Best Trucked Poems
Green
the confusing reverence of the place
the holy-waters of the gulf
white eucharist sand trucked-in sunday anew
and flowers ever fresh
renew the question
I watch clouds west
overrun
spilling sun
in the horizon
and comes rain each day warm
same time
same slow way
like the same song
then I think
such simple acts
as prayer hands together press
or happiness
gone to hearts reach again.
Unable to feel these overtures of sky and air and light yet
might I find reason here to live
if
at all
_________________
©© 2000
Categories:
trucked, metaphor, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
Achingly slow the way that we kissed,
enjoying the entrapment we laid in.
You commemorated this with cursive.
The soft swirl and soft hand of cursive
matched us as the paper was kissed.
Italics bold as your tongue trucked in.
It was comforting how you creeped in
with flirtation flowing in pristine cursive.
Immortality penned the way you kissed.
A love letter french kissed in cursive.
Categories:
trucked, emotions, feelings, romance, writing,
Form:
Tritina
I dashed off to the ladies' room
just after Sunday School was through.
The service that would soon begin,
I'd relish from my favorite pew.
As I sailed down the lengthy hall,
I felt the cool, conditioned air--
more in the back than in the front,
but I trucked on, Miss Unaware!
I reached the sanctuary door
and saw that I was not alone.
A red-faced deacon spoke to me--
few words, low voice, with gentle tone.
I spluttered "Thanks" and fled the scene
my problem to eliminate,
slinked in the back, and took a seat.
I prayed my shame would soon abate.
What lesson did I learn that day?
That, to avoid such Sunday woes,
I really must be sure my dress
is not tucked in my pantyhose.
January 3, 2021
entered in the Funny Memories Contest Placed 1st
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
Categories:
trucked, clothes,
Form:
Quatrain
GOING BACK
It was not an endearing place, a storybook place
With little cottages and
Loaded fruit trees from which apples could be casually filched,
Nor were there sparkling streams for pushing hot feet into in July,
Or even grassy parks where the dog and the kids could romp
And old men sit and smoke pipes.
My childhood England was industrial, dark and dirty,
And instead of the skirl of bagpipes or the weeping of a fiddle,
There were the round-the-clock sirens and
Whistle-changes of factory shifts
And the clash of steel loads being trucked to the docks.
It threatened to suffocate me,
To imprison my mind between slabs of coal and pints of brown ale,
And when I walked the streets in search of meaning I found nothing
Except a weekly cycle of movies showing how real people lived.
I emerged from it and never returned -
And quickly forgot its worthless heritage of coal-dust, and
Found real places and lived a real life far beyond the horizons
Drawn by the schools of Gateshead.
Now, however, in the silent moments of creeping age and grown children,
The steep streets pitching down to the teeth of the Tyne
Gnaw into my fattened mind and reach to the bones of my brain
Where the smell of coaldust still lingers -
And always will.
And I feel again the empty places, the dark places, the places calling
My name in a strange dialect I have long abandoned.
Somehow they seem less cold and uninviting:
Their song is not off-key;
And the horizons drawn by my own hand
Seem to merge together in that blackened townscape.
God forbid I should ever end up there for good;
But I hear its siren song and cannot shake its
Foundation stones free of my structured life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTES
Gateshead is an industrial city in northern England.... imagine Akron, Youngstown, Toledo, Essen, Chemnitz, or similar towns, and it will give an idea of Gateshead.
River Tyne is the river on which Gateshead stands, now a pleasant waterway , then more like an open sewer.
Categories:
trucked, introspectionsong, dark, dark, places,
Form:
Narrative
There
There I stand in the bakery before the huge steel metal machine, 100 yards long and silver. A cake machine worth a mint. All sorts of ingredients thrown together to make cakes, quite a mix! You’d need to see it for yourself to understand what goes on. Not a case of add this and that to make a cake, oh no. Recipes and correct steps to take.
Think of the engineering that made this huge machine. Tens of thousands of components, some penny size, others as big as a car. People with brains made this bit of kit. Moving it and installing it must have been a job! How many trucks trucked it here?
Then there are ovens as old as the factory, still burning gas and cooking cakes. The grand children of the engineers will be alive now. Same as the first bakery workers. Who sees it that way, just me? I ponder the other things around me. The list goes on: cake mixers, air conditioning, factory floor plan, production lines where many people work. The end result is cakes. Lots of them!
Cakes that are designed, produced, marketed, distributed and eaten. A whole industry within an industry, all related. From designers and engineers making the machines, people producing cakes and customers eating them, it’s a world all by itself. As complicated as an aeroplane factory or car plant or rock quarry. A dizzying array of thought and actions brought this bakery into existence.
Think about that when you eat your Colin the Caterpillar cake.
Categories:
trucked, candy, chocolate, science, technology,
Form:
Verse
At twenty-three, Brett found his girl,
A green-eyed vision with strawberry curls,
A year of dating came and went,
And wedding bells the sky did rent.
Life was good, he worked as a welder,
And rushed at night, tales to tell her
Of buildings built and bridges spanned,
Far and wide across this great land.
But as he watched football on his day off,
While he watched the Giants, nursed a cough,
His fun interrupted by a sudden call,
And from his hands the phone would fall.
While out getting some groceries,
A trucked plowed his wife’s car into a tree.
And as if just to make the situation worse,
She was just four months from giving birth…
He fell quite hard, into depression,
Triggered merely by his wife’s mention.
For years he took refuge in hard drink,
Lost his job, and was pushed to the brink.
With nowhere to go, he moved back home,
His parents watched, they heard his groans,
And knew there was little they could do,
But be there and hope that he pulled through.
At thirty, after a long stint in rehab,
He stopped the drinking, and drove a cab,
Eventually moving up to a long-haul truck,
Made some good money, improved his luck.
One day at thirty eight he pulled in
To a truck stop diner, for late dining.
The waitress, May, proved a friendly soul,
Thirty-seven, dirty blond, eyes of coal.
After eating they talked like old pals,
Then went to his rig for something else,
He got her number, and she got his.
They agreed to be friends-with-benefits.
And every time he drove on through,
Each the other they hotly pursued,
It seemed to him to be all too fleeting,
And ever harder when it came to leaving.
A year went by and Brett came in,
And found a worried-looking benefits-friend
She said he’d given her something great,
Fruit of the passion of his many stays.
Brett felt a fool, they were quite a pair,
Like two overeager and foolish teenagers,
But as he thought of it more, it became clear,
Brett never wanted to again leave here.
So Brett married May, and their child came,
Then another a year down, more of the same!
He found himself juggling two screaming boys,
At age thirty-nine, the late nights and the toys!
But Brett didn’t care, better late than never
And with May he would remain forever.
And give thanks to God whenever he prayed,
For showing him that even tragedy fades…
Categories:
trucked, depression, hope, loss, lost
Form:
Narrative
Let Me See if I Have This Right
Let me see if I have this right
And it’s not just an oversight
Ukraine buys its energy
From Russia cause it has to be
Russia gets most revenue
From selling gas to you-know-who
Because the two now disagree
Russia raised its price you see
But Ukraine is almost broke
And can’t afford to heat its folk
If they buy the Russian gas
Bankruptcy will be there fast
Russia too is almost broke
And what comes next is not a joke
Obama wants to help Ukraine
Warm their folks, relieve their pain
One billion bucks he wants to send
To bring this crisis to an end
Who ends up with the billion bucks
Russia and that really sucks
I guess we just paid Putin’s bill
For annexing Crimea – Still
I wonder if his gas was raised
Because he knew Obama pays
If this is true, the man is smart
He had our number from the start
He held a conference, trucked some troops
Considered us all nincompoops
So in the end he won this round
I wonder where this country’s bound
Categories:
trucked, political,
Form:
Rhyme
Paul was at the office when the
first atomic bomb fell and when
Muntz TVs replaced console radios
and the first man landed on the moon.
He saw the first big computers trucked in
and locked in a top-secret room.
Paul was an accountant for 50 years
but the day came when he was told
he was part of a reduction in force.
Two guards carried his boxes out.
They told Paul in the parking lot
he was the only one reduced.
Donal Mahoney
Categories:
trucked, jobs,
Form:
Blank verse
Independence Day has come and gone....
All magic has been trucked away to come again another day
Sweltering, yet, in the dewy lawn,
is the fragrance of burnt offerings....
hovering low like a old gray ghost,
vast over the Riverside Park
In the still, early dawn, that now murmurs like a whisper...
Where evening throngs and
voices of oohs and aahhs were heard just hours before...
Where excited eyes glistened and reflected a night's sky alive with fire
A solemn morning of chattering squirrels
remain the only sign of life
as they nibble on pieces of hot dogs, or popcorn hiding in the grass
Morning air is cool and damp
Park benches, a bandstand, hilly mounds of grass and a playground
abandoned, barren and lonely...
The day appears to be wearing mourning clothes
Of candy wrappers, watermelon rinds, mustard coated paper plates
spent sparklers, fire crackers, one lone sneaker....
Where hours ago, radios played, laughter, cheering, hooting, jeering,
deafening man-made thunder made babies cry,
dogs tremble, children clap their hands over ears
Now there sprawls a silent, somber dawn
The only music in early morning light...
comes from a slight breeze that stirs
a tossed Pepsi paper cup
as it clatters a pop, pop, popping tune...
hopping among the dried, brown leaves down an empty sidewalk....
Categories:
trucked, holiday, seasonsday, day, morning,
Form:
Free verse
(This poem was inspired by the
cereal isle of a grocery store.)
I have my choice of 80 brands.
Good fortune lends us many hands
In generating all this waste -
A splendid show of varied taste
Delighting children and confusing
Harried shoppers, groping, choosing
Purple monkeys. Look! They swing
Across your box so they can bring
You chocolate circles for your bowl
To light your world and fill your soul!
A cardboard jungle proud - its sons
And daughters trucked in by the tons.
The Mighty Force in life unfurled
Struts on in the commercial world.
Categories:
trucked, food,
Form:
Rhyme
Stacy Adams triumph
one of the glorious nights
I've trucked through
sore feet, cold weather and hunger
famished as stars shined
vibrations of the train
i will never regret
grey homeless blankets felt of silk
graffiti on the walls were, da Vinci
thousand masks to evade imagination was priceless
the train sounding of its departure was resemblance
to my farewell Tarzan
I no longer hear trains
since nocturnal night
Categories:
trucked, art, beauty, character, confusion,
Form:
Bio
Independence Day is over
A sweltering night has been gathered up and trucked away
The faint fragrance of burnt offering still hangs low
....like sweat, of a long, grey cloak.
The park still echos with faint "ooooh's" and "ahhhs"...
lingering in the sultry air,
and bouncing off the silent bandstand
If you try, you can almost hear the High School band,
playing tributes to Souza and the homeland flag
Where eyes glistened and reflected a night sky alive with fire
now, the only sounds are chattering squirrels,
as they scurry and nibble on remants of a celebratory feast,
hiding in the dewy grass
The morning air is cool and the ground is damp
Park benches, the bandstand, hilly mounds of grass and playgrounds
abandoned, save of their mourning clothes
Of candy wrappers, watermelon rinds, mustard coated paper plates
Spent sparklers, fire crackers, a lone sneaker...
Where just hours ago..music from radios, laughter, cheering, hooting, jeering
Deafening man-made thunder made babies cry
dogs tremble, children clap their hands over ears
Now so silent in this early somber morn
The only sound this morning
comes from a slight breeze that stirs....
a tossed Pepsi paper cup....
as it clatters a pop, pop, popping tune...as it hops
among the dried, brown leaves down a hot, empty sidewalk...
Categories:
trucked, holiday, life, seasons, night,
Form:
Free verse
The Blackpool donkeys have given up
they have boarded jumbo jets
to be emotional support animals
for those lesser angels
that protect us wingless fliers.
They have opted out.
Once they used to plod from Blackpool pier
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying kids and also others
that drank beer as they heavily jogged along
their thighs clapping sore ribs.
In a dulled daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
backs spavined from gleeful bums and knees.
The sound of swishing waves
lulling eventually
into a sea-green batch of somnambulates.
When they could carry no more -
some were trucked away
to be neglected unto death.
Now the donkeys have retired themselves,
have changed form.
When not flying business class
they surfboard in Hawaii,
their Bermuda shorts billow widely
as if tailored for four-legs.
Those that once rode them
on that uncultured British beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
and hardly ever see a donkey,
but if they do
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobby spine
again bruising their sophisticated
time-worn tight bottoms.
Categories:
trucked, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
most instances when i initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy Joe,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
(Egg heads, merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena,
I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to sperm cells
fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. Ho
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining tour de force
whereat fingers of the lefthand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expended leaves (of grass)
finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
Categories:
trucked, 11th grade, 12th grade,
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
Heaven
I have often gazed off into the distance,
Dancing happily in the mist.
Children bouncing on fuffly clouds.
Their wings trucked neatly down their spines .
Playing ring o'roses and pat a cake.
This place looks peaceful.
I often visit it in my dreams.
Dreams are often vivid.
Where you can feel the peace the calm in your being.
written by davina 2019
Categories:
trucked, anniversary, beautiful, bereavement,
Form:
Blank verse