Long Exhaust fumes Poems
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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.
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?
Passages trail the utter existence
along brick faced wanderings
with puddles reflecting death
in the vast wasteland that calls
from bled out dreams
I listen to the footsteps,
eager to please, left by the curb
beneath graffiti warnings
in spray painted quotes
dripping with ease and intent
Their cadence sends
splashing ripples onto
nicely pressed slacks,
collecting glares from bus stop loafers
with exact change and nowhere to go
As I find my existence
fading in the far back seat,
staring out of a smeared rear window,
exhaust fumes wave good bye
to the nothing I have become
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.
(This is a fictional poem)
When I came in my garage, I saw that my car has been started without a key.
My worst enemy just locked me in here so that the exhaust fumes will kill me.
He hotwired my car and even welded the hood shut so that I can't shut off the
engine.
My life is flashing before my eyes and my friends and family won't see me alive
again.
Nobody has heard me even though I've started to shout.
It's hopeless, nobody is going to let me out.
I'm scared and I'm starting to cry because it's the end.
And to think that I once thought that bastard was a friend.
I didn't think he'd go this far but there's something that son of a _____ didn't
count on.
I'm writing down that he's the murderer so that the cops will nail him after I'm
gone.
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.
My
eyes are
sorely touched
with the harsh flash
of puce and pink-red
exhaust fumes leak lazy
from the line of matchbox cars
clogging humanities sewers
lungs gasp at green tires lay rubber
like the wail of infants taken from tit
dangling arms wave the air seeking entrance
to the already well come fill’d shunt
sighing rubbing my lids lights strobe
just past the seared surfaces
of my bruised retinas
my feet throb swollen
now depressing
releasing
pedal
push.
One may be "Touched" in physically, mentally or spiritually.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
I have my window down in my car as I pull to a stop at the light.
Music blaring, inhaling exhaust fumes, horns honking, sirens wailing,
in a chaotic moment my eyes catch something everyone else has missed.
A pair of birds in a nearby tree tending to their nest of young ones,
they seem unaware of the confusion around them, focused only of their task.
Stopping here, and there, and everywhere during my busy blurring day, what do I see? I see the little things, the ones you normally pay no mind too.
A butterfly, floating on a whirlwind and landing on wildflowers growing through concrete cracks during rush hour.
A hummingbird, going from home to urban home looking for a nectar feeder, oddly looking at satellite dishes as possible sources.
A leafcutter bee, chewing what it needs for nesting material from an overgrown leafy plant in a suburban parking lot.
One day melts into another, hardly noticing the difference. The clouds, the sun, the breeze that blows your hair, calling to you. It whispers something to your heart, "step back and breathe the life of everything surrounding you, use your senses".
Sitting in my garden, I see birds tending their nest of young ones, they are always welcome here.
Sitting in my garden, I see a floating butterfly landing on flowers, you are always welcome here.
Sitting in my garden, I see a hummingbird drinking nectar from my bright colored feeder, you are always welcome here.
Sitting in my garden, I see a leafcutter bee filling a tube made of reeds to protect their offspring, you are always welcome here.
A sanctuary begins in one's own mind, you are free to construct and create from all that is, was, and will be.
Welcome......
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
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