Cranked Poems | Examples

Life as a Book

I had glorious plans for my life. 
Warm ink transforming blank pages, 
destined to be a best seller! 
I felt specially bound. 

Printing press cranked out 
a glossy-colored cover, 
my name plastered 
in bold black letters for all to see. 

Signed inside by my creator 
I only rested on the bookstore shelf 
for three bitter hours 
before someone adopted me. 

Held gingerly each night by gentle fingers, 
eagerly offering my very soul 
until snores dropped me 
on soft, disheveled blankets. 

Word by word and line by line, 
page by page, and chapter by chapter. 
Night after night, I was dynamite 
till shut tight. 

Is that all there is? 
I've slept for ten years now... in a box, 
in a cobwebbed corner of a cluttered closet, 
dressed up and no place to go. 

I'm suffocating!

Deep Time

In the enmeddling clingsome widewoven cleavage
Of the windwrapped menacehugging road
Torchurtoting time turns dangler of slopesliding sands
You slitrap the solum to seek the hideous nearlocked nook.

The crackfested road twisturns over your sleekshoulder 
Oops griplifts you on its saddlekradle oldie
The jeopordized jagged journey trottrots slothened
With the time’s dustrapped flagcart cranked.


At the edgeend of the ruinrubbled road
Tormentrudged time turns terminist in blinkinstant
Chasetrack you till the twilight sundown duskdark
You longwish to restep on faden footstamps.

The crackripped road crumbler of dayspun dreams
Throws wrecktrash you in dismaydark debris
The jocundgelled journey ends in hopesucked incompleteness
Captivetrapped in deepdown time’s eternal sucksack infinitum.

what are you doing

The second I sit my fingers begin clicking the keys
What are you doing, I ask, if you please.
None of your business my muse says, typing away.
Another poem or two, cranked out, on this weird ass Thursday.

have you ever drawn a tree

Have you ever drawn a tree?
I am a cartoonist and a painter.
I have tried to draw them.
A tree is the most difficult thing in the world to draw.

Some artists say that perfect circles are impossible.
I think I have cranked some out.
They are not as hard to draw
As a tree.

A painter told me that horses are difficult to draw.
I can draw cartoon horses in my sleep.
All night long.
And unicorns.

But trees.
They give me the willies.
They are impossible to draw.
You would know this if you ever tried to draw one.

their music is loud

The workmen are here again today rebuilding our porch.
Their country western music is loud and proud
Cranked up to ear-drum-breaking levels.
I hear it in every room of my house and they are outside.
This might be their last day, or maybe tomorrow.
I do not say a word about their house-shaking music.
Workmen are temperamental, and I want them to come back.
I have played this game before and know it is best to keep silent.
Carpenters are difficult to find, and if they walk I am sunk.
Luckily I have an art studio, so I go out there – a bit farther away.
Can I hear it out there? Yes, but it is more tolerable at that distance.

Steam Train Ride

The whistle blows, the chugging starts -
A steam train ride in France -
For those who like to try things 
From the past, this is your chance.

Since when it’s time to turn around,
The leading car’s unlatched
And driven to a turntable
Before it’s reattached.

The locomotive then gets cranked,
By hand! one circle ‘round.
The engineer next drives to where
The once-caboose is found.

The train is reconnected
And goes back the way it came,
Passing trees and giant rock formations,
Looking all the same.

An aqueduct appears and there’s 
An eagle in the sky,
But what impresses most on board
As we go zipping by 

Is a trio by the river,
Down below and quickly viewed,
Being very French, relaxing 
Near the water, in the nude.

Jacketed - dodo

Backseat bingo- such a blast!
Passion pit- made in the shade.
Fat City- cranked and crazy!
With dolly- cloud nine!

City Life

Talking to people
Circles of fear
Straight lines and queers
The conscious mirror drops narrator's tears
Never forgetting the bird with transparent  wings
Zombies walking in and out of their mouths
Left me standing 
No bottom
No escaping a loss soul bottom soul top
They love the way you make things worse so greater is great
So the better is undeniably good
Spinning their talk
Deafening me with Yoko cranked
Taken a stand
On the ceiling
A copy cat killer
A perfect dance
The normal down side of a meow romance
The absent prodigal
Speaking from the crypt 
We won't be back home
Talk is about them
Famous bullock pills
Who runs the show
Is it crow
King of confusion
A city without a home
The paint loving train
Not difficult to hear the choo
Too crazy to salute

Home-Cooked

My sister had us over
For a special home-cooked meal,
With sauce and pasta made from scratch -
To me, a real big deal.

When we arrived, upon a nifty
Plastic-armed display
Were fresh-made noodles, gently draped,
With lots more on the way.

We watched as sheets of dough were placed
Into a cool machine
Which my sister cranked until, Voila!
The noodles could be seen.

Upon the stove, a giant pot
Was bubbling away
With sauce made from tomatoes
She had crushed that very day.

The dinner was delicious -
Meatballs rounded out the deal -
And I marveled at the effort made
To serve us such a meal.

Salty Singularity

We're born- we live-we take-we give.
We knead love while churning hate.
Love comes through the curtain unabated
then leaves with a clack, like the song of a raven.

We sashay into open hearts... 
unleashing a maelstrom of fiery darts.
God prunes the root of our pain
and balms the burning in the brain...
in return we curse his blessed name.

We rage -we rejoice-aging ungracefully.
Every breath is a gilded blessing...I think.
The sundial is cranked up to full speed. 
My circle shrinks into a salty singularity...

Hurricane Jester

Hurricane jester
spinning with the calmest eye;
Cranked on retrograde.

Six Years In the Making

The 'New Math' has been around quite a while
  It's time 'Journalism' cranked up her dial
    Red pants suits are fun
    Orange be the sun
  Ms. Clinton and Trump at last reconciled

Drowning Horse

A neighing through wind-swirled waves.
Frozen hooves branch,
a neck cranked tight in a crossbow of fear,
a horse being swept away!

No! I miss-saw...
just a chunk of tree in the white running water,
A momentary delusion,
yet alarm took flight,
became a moth gone crazy
on the light of my skin.

Not a drowning horse -
not what I perceived there
in a quick moment of terror.

Yet for an instant,
my mind threw a saddle
over what was never there.

Flatline

Here lies the body
    Of a dead muse;
Cranked for two months
    And blew out a fuse.

Homemade Ice Cream

Iced down in a wooden tub,
Chilled more with rock salt,
Taking turns, Tom Sawyer style,
Hand-cranked until firm.
Remove the paddle,
Barely scrape,
Lick!

Homemade ice cream with fresh fruit
Is reason enough
To suspend any diet,
Avoiding further
Justification.
Just have some
Now!

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