We were all on a turquoise moped on Interstate 635.
Mr. P.U. Fancy Pants Panda of course, got to drive.
He is arrogant, and thus is always the boss.
This was stated firmly by my pal Ross
Ross cannot drive, he is way too nervous and tall.
His hooves also land on both pedals, no help at all.
Meerkat is hanging on the fender by his tippy toes.
Snowy owl is getting exhaust fumes up his delicate nose.
Wait! Someone said, doesn’t an owl have a beak?
This made panda angry, he had given no one permission to speak.
Quite a day on the road with the gang who escaped from Michigan.
If you call me up on the phone, I can tell you this whole story again.
E-bikes, E-scooters, E-cars
Darting through the streets
Even E-mountain bikes
To take you to the peaks.
One problem with this E-solution
Is the amount of E-pollution
as we plug them in at night
drawing power, out of sight.
Unlike the runner or the cyclist
powered by plant-based fuels
shortsightedly we lobby for
these battery powered tools.
It seems these “green” solutions
all contain a power curse
for it seems to me their “green-ness”
is fueled by something worse.
They grasp the reins with steely fingers
in a “gentle” show of force
for the basis of their movement is
“keep the blinders on the horse”
John G. Lawless
©4/3/2022
Inhabitants are real
Facing great threats
Weighing on mother earth's future
Its effects and consequences
Even better halt it
Consume more, always more
The detriment of nature
Destroyed as an easy option
The soil is poisoned
Lands are sliding
Rain forests are reduced
Drastic effects for dims
Contagion of air
Exhaust fumes from arrogant holes
The burning of fossil fuels sings along
Harmful and deadly acid rain
Radiation spills and drills
Nuclear accidents such sudden
The air flares corpses
Photochemical smog dances
Water droplets
They mandate tears
Say sad to aerosols
Beloved refrigerants
Sincere solvents
And majesty burning fossil fuel
Why?
TOO LATE?
The temperature’s rising day-by-day;
We pump too much carbon into the air.
It belches from chimney stacks dark and grey,
Exhaust fumes from travelling here and there.
Herds of cattle emitting foul gasses,
Thinning the ozone to let in more heat.
All bred solely for feeding the masses;
The scientists warm us to eat less meat.
Billions of tons of plastic each day,
Thrown into landfill or into the sea.
Non-biodegradable, it will stay
Polluting the planet for you and me.
Our chance of survival might be better
If our leaders just listen to Greta.
7th July 2021
Contemporary Sonnet Poetry contest
Sponsor - Charlotte Puddifoot
Curbside are snapshots of revelation
they invoice the passing
as stations upon a cross, or rosary beads
from the corners of hard driven eyes.
We count the faces of onlookers like cars
for they count us not,
or may enter our speeding vehicles
as flashes of sunlight upon glass.
Roadside, is a rotting log
sporting small dainty flowers
amid exhaust fumes.
Roadside, both the living and killed
turn in a part glimpsed mobile
reflecting our own brief leaving.
We move too fast to see it all,
layers return as later onlookers
when the car ticks warm and parked.
There is a strange abashment in speed,
a tomorrow-ness in the momentary watch
of those we pass.
The world becomes a known stranger
met on the tip of hastily thrown spear.
We distracted tourists
drive into the heart of questions.
Mind intones our place in time,
a fresh moment we have yet to arrive at,
one in which
we did not crash and burn in - just yet,
and tomorrow waits
to begin another new odyssey.
Weathered hearts take the plummit for different reasons
Behaving freely like the chaotic parasites we were always meant to show how to live life a bit more f*cked up in the fast lane
Cruising around the metropolitan at an all time low
Putrid exhaust fumes gather in thick clouds of dense smog around highly trafficked areas
You take joy in the little things like,
Bumper to bumper commerce for the rest of your uncomfortable life
Rush hour's usual three and a half
Road rage fanatics cursing in tongues and spitting on the inside of their own windsheilds
And, others just honking their own horns because they want in on the action, too
Reminds me of orgies and no one wanting to do it with you so beat off in the corner lonely and probably whining
Humanity is pathetic
The city has come alive
With morning rush hour traffic
People are everywhere
Exhaust fumes creating fog
Neon lights flashing at night
People dining in cafes
All enjoying city life ~
Sunday morning brings respite.
Written 16th May 2020.
For Finish Line In Seven
Sponsored by Nette Onclaud.
City Girl-Country Girl
I swore I would never live in a small town.
I wanted noise, people and the
roar of the crowd.
Crowded restaurants, highways,
Exhaust fumes galore.
Sounds of police cars all over
town.
Lounges, theaters and 24 hour
anything!
Those bright lights, you know?
And twenty-four action, no matter
where you go.
I never dreamt I would end up
in agricultural, wine-country
USA.
Here, street lights are not ugly,
bright and garish.
As for churches, there are many
to choose from and to cherish.
No security cameras in unwanted
places to get your mugshot, how
disgraceful that is!
Where verdant trees grow and
gardens bloom year round.
125 varieties of grapes, too?
Ga-zounds!
And stores are not jammed and
parking for all abounds.
Where all in my neighborhood
wave as we pass each other in
snow free cars.
And life is more than good here.
It grows by leaps and bounds.
Have to say...life here is more
than heavenly and a daily treat!
July 11, 2019
Noon PST
My memory is like an ill-tempered old car
that refuses to start
on cold, miserable mornings...
or sometimes stutters
and shudders to life
in fits and starts with rattling parts
Names and faces of those behind me
shrouded and clouded in thick exhaust fumes
'til memory resumes and smoke starts to clear
...oh, what was the year?
Then suddenly (without warning)
the engine revs high, and I start to fly
downhill fast, into the past
brakes not responding, gripping the wheel
too much to feel
that terrible fear- stuck in high gear...
Old trauma impacts like a car crash
re-living events that
don't always make sense
deadly debris and jumbled bits of trash
litter my head, feeling half-dead
confused, in a mild state of shock
Although a car is a useful thing-
sometimes it's safer to walk!
Pathological spit-steroid addict,
blame-shifting weightlifting fanatic
Decathlon cracked lip truth ...
Jumping over another
high cloudy crystal
methane alibi
aloof sprint hurdle
Twisted twin-lip discus throw
on a poppy milk turbo fan blow
Veracity record unverified:
Marathon factual finishes
don’t have a Mary Jane
Photoshop shred of proof
Possessing a prosthetic tongue
allows them half-truth pole vaulters
to perform
those verbal gymnastic,
lying athletic feats of strength,
so hash mark daringly
Yielding honesty sweat labor sparingly
Such a Festivus mucous odor:
pandemic ground-zero celebration fête
Noxious nitro nostril gas,
on a downhill imposter incline oxy splat
Lie ability
don’t hinder a moral victory thief,
it’s a boon to the burglar, actually
Carousel tales ... up-and-down lung sales
giving hazy, rowboat circular details
Ever racing for the Pinocchio prize,
wouldn’t knowz
losers,
with smelly rumor toes ...
Fan the foul exhaust fumes —
when their tale pipe empty,
bad-breath bellow sneakers
reach the end of the road
The wind is too frail to carry across oceans
the echoes of distant bells,
too wayward to traverse the wild plains
to deliver wolves’ howls
and the hoots of owls,
too headstrong not to tussle with the storms
it passes, and thus lose its cargo
of muezzins’ calls and mermaids’ coos.
Jungles are jumbled with passages from rooftop
saxophonists’ solos,
valleys brim with the arias
it spirited away from piazzas,
and dropped heedless along the way.
The perfumes of rare books and hidden brooks
are lost too,
as are the aromas of faraway bazaars,
stranded on city streets,
harassed by exhaust fumes.
Snowflakes languishing in deserts,
petals flailing in glaciers,
the vibrations from a hundred fandangos,
the thunder of a million migrating hooves,
all were by the wind misplaced before
they could be deposited through my window.
To find them, I must travel forth.
I'm awakened by the scream of steam
from a spicy coffee-scented dream.
Sleep can't ignore that piercing sound,
nor the scent of fragrant beans fresh ground.
Knowing that the day's schedule is tight,
I head for work while traffic's still light.
For the city crawls at its peak rush,
and many cars get caught in the crush.
Bumper to bumper, the madness starts,
jostling for position stresses hearts.
And when hot engines stall, tempers flare,
drivers get mad and begin to swear.
A serpentine line of rust and paint
slinks forth, fueling constant complaint.
And exhaust fumes seep into the car
as it creeps ahead, windows ajar.
Flashing brake lights, or a honking horn,
invites the finger and instant scorn.
Time inches forward trying to pass
flattened tires and shards of broken glass.
I arrive safely, despite the squeeze,
and parking my car, tensions ease.
Later, I'll need to fight my way back,
or leave early, and beat the rat pack.
(Rhyme)
10/17/2017
Ford Anglia
Ford Anglia, Ford Anglia,
You were always my favourite Car.
Distinctive shape and two-toned colour,
In the showroom, you were the Star.
Cortina, my Cortina,
Your sleek lines made a statement.
People would often turn their heads,
In wonder and amazement.
Zodiac, mighty Zodiac,
A real Man’s motor was this big boy.
Leather seats and chrome hub caps,
The Daddy with his pride and joy.
Escort, oh classic Escort,
You certainly broke the mould.
A family car that thrilled a generation,
So popular, millions were sold.
The old Fords had some character,
Unlike Fiesta, Mondeo or Focus.
Though the exhaust fumes weren’t too green,
Carbon Monoxide used to choke us.
RECIPE: “Poulet Roti” French Style – Le Chant Royal (Instalment 3)
(Note: Rhyme scheme of “Le Chant Royal” where capital “E“stands for refrain, thus – Stanza: ababccddedE, Envoi: ddedE)
STANZA II
Cut the hot-water supply, make chicken freeze
Tear up the electric connections, the telephone
Ensure chicken swallows upstairs dust, e’en sneeze
Fix the plumbing, flood coop with merde from heaven
Funnel exhaust fumes into coop car cabin
After fixing the engine – closed doors – unseen
And when chicken leaves coop to forage for food
Invade the coop, sabotage shower for good
So as to keep chicken skin in constant stink
See that chicken pays for all damage in blood
Give the Alien Crowd free rope’s nodding wink!
ENVOI
Use the migrant lêches culs, the all-willing brood
Rejects from anarchic lands up to no good
Kitchen-help strut as Mason Chefs in a blink
Make their Masters’ ev’ry wish come true for good
Give the Alien Crowd free rope’s nodding wink!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2017
All the nice things in life!
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
All the nice things in life!
Are said to be the cause of strife.
Some even can shorten your life.
Sugar is one oh so sweet.
That’s something to cut down to eat.
Salt also is said to be bad.
A lot on fish and chips I’ve had.
Exhaust fumes from motorcars.
Air fresheners in the house and car.
All those chemicals we inhale.
No wonder we are sick and pale.
Too much sun is bad it’s true.
So cover our skin in chemicals, we do.
So much preservative we digest.
What else is bad I can ingest?
Now fizzy drinks must also go.
Those full of sugar or so low.
So if you do, none of these.
Life should be like a fresh breeze!
Related Poems