Best Speedometer Poems
The speedometer busted sixty, motor screaming r r r s,
Smoked his firestones weavin’ and passin’ cars!
He slammed third dumped the clutch and headed north,
At a hundred five, he hit the highway and found fourth…
The smell of burning rubber filled the cab,
He pressed pedal to the metal for all she had!
Turbo screamed, the engine roared!
G,s pressed him to the back seat board,
He couldn't go on,
His strength was gone!
His muscles stretched and ached,
How much more could he take!?
His only fan totally enthralled
Gears grinding,..engine stalled
He couldn't help it...his eyelids dropped like lead!
Dad hugged him out of his Big Wheels and said,
”Wild Man Willy, my son..it’s time for bed. “…
It is a gorgeous spring day, there are greens on both sides of the road.
The smells are fantastic, and my hair is blowing like I’m on a cycle.
I’m actually driving my new purple trans am, windows down, music blaring.
The white racing stripes might have been a bit much, but
Not for me. The sun is beaming on us with magic happy.
BRRRR BRRRR GRRRR
Should I try to outrun him?
He’s gaining on me fast. I glance at speedometer. Swear.
82 m.p.h. This is what happens when I listen to the Oldies.
I pull off, waiting, heart beating fast.
Lanky patrolman pulls himself out of car, gets younger as he gets closer.
“Hi,” I say, brightly.
He says, “License and registration, Ma’am.”
He is carrying his ticket pad, and a pen.
My hands are shaking as I start stammering nonsense.
He studies my license a second, says, “Just a minute, Ma’am,”
Walks back to his car, slides in, sits down, spends an hour or two in there.
I get worried I might have accidentally handed him my big-limit Visa card.
My heart is thudding, as I watch him laboriously walk back to my Trans Am
Who is not feeling so fine and foxy now. “It’s your fault!” I tell her. “You did this!”
“You were going 81,” he tells me. Eighty-two, I wisely don’t say.
“I am giving you an opportunity to slow down, and today, I’m giving you a warning,” he says.
No smile. No expression. He could give a mannequin a lesson in subtle.
I cannot help it. “Why?”
A glimmer of an ant’s smile starts in the left corner of his mouth, for a second, but he quickly snaps it off.
“Here’s the deal, Ma’am,” he tells me. “I stopped this car yesterday, on this same curve. I wouldn’t feel right about giving you a ticket on the same corner, at the same speed after letting your 17-year-old daughter off with a warning.”
In my head I picture my adorable blonde daughter who was wearing white hot-pants yesterday.
As a last hurrah he says, “I’m going to be out here for another two hours, Ma’am.”
We both smile.
This is the best warning I’ve ever had!
Well Hello Doctor Seuss,
May I offer you a Juice?
It’s has been a while,
Since you visited in style,
And I’ve words to say,
That I’ve kept for this day,
So let me begin,
I almost feel like kin!
You have come from Feven,
But in actual fact Heaven,
And you look so pell
Debonair and swell,
You have brought a pangel,
Who looks like angel,
But somehow I feel,
That you would like trivacy,
And a little privacy,
So step into my nar,
My very own new car,
Don’t feel bewyraid,
Or in any way afraid,
For I travel very vlow,
Speedometer fixed for slow,
So let’s go have a plake,
Do you want a choc shake?
I have been a zan
And devoted fan,
For many, many xeers
Well over forty years
Here we are my prend,
And unforgettable friend,
Oh you’ve spilt it on your lap,
Let me order you another,
Oh dear oh crear,
There’s a buzzing bee near,
And to be honest,
I do not like that fear,
So let us return kome,
And I’ll make you one at home!
Oh gosh, there’s your pangel,
Your good and proper angel,
I will have to say quesigh
And a very quick goodbye,
And wait your next plisit
Each one an exciting visit.
And then Doctor Seuss was gone,
Visits every year, thank him a ton,
What a special awesome author,
To visit me was such an honor,
He helps me make up funny rhymes,
Just to remember the old times,
And will see him in year again,
What a wondrous unique brain!
Potty Contest “Completely Your Choice”
Sponsor: Brian Strand
2020/10/05
It was forty by the thermometer
The moon closed in
It was a cold and numbered day
If I remember
It was time to waste
If not It was a memory
And there it faded
It was thirty by the numbered meters
The sun slipped away, fell out
It was a full end, imagination in space
If I remember
It was a gifted part of nothing
If not it was a clock
And there it stopped
It was twenty on the speedometer
The wind gave up
It was time with space giving way
If I remember
It was a place called winter
If not it was a thought conjured
That blew away
It was ten by the odometer
Morning came to night
It was a place to park
If I remember
It was a slower moving body
If not it was a part of darkness
And it had passed into sleep
It was one by the nonometer
The mind froze up becoming zero
It was a full stop in mid air
If I remember
It was a cold and numbing moment
If not it was a motion forward
And there was nothing there
It was zero by the underometer
And night filled in the void
It was a cold and numbered day
If I remember
It was a matter of time
If not it was something in the dark
And there it stayed
I've never understood how things work
gears turn and cranks crank
circuits connecting and forming a link
all of this stuff is out of my reach
its all so confusing, fuses and plugs
that plug into sockets
and HUDS that have numbers and belts that have notches
motors that whirr and shake so profusely
only do more to stump and confuse me
I'm not at all mechanically inclined
trust me I know, I've tried many times
I can't understand battery's without power
have to charge for almost a whole half an hour
drivetrain won't drive, forward or reverse
transmission whats that, this sticks stuck in first
the bumpers don't bump and the flashers won't flash
speedometer and fuel don't work on the dash
there are spots under the hood for the fluids it takes
and I don't understand how a carburetor.. carburates?
mufflers to muffle the sounds that it makes
drive shaft to control the turns that you take
key to ignition
ignition to starter
starter to the whatever the hell that you call er'
it's all so disturbing, it bothers me bunches
gas pedals, brake pedals, what are these clutches
automatic and manual drives drive me crazy
has anyone checked the oil here lately
the tires have tread to catch on the ground
hydraulics to make you go up and go down
there are switches and knobs
that serve no functions or jobs
there's gearboxes, spark plugs, fuel tanks and handbrakes
and I couldn't even tell you which one keeps the car in place
how it all works is way beyond me
I have a hard enough time just finding my keys
It was an unexpected night time pleasure
As I drove out of the mountains
Suddenly there in the valley below
Were the lights of Salt Lake City
I was tearing down the mountain
Returning to Seattle in my new Corvette
That’s when I heard the siren
A glance at the speedometer showed 85
That officer tore me a new one
He was mad and he really put me down
The way that he was talking
I thought I was headed to the jailhouse
He said, “It’s people like you that are at fault
For giving sports car a bad name”
Then, I couldn’t believe it
After making me feel so ashamed
He let me off with only a warning
I spent that night in Salt Lake City
Then got up early and on my way
There just wasn’t hardly any traffic
It was too early for the commuters
Such light traffic, I guess I had a heavy foot
As I was cruising my way out of the city
For suddenly, there in my rear view mirror
I could see the Flashing lights going around
I thought to myself, Oh my God, not again
As I got prepared for a chewing out
But the office was smiling and quite polite
Not like the one that stopped me yesterday
He said son, you were speeding; going to fast
I clocked you on the radar at 80 in a 55 zone
Nice looking car by the way,
What size engine is under that hood?
I tried to tell him all about my Corvette
Thinking that he would go light on me
I even apologized for speeding and told him
It certainly did regret having done it
Still being so polite as he was from the start
The office looked me in the eye and said
Here’s your ticket son; 25 over the limit
It’ll be expensive, expect a hell of a fine
Yes!
they all frown and clown to know that
you are the crown that makes the gown of my happiness longer
this makes my soul itch in love,
when you are with me,
not with me,
and forever with me
Yes!
they all frown and clown to know that
you are the speedometer of my heart
and that you are always right in between the cabinet of my chest
Yes!
I am now crowned and gowned up,
to know that,
she simply makes my heart gracefully dance and glance happily at those who think that I am a fool in love
Yes!
Let them frown and clown on
with their thorny crowns of ignorance
For all I know and row in
is that she is my lord of admiration
and I love her supremely delicately
for she is always there for little me
So let them frown and clown on
In the funky train,
All the hoo-ha-noisy end in fisticuff;
As the crumpled greenback hand-out cough,
The law has nothing to handcuff,
Maneuvering on the sloppy storey hill
A frantic dance of dead-drunk crazy masquerade;
Man-handling the dare-devil by weary drenched soaked in
talisman man,
Springs from a ream hole in the floor
Hand-shuffling on long iron pole gear,
Wrestling with reckless white knuckles of steering wheel;
A nipple for torch-light knob looking tough headlamps,
A bare-face speedometer, a mare decor;
Rear is bare, except fanning out putrid fart in
defecating vulva;
And a pumping brake failure refused to catch,
Disaster looms down a glitch away,
Marijuana induced braggarts, bang at the battered dent
body;
All acted in the climatic anti-climax role in the tragic
play,
As horn and side mirrors, villains make do,
Ghastly farewell garland to stranded passengers on
departure;
Welcome to hellish shore of grimacing dismember carcasses,
From the extinct scratched my backside please dense
Bolekaja view,
Stigmatized masses muck arranged tight,
File in wooden slavery mule;
And the pompous promise land looks a light years away,
Now on the garish cold rusted cut steel,
Buttocks crammed on planks for seats;
Knees folded to gangrene stroke roost,
Pillaged and pilloried, rasped and gasped for a slice bread
of life,
Staled sweats seeped and poured decayed stench on forms;
***** squeezed queued on narrow alley,
Romancing buttocks swell sips to bursting through;
And the lushing rhythmic beating drum
Re-enters lock and brake,
Dilepa dilepa dilepa duro nube o!
Omokunrin kan ti daran nube o!
Ofowo kanmi loyan me solo!
ofowo kanmi nidi me solo!
Toku toku lona nkan boyi o!
Komo ipe kolokolo lahere wa!
I don't envy you
I don't envy you sister
I don't envy the fact that your eyes are too bright, painted with colors of the rainbow
How your lips look like they are smeared in a pot of warm blood
How your face look like a pot of brown earth plastered on a wall
How your fingers wear vulture claws; your toes too
How your gait erotically draw lustful souls into your coven of shameless fantasies
I don't envy you
Not at all dear friend
When you kept crooning about a yet to be found lover
How you brought a picture of your perfect man snatched from your minds' wall
How you swore to wring him around your body until he puts a ring around your finger
How your spell of deceitfulness brought home your shame unsavory
How that wicked craving of yours sent away all that meant well
I don't envy you
I don't envy your constant nagging; your definite raging
Your late nights and early morning shrieks of bitterness
Not even your legal tender that seems to diminish at hours tick
Not to mention your headlamps that have lost its bulbs
Your speedometer that stopped functioning
Your thermometer that has drastically gone up
I don't envy your madness
Yours sadness
Your reddened eyes
Your blackened heart
Your blue and gloomy sky
Your sunset
You in your closet
Your stiffened body
Your silent words
The wide road you chose
Your gnashing of teeth
I don't envy you
I don't envy anything about you.
Fabulous Edwina 'Neofloetry' Aleme
(c) 2014.
My front end needs alignment and my rear end sags a lot
My vinyl seats get cold in fall; in summer they're too hot
Beneath the seats; old french fries, pennies, napkins, Laura Scudders
My fuel intake is kind of rough, sometimes it coughs and sputters
My lights are growing dimmer and my gas tank's sprung a leak
My steering wheel's bent out of shape; my windshield wipers squeek
My engine's losing power and my tires have lost their tread
My spark plugs all have lost their fire, my radio's gone dead.
My axle's looking fractured, and my frame is rusting through
My paint job's getting faded and my brakes are fading too
My oil is getting grungy, my speedometer flat-lined
My A/C blows warm air and my transmission tends to grind
This car of which I speak is ME (in case you didn't know)
It's running rough, but still it gets me where I need to go
These classic wheels still get around - they just move r e a l l y s l o w!
written 31 Oct 2021
Walk , it's important!
Not only for health but to give peace of mind.
I walked today and my speedometer read 51.
I think I walked 51 miles today. That for me is a lot of walking. I also did some shopping for groceries.
Fruit and vegetables.
So, I got exercise and healthy foods.
That I would never have gotten had I
taken the bus or the train.
Walk, it's highly therapeutic and
soon I will be in great shape too.
and then the spirit of the world had eyes
he tuned the future and in him what was light
it was just the glow of the scales of the hours
and in everything that we have for matter today
he felt the weary taste of time
expelling what it knows:
the masses of ancient stagnant waters
and in them the reflection of the clouds sick of us
we don't need to lock the doors anymore
to avoid the speedometer sight of this pain
tomorrow the engines of the spoiled earth
will noisily swallow our tears
to lubricate each of the components
of the new nightmares that we will have
A thousand miles an hour
This fete a break through
I scan the speedometer, inset odometer
Stuck in the traffic Jam a thousand, without a move
I wonder!
Fellow citizen passes on wheel chair
A thousand far cry shy
Overtaking treacherously
Counting his steps is staccato
He stops and wonders, boss
Sorry, he muses, poor boy, he mutters
The Jam’s got to take another thousand
And I stare at the speedometer
A thousand miles an hour
The break through.
Off to Kaduna my mind flies,
Off to Zaria my soul first alighted,
Gently ! Gently !! Gently !!!
Echoes the man behind the wheel.
He trudges on day-dreaming
Concerned not about our hues over cries
His pace was like that of a snoring bush pig.
We yawned , jawed but move up
Our faces full of displeasure
The Lagos lady banker took him up
As Alhaja and Alfas added flavour
Can he ever gear up even without bump?
Nothing changes his old leopard nature
I tried spice it up when I woke up
But to the face of him I met no favour
As he shrug off, and belt up
He returned to his snail-crawling seizure.
At the abysmal of his mind
He must be feigning fulfillment
Cat-walking at a speedometer of a tortoise
Fast like an archaic “Loko” train.
To the driver whose forehead reads . . .
And whose lips echoes endlessly
“Its better to be late than to be a late”
For a Life is duplicated not
Nothing is as sweet as cat walking
Snail-pacing in all sojourns.
Alayande Stephen. T
1.10am
21st ,July, 2006.
En-route my way to an NCP meeting in
Kaduna, the luxurious Marcopolo boarded
Merely cat walked all thorough.
(composed about eight years ago
moments ago this poem underwent
slight poetic surgical face lift
modifications by this bro)
this spine tingling reaction,
sans flushed testosterone
from heads to toe
sketched out sometime
from ~july or august 2012 or so
and (just now) triggered chain reaction for roe
man tick undulations i.e. wishful desires slow
lee shifting (in seconds flat)
from neutral to overdrive
exceeding speedometer limit maximum
nearly attaining speed of light quo
shunt seeing an aesthetically pleasing chic chick
in the summer of full feminine bloom
envisioning plunging hot rod
into her lubricated derrick
(and yes, young enough
to beget me via coital fling
a splendid supreme offspring
of this gap toothed fifty three year old simian),
who doth wanna swing
like a boyish chap
at prime love making time zing,
with thee, whose primary purpose comprised
tutoring my daughter whose deficiency
with language skills warrant
communication exercisesd
born with cognitive developmental delays
in sundry dis guised,
whose academic weakness qualified her since birth -
or soon thereafter meta morph a sized
to receive intervention to allow, enable
and provide her with life skills
even though patience thoroughly utilized
so she can become self reliant as an adult
thus bringing this papa aegis
of said progeny prances carefree like a colt
and via exposure therapy
comfort zones, convince this dadaist dolt
magic touch, sans young women,
(who seem prominent in social service field)
bear witness as thy Punim doth molt
blindsiding actions of tender loving care
these myopic eyes
with hypnotic trance observe flair
ring results conjuring up illusions of grandeur
spurring commendable utterance
of touche...here here
but self consciousness kept gleeful outburst
under lock and key lest detriment comb near
compromising instructional progress,
that could easily dis ap pear
into a sinkhole forsaking requisite basic skills
reinforcement ever since first year