Best Pistons Poems
An expert rider, a solid horse, what greater pals can there be?
To stretch the land amongst the hills, to charge past the wind and be free.
The horse's hooves slam to the earth like an auto's fiery pistons.
His mane flows like a mighty river while his wild wide-eye glistens.
Rider balances, holding the reins, and moves as one with the horse.
She gentles her steed, who knows he's safe, and so they complete the course.
How great to ride with the speed of a 'comet' on an Autumn day.
How great to pace with the thrill of the ride, to live what comes your way.
Categories:
pistons, horse,
Form:
Rhyme
She vibrates, a chassis minus shock absorption.
A painting, the nude descends a staircase,
rings of Saturn etched in a vacuum tube.
Or Eniac of twisted cords and switchboards.
She isn't programmed to see light beams
spraying through the trees,
nor silver bearings of morning dew.
There are no bees plunging like pistons
in the flowers, no circuit board on the step.
She climbs the jamb as a bot returning to its task.
Monitors flicker as nanoseconds pass unnoticed,
but the galaxy ends at the lintel.
She's a child of Mir, suspended upside down
in a universe where falling isn't death,
but the failure of electrodes.
Then silent as a dead star she descends.
All drives cease functioning.
She is still as a scarab,
the light years casting sand dunes on sphinxes,
until legs spasm as though coding
a final matrix for iron butterflies waiting to be born.
Categories:
pistons, insect, technology,
Form:
Imagism
Build me an engine –lady of my dream,
Let it be powered by eternal steam.
May patience be your tool of design,
Planning completeness with a cunning mind.
To drive the pistons of a soul’s production,
We need fire with extreme combustion.
This fire from the fervor of powerful prayer
Will create the steam with warmth to spare.
The engine comes to life with a blast and a toot,
And begins to harvest the spiritual fruit.
Run on my soul, with speed aplenty;
For the harvest is rich and the prayers are many.
Categories:
pistons, health, imagination, inspirational, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
Here I rest, a rusting hulk
Alone, aloof, within my bulk
The hiss of steam within my veins
The pistons pulling at the reins
Mere memories now of a loyal life
Now round my rivets rust is rife
No clank of coal, no whistle shout
No churning wheels, no water spout
Now rust flakes fast to line my grave
Where only leaves and litter pave
This epitaph to a faithful slave
And don't deny I served you well
Yet now condemned within my cell
Of rusted rails that bind me fast
Those guiding hands of days long past
When smells of grease and hissing steam
Echoed gleams and children's screams
As stones and steel rushed past my head
Now tears of rain make up this bed
A burial cloak for a servant laid
To rest and rust in romance dead
Categories:
pistons, nostalgia,
Form:
Elegy
Virginia's abound with hills that roll off her shoulders
Wet rocks glisten on the edge of the lazy water
Translucent fish arching through the cold channels
Silver barbed hooks rusting in tree trunks
Dangling over the water, and breathing life into the earth
Wet like your skin, see-through blue eyes
Making waves as the children pirouette off the stone cliffs
Disappearing into the emerald green and slate shadows
Meeting the cool rush of the river when they get down there
Or that old carp that Lizzy caught last summer but she let go
Swim bladders shining like mirrors, reflecting oily promises
Running after the great blue, pistons heaving in the hills
Soot on daddy's solemn brow, over his gentle eyes
They all come running, soaking and plodding home
Eager hands grasping for the pie in the window
While the last beat of the summer wind kicks around
Makes the quilt with many colors take flight on the line
One more day under the belt, and another notch in the bed post
Sleep like kings, little Southern Royalty
That old time hang dog moon will see you through
Categories:
pistons, beautiful, old, summer, old,
Form:
Free verse
His hand is strafing the castellation on his trumpet, the valves moving up down up down like deranged pistons under the random machine gun fire of his fingers. Each note is a projectile that concusses the air, chases the one before it, nudges it from behind, bleeds into it, and is itself tailgated by the next one, all the way down the line in unrelenting succession, until all the distinct notes fuse, compacted into a single, furious, careening soundscape that leaves the ear always half a beat behind, struggling to catch up, out of breath, high on an overdose of heard adrenalin.
sounds supersonic
air graffitied with contrails of soaring notes
solo flight
Still they come, the notes, jostling and pouring from the bell of the trumpet glinting in the small cone of spotlight, the man’s puffed cheeks like a magician’s hat from which all kinds of disparate, crazy things - playing cards, rabbits, ribbons, doves - appear and instantly cohere into a hyperventilating sonic dream. You’re caught off guard by every note: you never heard it coming, then you hear it, and you’re snatched by it and all its brethren, and carried into the kinetic night.
ears beguiled
vibrations collide, collude, segue
harmony
Categories:
pistons, appreciation, art, imagery, inspiration,
Form:
Haibun
Rhyme Time III - Death (12/2017)
The foe, their ship, it must be found.
The engine stirs, the pistons pound.
The decks vibrate, the tone, that sound.
On the horizon a singular mast
Alter our course n' make us fast.
Prepare the decks, prepare to blast,
And deny the foe an ocean so vast.
Increase our speed, begin the turn.
Spin the propeller, churn n' churn
Our guns will fire, their ship will burn
Our bow moves forward chasing her stern
Now in range, our radars slew
Balanced n' deadly, our guns do too.
We fire our shot; our aim is true.
The dead are many, the living few.
Their bodies now bob in crimson foam.
It is my ocean, not their home.
Now turn n’ steady, more sea to comb.
It is my destiny the waves to roam.
The foe, their ship, it must be found.
Categories:
pistons, death,
Form:
Rhyme
Last night's storm
has left its artwork on the beach,
a postmodernist exhibition
of brown seaweed strewn in clumps
like hair on a barbershop floor,
broken seashells
and a fallen rainbow of plastics
strung out along the shore
where now an exhausted sea
licks the leftovers of a meal.
Chaos has been distilled down
to washed up artifacts
and red bottle caps, drinking straws
and spoons buried deep inside a ball
of yellow twine. I cannot make
much sense of what is on display
or glean from this haphazard art
a hint of meaning
other than in its making.
All seems uncoupled, specimens
torn from lonely souls, bits
and pieces coughed up
out of the exhaust of a huge machine
whose pistons pump and drive
a spinning wheel that has no purpose.
I pick up a plastic sandal
and wonder whose foot
it once belonged to, then put it back
and walk home
alone.
Categories:
pistons, art, sea, storm,
Form:
Free verse
Diagonal snow
Glides effortless through
the countryside of the
Amputee windshield
For the passenger side
Has always had a reticent view
Steam rises loftily
From a topless treat
Of gas station coffee
That which further
Obfuscates the scene
Mousey and silent
Each flake falls
Like the wings of
An owl unhurried
Speckling the air
With flurries of tiny
Feathers
If snow is a blanket, is the
Earth a frightened child?
Is there a force, a specter
So haunting it summons
A crystal storm that beguiles,
Sure, a burden to some
But a spectacle for all.
High beams undress
The night, slipping away
Its silken onyx sundress
In its unblinking gaze I
Recall conversations with
Someone I no longer see
Hoping for fireplace romance
Surrounded in snow globe scenery
I try not to live
in the squall of regret
Even if every drop
Falls so softly, I must
Simply keep my foot
On the petal, and listen
To the engine’s counsel
Its kind whispering pistons.
Categories:
pistons, loneliness, memory, night, silence,
Form:
Free verse
THE UNHOLY TERROR OF LITTLE TOM
The bashing sounds of thunder echo in reverberation
to the electrifying bolts of lightning that illuminated
every single room from dark to light just seconds earlier.
Sheets of rabid rain torpedo upon a leaky roof.
Broken limbs of trees tossed away by raucous sheets of sleet
ram hard against the battered frame of the small cottage.
Little Tom holds close in a fetal position
immobilized in fear and bowed down as a non person
waiting stupefied quivering and frozen in spaceless
timeless obedience to all his emotions.
The vibrations of the shaken windows
push and pull in harmonic rhythms
accelerating into a persistent succession
of unrelenting pounding pistons
upon the naked wooden structure.
Little Tom awaits in terror for the moment
when the storm gates will crash in
allowing the blizzard to surge the void
and tear obliquely at his tender
weakened shivering flesh.
He ties to hide by pressing deeper into the blackness of the night.
But the sparks of the fireplace dancing in rapid cadence
against the wall reveal the shadow of his huddled form.
Wet and convulsing in unbecoming behavior
Little Tom yells out DADDY, DADDY!
.
His father, lays dormant and unconscious
in a drunken stupor passed out and vacant
on an unmade bed.
Worn and withered forlorn and terrified Little Tom
in one last whimper, cries himself to sleep
CAK 5-16-2013
Categories:
pistons, abuse, fear,
Form:
Blank verse
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it echoes across the vast
Continental divide, connecting the Pacific and Atlantic
Coastal shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
It raged in blazing thunder, leaving a storm cloud of white
Smoke in it's wake.
Lightning's hell speed, drives this devil's steed, with flames
Fire, feeding it's belly, by coal and sinews muscled sweat.
The wrought iron beast emerges, from the black pitch of night,
It's sharpen wheels of harden metal, cut, slicing through the
Raw flesh of mother earth, leaving her bleeding crimson red.
Bound and shackled, is this monstrous man-made beast,
Held captive, by the leg irons of progress.
Men covered in soot and ash, tend to the heart and hearth,
Of this demon bringing forth greed's prosperity.
Greased and oiled, pistons push gears, driving this seemingly
Living creation, of mechanical engineering, lit are it's eyes of
Fire, burning through the blackness of night.
The engineer holding the throttle to the floor,
Praying to God, he'll see the sun's dawning
Once more.
Tribal chieftains stand tall on a grassy knoll,
Observing the iron horse below, as the eagle
Soars above, shedding it's feathers in mid airs flight.
As the weeping woman cries, for her people,
For she alone, realizes what is it come.
The mighty buffalo, roam freedoms open
Tundra, as a herd of millions, soon to be
Nothing but dust shadows, phantom ghosts
Legendary beasts hunted by the native braves.
Around the sacred camp fires of old these
Ancient story's of the courageous hunters, shall
Be retold to generation to come.
The mighty Buffalo are brought to the brink of
Extinction by the long rifles of the white mans gun.
Yet these white devils still come, like a tidal wave,
Washing the prairies beauty away.
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it
Echoes across the vast continental divides,
Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific coastal
Shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
pistons, adventure, america, culture, history,
Form:
Free verse
Steam powered steel wheels,
pushing pistons in cycles
of captured time.
Categories:
pistons, time, travel,
Form:
Haiku
Some are shiny
Fuel injected or carbureted
Hands washed after work or grimy
Green lights anticipated
Some are small block
Bored out pistons roar
Pride, nothing stock
New valves, what a chore
Overhead cams pushed to the limit
Rocker arms at full extension
Gears a ’grinding, spin it
Timing belt at full tension
Intake manifold a ’breathing
Camshaft spinning
Exhaust seething
Races, if lucky, winning
Linear forces generated
Altered chemical synergy
Fuel incinerated
Glorious mechanical energy
Categories:
pistons, technology,
Form:
Quatrain
I think of my body as if it’s an old car!
In the beginning, new pistons and rings,
Well fashioned parts, I could go very far.
Never a care for what long mileage brings.
First comes the wear and tear on the tires.
That’s an easy fix, just keep buying more.
Electrical fails, put in new wires…
Oh no! a small leak, watch the liquids pour!
If something breaks, replace with a new part,
But that solution won’t go very far,
For you can never go back to the start.
“Cus in the end, you’re still an old car!
Categories:
pistons, car, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
I was riding the railway tracks of my fissures
Deep into my darkest inner thoughts
Lost and dying in the snowfall of my winter
And back again
From a mental anguish like a splinter
Never slowing down to quench my thirst
From a desire to be first
And so you appeared... Mr. Coalman
Power to you, Sir!
And so I take the shovel of coal
To start the steam engine and commence my travels
Darker than the pistons you feed
To master my trade
I see the white in your eyes
I smile at the glint exposed further down
And continue like a rollercoaster...
On through the tunnels
On through the loops and slides
The shovel never leading my hands
With sweat soaking my shirt
feet never leaving my boots
Stubbornness of such single mindedness
I want to extend my hand to say
“Thank you! Thank you for everything
For all the warm nights
And safe journeys thus far
Over undulating mountain sides and unstable bridges
Just as you feed my fire
On this scenic journey,
A life still on track with the passengers I chose to bring along
For the ride you steer in spite of my doubts and fears”
Categories:
pistons, inspirational,
Form:
Prose