Chromed Poems | Examples

SL ecphrasis couplet VIII

Marc Quinn's 'Nurseries of El Dorado'*
bronzed still life chromed patina show

Dreaming of 57 Chevy

the 1957 Chevy Bel Air was fine in every way
Full of chrome, her sassiness gave her enormous sway
Some people like red autos, but turquoise was so fine
At the age of eight, I wished this car was mine!

I understood cars like the boys did in town
This beauty pranced and danced, she was heaven bound
I still love this car to this very day
I wish all cars were built and chromed this way

Exorcising the Angels

EXORCISING THE ANGELS
 
Armed with lethal joy, hard chromed, and brutally alloyed,
with warmth and good cheer, I blaze the deep dark depths.
Down into the hole, laughter in the wind,
the water is cold as we ride the winter stream.

It's pirate time as the clouds steal the sky.
The heavens are gone, but I wouldn't know.
Perhaps the spirit fades in the daily haze,
clouds so low, fog so thick.
So what?  It's to the frozen ground I stick.

In the freeze the flesh turns white,
later to shatter into the shards of black so final.
But the heart still beats, and the eyes still see deep
into the hole where the spirit dares not go.
So give up that ghost yearning for the heavens never more.

Who needs heights to soar when armed with lethal joy?
Broken-legged I march, new home sweet home,
with my bag of dead cats' bones:
Treasure trove for pirates sublime.

Vulcan's Mercy

Hard-chromed and brutally alloyed
he fed the scrapyard hurricane.
Melting the metal, his brawn enjoyed
the splash of sweat cooling the pain.

The weight of the world discarded
at the foot of his furnace lit,
he struggled to make soon parted
its history, hard and fast writ …

 … in twisted iron and mangled steel.
Stoking the fire, hellishly hot,
a cauldron of memories once real,
he freed the souls of things forgot.
 
Unthicked by his lethean flame,
smelted loose of its heavy years,
the once gritty metal flowed tame,
shiny new without smiles or tears.

Ohio Dawning's

Did you remake yourself
out of rust and algae again?
Yesterday was a gray beached hull
now it’s summer in the cornfields,
the tangy air has a towheaded fizz.
The mosquitoes have submarines
they crash-dive each new morn.
The flowers are all gulping,
and the rain is just enough.
Light flirts around mossy steel silos
and the brick and mortar works
of grandfatherly hands.
Sorry I missed you,
I hear your dawn was spectacular,
that the mist was a chromed coin
on the tongues of farm hands.
At that moment
I was watching a nickel dipped sunrise
paddle over a shimmering horizon.
I photographed it,
but missed all the otherness elsewhere,
and of course you had changed again
before I could get to you.

Maelstrom

A god mended in string and wired corsets, armature. 
The blackened police the striders in the dark… 
a crippled plaything, 
a hymn of the tourniquet and tethers. 
...an earth-bound deities song. 
...of the corrupt entertain fears. 
The black politic of crippled idol giggles at noon.
The laughter of the loon in the maelstrom of the melancholy. 
Mechanics of pale things.
...fear the eyes of the black chromed officers.
Enigmatic and mysterious thin men in rusted black armature... 
draconian laws of rooks. 
Hymns for an inky book.
Stratagems of military men and political puppets, 
see the crippled thing unwind.
The god entwined.
Broken shells and barbed wires, 
Rusted gears, 
Twisted springs, 
Men in black cloaks,
...suspicious eyes, 
lords of crimes, and dire deeds.
...of the broken god mended,
in string-wired corsets and armature.
The dark police the sable striders.
riders on the storm in the darkness...
as corrupted something abides!

Two Pieces For Left Hand

I

The metallic clunk
of intervals between voices -
cognizant cogs drive fluctuations
like ducks crossing a road.

I tilt away from
the coils of your being,
your sounding.
I see you speaking,
twirling
like a spinning six pence
in the rush of
on-coming traffic.

II

Together, we want
the same chromed leverage.
Knuckles cracked
where handles mash.
Long unused gears crunch
inside flesh filled leather, we
creak and stretch
over old maps.

Pushed against one another,
leaning in, until hinges unclasp,
we ride the hairpins,
spring-loaded instants
cream the road.
A clockwork hallelujah
that all ends in silence.

The Wheel Hub

A car rolls into a soundless night,
Its light sends a bursting view of overhanging growth,
In a microcosm succession of descending seconds,
Pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
Till all is rendered back to the void of night.

Sounds of rolling wake the void,
'Tis but a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
The road approves its adoption,
As it settles amongst other roadside neglects,
Earth's orphans coexisting under new sun's and periodical moon's.

Dull chrome insulted by grey matter and passing ignorance,
Melts in a blink of an eon as inherent elements being nursed,
A rebirth phenomenon after being ripped from its womb,
As meddling minds, carve out canyons and canvases felled trees,
Sculpture mountains, etch on charcoal skies, paint from oiled oceans,

All from a dark planet behind a concealed metal mask and chromed artificial air tanks,
That all were at one time...
...an errant orphaned wheel cover.


2019 September 19

A Salvaged World

A car rolls into a soundless night,
It's light sends a bursting view of overhanging growth,
In a microcosm succession of descending seconds,
Pruned for a snapshot temporal existence,
Till all is rendered back to the void of night.

Sounds of rolling wakes the void,
'Tis but a wheel cover errant for intimacy,
The road approves its adoption,
As it settles amongst other roadside neglects,
Earth's orphans coexisting under new sun's and periodical moon's.

Dull chrome insulted by grey matter and passing ignorance,
Melts in a blink of an eon as inherent elements being nursed,
A rebirth phenomenon after being ripped from its womb,
As meddling minds, carve out canyons and canvases felled trees,
Sculpture mountains, etch on charcoal skies, paint from oiled oceans,

All from a dark planet behind concealed metal mask and chromed artificial air tanks,
That all were at one time...
...an errant orphaned wheel cover.

Two Walkers and a Wheelchair

Oh my yes, I do have two walkers and a chromed wheelchair.
Procured them years ago when I tore my ACL one day.
Twas a mis-adventure of missing a chair high in the air.
When I take a painful arthritic step I do not delay.
Get out my arsenal of aids and travel without a care.
Helped friends who unexpectedly could not walk along the way.
Crazily handy to have these items that I love to share.

The Sage Burner

My Grandfather was a Sage-Burner.  
He would light the dry twisted grass with a Zippo. 
It was chromed, silver and read; "Live to ride.  Ride to Live."  

The sage would spark and burst into yellow orange flame.  
He would blow it out and nurse the ember to full life. 
Until it glowed with an evil black and red shimmer.  

It smelled like bad weed.  

My Grandfather would dance and flit about the space. 
His thin frame with arms uplifted as if praising some unseen God. 
Blowing, poking and prodding the smoke. 
Into dark corners and back rooms. 

Places we forgot.  

I asked my Grandfather why he burned sage. 

With narrowed eyes he said, "some spirits like to hang around
and cause mischief among the Human Beings.  

"We burn sage so they will leave us alone." 
"We burn sage so they will go away from us and bother the Whites instead."  

Then he smiled and continued his dance. 

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Perfume and Gasoline

I met you once,
  in dreams of youth;
flushed with curves,    
  wide open in summer's sun;
toothy smiles,
  innocent wiles;
laid out patches,
  of perfume and gasoline;
blazed across the endless miles,
  of then...and now;
years burned down,
  chromed dull in faded glory;
yellowed hollow,
  seasons past;
of governed throttle,
  clogging choke;
the boy,
  like you;
left back now,
  far behind;
dusty,
  in a poem.

Blue Bike ,Northern Dialect

Blue bike(Northern dialectably)

A bicycle that’s new was blue and swankity it had 52 spokes all chromed and 
silver fancery
That bike was mine
I rode up hills to see the countery and down dales to go fast and rode it chancery
That bike was mine
I popped a tyre down near ta factory and I took it home to tell ta family we got 
out spoons and inspected ta mattery then I put a plaster were the puncture 
bubbled watery
That bike was mine
It had 10 gears which were satisfactory five were hard and the others sappery 
but it got me going were I want ta be 
That bike was mine
Soon I was looking for a new bike practically with ten more gears and a name that 
suited me but I’ll never forget that blue bike frankily
Because that bike was mine

For Mary Magdalene

FOR MARY MAGDALENE

Between necessity and freedom I was crucified
Perceiving Himself endlessly on the cross
Yet aware, as an onlooker, petrified
My vision that never was, would be His loss.

I mimed too, as they hammered in the nails
Once more assuaging myself  in His deep tears
Once more my heart rallying where my speech fails
To give His lips the vinegar it fears.

Sun eclipsed,  I dallied with the vision of day,
A multi-chromed banner the old enemy was twisting,
Till I could no longer read in stone and clay,
My flower-head lopped, topped to the moment’s listing - 

I shone for Him like a speck in the glory of the sunrise
Waiting for twilight, the beauty of the stars’ surprise.

by Rosemarie Rowley
from IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin 2008

Summer Moon

Slowly pulsing through glittered haze
Under cloudscape, her locks blow wild
Misty the blushed roses, ablaze
Moon of summer, warmth of hayrides
Enchanting peach fragrance of the night
Reveal your glory, dear chromed fay,

My eyes chase a Selene’s delight
Over hills wrapped in flamed crochet.
Oh, sleep denies a lullaby
No matter how you beam, goodbye!



Francine Roberts' Summer Acrostic Contest
by nette onclaud

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