Best Trucks Poems
Chirpy birds disturb my deep sleep.
Sky pastels reflect in a somber ashen tinge.
Sun seems to be lost in a floating mist,
cloaking wet slates and chimney smoke.
As lamp lights reflect upon puddles,
poured into uneven pavement slabs,
it seems like an abundance of angels,
wept like irritated insomniacs overnight.
In the backdrop of contemplation,
a trash truck thunders and plunders,
with boisterous waste collectors,
wheeling bins into its hungry mouth.
Sky paints in an apocalypse aura.
Mind is intrigued - pondering,
if only it wasn't just palpable garbage,
that was taken away and forgotten.
Deep love
Real love
Heart feels like will crack
Hearts burning for each other
Do not call the fire truck
This fire can not be extinguished with water
Let it burn forever and ever
08.10.2013
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
The house still sleeps,
Coughs, rustles, creaks
scuttle under my closed door.
The truck grumbles into the alley.
It used to be a barmaid
trashing bottles near
the house where I grew up
making pops and clinks.
Now it's trucks collecting bins,
dumping glass in their broad bellies
huffing away down the alley.
most railroad tracks gone
and the trains went to Scranton
its the highway now
The deal with trucks (should you not own a truck)
that lollipop horsepowered cylinders -
is really how remarkably well they suck
the rubber tread where the interstate scissors
its cousin, Dixie, born Mississippi,
born as a man and staunch straight-ticket-down
yee-haw! Republican, a down-low-bi-
sexual, wearing Grand Wizard wedding gowns
in pappy’s cabin built on rolling logs,
who each day climbs the thick-cylinder pole
that proudly displays confederate cogs
to the eighteenth turn called a glory hole
where all the king’s horses and all the kings men
absolve all the crackers their cracker-crumbed sin.
12/23/2018
My bike
holds me a spot
Watermelon posters on each spike
In the month of August whilst’s scorching hot
Friends join me and we set up our man-made tent
We’ll be giving free watermelon slices all day!
Carnival rides, seed spitting contests, money well spent
Proceedings will go to the church of 'We Shall Pray'
My food truck is ready to keep ice and a juicer
Watermelon, a thirst-quenching chilled delight
Plenty of good eats from many a food vendor
Join us for a sumptuous day and night
Everyone welcome, just look for
Watermelon posters on
each spike of
My bike
Econo Lodge sign
High
On
Its
Pylon
Best we can do
For you Tedeschi Trucks
To put a moon in the sky
Over this interstate interchange
Jammed with cars and a decrepit minor league hockey stadium
Advertising the glory days and beer swigging of The Wings
Glows over the deadbeat semis and construction cones
Tearing apart I-94 between Chicago and Detroit
Gleaming casino next city over
Mocking us all by suggesting
I’ll see you over here
The last great guitar players and their dwindling fans
In just a few more years
Yes it’s 2024
And for good our children have left the house
Its couches beds and kitchen table chairs
Like unstraightened frames holding all our wall photographs
Our dog doesn’t mind
Wags his tail with the additional luxury choices
For his many daytime naps
My wife and I look for familiar friends
Though we understand the band are total strangers
During these glorious last 14 years together with us
We don’t want to be creeps to Derek and Susan in love on stage
Though we were the first to love them both up there
I give a hearty wave anyway from the front seats
And I think through the spotlights there’s a smile or wink returned to us
The silhouettes
As the two and their band watch one another
Still mesmerized as they saw and sing the epic Shame
And we the audience smash our hands and shake our tambourine heads
How can the whole world not know more
About this travelling family of musical magic?
We know in our minds they’re the best band in the world
On the scale of Zeppelin or the Stones in their prime
But in the now
And here they are
Still looking good and cool and willing to share something better
Kind enough to stop over
Say hello
Between Red Rocks and Milwaukee
To this little rustbelt university town
Stadium filled only three quarters of the way with 4000 people
I’m sure a sop financially for somebody
But the masterful musicianship we joyfully hear
And we respond with whistles and cheers
As good as anyplace
As loud as ever
Afterward
Outdoors
The Econo Lodge moon buzzes and blinks in our rearview mirror
For our long drive home on I-94
Back to Lansing we go
Chasing breadcrumbs the dotted lines
Our hearts filled our ears ringing
Through the quiet speeding dark.
Vaporous hazy fog,
listless light,
permeated by the sound
of early birds.
Gulls cawing,
delivery trucks thumping,
competing as they
emit their harsh cries.
Singing the tune
of way wards movement.
Devoid of green,
this place of concrete and plastic
hums in endless reverberation.
As the feral scrounge
and the contented pray,
life echoes on.
An orchestra
emanating from the edge
of the world.
Dispelling the night,
unfurling with the mist,
awakening this city.
If you don't like to drive
On the road with a truck,
Then on certain roads,
You'll be out of luck.
If the road is the plate
And the trucks are the bread,
You may start to feel
Like the sandwich spread.
But no matter the speed
That you like to go,
When you're stuck with a truck
You will both go slow.
Still the rules of the road
Mean that while you drive,
You defer to the trucks
So you'll stay alive!
U-Haul Trucks aren't allowed in Heaven,
there just isn't any room for your stuff,
grandma's China and Raggedy Ann dolls,
cross-stitched samplers and mason jars,
and dozens pictures of movie stars.
U-Haul Trucks Aren't Allowed in Heaven,
the matched set of livingroom furniture
with a wide-screened television in living color,
all the clothes which hang in your closet
should be donated to a non-profit deposit.
U-Haul Trucks Aren't Allowed in Heaven,
those tools which you collected within
your three-car garage from yard sales,
and one-of-a-kind antique whatnot
will be sold at an estate sale on the spot.
U-Haul Trucks Aren't Allowed in Heaven,
think of it as traveling lightly one way,
no burdens, no worries and gas to pay,
leaving behind years of collection
as family members make objection.
Hissing cars
Swishing trucks
Rumbling bikes
Life is a highway
Really?
Combusting cylinders
Pumping pistons
Turning crankshaft
Spinning flywheel
Engaging transmission
Motoring drive
Tranferring power
Rolling tires
Hissing
Swishing
Rumbling
Crash and burn
Life goes on
Working with trainer Pauhura Muruh
He developed the "Stirru Pomb"
and the "Thrips Massa" and
"Bassa Moto's Booby trap"
He'll make chicken wing , bending
Both knees with his shinlach.
A waistlach; roll into pinning
Position.A "Tashiaz Bow"
Rendition of a surfboard.
Massiro Missurira the
Brazilian Judo champion.
4 # ground pork
1/4 cup of green bell peppers
4 T minced garlic
1/3 c chopped onion
1/4 c shredded cucumber
3 tablespoons cayenne pepper
4 tablespoons of cultured buttermilk
1/4 cup of breadcrumbs
3 tablespoons of sesame seed oil
1/3 cup of sundried tomato
Salt or soy sauce
2 tablespoons of fennal seeds
Fry up one check seasoning.
MAke burgers and enjoy.
He made these burgers when the promoters
Gave me 40 days to slimdown. I ate them
With habashii thousand island sauce
On toasted kosher rolls. He will pay
In every match for betrayal!
wind blowing
and its snowing
this lane closes
pot holes
you'll get stuck
NO
TRUCK
It sits out in your driveway
a glittering metallic sculpture.
It costs more than your house,
you love it more than your spouse.
You can hardly drive it, it’s too high,
you can barely park it, it’s so wide.
Like an exotic compulsion, you need it,
though you can barely afford to feed it.
There’s a cockpit with winking tech,
offering a printer, wi-fi and refrigeration.
It can pull a house off its foundation.
Is there a tendentious ecological statement,
in this prestigious resource you need for work
is the fact that it’s tax deductible just a perk?
With this polished and pampered machine,
you get the rewards of effective parenting,
as it literally reflects the care that it’s given.
It’s a spaceship ready for expedition,
what else in creation is as elysian,
as your gigantic pickup truck.
.
.
songs for this:
Dreamin’ by G. Love and Special Sauce
Driving by Everything but the Girl
Little Deuce Coupe by Andrew Gold
In the end
it was too slow, afflicted
by either age or illness
or simply distracted,
flew head first
into the eye of a headlight.
Flung contorted, neck bent
back, snapped of life,
it died
clumped on a verge.
Rewound to its first flight,
its brief existence traced
untold scribblings
across time and the space
stretched between
these tall trees.
No record remains.
A full stop is placed
here on this muddy shoulder,
the end to something
which, only a moment ago,
flickered through the circuits
of a living brain.
It leaves nothing
but a small hole
and progeny
ignorant of history.
Whatever flowering form
that bloomed here
grew in the blind reaches
beyond knowing, no more
than a short awakening
programmed by its kind,
an expendable part fed
into the machinery
through which all life churns.
Chance had my way
intersect this point
and dab thought upon thought
to stem the bleed.
No balm soothes
the wounds
of this crumpled mess.
Cement trucks rumble by
moved by the need
to fill an empty space,
as these words try to do.