as unaccepting as was he.
He turned 92 last December and passed last February.
He loved his family, people, and coffee, hot and black.
He loved his college football team and his pickup truck.
His kids took his truck, but never his football or his coffee.
From a nursing home, he watched his team win the national
championship, again.
I had never witnessed the beauty of family senior caring
until his family. They provided safe transportation and good
housekeeping. They would pick the two of them up nearly
every Saturday for site seeing rides along the Northern California country sides.
Ken and his also aged wife Lahoma lived in their own home almost
until the end. They loved deeply and were loved deeply by others.
070621PSCtest, The Last Dance, Craig Cornish. 11P
The Grinch lies exhausted at the North Pole;
tired of chasing drunk reindeer from his still.
And he's sure to be lectured by Santa;
as if it's his fault, they lick up the spill.
He thinks Santa should ride a pickup truck;
who uses reindeer and a sleigh these days?
And his cookbook, titled "How To Serve Deer,"
well, that could be taken in many ways.
It's boring acting traditionally;
a little mischief adds spice to his pluck.
But elves don't appreciate his genius,
like greasing Santa, so he won't get stuck.
Today, youngsters are much more food-conscious;
spinach and beef jerky are nutritious.
And therefore, why all the hullabaloo;
so what if candy is more delicious?
Santa, you see how it's not all his fault;
for he's being the best Grinch he can be.
And he wonders if, maybe this year, you'd
leave him a gift under the Christmas tree.
Civilization?
See the verdant farmland
rolling softly through the hills,
just before construction crews
move in for the kill.
There's the tiny country church
Perched up in the wood,
Bounded tight on either side
By prefab neighborhoods.
Behold the vanishing herds of cows
and their wistful lowing calls;
I'll miss their curious, quizzical looks
When pasture becomes a mall.
See the pretty little bunny
Standing by the road,
just before the pickup truck
provides reason for this ode.
A NEW COUNTRY SONG
I was ravaged today
by
three country songs
on the truck radio
each moaning the lyrics
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".
(God! What woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!)
I reckon he lost
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
finishing each and every line!
Is there no shame no style
no class no original music
anymore?
Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with his "The Perfect
Country and Western Song".
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup
into the train!
Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named un-tamed
legends! what have you
let happen?
Where are the lonesome, snow white
doves, the mule train sorrows,
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies or the Luckenbach wails
of songs gone by?
Why was I ravaged today
by
The flashing neon sign
re-echoed ghosts
of disturbed country music,
not re-assured by soulful
originality?
Are we no longer able
to compose, to play
in a twitterless world
of art, creativity, quality?
Alas we have lost; I want
to scream!
"Turn off the radio, the IPOD,
close the door!"
I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture, and
. . . "drink a beer!".
I’m not a redneck, but in Georgia I attract them like flies.
They all have the best pickup truck that money can buy.
With heavy southern accents, they lay their line on thick.
Calling me honey and sweetie, which is refreshing to this city chick.
I don’t need a lot of money from the guy I choose,
I only ask for love and respect, and no short fuse.
I’m looking for someone to make my passion ignite when we kiss,
So these redneck guys in Georgia, I will not dismiss.
Watermelon Memories
When summer time comes around
Down memory lane is where I’m bound
Time to get some watermelon
Not the kind the stores are sellin’
But the kind that Grandpa grew
Pink and juicy through and through
We’d go down to Uncle Thurman’s farm
Where I fell under Thurman’s charm
That was down in Caroline
With big green melons on the vine
I’d sit down in his pickup’s bed
“Hold on tight, my uncle said”
I bumped and bounced down to his patch
“Don’t tell your mom or hell I’ll catch”
Down from the pickup I would jump
We’d give the melons all a thump
And when we found the perfect one
Back to the pickup truck I’d run
“Don’t let it roll around” he said
So I’d hug the melon in the bed
Back to Grandma’s house we’d go
The melon and I rocking to and fro
When we got back they’d all be waiting
With big old grins, anticipating
Daddy sliced it down the middle
Offering each of us a little
But as my uncle’s favorite niece
I’d hold out for the biggest piece
No need for salt, I just dug in
The juices dripping down my chin
I ate the flesh down to the rind
A not so dainty way to dine
The process was the same in old Kentuck
With my cousins Joe and Chuck
And it didn’t stop by any means
Even well into my teens
Seed spitting contests were the norm
Though I never mastered speed or form
I still recall the fun we had
With grandpa, grandma, mom and dad
They’ve passed away and yet I see
Them in each summer memory
Of watermelons on the vine
When I was their’s and they were mine