Best Sedans Poems
can these words I write today,
be heard by those who make us pay
in blood and money for their sins,
and still be heard above the din
of press imbedded deep within
the walls too thick to hear the cries
of torture victims, ruined lives,
across this Country we call 'Free'
majority, we disagree,
with brutal, heartless policies,
now voices, yours, yes you and me,
if you stand and disagree,
they'll come for you in black sedans
your name they'll take, identity,
no trace of you will searchers see
so stand and fight for this great land,
in 'God We Trust' .....set us free!
Categories:
sedans, political
Form:
Verse
Courting days are long over now
men, well, what does define a man?
Certainly, it is not merely physical?
yet one would expect manliness to
involve some sort of strength?
Does a man let a woman cry?
Does a man make a woman cry?
Honey DO this! Honey move-do that!
The theater is mostly empty now,
no sedans emptying bushel loads of kids,
no popcorn flying through Saturday afternoon’s air.
The kids are reigned in plopped in front of laptops,
too elastically rubber-kneed to walk more than
from the bed to the chair.
I mean the lounge chair, where
they slouch in perpetuity.
A decade or two of days to reframe
two generations of total couch potatoes.
They sit glued to their IPhone, IPods, Kindle’s
not writing, not composing but gaming.
It’s enough to make a mother cry, daily.
Fathers rush down packed highways,
single sardines in smaller and smaller cans,
toward their own desktop comps.
Carpal tunnel runs rampant over the populous.
Emptying box, after box of environmentally correct
reused paper tissues and green nappies into landfills,
online they bet on the daily double.
Categories:
sedans, change,
Form:
Free verse
The Skyscrapers are so high; they seem to pierce the cerulean sky
Transpired by all those neon lights
So many have succumb to the city’s plight
People are distraught by the polluted stench of death in the air
Murder rate ever-increasing; does anyone care?
Concrete high rises and towering buildings form a ghetto
A utopia of poverty where drug addiction has control
The name of the forgotten enshrined by graffiti on the walls
A place where personality and pride stands tall
Cornered lives where fast money is the name of the game
A con, a player, and a hustler is still one in the same
On every street corner there is a church, a carryout, or a bar
A city that’s besieged by police brutality that has gone too far
Sedans and SUV's windows rattle from the loud deep-toned songs of Hip hop
The sound carries for avenues and blocks nonstop around the clock
The city never sleeps, so the crime never stops
Because there are criminal infested streets, policed by even belligerent cops
Weed smoke fumes subtlety filling so many lungs
The futile hum of engines at traffic lights becomes the city song
In this place of indignity there would be no pity
Welcome to SIN CITY
Categories:
sedans, america, city, life, poverty,
Form:
Rhyme
THE UN-BEETABLE BUG
Simplicity, elasticity, beauty in the thirties,
not like some sedans, ugly and beastly
This popular car and it's history from the past,
from it's World War two template, it sure did last
How many know why it's being came to be,
a car for the German people, to what you've seen
The Sixties starts the decade of the Summer of love,
unique form of the bug fits these times like a glove
Born in Germany in yellow, black, blue or white,
but see I desire the color red so alluringly bright
Won't you agree, it looks sexy, pretty and nice?
This models size and style sparkles to burst some spice
Its voluptuous rounds makes it friendly and sleek,
to busy roads and highways surely it can easily sneak
It may look slow but I tell you: you are wrong!
This small car runs like the shooting star song.
Alongside trucks or vans, it doesn't tremble a fear
as when I turn the key, horsepower shy with its gear.
Easy so easy, I can turn the wheels to any curves
soothing so soothing to my sometimes worried nerves
Many a design of automobiles will pass
but hey, my red Volkswagen still holds the class.
The "un-beetable" Beetle bug definitely hits a big shot
to a parking lot you can easily save her a spot
___________________________________________________________
12/30/2015 15.55pm
Categories:
sedans, age, art, beauty, car,
Form:
Couplet
The alarm clock sang out, my dad jumps up
rushes me into the kitchen, today my love
is indeed, a very special day for you, my eyes
wide shut, as he continued, explaining civil rights
Cramming memories, into my little head I mean
I'd remember sitting, on my Nona's lap as,
Martin Luther King was killed in Birmingham
my entire family, regressed into deep sadness
Aging over night perhaps, so did I ,our last names
were Parks and King, let me tell you, during the
60's in Chicago, if a riot broke out our names,
were instantly called, over tornado speakers
Sound off Mohammed speaks, we were rushed
into dark sedans, being slowly driven down,
Roosevelt road this was 1969 first grade
I was preparing, to visit Lincoln's home,
and tomb mom combed, through my curl's,
my grandmother ,rubbed Vaseline on my face elbows,
and knees ,this big fuss over me, I was actually named
after Martins daughter, well Miss. Yolanda king
you get to sing, on the steps of Lincoln's memorial,
Marian Anderson's hymn, sometimes I feel like a
motherless child, afterwards the Supreme Court Justice,
we were mourning ,with happy tears, these brown face's
doting on me, five generations in my mist
standing in line, to give me a big kiss
Anthony and Yolanda Joy Nicholsen Catholic War Veterans
Categories:
sedans, grief, memorial,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
The College Caravan
Last night we loaded the minivan with her
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chest of plastic drawers
stuffed with clothing, toiletries, school supplies, and posters.
While our vehicle is tightly packed, her room stands hollow;
drained of stuff and spirit, except for the furniture she left behind
like the last icicle melting unnoticed in the spring thaw.
Morning’s excitement, today’s foreseen guest, found her passkey
so early, she displaced the alarm clock, announcing her presence.
On the verge of adventure, our cramped van vacates the driveway,
eager to meet the other jammed vehicles joining our journey.
Sporadic chatter splinters moments of spurned monotony,
spanning the miles amassing in our rearview mirror until …
A hatchback hauling a heavy load leads our line exiting for the rest
stop, where the parking lot hosts vehicle after vehicle stuffed with
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chests of plastic drawers …
Our re-entry acceleration runs smoothly, courtesy of a
clamshell-covered car graciously slowing to permit our advance.
From sedans to SUV’s, the right lane is flush with fenders and
families, forming a cohesive chain whose links approach “The Exit”
signaling for the deceleration lane. The college caravan, flowing
onto the exit ramp and through the green light, turns and winds
along Main Street. As the minivans, hatchbacks, clamshell-covered
cars, and SUV’s pour onto college campus USA, they’re carrying
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, chests of plastic drawers,
and, of course, the proud, nervous parents …
escorting the Freshman Class of 2018!
E. V. Wyler
Categories:
sedans, change, education, inspirational, school,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Ethics
Taught accurately to account
for each reward an exact amount
a Kantian conscience reprehends
a stray Romantic dividend.
Publicly our just deserts
are measured by our type of work.
For what surgeons are forgiven
clerks and watchmen go to prison.
Few are ushered through the streets
in black sedans by the police
to carpeted chambers where the great
decide the future of the State.
Love, Genius, Power are for the elect.
Underpaid and oversexed
most lives are lived where intersect
the ragged lines of job and sex.
So if future preference won't assuage
your trussed Byronic middle-age,
think of all the lions who
are languishing in Christian zoos.
Categories:
sedans, jobs, motivation, success,
Form:
Light Verse
it starts underneath a small table
near the entrance to a motel lobby
and grows with great speed and sprite
quieting the house-guest at the counter
as it flows - muted down the hallway
glass doors opened with dampened yawn
and it streams across the parking lot
as sedans and pickups suppress
carbon-laden coughs to sit sedately as
breezily it blows stilly past the
man mowing his lawn, now silent
to a Parish church down a block
with its burked* spire bells
silently it presses over covered acres
of rural pasture and time-laden wood
a great enlargement of un-din
no bovine low, or snap of twig
creeking waters without gurgle
flowing past, and around, and over
people, individually and whole crowds
without even a whisper of apprisal
covering vast space at un-supersonic speed
oceans without roll or roil of waves
still, it moves on over island and isthmus
continents languishing on quiet molten
their ridges and troughs without groan
as the entirety of sphere becomes hush
no noise, no sound around, surrounded
without the slightest sound instilled
in ear, in mind, in thought - in me
in my own near-deafness, I wonder
is it to be peaceful, tranquil, or
silence too vast without coo or cry?
© Goode Guy 2013-03-17
* http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/burke #2
Categories:
sedans, change, imagination, introspection, senses,
Form:
Narrative
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Categories:
sedans, anti bullying, body, bullying,
Form:
Free verse
As carefree moments surrender to
promising creations and
careful slumber,
events unfold like a tapestry of
gilded fiber within the
gauze of memory.
These rivulets drip from the
elemental construct into
all living matter,
until dreams become more than
mere whispers of
valor during peril.
Dotted along the carved horizon
down at bare-ass beach,
we stare-down the
wonderment of design in
dichotomy with
whimsical mystery
until even the mundane gears
begin to slow to a
catlike stretch,
backs arched like stroked with
benevolent hands and
comet claws.
We witness the fleet correction of
ages of trickery in their
passionless eyes
as they swerve to gawk from
polished status
luxury sedans.
Categories:
sedans, introspection, mystery, nostalgia
Form:
Free verse
Five dollars on average pays
for a McDonnalds value meal.
Costs little in comparison to
other fast food chains.
I think about this as the
drawer - clunks
open - close and
blue painted chipped
polished nails scrape
against the plastic.
Giving a nickel a penny.
Even my mind is
corporatized here.
Commercialized brain waves,
I'm trained.
I smile that cute big smile,
waitress and bartenders
have it.
I don't know why without
the chance of tips
I even bother with it,
You're meal ( if large sized)
pays more than my hour.
Tell this to the people in their
new SUV's, Isuzus,
suburban sedans.
Twingy eyed from waiting
during dinner.
Tight lips, pursed prisses,
mini vans with screaming hoards
A multitude of lined
and organized confusion.
The beeping and ringing go
off again, damn
the collaborated, machinated,
soda.... Ok, I mean Pop
machine is sticking, cranking,
turning---
EEEEHHH ,EEHHHH , EEHHH
Minimun wage,
It resonants repeatedly
boiling in grease inside
and out.
Beeping and burns
Smiles and Thank yous.
False family financing,
no better than Disney,
damn maybe they are
already Disney.
Categories:
sedans, angst, confusion, education, food,
Form:
Free verse
I ain't about to reveal th' month an' year that I wuz born,
But here's a clue, cars than sported an ooogah, ooogah horn!
To start th' motor required enthusiastic spinnin' uv a crank!
On th' rutted roads, its ride wuz comparable to that uv a tank!
Cars had many levers an' pedals fer th' shiftin' uv th' gears.
To git movin' required th' savvy uv a platoon uv engineers!
No fancy radial tires er anti-lock brakes to bring it to a stop,
Nor air bags er seat belts to ease th' pain if it landed on its top!
Nowadays, cruisin' is cool with stereo music pleasin' to th' ear.
Th' engine roared an' Ma nagged frum th' rear seat in yesteryear!
Model-A Fords boasted a seat in th' rear called a rumble seat.
Th' kids an' dogs delighted in ridin' there, considerin' it a treat!
Pa found th' hand signals needed to stop an' turn very confusin'!
Th' kids an' other drivers on th' road thought this most amusin'!
Today's sedans provide a signal light to warn what ya' intend to do,
Without hangin' an arm out th' winder, yer intent hard to construe!
Mister Ford offered a choice uv colors as long as it wuz black.
Today ya' kin opt th' colors uv th' rainbow, if'n ya' have th' jack!
Cruisin' at seventy miles per in my sleek, air conditioned car,
My thoughts drift back to when autos were really quite bizarre!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
sedans, nostalgia
Form:
Rhyme
Indulgence seldom seems a disease,
Cravings and fear to lose always is.
A monk need notso rid
Save cleavings, good old greed,
Enjoy all blessings as heaven’s bliss.
_____________________________________________________
Once Osho was asked about his fleet of Rolls Royce sedans he possessed. Why would a spiritual being like him need such material luxuries? He posed: if you have an expensive car such as this and someone carelessly damaged it. How would you feel? The response was: One would feel upset and agitated.
Osho: Therein dwells the difference. Even if I were to wake up tomorrow to find that the entire fleet is missing, it would not matter one bit to me. Indulgence is no disease, attachment is.
_____________________________________________________
Reflections | 07.07.15 |
Categories:
sedans, desire,
Form:
Limerick
Lumbar ladies stroll by as the night sedans plunder the ho-dad hostels.
Looking to find nothing except another dozing cigarette beyond the cadenzas.
Another hot afternoon in suburbia with the repeated barkings of a distant dog.
Billy boy in his red asphalt-eating machine turns the dial to San Bernardino.
There is cool music bobbing in the hot accepting winds, south of Dragons Head.
In smoggy Corona, the dizzy Volkswagens travel in circles like demented dogs.
Billy boy guns the engine as he and the Mexican chick cruise in a ’67 beetle.
They pass the Chuck Wagon, as Slim Harpo melts the sun with Little Liza Jane.
Traffic signals, and the elderberry trees, pretend to dance to the muted cadences.
The hot afternoon winds play their own love-games as Billy boy comes to a stop.
Brown-eyed señorita with long hair flowing tells Billy boy to turn up the sound.
‘Music is life,’ she says, as the red asphalt-eating machine turns left at 6th Street.
Lumbar ladies stroll by now as the night sedans receive the night’s embrace.
At City Park, Billy and his latin lady sleep soundly in the cottonwood darkness.
Categories:
sedans, car, memory,
Form:
Free verse
Two guys by a bus stop, and they have nowhere to go.
They begin merging plucks and ribbits into a melting comfort.
Their destination is the Earth, and sedans honk at them.
Red stop sign becomes a resting place for a fellow cellist.
Fair lime crickets play along to the weeds, if just for this one moment.
And the taste of copper and paper is thrown at them in antipathy.
They are not homeless if the meadow’s honey is their home.
Yellow plaid is unlikely to grow here, it is foreign, says the guttle.
Different hues of blue in their familiar magical background.
No mortal whistle in the gale ought to be uttered during the tree’s ballet.
One hurricane lantern is shared between deities, or humans, or leaves,
And you can barely make out the vicars of string and bloodline.
Powder white porcelain glares at the back of their senseless heads,
Resting on a moss bed wearing a dress fly-fish dip in and a bear died for.
With a face made of zig-zags, one of them eats their mom’s snack,
The other swims with a black dog in gin bottles and stolen mint.
What a paradox, cried the wolves; they soon bellowed along.
Categories:
sedans, aubade, home, life, miracle,
Form:
Free verse