Long Radiator Poems
Long Radiator Poems. Below are the most popular long Radiator by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Radiator poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m doin’ 65 in my car
in life’s fast lane bound,
it feels like I’m speedin’
but I’m slowin’ down
My grindin’ gears drag,
odometer is off the chart,
the motor is still runnin’
but needs a kickstart
Lot less gas in the tank
and radiator is leakin’,
the old tyres are bald
and my chassis creakin’
Transmission slips a lot
yet in top gear really rips,
crankshaft still works
but only on short trips
Valves need replacin'
and gaskets hot cinders,
pistons are pumpin' still
but not on all cylinders
Temp gauge in the red
and oil light is flashin',
the rev counter is stuck
but still gets a thrashin'
The booty trunk is full
and my rear axle rides low,
I smell gas and smoke cos
my tailpipe does blow
The grille needs work
just as under the hood,
body showin’ its age
and brakes ain't good
The leather is all worn
and lost its smooth skin,
many years peeled away
the shiny chrome trim
But I'm still on the road
and mean to get my kicks,
God willin’ here I come
next year on Route 66
Written: January 2026
i become a stone,
still a leader,
but translation
transforms me,
as i learn
“le crayon est rouge.”
“Je m’appelle Chantal.”
enchanted by my “nom français.”
a shy child, changed by her name.
my friend and i
on different sides.
she’s critical of Madame Gold.
i rather enjoy
the running jump
into “Lac d’Aiguebelette.”*
we whisper fun, of one boy,
with the crooked nose.
i lose my charm
an anchor
clinging to the radiator.
french class particularly enchanting
as if we travel across the vast sea —
explore the Louvre and Eiffel Tower,
the catacombs and Notre Dame.
crèpes in class
tastier than home ec.
Madame Gold calls on Kat-a-leen.
She’s not happy, a bit.
but i smile, and wait a long long while
before i visit, for real, the city of lights.
now in my sixties, i learn much more
of the sordid history of Paris
and its close-by venture to Versaille.
but all our hometown places
have their secrets, their horrors,
their orgies, and battles.
God keeps beauty in the steeple
and the turquoise sky and the lake
reminding me of “paradis.”**
french class, history — a loft
for an awkward child.
perhaps that’s why Madame Gold
was so enchanting,
not a bit of a witch like Kathleen thought.
2/25/2021
Lac d’Aiguebelette pronounced “lack-day-boo-lette”
Paradis pronounced “pear-a-dee”
Today I took the car in for a simple lube and change of oil.
What began as a routine day, the mechanic proceeded to spoil.
I thought my pride in fine mechanical shape, of that I often crowed,
But he convinced me that the heap I drove was a menace on the road!
I shuddered as he pointed out the problems - I almost had a fit!
"Why me, Lord?" I mused. It only has two-hundred thousand miles on it!
As he chewed a straw he said, "Them tires is about to pop.
Ya ain't got no brakes - ya musta drug yer feet fer to stop!"
"Yer radiator leaks an' all th' hoses is as soft as mush.
It's gonna need a new one, I cain't fix it with a simple flush.
Th' pinions an' gears in yer transmeeshun is grindin' lots uv steel,
An' yer water pump is leakin' an' startin' a horrible squeal!"
"Th' transmeeshun pan is leakin' - see them puddles on my floor?
An' ya got a broke hinge an' window on yer left rear door!
Th' pistons an' connectin' rods is makin' a dreadful clackin',
An' yer battery is almost dead since its output is really lackin'!"
Now trading cars is usually a point of contention with my dear wife,
But little debate convinced her that our clunker was nearly void of life,
And would cost about three thousand bucks to get on the road again!
(She's proud of the new Caddie and it purrs like a finely tuned violin!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The Comfort of the Radiator
There is nothing more that I love
than the whistling sound of the radiator
It signals safety in my surroundings
It keeps me encapsulated in safety and warmth
The soothing sound reminds me that all is well is well in my world
I have a lot to be grateful for
Promising visions of Thanksgiving Day Feasts, the charm and beauty that Christmas magic brings
And the brilliance of the sparkling New Year!
It soothes me bathing me in comfort of body and soul
All is harmonious
All is well
The universe is supporting me
And Good is looking down on me and tending to me.
God Bless the peaceful, unifying sounds of the radiator
The connector to outward sensation
The indicator that someone out there is looking out for me and making sure I am warm
Others are benefiting from its sounds and its crackling heat
Everything is well and in balance
Peace, my friends…..
we came up same building,
same busted elevator, same rumors in the walls —
three girls stacked on top of each other
like secrets whispered through radiator pipes.
6S - she’s half rican, half black,
but don’t call her half - she all attitude,
dark skin glowing when she laughs too loud,
hips slick like she dancing with nobody’s permission.
5E - 5’1 and built like a threat,
she got a stare that’ll stop you mid-lie.
she hate surprises, so we never sneak up -
she come knocking first if you do her wrong.
then me - 7N, freckles spread like stars on light skin,
red-brown hair tied up, book in my lap,
content to stay inside while they chase block heat.
they pull me out anyway - stoop nights, corner gossip,
big dreams that don’t always fit our pockets.
we so different it make no sense -
three girls shaped like soft rebellion,
like hard lessons, like love
that never needed no permission slip.
puberty tried to twist us up,
boys tried to break us open,
life threw her worst
and we just leaned closer -
me, yaphia, tarita - same building girls,
same busted elevator,
still going up.
The light of his eyes are growing dim
He creaks across the hard floor
A mouth so large it holds a ton
No longer remains doors
Leaks and drips sometimes pour out fast
Loud noises as dinosaurs
But that mouth scoops up rank garbage
It's as if an amour
Soon retirement in the picture
He doesn't want to be junked
That yellow John Deere loader
Man! A great machine hunk
Every week day he is so busy
He doesn't want to rest
Up and going at six in the morn
That is when he does best
He's seen those loader graveyards
on the way to be repaired
If only they would oil and grease
him as if they did cared
He has been faithful to do his job
Even though neglected
Tears run down his radiator
His metal is affected
Sad to see the death of such a one
it pains to see him go
But life is short even in service
The graveyard such a blow
Inspired by contest:Garbage
I found out a long time ago,
it's a long way down the Holiday road.
I need a vacation from my vacation.
I'd of been better off at home in deep meditation.
"You need some time off," I'm often told,
but it's a long way down that Holiday road.
Bags are packed and the bills are all paid.
Time to get on the open highway.
Driving with the top down underneath a clear sky of blue.
It doesn't get any better than this. Then my radiator blew.
I knew something like this was going to unfold.
Yes it's a long way down that Holiday road.
After being extorted by the local tow truck driver,
my Holiday was quickly becoming a fading desire.
but when I reached the Grand Canyon it was a sight to behold.
Destination accomplished on Holiday road.
I stood breathless taking in the scenery
just prior to being chased by a rapid coyote.
I spent the entire night asleep in a tree.
This vacation is killing me.
I awoke in the morning shivering and cold,
but thankfully no rabid coyote to behold.
This vacation is making me tired and old
and it's only my second day on Holiday road.
I ran out of my boots during the coyote run.
My bare feet were cracked and blistered under the hot mid day sun.
I must have run miles in this difficult terrain.
"Oh Perfect!" I said out loud as it started to rain.
I found my way back and felt even more the fool.
I left the top down. My car was a swimming pool.
Thankfully though no major damage done
and after my car dried out in the open sun
once again I was on the open road
to pursue more "fun" and "relaxation" on my Holiday road.
To her, their apartment was the whole world—a small but cozy place where she felt safe and loved.
It was early morning. She heard her sister squeal with joy hearing that schools would be closed today due to the heavy snowfall.
In her pink onesie pajamas, she shuffled across the speckled brown-and-gold carpet. It was worn and frayed in places but soft under her little feet. The living room was cramped, the walls filled with photos of a family's happy life. An old sofa was wedged between mismatched end tables and a wooden bookcase overflowing with encyclopedias. The plastic-lined cushions sagged from years of use.
A crack and stain on the ceiling traced where water had once leaked. The radiator clanked and hissed, making the windows sweat against the icy city air. She climbed onto the sofa. The plastic cold and squeaky beneath her pj's. Her small white footies barely reached the edge.
Their living room was everything—
a playroom, a dining room, and, on the coldest nights, a bedroom where they all huddled together when Mom turned on the oven for extra warmth.
Her pigtail tickled the back of her neck,
but her eyes stayed glued to the TV.
A gray rabbit with twitching whiskers dashed across the screen,
and a little man with a big nose and chubby legs was chasing after him, gun in hand.
Outside, snowflakes swirled around the window, piling in soft heaps on the fire escape.
She and her sister would make snowballs today
and lie in the snow laughing, making angels.
The smell of coffee, fried ham, eggs, and toast wafted from the kitchen.
She was looking forward to the delicious frosted sugary oat cereal
Mom would be preparing soon.
Dad had just walked in from work.
His usual booming voice echoing down the hallway. Mom’s quiet hush followed from the kitchen.
Everything was perfect. Everything in her little world. . .
Until she heard the gunshot—
and Dad lay dead on the kitchen floor.
I don't want to be a processed human
warm thumpads on click screen
cant put my hands in my pcokets
pockets filled with sand
cup of dirt by my table
Orange fire tree, a beauty, shivers in gray
I am not aware of me
when nature bears to see its swaying leaves
there's glory in the metal squeak of a guitar string
feel dead wood, relief, plastic wrapped child roses
Smell the green on harvested before bloom
The blood crust on my ear
monstrous scratching between straw hair of a dead scalp makes me want to rip skin out
Ocean water take me there but i hear electric of cars every step
bushes square
trees baby leaves
bloomed too late to turn green
Watch a movie set in italy you feel the vibrations of the screen
make your face red; silent scream
pop ups, plastic warmth
cling to the radiator through polyester, spine compressed and half your bed taken by an amass of wires and clunk: heavy mess to project reality
My veins pump blood spray when cut
I'm a real human transmitting consciousness through things i never knew
drained my energy in this scry mirror: to be human is selfish, AI helps with all but takes root to steal yourself and sell it back to you
Darkness arrives by five o’clock
Before the dinner table is set
Tan lines are all faded and gone
As if the bathing suits our skin did forget
White snow now blankets our once green lawn
Where a snowman stands on patrol
Winter days display on my calendar
Something over which I have no control
Throw a log on the fire to keep us warm
As the flames devour its feast
Shadows of leafless limbs on the wall
Starting to look like a winter’s beast
Eating Brunswick stew five days in a row
Simmering in the cast iron pot
I am happy to consume another bowl
As long as you serve it up hot
Crawling under the comforter to keep us warm
As the radiator sings out with a hiss
Helping our tangled body’s heat to rise
By sharing another passionate kiss
Others can fly to Florida
Chasing a warm winter sun
Being here inside, hibernating with you
I think is much more fun