Best Radiator Poems
she walks into the room
the same way she has for 40 years—
half-asleep mumbling about the price of eggs
but crap, she still makes my heart stop.
you’re the last busted payphone
that somehow still dials home.
you’re the only damn thing
that still makes sense
in a world full of unpaid bills and
broken air conditioners.
your heart’s a busted radiator
still kicking out heat when I need it most.
The cigarette burn on our old kitchen counter—
scarred in, not going anywhere.
hell, you’re a rusted-out truck that
still starts when the whole damn world’s frozen over.
we aren’t perfect but we lasted.
and that’s better than any damn valentine poem.
Every time I sneeze or cough
Either my radiator leaks or my exhaust backfires!
Shouldn't be a big surprise
It's a definite sign we ain't no young chicken no more
When you grunt just putting on your socks
It's the ninth inning with two men out
If you have to turn up the volume on TV
Till it shatters the wine glasses in your dining room credenza
You are not far from the end
Another sign that you ain't no spring chicken
Is when you repeat the same sentence twice in a row
Is when you repeat the same sentence twice in a row
Also when you forget to zip up after you pee
What's worse though is when you forget to zip down
When everything hurts and what doesn't hurt doesn't work
It feels like the morning after and you haven't been anywhere
Your knees buckle but your belt won't
You sink your teeth into a steak and they stay there
You sing along with elevator music
You have a dream about prunes
Your nose and ears are hairier than your head
In dog years you're dead
Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional
And finally... inside every old person is a young person
Wondering what the hell happened!
© Jack Ellison 2014
The cat sat on the windowsill,
And stirred a little in his sleep.
Each breath a cloud upon the glass
And outside the snow was falling fast
The children all went out to play,
But he couldn’t be bothered to move today.
The radiator hummed, and the woman hummed,
And the cat hummed in his sleep.
And all about the little house,
The snow was getting deep.
The woman sat beside the fire,
And sung a merry little tune.
As she sung, back and forth she rocks,
Darning a pair of colorful socks.
Her hair is turning silver-gray,
But you’d never believe she had aged a day
Since she and the cat and a box full of shoes
Came to the house on the dune.
And all about the little house,
The snow reflected the moon.
In the waiting room, the plant
Sat near the windowsill.
Purple leaves were nodding
Like they had their own free will.
Their skinny stems supported
What were leaves split up in threes;
All were dancing to the music
From the radiator breeze.
Outside the sun was shining
Though the day was brisk and cold.
That brightness drew the plant
And like Svengali, had a hold.
For every leaf was straining
To get closer to the light.
I wondered if they’d loosen up
When day turned into night.
I guess we’re not so different
‘Cause it’s natural to yearn
For whatever makes us cozy
And it’s to that source we’ll turn.
Farewell. Great lady of the sea,
your sad expression impressed
against the wry wind screen,
your final moment fixed
within a haunting mind. One by
one the family file out, dazed,
yet the radiator to be checked,
the headlights and paint work
to be inspected, red, yellow and
blue entrails to be rid of, blood
to be cleared, a final polish
to hide away the evidence.
I switch off. From the furore,
My eyes. Stray towards the hedgerow,
there you hang, ensnared beneath
a thorny crown, reminding me
of a Sunday story long ago.
Predator encircles above, soon to
play his part in nature’s garbage
disposal plan, a cruel mission
so necessary. Yet it was
only minutes ago, the heavens
were yours, the lonely ocean in
need of your presence, the lone
sailor, bearer of sustenance
in return for a moment or two.
I imagine your fledgling squawking
in anticipation, only then
to grow slowly weaker without
the means to understand, in this
a harsh expansive world. “Thanks to
Hollywood” Life is so cheap, even
yours. Only I among five give
you a second glance, so even
if I had the answer, to the
reasons why you’re mutilated
body is there, and I am here;
to whom. Do I tell it to?
© Harry J Horsman 1993
To her, their apartment was the whole world—a small but cozy place where she felt safe and loved.
It was early morning. She heard her sister squeal with joy hearing that schools would be closed today due to the heavy snowfall.
In her pink onesie pajamas, she shuffled across the speckled brown-and-gold carpet. It was worn and frayed in places but soft under her little feet. The living room was cramped, the walls filled with photos of a family's happy life. An old sofa was wedged between mismatched end tables and a wooden bookcase overflowing with encyclopedias. The plastic-lined cushions sagged from years of use.
A crack and stain on the ceiling traced where water had once leaked. The radiator clanked and hissed, making the windows sweat against the icy city air. She climbed onto the sofa. The plastic cold and squeaky beneath her pj's. Her small white footies barely reached the edge.
Their living room was everything—
a playroom, a dining room, and, on the coldest nights, a bedroom where they all huddled together when Mom turned on the oven for extra warmth.
Her pigtail tickled the back of her neck,
but her eyes stayed glued to the TV.
A gray rabbit with twitching whiskers dashed across the screen,
and a little man with a big nose and chubby legs was chasing after him, gun in hand.
Outside, snowflakes swirled around the window, piling in soft heaps on the fire escape.
She and her sister would make snowballs today
and lie in the snow laughing, making angels.
The smell of coffee, fried ham, eggs, and toast wafted from the kitchen.
She was looking forward to the delicious frosted sugary oat cereal
Mom would be preparing soon.
Dad had just walked in from work.
His usual booming voice echoing down the hallway. Mom’s quiet hush followed from the kitchen.
Everything was perfect. Everything in her little world. . .
Until she heard the gunshot—
and Dad lay dead on the kitchen floor.
Mulga Mick
The ice was thick round Mulga Mick,
His thoughts were in disorder,
Shiela had gone off with another chick,
Got the “Raw Prawn” bloody sort of,
His car had died when a Roo he tried,
To eat the old cars number plate,
Death slapped down, upon the Roo applied,
Destroyed the water radiator,
So staggering through the ice an snow,
Was poor ole Mulga Mick,
He wore the Roo hide, wrapped you know,
Pocket knife had skinned it quick.
Roo tail soup for Mulga Mick,
Before he walked away,
He staggered back to the township,
Catch a new lady is the only way.
Don Johnson
John, when your girl runs off with another girl,
you feel like you've been given a raw prawn. aussie slang ...
Tony, like mcguyver you have to use what's available to survive....
(THIS IS A FICTIONAL POEM)
It was a horrible thing that I saw.
My girlfriend wears a padded bra.
Her chest is flatter than a pancake.
It made me mad because her boobs are fake.
She got excited when I started to flirt.
As she jumped up and down, the falsies came flying out of her shirt.
She was so embarrassed that her face turned red.
It was a day that she was bound to dread.
I love her and I decided to give her another chance.
I can't judge her because I always have a radiator hose in my pants.
You can be my hubcap if you let me be your wheel.
The love I have for somebody like you is real.
I can give you plenty of loving. I aim to please.
I will be your radiator if you will be my antifreeze.
You are so attractive to my eye my dear.
You’ve got my transmission shifting into high gear.
There’s no need to wait four thousand miles for an oil change.
A date with you and me is something I can easily arrange.
I can give you a tune-up with a new set of spark plugs.
You just have to be around to give me plenty of hugs.
Once upon a time I could change the oil and give the car a lube,
Tune the timing, change the plugs and patch an inner tube.
In days of yore I'd do simple jobs beneath the old elm tree.
Nowadays, I daren't twist a wrench without an engineer's degree!
In olden days things were simple to work on beneath the hood.
Stuff crammed under the hoods today is not at all understood!
Why! You must pull the doggone engine to fix a simple leak,
And everything is diagnosed by a smart-alecky computer geek!
Now I can't even locate the spark plugs, I must humbly confess,
And where the life-sustaining battery reposes is anybody's guess!
I must even contact the local garage to get the radiator filled.
'Tis plain to see that all is governed by the national mechanic's guild!
In simpler times the way to detect an errant rod and piston knock,
Was to put a screwdriver to your ear and listen through the block.
Nowadays, technicians lounge about with computers in their paws,
And in a trice can flesh out your automobile's ailing flaws!
Back then, I could replace brake linings and distributor caps,
Change a fan belt or replace a gasket or two perhaps.
But all these fancy gadgets are beyond me - I can't figure them out.
So I'll gnash my teeth and sit beneath the spreading elm and pout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
It was like a fallen phoenix
Fired with rust and memories,
The body was open to the rooks,
Its ribbed, bare chassis, opened arms,
Unsure whether to defend or
Or make love to the falling sky
The radiator, home to busy insects,
Tiny carnivores, stood in sentinel,
A figurehead before the rotten mast;
For where had once been pedals
Now gaped rusty sink holes,
Observers to the oily brew below
Sans wheels to show; wheels once
Rolled, on busy metalled roads,
Where policemen, eagle-eyed
Checked for wily gangsters, riding
On the leather seats inside: now
Rat food gone to ratty- hell, amid
The scrub and surrounds, tilted
Viking coffin, waiting for heat and
Cleansing, cracking-fire, opening
Doors to buckled, automotive rest
Spring and the great reveal!
Winter is now in full retreat,
those darkest days of rain and sleet,
the clouds will part, as if cut by knife,
the sun warms the earth to beckon life
I throw back the curtains in every room,
to let in the rays and light the gloom,
but then as I blink and my eyes adjust,
I recoil with horror at all that dust!
Spring cleaning is a chore I hate,
but it must be done now, it can't be late,
I mop and dust and polish with wax,
I can't sit in the sun, no time to relax
Now to the kitchen, where I cater,
to remove the dust from the radiator,
down the side of the oven, a treasure trove,
a forgotten chip and a garlic clove
Every room is brought up to muster,
thanks to me and my big yellow duster,
my muscles ache, my energy's sapped,
my face is aglow, my hands are chapped
I think I've finished, but no, wait,
I glance outside beyond the garden gate,
a rusty barbecue, and a lawn full of weeds,
a fence that needs painting, and sprouting seeds
Forgive me if I don't welcome this season,
the work it brings is beyond all reason,
I prefer the winter, the storms and the ice,
curled up with a film and some chocolate that's nice!
Cheryl Darby 2015
not in the heart again
for chrissakes it's like Swiss cheese
decoffinated please I'm a yet ambulatory zombie
off his medication as usual
alternatives to logic 101 with Prof. Spike
far too much work for a dead end
saw his only ally the embalmers needle
left his innards spilled in the sand
history in its entirety mocked his comprehension
had the nation in tears and then nausea
several dueling scars graced his genitals
if our perceptions already lie
why shouldn't we
I had to laugh
it was all I could do to keep from smiling
even after a thousand years of AI research
the electronic government was helpless
my Microsoft forehead radiator
absolutely charmingly couldn't get any focus
but the Royal Society of Blind Philosophers
helped me with my little problem
a miracle of recipe repair
because our endorphin soup is a bit thin
the quicksilver cooks ate first and fell asleep
having thrown away their brains long before
in the field kitchen of the gods
after the air raid sirens of postmodernity
can there be too much truth
for an army of blood diamond merchants
now a bit more about para electrics
if only I were at liberty to discuss it
yes imprecision can carry signal
but the place is crawling with dilettantes
wearing their secret butt plugs
it's a guessing game as you can see
petitioning for a visually diagrammatic idiom
although it's a devilish seesaw but let us restart
The Oblivion Ride was the big theme park attraction
my extended family was in the sideshow
justifiably taken for a pack of fools
then the sun went down and never came up again
and we stepped into the stone circle
chanting evidence is preferable
to the moonlit tombstone
good luck with that in your airwaves
broadcast on radio Sarajevo
signal drifting drifting drifting
with minds great and small
and smaller and smaller
the Internet is the yearned for Messiah
there it's done and out and not to be unseen
you wrestle with it while I proceed
dashing among startled commuters
mesmerizing the fact finding committee
their dictatorship of x-ray leeches
tossed him out of several monasteries
apparently the production quotas were relaxed
in a kaleidoscope of normalcy
the style crazed mannerist martinets
howdy do nail in my shoe
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Here lies my notepad, covered in scrawl, my pencil rolls on to the table
I watch as it rolls and suspect it may fall, but it stops at the edge, balanced and stable
The cloth it is on is yellow and blue, sliced into squares of three inches or so
Not every one has the same hue, but it's waterproof cloth and useful for dough
There are mats on the table roughly stacked, big ones and small ones, kind of cyan
and marbled indigo patterns are tracked, round the neatly drawn boarder of coppery tan
A stainless steel trivet spirals beside, bright in the sunshine, it's hurting my eyes
The daffodils in their blue vase abide, the sweetest aroma doth rise to the skies
I sit here on one of five chairs, all wooden and carved, and matching the table
And because my wife cares, each one has a cushion, but you'll not find a label
She made them by hand, and each one is tied, with bows in the corners to stop it from falling
To the carpet that's blue upon which they stand, with delicate swirls and flowers it's crawling
A cuckoo clock hangs on the wall by the window, it's occupant hidden and quiet for now
But when he pops out and looks just below, to one side is a painting we love and how
It shows some puppies who run round a bend, one of them trips and slides onto the frame
Beneath the picture a pipe doth wend, to a radiator that's white, they all look the same
Behind me stands our pride and joy, a dresser of magnificent proportions
top shelf holds a wind up toy, and in the back a silver platter, reflects the room with weird distortions
Here we keep our trinkets and glasses, safe from the danger of falling or dust
And as I write the morning passes, my coffee mug's empty, there are chores to do and I fear I must
PD's dare was "Can you really poet and rhyme everything around you"
After a long period of time, there was an awful stench in the garage.
After ceaseless investigations, we were clueless of the origin of stink.
It smelt like dead mice, but there was no sign of any.
It smelt like gas, and we feared there might be a leak.
The Gas Utility came out; but found no sign of leakage.
Though we felt safer, I worried as the smell grew worse.
Some time ago, we discontinued using our second vehicle.
After some time, one day I pushed the vehicle into the driveway.
I do not remember the reason I moved it;
but it had nothing to do with the odor.
The vehicle was a very popular one;
The best selling SUV at one time.
We also grew older and decided that one vehicle would suffice.
So we dropped the insurance, ‘non-opted it’, and parked it in the garage.
Currently, it’s still a good and desirable vehicle.
But it was the choice of my wife; not mine
Notwithstanding, I was surprisingly pleased with it.
It became aged and began to wear with costly repairs.
One day I walked past the SUV as it sat in the driveway.
You guessed it. I smelt the same stink that was inside the garage.
The riddle was solved; the mystery was resolved; I found Mr. Stink.
He was in the radiator; I flushed and ran him out; he was forever gone.
09242016 PS Contest, Stink, Anthony Slausen