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Best Truck Poems

Below are the all-time best Truck poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of truck poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Truck poems, articles about Truck poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Truck poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...


New Truck Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Truck poems are below this new poems list.

Truck Wreck by Gagliardi, Annette
Hit By a Truck by Missing, Roof
Reliable Truck by Bose, David
The Old Fisherman got a New Truck by Rogers, Miike
My Truck Is My Home by Morgan, Jeremiaj
The Front Grill Of A Big Mac Truck by Hauser , Mike
I Love My Truck by McGrath, Brenda
Truck Drivers by Tellez, Martha
The Ugliest Dog And Truck Competition by Cameron, Moira
A Truck Driver by Ruble, Charles

View all new Truck Poems

The Best Truck Poems

 
Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Love Poem 29

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.

I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
clichés, and repetition; I fall in love 
with items that people throw to the wind,
kick around, and step upon.

I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn;
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.

The old man who sits in a rain-gorged gutter,
his fist raised to the sky in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly, beloved wife—

I fall in love with him too.

I fall in love with things that some people deem 
as ugly, dirty, morose, and immoral.
The more I fall in love,
the more I love each moment,
including the pain, torture, and misery 
that may unfold along the way.

Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.

If I write down treasonously teetering words,
the reader could assume such words 
to be rooted in rage, or a cynical outlook,  
when the words are actually birthed from love—
I love every word in existence.

I fall in love with the woman 
who is too shy to have a sincere conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be grotesque,
when in fact, she is exquisitely gorgeous.

I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of seaweed 
rotting on the shore, and the way her hair smells 
baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
mesmerized by the essence that the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat, who, after she watched the moving truck 
drive away, slunk around the alley in search of scraps—
over the years, she has proven to be a respectful 
and loyal companion (so easy to fall in love with, again and again,
while maintaining the love I already have).
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms
when it shines through the cracked, antique windowpane
that I simply don't want to replace.


And as for the people who believe that it's impossible 
for someone such as myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day,

well, I love them too.



2016 Pulse Remix, July 18th, 2016
(original version was written on April 6th, 2012)


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Real Men Wear Pink

I stand about five feet eight
I'll admit, I'm a tad overweight
Drive an old pick up truck
Not one to pass the buck
At the moment have a dog for a mate

Dropped out of school at eighteen
Got married in a pair of old jeans
A father of four
When I sleep, I snore
When angered been known to get mean

I grew up huntin' and fishin'
Done more than my share of wishin'
Been in a few fights
Know I'm not always right
For my age, still in decent condition

In my life, I've worked many hard jobs
Its been said, "I'm rough as a cob"
I've smoked and drank
Spent time in the tank
And never, not once, did I sob

I also love being outside
My old skin is weathered and dried
Still play in the dirt
Cuss when I'm hurt
But I do have a softer side

Poetry, I read and I write
These days, prefer music to be lite
Love trees and flowers
Warm spring showers
And swinging on stars at night

I like women who like to hold hands
Take moonlight walks on the sand
Curves excite me
Whispers invite me
A good listener who tries to understand

I wash dishes, do laundry and floors
Clean bathrooms, wash walls and doors
I'm a pretty good cook
Without a cookbook
To be honest, don't mind household chores

Just so you're perfectly clear
I've traveled from there to here
Simple but complex
Know love's more than sex
And on occasion I cry manly tears

Yes sometimes I even wear pink
Wear cologne to make sure I don't stink
Write poems about birds
Use everyday words
And I don't give a damn what you think!



    by Daniel Turner


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2017

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The editing of me

My words were rewritten until they became yours
As grammar and syntax perfected your thoughts
Pages lined with highlighters polished me to extinction 

I wanted to resist all of those good intentions
Yet I knew you wanted your best words for me
You weren't listening so you couldn't hear what I was asking for
Poor boy me I lacked the courage to say it loud enough
I felt my voice become tiny as my heart disappeared

Sure my words were somewhat awkward
Still I had things to express that way
My rhythm was imbedded in the word play
You crumbled my granite and turned it into clay
It happened slowly a bit day by day 

I was there hidden in the disconnected details
Crystal blue eyed observations to share
Becoming myself on the verge of aware
You could have found me there
My words weren't lacking weight or substance
Like a series of road signs I pointed in a certain direction
I wasn't looking for polished perfection
What I desired most was emotional connection!

The trip must have seemed hard
You couldn't see past the curves in my road
It was to difficult to decipher my emotional code
So instead you bulldozed through my mind
with a big truck weighted with your own heavy load

If only you could have lingered and waited
Maybe you could have been sated
My words were interplayed and related
The strength of your ego I had not anticipated
In your wake I was left dejected and frustrated

There had been points of interest along the way
sprinkled star dust amidst the Milky Way
Beneath were gardens in which you could have come to play
There was no rush, I wanted you to stay
Until my liquid thoughts were morphed into hay

There before you
I had erected statues of delight 
adorned in billowing fabric made of light 
Perhaps you were blinded by my bright
unexpected in the middle of the night

You could have occupied my pleasure
Below my surface a spring fed treasure
A gift for you beyond measure
You could have witnessed the essence of me
Even though you came so close
you just couldn't see...

This is an old one that I have significantly reworked. 



Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

On One Knee

Listen to poem:


if you wanted to dance with me
i mean really wanted to dance with me
then i would
i would dance with you

if you needed me to walk on water
i would stand there until the lake froze
then i would
i would walk on water for you

if you suggested i climb 
a mountain 
warm at the bottom
freezing at the peak 
i'd buy you a snow globe
turn it upside down and up
hold your hand warm 
watch the freezing snowfall
climb your suggestion creatively

if you mentioned 
you'd like me to paint your portrait 
i'd buy every different colour of acrylic paint I could find
blend them on a canvas
paint your colourful internal portrait
every crayon in the box 
that's who i see

if you said move me
i wouldn't hire a truck
or even touch one stick of furniture
i would write this poem for you
put a bow on it
fingers crossed 
i would move you

your lips are always on my mind

if you want a man
willing to do...
...a man...
...hold you gentle but firm

i'm here 

ring in hand 
on one knee

November 28 2016





Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2016

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Redneck Santa

T'were the night after Christmas, 'n' the house was all dark.
Not much money for 'lectric in the ol' trailer park.
Ma waitin' tables at the club on the base,
jist me and my sisters alone in the place.

A big ol' blue norther, t'were a hard winter storm.
We's all snuggled up close, jist tryin' ta stay warm.
The trailer's as cold as a well digger's ass,
cause they come out that mornin' and turnt off the gas.

I shore kinda hated to git out of that bed,
but ol' Mother Nature made me git up, instead.
I'd gotta go out if I wanted a leak,
'cause the toilet had bin all plugged up fer a week.

Outside it 'peered warmer, which was a suprise.
As I peed on the tree, sumpin lit up the skies.
Them lights shined down on the yard, and I froze.
Shore prayed it warn't one of them weird UFO's.

As I stood thar turnin' round and around
there was white stuff fallin' and coatin' the ground.
I grabbed a big buncha it up in my mitts.
I thought it was snow, but turnt out it were grits.

I heared a big motor runnin' up overhead
and down come a monster truck painted all red.
It bounced on the front 'n' bounced on the back,
then the driver clumb down 'n' grabbed a tow sack.

He was white-haired 'n' husky, with red overalls,
long ZZ Top whiskers 'n' blood-shot eyeballs.
A red John Deere work cap was perched on his nut
and a WalMart white T-shirt half-covered his gut.

He look like he just come off'n the farm,
'cept fer them tattoos of elves on his arm.
As I stood around there jist like a complete dick,
he says, “Boy ain't you gonna say crap to St. Nick?”

“Yes siree Bob”, says I, “I got sumpin to say.
I'd shore like ta know where you was yesterday.
The toilet's stopped up and we's all out of heat,
ain't got no money and they's nuthin' to eat.”

“I was fixin' ta make it on time”, he then said.
He look kinda sheepish, and hung down his head.
“But I stopped at a bar when I finished my rounds.
And run inna St. Paddy at the Hare 'n' the Hounds."

"Ya know that he's the very best pal of St. Nick.
But there's none who can put 'em away like that Mick.
And the next thing ya know, we's over at Chances
Where that Tooth Fairy is doin' ten-dollar lap dances.”

“The Tooth Fairy a stripper? That done give me the chills!”
“Yessir”, says he, “Where ya think she gits all them bills?”
“Jist a minute”, I goes. “Where's the reindeer and sleigh?”
He turnt even redder, and then looked away.

“Well, we had a poker game goin', I thought I would win.
I was holdin' four aces and bet everthang in.”
There was a palpable silence, a terrible hush.
“Then that damn Easter Bunny laid down a straight flush.”

“Well, I cut cards with a redneck and won me that truck
But as for the reindeer, they was squat outta luck
They throwed a big barbeque, and cooked 'em up slow
But I must say them reindeer's good eatin', ya know?”

No Dasher, no Dancer, no Prancer and Vixen!
No Comet, no Cupid, no Donner and Blitzen!
For hung on that red-painted monster truck's nose
was eight pairs of antlers, lined up in two rows.

“Anyway, I brung vittles for you and the girls.”
And out of the sack he pulled seven skint squirrels.
“I jist bagged 'em thar in yer neighbor's back yard
Fry 'em up well, boy, with plenty of lard.”

I goes, “Them squirrels is rilly fine eatin' fer shore,
But ta git past tomorrow, we's gonna need more.”
says he,“Well, I's a bit short on cash fer today.”
And he give me six lottery numbers to play.

Then up drives my ma with bad blood in her eye
Draws out her six-shooter, jist primed to let fly.
Then lowers her arm down and commences to bawl
says, “I love you, you bastard, you tol' me you'd call!”

He says, “Boy, looks like it's not healthy to linger
Sticks his mitt out 'n' goes “Just pull on my finger.
The truck is fer you, son. I bid ya goodnight.”
And on a column of wind, he plumb riz out of sight.

I feels fevered and flushed as I stands there in awe
And I reckons this redneck St. Nick was my paw.
A voice far-off hollers, “Merry Christmas, now, y'all!
Then adds, “Don't fret none baby, jist wait fer my call!”

P.S. Them lottery numbers worked out good. We
bought a double-wide on our own lot 'n' a giant
TV and had still had lots of money left over fer
me to go to big rig truck driving school and Ma
to that there beauty college. And on top of that
a Nigerian guy is going to deposit over a million
dollars in my bank account. 


Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Prayer

One more morning,after one more night,
One more thanks for keeping things right,
One prayer to bed,one as you rise,
Good morning God,thanks for another sun rise,
Prayer is the fuel that keep us going,
Through troubled times,pray for strength keep rowing,
And without fear step out,face the unknowing,
Although all around negativity blowing,
Every day,even one positive seed,try sowing,
Within my veins,God love is flowing,
God is my friend,the devil,not interested to know him,
Here comes the garbage truck,over there throw him,
Don't just say you love God,pray show Him,
Remember prayer keeps us,spiritual growing...


Copyright © Richard Palmer | Year Posted 2012

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Fairer, Indeed

WOMEN ...

Truly amaze me ...
They possess the super-human

Strength to birth a child - one of
The most painful and demanding
Feats of endurance known to our
Species - yet they have the
Self-confidence to be meek and

Tender, with the gentle and sweet
Fortitude needed for motherhood ...
They have the extraordinary insight
To look into your eyes and know
What you're feeling ... they can be

Completely confident in who they
Are, and yet totally vulnerable in
Who they want to be ... they can
Have the strength of ten men in
Bearing young, and the sexuality to

Bring a hundred men to their knees ...
They are at one moment the most
Simple creatures in their need for
Love, and at the next so complicated
That they are unfathomable ...

They can be the most loving and
Accepting people you've ever
Known, or the most frighteningly
Fierce and formidable foes
Imaginable ... they can lay bare

Their soul before you and give it
Up with passion, or build walls so
Strong that nothing but time can
Bring them down ... they can let
You believe, in their confidence,

That you are the strongest being
Alive, or remind you that the very
Fires of Hell are at their beck-and-call ...
They are EACH and ALL an amazing
Creation of utter perfection and

Grace, and like brittle snowflakes,
Uniquely wondrous and different
In every way, at one moment a
Mystery beyond comprehension,
And at the next, the most delightfully

Familiar soul you've ever encountered ...
Their tears flow as freely as their
Laughter, and they are as spiritual as
They are sensible ... they measure
Their own elegance by how they

Feel INSIDE ... about themselves.
They are at once outspoken and
Demure ... they may need to be
Held and told everything will be
Alright, or they may need to take

The lead and be honored ... they
May want to hear about your
Wildest dreams, or need you to
Really LISTEN to how they feel ...
They may want YOU to take control

And show them your deepest desires,
Or they may need to have their
Every wish fulfilled ... they may want
You to be endlessly mysterious, then
Lay bare your broken spirit on the

Altar of their passion. A woman may
Want to look perfect, with every hair
And detail in place, or she may run wild
Through the rain ... she may share the
Fires of her deepest lust and desires,

Or she may make you feel the cold
Regard of her wrath ... she may want
You to be firm and forward, and then
Desire only tenderness and care ...
She may cry at your funniest joke,

Or laugh at your saddest story, and
Expect you to understand ... she
May howl at the moon in madness,
Yet require you to keep her sane ...
She may endear you with her ferocity,

Then frighten you with her kindness.
She may love you more in her anger
Than she ever could in her joy, or
Adore you for your carelessness,
Yet despise you for your attention.

A woman is the perfect vessel and
The ultimate contradiction, on
The pedestal one moment, and
At your feet the next. Their bodies
Are warm and cold, salty and sweet,

Rough and smooth, with hidden
Wonders and responses all their own,
First trembling at your lightest touch,
Then needing the firm press of flesh,
Every soft inch a sublime adventure,

Every subtle curve a joy ... but
Their minds are keen and as
Sharp-edged as any razor ... they
Can cut you with their words and
Their stare, then leave you bleeding ...

They are elation and anger, vigor
And vulnerability, coyness and
Carnality ... in a moment they
Can drag you through hell, or carry
You to heaven ... they can be angel

Or demon, mother or daughter,
Temptress or torturer ... they can
Make you the king of their heart,
Or remind you of your absolute
Insignificance ... they are told from

Birth that they are inferior to men -
Weaker, softer, more fragile - yet
Despite that they are more determined,
More durable, more wise, more
Diligent, more deft, more caring,

More tenacious, more hard-working,
And more intuitive, than most three
Men put together ... they can be
Great moms or be great boxers ...
They can be successful professionals

Or stay-at-home wives, they can
Do most jobs as well as any man,
And do a hundred other things that
Many men are never even taught!
They can teach, fight, love, paint,

Play drums, be weightlifters,
Ballerinas, truck drivers, nurses,
Army sergeants, cooks, seamstresses,
Basketball players, florists, pharmacists,
Doctors, lawyers ... women can

Wear dresses or they can wear work
Pants, they can wear toe shoes or
They can wear hockey skates,
They can wear ponytails or they
Can wear hard hats, they can wear

Steel-toed boots or they can wear
Stilettos, they can wear overalls
Or miniskirts. I believe that one
Of the primary reasons that they
Have been marginalized for so

Many centuries, is that men knew
That if women ever DID start doing
The things that men have always done,
Everyone would find out that women
Were BETTER at 99% of those things,

And would start demanding equal pay
And equal rights! That is starting to
Come to pass, and I think it scares
Many men ... women are told their
Whole lives what they CAN'T do, yet

They spend their whole lives doing
Things that many men are incapable
Of, things that men don't care to
Do or want to do or have to do ...
Men are intent on making a living,

Yet women are what we live FOR ...
Women have forever lived in the
Shadow of men, but men would
HAVE no shadow without the
Sunlight that women shine on our

Lives ... if Woman really WAS made
After Man, it's because the Creator
Didn't get human beings right the
First time, and perfected the species
With the female version ... and most

Of all, no matter how much you
Learn about them, or how much
You may know of all these things
I've touched on, or how much you
Listen and absorb what they tell

You about themselves, you will
Never, ever, EVER, understand them ...
Yet there is absolutely NOTHING in
Heaven or earth, that is as wonderfully
Sexy and sublime, entertaining and

Enticing, intently intense, or
Imperfectly perfect, as ...

WOMEN. <3


Copyright © Greg Barden | Year Posted 2017

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Old Truck in the Master's Hand

The old truck hadn't been used in a while,
But it should be good for a few more miles.
Under the hood, the engine was rusty,
And the interior smelled faintly musty.
Assuming it would start--we all wanted to know...
When we put it in gear, would it actually go?
Someone called,"All the tires are flat".
But a little new air would take care of that.
Better get some fuel, since the gauge is on "E".
Wash the windshield, so the driver can see.
No problem to let it coast downhill to the mechanic's shop;
Next question:Are the brakes good enough to make it stop?
The truck was so bad, it had no heater fan.
But the Master Mechanic had a Master plan!
He took it to His shop for the needed repairs.
'Twas quite a long time that He kept it there.
He tinkered, and cut, and removed lots of stuff
Solving problems we had thought were real tough.
He put in new hoses, gaskets, and such.
What a joy to watch His skillful touch,
As He cut away the old to make room for the new.
Finally the day arrived when he was all through.
A great crowd gathered around the shop door,
To behold the new creation, there on the floor!
It was washed up, and pumped up,and all the fluids were filled.
Even the body He had been forced to rebuild.
Fresh paint;new tires;and the engine a'humming.
It was ready to face the world oncoming!
When flaws seem difficult to be fixed by man.
Stand back, and watch the touch of the Master's Hand.

                                                                                                      Charlie Pelota




Copyright © charlie Pelota | Year Posted 2009

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Pregnant Lass

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her - 
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread:  “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire - 
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

APPLES - MULTIPLE HAIKU

It bounced off the truck
And then rolled down the highway
Apple turnover

-----------------------------------------

How 'bout them apples
When Jonathan McIntosh
Won the spelling bee

----------------------------------------

Apple of my eye
Jenny had the sweetest smile
For another guy

----------------------------------------

Right down to the core
When that apple crossed the plate
An infield dribble

------------------------------------------------------

Just one little hole
In that shiny    red apple
Just one little worm










-------------------------------------------------------------


Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2008

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

One Good Thing

In the late 1970s, I was going home on a Friday evening,
and needed a little more fuel in my truck, 
enough to get back to work on Monday morning.
I had $3 on me, pulled into a gas station, 
told the guy who pumped gas to give me three Dollars' worth.  
Back in those days that was a meaningful amount of fuel.  

After a short time, he shut the pump off, came back to me, 
"That'll be $10.35."  He'd filled it up.  

"Well uh... Wow, man, I did say to give me three bucks' worth....  
Three bucks is all I got."
I gave him the three $1 Dollar bills,
then displayed the forlorn and empty chamber that was my wallet.

Another blow, one more little stumble of existence, 
yet again life had dealt with him harshly.  
He dropped his head down and turned it to the side, 
"Yeah, you did say that...." 

This was before my bank had automatic teller machines.  
You were out of money late on Friday afternoon, 
you had to wait until the banks opened up on Monday morning.  
Credit cards were not yet part of my life.  
I told him I'd go to the bank on Monday and bring him the rest of the money.  
Asked if he was working then. 

"Yeah, I'll be here.  Okay..."  He was shrugging as he said, "Okay"
- he knew darn well I wouldn't return.  
He was going to have to eat that $7.35. 

He was an old-looking mid-40s, possibly 50.  
He'd been close to the margins of society, 
maybe even lived right on them.  
He had that "hard look," as if he was used to fate grinding against him. 
He might have been too young for World War II, 
but what about the Korean conflict, that strange proxy war? 
Could be... No way to tell from his clothes or appearance.  
He was getting by, but not in a good way, 
and didn't expect much else at this point.  
Hanging on, a little bit haunted in the eyes. 
Ex-convict?  Maybe.  
As I drove away, he tilted his head back and looked up.  
Was he appealing to God, asking for mercy and better luck?  
Or was he just staring at the roof-like canopy over the fuel pump area, 
wondering what the heck he was doing there? 

Monday came, I went to work, and at lunch got some money out of the bank.  
Even got change for the 35 cents.  
Later in the day, it was busy at the gas station when I returned, 
lots of vehicles at the pumps; 
so I parked around the other side of the building, 
then looked for the guy.  
He was bent over an old, low car, fuel nozzle in hand.  
I walked up to him and was pretty close when I said, "Hey man..." 

There was that haunted look again:  
"Whoa, who is this coming toward me, is there a problem, what's going on?"  
He was thinking that, didn't say anything, just looked at me.  
Maybe he still had trouble with the law out there, somewhere, 
thought I was a cop. 

"I was here Friday, you filled my truck up and I didn't have all the money....?"  
I took out $7 in bills and fished in my pocket, got a quarter and two dimes. 

A little bit of sunrise for him, right there, and he remembered.  
Some light in his eyes.  
I don't claim an especially honest life, this was just one thing I did.  
He nodded and said, "Hey yeah, buddy, thanks - most people wouldn't have stopped back." 

Almost 40 years ago.  He's probably dead by now.


Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Truck Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Sunbonnet


She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.


Gene Bourne.
07-17-14




.


Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014

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LOST IN THE COLD



When pebbles knead the holes in my shoes
These torn eyes writhe from  my orphan blues,
A lost soul quivering in the cold...
I feel alone, a birth date untold
No parents cupping my sullen face;
While time grates in this runaway place.

They say that I was darn negated,
Like a package, somehow, quite hated
Thrown quickly in an old garbage truck..
But why, why, did I run out of luck?

I dream of running free through the corn;
To be nestled and family- born…
Still, nights cut pain; my wishes decay
In foster homes where I briefly stay.

But rags comfort me,” kid, you’ll be fine,
When adoption brings love’s true sunshine!”



-------------------
Dated 11/6/2015
For the Contest, Trashed  #4, 
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Written by: nette onclaud



Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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His Old Pick-Up Truck

He begs me to come, but he's run out of luck You won't catch me dead in that beat-up old truck! It was painted blue...now the color is rust But you can't be too sure...since it's covered in dust!... The engine must idle, (about an hour is good) You can feel the vibration, around the whole neighborhood A life is at risk, if you go for a ride! The windshield is broken, and leaks rain inside It makes a weird noise, rides bumpy and rough The dashboard is littered and covered with "stuff" The seat cushion's torn, and it pokes at my rear The dog sits beside us and licks at my ear There's no place below us, for resting my feet There's a hole in the floor, O my God, there's the street!!! The windows don't close, so there's more than a breeze Wrappers from Twinkies, a Burger King box... One lonely old sneaker, and smelly old socks Half a stale donut smashed down on the floor Darn!! The dog beat me to it, and is looking for more!! The muffler is loose, you can see the sparks fly Dirty looks from the folks, who get smoke in their eyes When we drive by the neighbors, I duck my head and I hide I'm no Prima Donna....but I've still got some pride!! He loves that old truck, he calls her a gem! Make him choose between us??? ....I'd be out on a limb!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For Verlena Walker's Slamming Battle Contest


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2008

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Big Red Bellied Black Snake

Dad had threatened for some time, to reclaim the land behind the shed,
where rubbish over many years, had stockpiled but now instead
of being easy to be shifted, blackberries, docks and thistles grow,
entwining history of ours… and you know we didn’t know.

Mum cracked the whip one Sunday, handing out the different tools
for us to shovel, fork, pick and slash; of course she made the rules.
We weren’t to stop until the rubbish, had been cleared and left to show
a barren space to be landscaped… and you know we didn’t know.

Johnny parked the truck close to where we’d easily load the tray.
First we had to slash blackberries, to open up a pathway.
Old fencing wire and bent droppers, we pulled and tugged. The work was slow.
Plus bits of motors, old oil filters… and still we didn’t know.

The ‘Old Man’ knocked a stump out I can’t remember being a tree,
it disintegrated into pieces; white ant workings I could see.
Plastic pots and old fuel drums, onto the tray we heave and throw.
Just on half the plots been cleaned up now… and still we didn’t know.

A concrete trough and a mattress spring, mesh from an old birdcage.
A kitchen sink broken in two and a pushbike at some stage.
Sardine tins, a barrow bowl, and a seized up mower that won’t mow,
now there’s just one corner left to clean… and still we didn’t know.

A stack of roofing iron near the fence; the last that had to go.
One by one we dragged the rusting sheets… and still we didn’t know.
Dad picked up the final sheet, and then he quickly threw it down again.
His face was white and ‘cripes’ he shook… we ‘bloody-well’ knew then.



Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015

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The Writer In Me

Is a soldier
He uses original paint to avoid crises during his war paintings
To avoid worries he frames experience in simple pictures
He knows tears can erase many water painting on written walls
The writer in me is so mean he never falls

He dribbles my own calculated footsteps
Like mistakes and lessons when you walk pass six plus six plus six
Everything stay fixed
He staples his lips in smiles
Equalizers are irritating to adjust during rush hour gossips

Mini enemies minimizes energy to maximize external intentions
In real time the writer in me anticipates to test drive defenseless expressions
He smiles in mirrors defining his images of a convincing writer
The writer in me intends to testify less physical intentions
Like expressions written in useless reactions chasing perfection in tender loving courage

The writer in me is so dodgy
Dishonest but real in realistic dialogues diluted by real facts
An idiot so like a student translating Sepulana into meaningful alphabets
He paints images upside down so readers can read what’s not written
He escaped judgement day buy judging his days
The writer in others like those other writers who read and walk their readings re-think history's footsteps

They speak statements under shadows of their own pavements
Writing is the stupidest weapon 
It does shoot at bees spreading in million ways to play hide and sick
Love sick no approval from eggs to donate farts
Rotten farts from realities long boiled eggs

Hide and sick is the hardest champion ship driven by waves between chewing gums
Some dirty behaviors are thirsty for improvisational gums
The writer in me whispers a lie in a group of nothing
And receive awards for hearing nothing 
Painters can paint you pushing a wrong truck of your own hustle 

I wonder how it feels seeing the seconds between a picture snapped from a 1994 digital camera energy
Those expensive nothings that will always be something
The writer in me knows the answer to all combined maths and history's favorite soundtracks
Freedom is a prison located in your mind

© Raymond Ngomane 


Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2015

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All Hat and No Cattle

They hung around the beer joint with the finest Western wear
with thumbs tucked in their belt loops and such a studly air.
But those boots weren't made for stirrups and were polished to a sheen,
and on those fancy cowboy hats not a sweat stain could be seen.

You could be sure they hadn't spent much time around a branding pot,
for the only brands they recognized were ones on stuff they bought.
And if they ever passed the time just musing 'bout their spread,
it'd be the one around their middle or the one they put on bread.

Just a bunch of cowboy wannabes in a modern masquerade,
but they drove the biggest pickup trucks that Detroit ever made.
The beds were big and beautiful without a scratch or scuff inside,
'cause the only thing they hauled around was a horse's big backside.

As they stood around outside the joint, in a smart-ass state of mind,
in pulled an ancient pickup with an old horse trailer hitched behind.
The truck an old green Chevy, year 'bout nineteen sixty-nine,
with two high wooden sideboards stacked with hay bales bound with twine.

Out stepped a skinny hombre, with steel-blue eyes and bandy legs,
but he had a rippling six-pack while all the boozers sported kegs.
His cowboy hat was sweat-stained; high-heeled boots were dusty gray;
he kicked off a chunk of cow pie, then he grabbed a bale of hay.

He was mighty parched and dusty, but he wouldn't quench his thirst
'cause you're not an honest cowboy unless you water horses first.
The pack of fools gave out a hoot, yelled "Hey there, Texas Pete!
Get yourself a man-sized truck and take that geezer off the street!"

As he finished with the horses, up walked two ladies smokin' hot.
The cowboy promptly doffed his hat, while the posers there did not.
The cowboy got a long admiring look and the rounders just a sneer,
as the sham was so apparent when a real cowboy was near

They flashed the dusty cowboy a big ol' smile 'bout ten miles wide...
Said "Honey, would a gent like you care to escort us gals inside?"
He winked, then gave the trucks a look and spat a stream of juice.
Said, "Boys, y'all's might be bigger, but mine gets a sight more use."


Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013

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Emma and the Pies

Emma was a pretty girl, 
And was pretty wild.
She never minded what people said, 
Nor did she mind her mother.
Mornings when she left for school
She also left her books, 
Everyone would look at her, 
And also gave her looks.

She loved to comb through magazines,
Yet never combed her hair,
Her dad thought she should step it up,
So she’d step in puddles.
Now Emma wasn’t really bad
She just had had bad habits,
Deciding to turn her life around,
She turned right on the street.

Now as the child was trucking on home,
She saw a truck come at her,
The driver was screaming “Are you mad?”
It seemed he was mad at her.
She stood and watched the truck tip
Heard a tip, get out of the way.
The driver jumped out and flew in a rage,
While thousands of pies flew through the air.

As the pies began to land
On people and on land,
They all turned red, orange and blue
Emma almost felt blue too.
Now as she stood there looking sweet
Tasting the sweet from her dress,
Absolute anarchy went down
As people bent down to delight in a good old fashion pie fight.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.13.2014
Plenitude of Pies Contest 
8th


Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

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COOKIES

Now they say that girls are made of sugar
And spice, but good girls finish last my friend.
For there is one truth for all women kind,
Come hell or high water we will fight
For our right to indulge ourselves in 
The need for perfections greatest
Confections, COOKIES!!!
Yes we will take down that cookie
Puppet clown, dressed in blue,
For there is no fiercer monster known
To man, then a women who’s cookie
Faddish is left unsatisfied.
Peanut butter to chocolate chip,
Just pass the milk and watch out dude,
For women shall be the first to dip.
Call us the two fisted women of the 
Raw dough generation, we don’t 
Really care, just pass grandma’s old 
Cookie jar.
Roll me down the bakery sweet, 
No fragrance smells finer then freshly
Baked what ladies, COOKIES.
Sugar me sweet it’s the ladies favorite
Treat, by the bucket or truck load it can’t
Be beat, frosted or plain, it matters not,
But without Milk its sacrilege that is
No doubt!!
Now chocolate maybe the vise five to
Seven days a month, but cookies rule
As the male race drools, because honey
There is no doubt women will take you
Don’t for what, lets all say it ladies around
The world, all together now, SAY WHAT
COOKIES!!!!!!
By the way did I tell you my favorite
Food in the world, of course it’s very
Obvious, COOKIES!!

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO POET DESTROYER
And to all women



Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

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The Little Fir Tree

There was a plantation of fir trees
for some unknown reason, most of them
were three to four years old but one,
it was only in its first year of growth.

When Christmas drew near, the loggers came
and started to cut down some of the oldest.
The little fir asked "What is going on?"
The other trees said its Christmas time.

They will be taken into people's homes 
then they will be decorated and lit up.
Parcels at their feet sharing the joy
of Christmas, a real honour to be chosen.

"I want to be a Christmas tree," said the fir.
You are much too young and far too little,
they take most trees when they are four,
you will have to wait and do some growing.

"I want it to be spring, it said not winter
then I will be able to grow big like you".
Soon the loggers had finished cutting down,
now there were large gaps in the rows.

The little fir thought lots of sun helps,
at last the spring came and with it growth.
The little fir stretched as high as it could
filling out as it reached upwards for the sun.

In the morning men came and started to plant
soon there were lots of little trees around.
One worker said," strange there is one little one
should we cut it down". "No leave it to grow bigger".

The little fir grew all through the summer
enjoying the hot lazy days while it could,
it saw many changes over the weeks and months
as autumn passed away the land cooled down.

Then came the snows of winter, a blizzard or two
the snow lay heaped around the little fir's roots.
It will soon be time for the loggers to come
then all us four year old's will be Christmas trees.

"I wish I could be a Christmas tree like all of you".
"You will have to grow a lot more before they take you".
The little tree sighed, it so badly wanted to be one,
next day the loggers came and took the older trees.

Once more the rows looked very bare and also bleak,
the little tree hunkered down to wait for spring.
Then one day a little girl and her dad came
they walked down the rows looking at all the trees.

"That one", she shouted, "dad", pointing at the little fir.
"It is rather small, would you not like a bigger one".
"No, no", said the little girl, "that one is perfect.
I can reach to do most of the decorating of it's branches".

Fantastic thought the little tree, I am a Christmas tree
they gently cut it down and carried it to their truck,
when they got home they put some growth power on the base
and planted it in a great big pot that was a shiny red.

The tree looked around the room in awe struck wonder
there were flashing lights around the snowy windows.
Cards strung over the fire mantle, so very colourful,
streamers hung from corner to corner looking so gay.

Then they started to put baubles, tinsel and lights
and a lovely angel to go on the top it felt so good,
at last the little fir would know what Christmas
was like, it watched all the fun as the presents.

Were passed around and eagerly opened with sighs
and shouts of delight, the tree smiled at their joy.
Now finally they sat down and ate their dinner
with many toasts being passed, at last it was over.

Then next day they took the little fir outside
and put it in a cold frame to protect it for the winter. 
oh wow! it thought I will be a Christmas tree again next year
and so the little fir tree got it's dearest wish.

written 12/20/2013 

contest Children's Christmas or holiday Tale


Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

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The Roll Top Desk

She sits alone..
Everyone has said their final goodbyes
To her husband of sixty some years
Her seven children have never known
Or at least never mentioned..
How she never smiled

Just day to day
Did her job
Like the old man said
Woman..
Bring me my......

Now there across the room
The forbidden..
His roll top desk

Head always hung low
Eyes never meeting his

She rises
Lifts her head
Approaches defiantly

Rolls back the heavy top
She's dusted a million times
She touches the things unfamiliar

 Keys to the truck she never learned to drive
A checkbook she didn't know how to use
Legal papers she knew nothing about
His favorite cigarettes she couldn't smoke
His stash of booze she despised
Sat in the chair that was no longer HIS

Was this feeling loss?

7-29-2013
©Donna Jones


Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013

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A Country Song Gone all Wrong

I want so bad in Casarah’s pants
She said I had to offer up some romance
Off we went to a local dance
I bought her a flower, a beer, and a Big Mac too
She said not quite enough but it will have to do

So in my truck that has no doors
I apologized and said no seat, its on the floor
She smiled and sat, I gathered in anticipation
Of having me in her bedroom a waiting
Little did I realize I'd wish to be vacating

We arrived at her home, at half past twelve
She said grab a beer, cause my hubby is here
I said what the hell, your hubby you say?
She said, why yes where else would he stay?
So I grabbed a beer thinking ok this is a wee bit queer

I was confused, I will tell you that
Her hubby smiled at me like a dirty rat
He had some rope and a little duct tape
This sure wasn’t what I figured on this ol date
From bad to worse, I resigned myself to fate

She calmly said, what could you have possibly thought?
I brought you here, for our pleasures of naught
We will tie you up and start the game
We are the masters, and you have no claim
Now what’s a little pain? so please, don’t try to abstain

Tied and bound what could I do?
They had their pleasures without further adieu
I did the dishes, the vacuuming and the laundry too
Not an easy task tied in ropes by those two
Broken and tormented and tired as heck

I soon plotted my escape up north to Quebec
This Gothic nightmare must come to and end
Else these two satins will drive me round the bend
So I unbound the ropes holding me so tight
Managed to escape into the dark frigid night


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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Trucker Joe's Lament

He lost his job, now drives a rig. The pros are small; the cons are big. A sleeper cab is his abode on tedious and lonesome road. In Old West days, a steed he’d mount; now yellow lines he cannot count. A steady stream, long have they flowed on tedious and lonesome road. A ribbon flat, it sometimes winds, descends or climbs until he finds it’s all one constant episode on tedious and lonesome road. By some he’s loathed along the path. For taking space, he’s shown their wrath. Sparse traffic lessens not his load on tedious and lonesome road. He drives and while he drives, he yearns for life’s return; his stomach churns. He knows his hope but can erode on tedious and lonesome road. For the Solitude Contest of scott thirtyseven (Some truck drivers have a very hard and lonely life and it's even worse when they work for companies that couldn't care less about their welfare)


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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One Thing That Love Is

Everything here is true
Just as stated
because it's already happened
or - it has yet to occur - 
but it's very soon to occur
and I have such strong feeling
that the future will be as I see it
as you read this
that in the end I will be proven right.
You are that occurrence
you are happening
and I think you will understand.

Love is a dog
on a chain
in a muddy yard
on a cold day
in a silent town
where the land slopes
down to a river.

It's the end of autumn
or the beginning of winter
and the silence is tidal
total
and you know that things are not right
under the sky of hard iron
between all the old buildings
of red faded brick
that were made when labor and materials were cheap.

Big old buildings all squares and rectangles
former warehouses
tenements that saw many families
hotels of a prior age
offices where she used to work
where he ran the elevator
where they came and went
but now nobody is walking
no vehicles move on the streets
it was just me.

And the dog.

There is more about the place
it could have been in a movie
with the camera panning around
capturing aspects of vertigo and dread
a province of scary infirmity
that makes you think
you are dreaming
because you've had dreams before
and you've seen horror movies before
but you know there's no such escape
not a dream not a movie
and the dog is real.
Lonely. Thirsty. Hungry. Cold.

It wasn't always that way
not the dog
not the town.
Long ago the Continental Army
was headquartered here
in the American Revolution
and the city thrived
into the future
lots of transportation
and manufacturing
through the 1800s
but then river traffic fell to almost nothing
railroads and trucks took over
companies and people moved south and overseas
and the town grew quiet.

Now it's the cold season
the silence of an endless cold season
almost monochromatic under that iron sky
all black and white or in-between
except for the fading red 
of the bricks in those big old buildings.

This is where the owners
love the dog part of the time.

This is where a pigeon steps 
on a little discarded plastic ring 
from a jug of milk
and the ring stands up
above the ground
where a cold wind blows torn candy wrappers around your feet
near the chain link fences
the dirty concrete with moss growing in the cracks
where branches show against the sky
from dark tree trunks
by the wrought metal fence
that has caught a plastic bag
that was blown by the wind.

The silence.

You feel the lack
the absence of bird calls
coming down in rivulets and chips of silver
showing they are alive.
It's not to be this day
the silence holds sway
life seems more of an echo.
Any faint smile
of the sun
shows false in the shadows.

The dog didn't make a sound either.

I'm tempted to end right here
but no
we haven't really gotten to the love part yet.
Sure - maybe they loved the dog some
maybe the owner was sick or old
or just couldn't care for it much anymore
or they had grown up and moved away
while the dog remained.

Long ago there was the Telephone Company of New York
and through buyouts, governmentally enforced divestitures, and mergers 
it later became Metropolitan Telephone and Telegraph Company
then American Bell Telephone Company
New York Telephone
NYNEX
Bell Atlantic
and now we know it as Verizon.

The dog was real.

The town is Newburgh, New York, USA
and it does slope down to a river
the Hudson River
and the old buildings
latent
waiting
bear witness.

I was there in the late 1990s
when it was called NYNEX and then Bell Atlantic.
The old telephone building still had the places
where the switchboard operators 
would sit with earphones on
listening to call requests, or
they manually plugged in wires
to connect incoming calls
with house telephones
in the local exchange.
A light would glow
on the bottom row
of their array
and they'd connect a wire
from the plug-in hole by the light
to number 0313 for example
if that was the number in the exchange
that the caller wanted.

The materials were beautiful
all the hardwoods
fiber, metal and cloth
high-quality stuff
that hadn't been used since 
the late 1960s.
The lattices were still there
the wire pairs
for each number
ten thousand at a time
i.e. 0000 to 9999
those wire pairs
had their brackets
from where they went all the way to people's houses
the hard wired connection.

You're with me now
there's nobody else
nobody from the telephone company
and I have the door code for the electronic lock.

We exit the building
and the dog is looking at us
from the lonely cold muddy yard 
behind the next old rectangle of faded red bricks
there is something there
not much
not real hope
but dark eyes upon us
some wonder some... something...
no sound.

The dog never makes a sound.
You see one of the shames of my life.

I go over to my truck and drive away.

It wasn't that the dog just couldn't make a sound.
It didn't quickly raise its head
it didn't jump up or
come toward me 
as far as the chain would let it
or at least tilt its head
questioningly
as if I might present some hope.

There is love
but it was so far away from that dog
that all was silent
the most terrible silence.

So now I'm a 57 year old man
sitting here crying because I could have gotten that dog a good home
or I could have called somebody who would do that
you should see me crying
or I could have just called somebody
or I could have gotten that dog something good to eat
and some water
oh dog I'm sorry
I could have knocked on the door 
and asked about the dog
and offered to help
you should see me crying I'm a mess
I could have gone over
and hugged the dog
and said oh dog
it's okay
you're a good dog


Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

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Hello, Good-bye, So Long On CD

You say you like to ride in my pick-up truck,
to sing karaoke, and drink some beers,
but how can you say country music sucks,
when your rappin' nearly burns my ears,

Well, you can think and say, but by the way,
I'm also gonna speak my mind,
'cause country music is what I'll sing 'n' play,
if you don't like it, kiss my behind,

And you don't have to stand in line,
to kiss where the sun don't shine,
good country music, to me, sounds fine,
but your yappin' rappin' just ain't my kind,

Yea, I'm a country boy, deep to the core,
if you can't tell by now, you're blind,
and like I've said many times before
that crap in rappin' just ain't my kind,

I know you don't like my snake skin boots,
though my cowboy hat you say is fine,
but cowboy boots are part of my country roots,
since way back, a long long time,

Yea, you don't have to stand in line,
to kiss where the sun don't shine,
good country music, to me, sounds fine,
but your yappin' rappin' just ain't my kind,

Yea, you don't have to stand in line,
to kiss where the sun won't shine,
and if my boots don't turn you on,
then I reckon you'd best get gone,
So hello, good-bye, so long,

But, before you go, If you don't mind,
leave a kiss where the sun don't shine,
since country music doesn't turn you on,
and my snake skin boots don't turn you on,
Yea, I reckon, you'd best get gone.
So hello, Good-bye, So Long.


Copyright © Lawrence Ingle | Year Posted 2009