Long Lorries Poems
Long Lorries Poems. Below are the most popular long Lorries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lorries poems by poem length and keyword.
That night, in a strange place
I was like a fly
Circling a street light
Reeling…Reeling!
I felt so alone
Fear wrenched my throat
Couldn’t predict
When I would be charred to death
I had heard,
In the cover of dark
Everyone was a robber
Or a masked assassin!
Without a roof over my head
I was like a mole
Smoked out of its hole
And exposed to blaring light
Had it been my own town
Where I knew
Every nook and cranny
Like the lines of my palm
I wouldn’t have minded
Being so helplessly stranded
Or left in the night
At a distance….
I saw the faint silhouette of hills
Like dreadful dinosaurs crouching
Also the outlines of buildings
Reminding one of the medieval haunted castles
Stray dogs, mangy
Were raiding the trash bins.
I don’t know why then
I enjoyed their company
I could hear the falling hooves
Of cattle, led to the slaughterhouse,
And the lash of whips falling on them,
Echoing the shrieking of a banshee!
Saw an auto lying upside down
Fallen unwary in a pothole
A line of tanker lorries
Seen halted by the roadside,
Like the bogies of a goods train
And their drivers went home,
To sleep with their mates
Behind the cover, I saw
Two figures leaning;
A man and a woman
Night owls at a mating serenade!
I closed my eyes,
Covering them with my palm
In that unearthly hour
An eerie fear gripped me.
Tension was building inside,
Like a balloon being bloated with air
And how my mind longed
To slither out of that hole
To curl up in the warmth of my home
Far… far away!
In these times of plenty
I see some dreadful scenes,
Yesterday a girl too poor
To have holes in her jeans.
I felt for that lassie
For I know the passion
That the young seem to feel
About following the fashion.
She could’ve cut her own but
Imagine the shame, poor thing
If her friends had discovered
She wasn’t wearing the real thing
Just a homemade attempt and
Just not in anyway the same
As that authentic hole that
Carried a Designer’s name.
In these days of austerity
It’s come sadly to pass
They’ve reined in hopes
Of the working class.
It’s Austerity for the poor,
Tax breaks for the rich,
And, like it or not,
Life’s just a .
Just count your blessings
For Brexit’s on track
And Fat Boris the liar has
Given us our country back.
Those folk in Europe
Are all jealous as hell
For they all now know
It’s all working so well
Ignore the long queues
Of lorries waiting at Dover
It’s all just Fake News and
The Brexit crisis long over.
It’s just nostalgia now
For times that have been
When any ordinary lass could
Afford Designer holes in her jeans.
the streets are scarred for good and we know it
after the hits of untamed hearts
after this abstract damage of cyclic returnings
there's a window in my chest
a sight of iron garden and crystal steam
where colour of poplars recalls
moss in the living room
and her veins in the dark
the skies are striped of equinox sabbath
over the cities full of empty people
cities full of mannequins
over the valleys of sordid poppies
perfumed mists and magnetic trees
as my shoes walk around the moonlit woods
through cobblestone plains, by mythic fields
the war of kisses rages in gravel pits
on days like these
these octagon days
and there's a storm in the kitchen sink
there's debris for dinner
the orchestra of germs in a room of dahlia
invokes all the nymphomaniac angels
all air rats and arachnid armies
with passion of cold-blooded lovers
oh, what a circus!
that's why my luggage is haunted
in floodlands, ready to depart
for the taxidermy heaven
for I'm the king of the sandcastle
just a smoke child on a paper planet
with glass floors and concrete shoes
and yellow lorries in umbrella lakes
with my brain lantern and pet mallacoderm
the rabid rooster will guide my way
down the bronze boulevard
with chocolate six-shooter in my hand
only because the streets are scarred by our love
and we know it
Thursday morning
Day aff
Time to have a think...
Down the M9
To Edinburgh
And walk across the Forth Bridge.
In the car
It's not very far
Only 26 miles,
Last day of sun
A'fore it rains a ton
Time for a few wee smiles.
Wind in hair
We must be there
Across the Firth of Forth,
Batteries charge
As the bridge looms large
So does the presence of the Lord.
Forth rail bridge
The diesel sings
As trains float over its tracks,
The red tinged steel
Matches the sun's feel
As it works on our head and backs.
The path looks long
The curve rolls on
Approaching Queensferry north,
Cable and steel
Engineering congealed
On the magnificent Firth of Forth.
The bird's eye view
With the seagull crew
Reveal the Firth's glory,
Where the bridges float
With the sailing boats
On this Edinburgh prairie.
Clock turns one
The walk is done
We leave the water and lorries,
Waste some time
Write another rhyme
As my wife and I smell the coffee.
I remember when I was a little girl
And the Rag and Bone man came round
On his cart pulled by a horse
All manner of things could be found
A washing machine with a broken ringer
And a bicycle without a wheel
He used to give my grandma two pence
For a bag of meat bones leftover from a meal
The bones were used for knife handles
And the grease extracted used to make soap
We’d give them to him in a potato sack
Tied around the top with a piece of rope
I remember one day the ragman
Knelt down on the ground
Searching between the paving stones
Where horseshoe nails could be found
Over his tired shoulders
He would carry a small bag
It would contain bones and various metals
Plus numerous pieces of coloured rag
One of the ragmen who came to our street
His name was Henry Moon
If we gave him something for his cart
We were rewarded with a goldfish or a balloon
It was a hard life being a ragman
People now wouldn’t see the sense
In working from early morning till night
For the measly sum of six pence
You still see rag and bone men about
No longer with a horse-drawn cart
Driving around in short wheel-base lorries
They have scrap collecting down to a fine art
They still pick up broken washing machines
And bicycles without a wheel
But some people still prefer to fly-tip
Dumping unwanted items in a field
We live in a throwaway society
No longer reliant on Mr Rag and Bone
It’s easy to get rid of scrap items
We just need to pick up the phone
hear others out there, just beyond my wall-wrapped sharing space
they break on through, sneaking inside my head
far above, front-nosed pilots point high-flying seated people tubes
passengers squeezed in tight, some feeling dread
as jet engines cloud-buffet, amplifying reverberations
chimney-chambers funnelling their muffled sound
momentary fear spills downward into the peaceful living-room
then gone, soon forgotten, on journeys bound
clank and clang, lift-arm lorries crawling slowly by the gateway
sin bins scooped, coloured cravings half-consumed
cascades of clinking glass crescendo, bottle-bank vomiting noise
rapid cadence, ambient drone resumed
programmed heat, timed with boiler clicks, powering-up, igniting
cold metal creaks around expanding joints
curtains swish, blinds roll open, bleary blinking, homely morning eyes
aural sequencing as the day appoints
distant yowl of hooter horn, duly departing commuter train
car doors slam, abrupt jarring intrusion
gauntlet-running mothers compete with pavement-blocking pupils
fumes linger, safety scarring delusion
radio din, depressing electro-magnetic compression
shovelled earth beside the thin blaring-out
men again dig doggedly, patching patches for the umpteenth time
careless strike, gushing hiss of waterspout
road tyres clip, manholes rattle, drum the brief mid-morning lullaby
rise and fall, the doppler siren speeding
two-wheeled tiny engine buzz, irritating as it nears the ears
loudspeaker hails, vies for votes its pleading
post person presents the parcels, delivering rat-a-tat-tat
cats scurry as scratching dogs lunge and bark
then sudden bang, spread-eagled pigeon, wingspan on window-pane
stunned, fluttering, hoping to reach the park
Why are all these hash slingers
Constantly there on my TV?
When did the ability to cook
Become reason for celebrity?
Eating for me is just like
Shovelling coal on a fire,
Just adding fuel to keep
Your energy levels higher.
It’s a bonus if it tastes good,
An even bigger bonus still
If it quietly does that and,
More importantly, doesn’t kill.
As for that fine dining lark,
Fashion apparently demands
They poke and finger it about but
Seldom seem to wash their hands.
I’m just a lower class peasant
But one thing I loath and hate
Is having to send my food back
To be properly served on a plate.
And as for the prices they charge,
Why are those in the catering trade
Constantly quoted in statistics as
Some of the lowest of the low paid.
I really don’t wish to be seen as
Pouring insults upon insults
But shouldn't these foodie quirks be
Confined between consenting adults.
Give me a roadside burger van.
You can almost guarantee it’s clean
For sure as heck a Food Inspector
Will not too long ago have been.
See a bunch of parked lorries
And your checking is complete
Had it been below our standard
They’d have voted with their feet.
So, you compile your list of
Good honest eating places
And in time come to recognise
Some well known familiar faces.
A quick greeting as you slip in
Courteously switch off the phone
And get ready to join in with
The latest rant or moan.
A bucket full of coffee,
A bacon butty in hand
And well before it’s time to go
Solve the problem of the land.