Long Motorists Poems
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I was stuck in traffic on the corner of Main and Fourth
Yelling in a loud voice until I became quite hoarse.
Finally, the lanes of motorists started moving forth.
I was headed for the racetrack to bet on a horse.
My taxi driver said, "Sometimes life just ain't fair."
I answered in agreement and then replied, "Oh,
for sure. You got that right. How much is my fare?"
He said, "Ten bucks, Mister. That's what you owe."
I arrived a bit too late to make a bet on race one,
but in plenty time to read the program for race two.
I wanted to bet a horse here, who'd previously won,
hoping she'd be a winner for me in this race, too.
The sleek filly's name was My Sweet Southern Belle.
In the post parade I noticed that she had a lively gait,
but I was getting impatient to hear the starting bell,
and then I heard it ring and they surged from the gate.
I knew Belle had been assigned the heaviest weight,
but she had impressive breeding, and she wouldn't fold.
Her jockey held her back, for it was the plan to wait.
I knew Belle was special since the day she was foaled.
The favorite took the lead, a determined little dun,
who looked strong enough to run all day for a week,
but Belle was closing in, and I knew she wasn't done.
The other horses' stamina seemed to be getting weak.
To the lead went a big gray mare, called Lady's Knight.
I hoped Belle could catch that one, but who knows?
Belle soared down the stretch like a comet in the night,
crossed over the finish line first and won by just a nose!
October 10, 2022
Homophone Rhyme Contest
Being sponsored by Hat Bueckert
They now lie vacant and still.
In the past, drivers came for a fill.
With clean restrooms and soda machines,
these stops were once places with lively scenes.
“Let me check your oil and clean your windshield.”
That is what attendants said at Esso and Richfield.
There was also Sinclair, Atlantic, and Flying-A.
These names are all part of an earlier day.
They were there to help motorists on their way.
Whether they drove a Hudson, Studebaker, or Thunderbird,
service was always the key word.
The pumps are rusty and the windows are boarded.
The old signs are now damaged and distorted.
Walls of the buildings are overgrown with ivy.
Business was brisk at the height of their activity.
However, all that was there is only a memory.
For National Cat Day, October 29, 2022
Egyptians worshipped and revered them;
Superstitious people feared them;
When wicked witches commandeered them,
They rode on brooms and sometimes steered them;
In cramped pet shops owners tiered them;
Exotic dealers bred and reared them,
Sometimes bobbed their tails and eared them
Then cool and casually auctioneered them;
Poets lauded them and cheered them;
Children's writers buccaneered them;
Hateful boys have chased and jeered them;
Careless motorists have smeared them;
Allergics sneezed each time they neared them;
Sculptors bronzed them; groomers sheared them,
Trimmed their toenails and veneered them;
Toy makers stuffed and puppeteered them;
Jewelers brooched or lavaliered them;
Geneticists have engineered them
And for research volunteered them.
Though man's endured them and endeared them,
He's barely tamed, not domineered them.
To humans history has adhered them,
But their nine lives have persevered them.
And that is why I tip my hat
To the legacy of the cat.
Even this hard heart's been smitten
By a furry ball of kitten.
Cats have kept us fascinated
Since the first ones were created
And perhaps hung out with Adam's other half.
They have been both pets and passions,
And served as well as fads and fashions,
But it really is enough to make one laugh.
Men may ply themselves with worldly honors,
And of slavish dogs play prideful owners,
But to aristocratic cats…
They're merely staff.
Author's note: Cats may have been domesticated as early as 7,500 BC. They are the second most popular house pet in the U.S., behind…go figure!...freshwater fish.
After dining at the finest of Maw and Paw restaurants
Frequented by men in trucks
Outside I slipped on the gravel drive
And as would be my luck
The LARGE cowboy belt I'm so proud of
Latched on and then got stuck
Now I'm off to see America
From the front grill of a Big Mac Truck
From the plains of Plano, Texas
To the hills of Hoboken Plantation, Tennessee
There's not to many places
That Big Mac Truck did not take me
To other motorists I was Mr. Friendly
With my arms flapping in the wind
They all would honk and wave and smile
As I smiled back with my bug filled grin
For weeks and weeks we went from coast to coast
Hollywood, California is where I made my mark
Someone happened to take my picture
Which made me an instant star
So I hooked my buckle to the front of a limo
As crowds started to recognize me
A Big Mac Truck would no longer do
When your a Big Time Celebrity
I was on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon
He interviewed me from a parking lot
The limo would not fit on the couch
Plus I can't get the buckle to unlock
Now when my limo pulls up to crosswalks
Pedestrians ask for my autograph
Before the light turns green and me and the bumper we leave
I tell a few jokes and we share a few laughs
As life's fortunes would have it
I can't believe my luck
The day I tripped on that gravel drive
And fell into the grill of that Big Mac Truck
I'm just a regular guy with a regular job,
Just your average, run of the mill suburbanite slob.
I drive really slow in the ultra-fast lane,
while motorists behind me are going insane.
I use public toilets and I urinate on the seat
and if by chance in the restroom we do meet,
I'll shake your hand before washing mine guaranteed.
Sometimes I park in handicapped spaces,
while handicapped people make handicapped faces.
I'm obnoxious, stupid, inconsiderate and bold.
I'm an idiot, I'm a moron, I'm an A HOLE!!!
*
All People Have One.
Some People Are One.
*
Dedicated To All Of The A Holes Out There.
She says she tries to be both tender
and challenging with herself,
to fall less,
to dance more,
to help others fail less
and athletically prance more.
As she drives past the library,
closed for Sunday liturgy,
she sees the Seventh Day Adventists
on the front corner
with their sign
large enough for motorists,
"What is TRUE success?"
Although understanding this question
is rhetorical
with a dogmatic answer
readily at hand
for those with more adventurous
challenging responses
and dialogical interests,
she honks her tender feminist horn
and shouts out to celebrate
"HEALTH!"
White Adventists
turn darker red
and reply
"Not HELL
but Heaven,
each day on Earth God's patriarchal Sabbath,
for those with eyes to see Trust
and ears to hear Truth."
"Not HELL," she returns
while pulling over;
"Health is true success."
"What about spiritual
and politically empowering success?"
the sign-holder challenges
without much obvious tenderness.
"Mental health
is spiritually empowering health,
at least in my experience.
And yours?"
"I may see your pointedness.
But, what of true economic success?"
"Cooperatively invested financial health."
"Religious and cultural success?"
"Natural/spiritual synergetic health,
or so it seems to nondualistic
tenderly challenged me."
"If health is success,
then what is wealth?"
in your challenged tender pathology,
heading toward Hell."
"You are among those
who segregate sacred sabbath health
from secular business as usual wealth,
in an unhealthy bipolar nature v spirit way
I fear,
without intending blame or shame."
With your same bipolar challenging division
you could also choose to hear
dipolar tender invitations
in-between hell and heaven,
secular wealth and sacred climate health,
natural informing spiritual questions
like, What is TRUE success?
As she pulls away,
tenderly upward
and challenging onward.
Market stall sellers, spewing out cheap tat, for bargain hunting peabrains parting with their cash; items disintegrating from one single use.
City traders impress with tall tales of the day, lapping up each others crap enjoying it's scent and taste; not caring for the common man whose lives they have wrecked.
Office workers looking grey, another mundane day. Sitting at their desks, day-dreaming of a different life while listening to bosses drivel on about deadlines.
Shop workers getting by, mastering people skills, satisfying customers; some are born to please but for others it's just painful.
Buskers playing tunes, some are good, some are not. They enjoy what they do, even to an audience unattentive to the soundtrack of their day.
Beggars in doorways trying to prise money from our wallets but who are the genuine needy? Alcoholics, drug addicts or rich Romanian gangs who treat it as a living.
Cyclists whizz past, jumping the red lights. An obstacle for pedestrians and motorists alike; two wheeled accidents waiting to happen.
Motorists zoom past at speed with arrogance and aggression; the survivors way to driving through city streets. A combination with potential for fatal consequences.
Some walk through the streets, head down, oblivious to all around, focusing on getting to their destination. Others soak it all in; buskers, coffee shops, the bustle of life.
If you're in the city, enjoy the city, even with the smog. Life's too short to be annoyed with the things that irritate us. Embrace what's on offer but accept you'll be ripped off!
Rolling hills of green grass meet my eyes, skies of heavenly blue open up to the mountains reaching the skies..
Rivers gushing along the prairies of wildflowers, Montana is HIS creation, brings HIS children to their knees.
I look up, sea of green pine trees line the highways for motorists to enjoy, My soul is at rest with sounds of birds singing their praise to God, Montana in its own beauty fills my heart with peace..
Mountains of rock high as the eye can see, life can’t help but pause as to cleanse our stress, daily grind, Wyoming has touched me with Gods beauty and spirit.
Sunset is among us between the mountains of trees, golden rays settles upon the gentle running river below as if GODS hands blessing us with Montanas beauty..
The deer and bison grazing upon weeds in the bed of mountains, please let this moment never end, Montana carry my worries away down into your river of carefree blessings….
A Kamikaze peddler
Who follows his nose
fluorescent green Lycra
A middle finger he shows
Slower than a snail
As wide as truck
Forget the highway code
He pushes his luck.
Side by side they pedal
Three or four deep
Then they become violent
If you give them a beep
They own the road
and there’s no mistake
Zip through red lights
No prisoners they take
Danger personified
Full speed ahead
And then they wonder
Why motorists see red.
The bike’s abandoned
He washes his hands
Peels off his Lycra
He’s got urgent plans
Jumps in his car
To go somewhere fast
A slight incline
He just can’t pass
In front is a pedlar
And It’s Karma at last.
David Cox 11/05/25
The new year found me alone at a deserted roadside,
not knowing where to go but thumbing for a ride.
The signposts displayed 2023 South and 2024 North.
Motorists, speeding along in both directions,
saw my two thumbs up pointing in both directions.
They all stared, as if to say, "Make up your mind".
It did not matter to me where it took me, my mind
was set to board any ride that bothered to stop.
Whether we care or dare to go here or there, thumbing
and bombing without care can take us just about anywhere.
As it happened, a Southbound motorist picked me up, and
before I knew it, I was seeing places I had already been.
I felt like a kid on a merry-go-round, except that I felt no fun.
The driver then said to me that some of us might feel like going
backward or staying put for fear of where the Northbound lanes would
lead. And then he said, "The only eyes we have are in front of our heads".
010824PS