Long Motor Poems
Long Motor Poems. Below are the most popular long Motor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Motor poems by poem length and keyword.
First Love
You were my hero.
You showed up just in time.
You saved me…
You did all the right things.
You said all that I needed to hear.
I remember that you had a beard.
You laughed easy, and had a great smile.
You smelled like motor oil and gunpowder.
Sometimes you had an earthy scent like hunting.
It made me remember sleeping in a tent…with you.
My teeth still chatter, thinking of the cold.
Tang and tequila at dawn,
warming my nose, tickling my toes.
I remember that now when I pass a Big 5.
You bought me my first camera.
You taught me to see, the whole picture.
You trained me to read a map.
You made sure I would not get lost.
You made me think things through.
You told me I could do it.
Then, on the day of the test…
you said I was the best! (in song on my answer machine)
We read books together,
We made new paths in the woods.
Winnie the Pooh made noises,
I had never heard before…
until you read the first book, out loud.
We were the best of friends.
We were life timers.
I had to leave. You know that now.
You knew that then.
It was never going to be okay,
In any way.
I miss you bear…,
but your not there.
When you’re shaken and stirred by your love for another
And the song of the heart sends the head to the nether
When you clean all the grim off the hope to discover
The pale ghostly figure of a once strong lover
Standing over your shoulder and in the path before yer
All the words that was spent, all the touches too
How the blood pays the rent when the heart’s overdue
How the future’s forgotten when the past clutches you
How temperament is timed to the reenactments untrue
In the old habitual view of the beacons in the blue
All the wistful dreams admired in the over-exposed night
Secretly mishandled in the darkening morning light
Brilliantly disguised amidst the many a broken right
All pent up, packed and unboxed at heart’s aching sight
For the hard-eyed delight of which no ashes reignite
It’s a curled lip glossy spread and a pout at the ghost
It’s a damaged motor chanting on the road to the coast
Where lone-isle weary figures are cloaked standing on post
Claiming their measure, their misgiving, their bitter boast
About the thieving dream-host to whom they gave their heart most
stream of consciousness
A laughing clown filled the heavenly screen
full of malic, behind him, men were eating children
Wine and blood ran down their chests
they had the time of their life
Freedom to exploit the weak and call it democracy
they were friendly and offered me a child's soft arm and thigh
I shook my head, walked on to find my way home
There it was, shining bright on a hill in the afternoon light
The apartment bloc had no entrance
ropes hung from windows
My flat was on the third floor, painted by a mad Russian
who was eaten by wolves in the forest he painted
I tried to climb up vital for me to get home
I was too weak to slide down, and my hands burst into flame
I put my hands in a bucket of water that turned into wine
that I coolly drank
A fire engine hosted by, I stopped the motor and asked
for a ladder, they had no time to help
so, many other hands-on fires that night
I walked to the ever-lasting river, sat on a stone, listened
to the universal language
I let go and became the river
It’s taken care of.
A friend of ours
who owns property by the Ohio river
has agreed to make use of her pontoon boat,
to take my ashes, to scatter them.
I have been working toward this, making plans,
arranging for loose connections to connect;
it’s what I want and imagined.
Now we are drifting over an Autumnal morning mist,
the craft, a handful of mourners, the low throb
of a 90 horse power outboard motor.
I like the thought
of 90 horses under my cardboard urn.
I like the way even Autumn can be arranged
with a little forward planning.
I envision the water churning, horses
plowing a way through the still stream,
the craft rocking gently, a limousine
full of spectral wide-eyed children,
some of them sketching elaborate blueprints
of the day after,
some plotting navigational calibrations
regarding, spread, speed and eventual dissolution
of burnt atoms into the smaze of
recycled fish food.
We are all sanguine, buoyant with hope and wonder.
I would pat myself on the back if I could.
My wife kisses my dark container,
everything is going just as it should,
I have taken great care developing this scene.
My widow has not had breakfast yet
and the air is a little chilly.
‘Now’, I declare, ‘better here than elsewhere
don’t let the plot drift away’.
The mist is lifting, soon the world
will reveal itself to be just shorelines
between one dream and another.
I need to be away,
vainglorious schedules must be met,
the script notarized.
Looking at the mirror
with good day’s pleasure
I see slothfulness’ glamor
taunting with delight’s leisure
Yet ready to attack sense of honor
defying time-worth’s treasure
So defiant; not a generous donor
offering gift that costs much pressure!
I challenge you, my body’s indolent suitor
upon your procrastination’s grandeur
I’m aware of your wastefulness’ color
since programmed schedule you want to injure
I fight you for putting me in meaninglessness’ rigor
against unjustified torture
Dampening my work-ardor
by your entertainment-indulgence culture!
Face now my spiritual fervor
straightening your laziness-posture
I vanquish your terror
that’s underestimating my devotion-measure
See how I combat fruitlessness’ horror
striving for a productive future
While trusting God with His grace-anchor,
I press on by His might so sure!
Don’t shake me with doubts’ tremor;
I confront you upon truth’s nurture
You'll be overtaken by my Conqueror
… just prepare for a painful capture
Never dare me; you’re a deceitful actor
trapped inside reality’s exposure
I’m driven by the Victor
Who has mastered very well human nature!
Along my stewardship’s armor,
I smite you with discipline-censure
Having the Lord’s good favor...
I dominate over your lethargic displeasure
Upheld by His strong succor,
I subdue your destructive gesture
Trained by my champion Mentor...
I arise toward faith-performance venture!
Thus, by diligence-motor, ...
you, spirit of the sluggard, I adjure
Yield to the task-commander’s tenor
…follow work-ethics’ procedure
Escape from vanity’s galore
…be prodded to toil and endure
Girded by hardships’ candor
…stand up with zealousness-feature!
Opponent of losing savor,
Surrender your worthless seizure for healthy cure
Accept that you’re beaten by genuine labor
midst your impatience-tenure
I thank my Savior for righteous valor
making me win on persistence juncture
Guided constantly by the Director,
I persist in His triumphant service-business* pasture!
Personification with rhyme form
*Romans 12:11 Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord.
April 7, 2019
Edited on May 13, 2020
5th place, "Shutter Speed" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann; judged on 5/18/2020.
Hope I'm not putting a big hex on myself
But till now I've had no serious medical problems
Don't know how many can say that at seventy-eight
But you can place me in the “fortunate” column
Haven't done anything out of the ordinary
Thinking maybe I inherited some very good genes
My whole family before me all lived to a ripe old age
So what's this guy... a can of baked beans!
Seven sisters all lived longer than eighty
A pattern seems to have been established here
Don't want to break the spell or cause any problems
I'll just motor along and have another beer
Don't think I'd like to be around at one hundred
Soiling my jockey and mumbling away
Just wheel me out to the back veranda in the sun
And forget me for a couple of days
© Jack Ellison 2014
twisted tied dyed bug infested, interested;
mon tosh memorized motor vehicle registrations;
tailor chokeberry reaches rhymes gyrations;
leaving whom am I to remain, sustained
captured...
WHY SHOULD I COMPLAIN
no ones listen......
no one listen.....
WHY SHOULD I COMPLAIN
who am I to cry
no one cares if I die
if I try
my oh my
bobbed wired town crier;
placing stuffed animals in washers, then dryers;
and by chance I chose my eyes
tailor chokeberry reaches rhymes gyrations;
leaving whom am I to remain, sustained
captured...
by the pains of worry and strife;
whom am I to cry;
whom am I to ask why?
WHY SHOULD I COMPLAIN
who am I to cry
no one cares if I love or die
so I just let it be
it I try, my oh my
just walk away then leave me in my misery
I complain
but no ones listening;
I complain
and no one is listening;
I pray
seems like no one is there;
whom am I praying for, and where;
I complain;
and then the answer;
Is found in after?
jaw dropping dogs chasing purple frogs;
while cats climbing trees leaping from log to logs;
leaving who am I to remain sustained walking dogs;
while smelling the sweet minty evergreens;
this is why should I complain
tongue tied bright eyed boys on a mission;
little girls at the table playing with their mother's dishes;
I still am one of those well wishers;
braided hair sudden bursts bully stares;
I have something I can give you and it's rare;
My Lord, my Savoir you are here but where am I;
inspired of and by all the negative in my life;
leaving whom am I to remain sustained
reason alone to
Complain?
A Young man's Fancy
If you say ‘yes’ to be my girl
Then we can give romance a whirl
To the movies we can go
snuggle up in the back row
Watching all the latest hits
With blood and gore and juicy bits
Or, I can take you out to dine
No, don’t protest, the pleasure’s mine
There’s K F C or Burger Kings
You do like fries and onion rings?
If you wish I’ll get you jeans
I know a man who has the means
To get them cheap from off a stall
Just say the word, I’ll make the call
How’d you like my motor bike?
We’ll take a spin, if you like
Here’s a helmet, it’s my spare.
Jump on the back, if you dare.
So if you’re keen I’ll be your guy
And we will give romance a try
Dr Ram's Parody contest
Golden Retrievers are the bestest friends
They'll love you no matter what
Even if you've just had the worst day ever
These charmers your heart will touch
Their wagging tails are a good indication
You're their favourite supplier of love
They're also aware you're a supplier of food
There's no higher friendship above
They're the bestest friend a man can have
They trust you to the nth degree
Treat them kindly, they're almost like people
Except when they need to pee
Then they cross their eyes and cross their legs
And dance back and forth, to and fro
But they never complain, just motor along
Unless of course you react to slow
Golden Retrievers are the bestest friends
They'll love you no matter what
They'll love you even if the sky's falling down
The bestest damn friend you've got
© Jack Ellison 2014
The debate between free will and fate has taken a hard right
turn to neuroscience, Brodmann area 4 the primary motor
cortex of the brain located in the posterior frontal lobe
(the one cut out of the one who once flew over the cuckoo's nest).
This area of the cortex has the pattern of an homunculus!
a little man, a troll, the all-wise, mandragon, the golem of Jewish folklore.
This little man has a that, when fully engorged, is
equal in size to his entire body. However, diseases
such as Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Huntington's, Lou Gehrig's and
Creutzfeldt-Jakob
are gunning for him. His basal ganglia are garbled
and he ends up giving poor advice and making bad decisions.
Who can say what happens to his soul or cells or if all will be given or
well?
I was listening to the famous astronomer on public radio
who expressed the certainty there is no death, your soul
is immortal, it exists outside of time (but not space?). That's because
time exists only in the human mind (as does the universe
including the professional baseball season which is canceled when
you're dead).
By Spring, my problems will be solved or ignored, either way is good.
Groundhog holds the knowledge of death without dying
for man needs help from every creature born.
Will the holocaust wipe the smile off the face of our romantic comedy
or will laughter outlast the outburst?
About the dark times will there be singing?
Yes, there will be singing and some of the songs will be sidesplitting.
Solving the murder reveals the city. Nature of kinships and economic
sustenance,
who loves whom and why, when things happened and how they lost
and found themselves
in what happened. Because a meter-making argument cannot appear
from nothingness, purposelessness, just cold.
He does not go where he was supposed to go. He is in the desert,
Sonoran desert, counting cactus buds and ocotillo blooms.
This is the afterlife for which he has always longed.