Long Truck Poems
Long Truck Poems. Below are the most popular long Truck by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Truck poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep in the piney woods
A call beckons across the branch
A call that isn't animal nor human
A call that makes your hair stand alert and skin prickly from fright!
The light of the full moon awakens the spirits and the calling from the piney woods.
If you doubt my story and risk your very life, then make sure you take a
weapon into the piney woods. Well, I believe the call is from the ghost of the moon
shiners that have lost their lives in the mica mines many years ago.
The mica was
big business one time until the mines went dry.
The deep holes were perfect cover for the moonshine stills until
the revenuers caught the culprits. A great gun battle raged until death.
Today the crumpled mica shimmer in the red clay is all that is left of the mines.
The local children like to scare
themselves with the
abandoned rock graveyard along the edge of the piney woods. If you look close at
the mound of rocks...it appears that there is a bony hand protruding from the grave
and pointing directly at you to leave. The ancient thick cedar trees seem to
guard the graves and whisper "Warning, Warning."
In 1969 there was another vilolent firey death on the road through the piney woods.
A man died inside a burning wrecked truck, screaming
"Don't let me burn to death" repeatedly until the bitter charred end.
When the moon is right the echo carries his screams across the hills.
A young man only age seventeen lost his life in a fatal car wreck on
the steep curved road. His life was taken so fast; he is said to walk
the hills searching for his sweet ride to
carry him on his journey, unaware of his eternal fate.
On a short walk along the shallow creek bank reveals an old rock formation covered
in moss now but built by a people of long ago. Maybe Indian or early settlers,
no one knows the architects but if you stand in a certain spot where the
ground is always wet with a reddish ooze. You can feel a cold icy finger
across your face and neck.
Is the call a young buck calling his bride in the after life; is the call an
evil doer fighting to avoid beelzebub's snare? The apparition can be seen
briefly if you desire look when the wind and moon are right. Waynesville
holler offers more
than beauty in the day but beware of the moon lit walks that
young lovers
brave or you
may be the next victim of the piney woods!
My elementary school was a box full of broken crayons.
You know, the kind that no one likes to use because they fit inside your hands like a hug that lasts three seconds too long.
Me and my classmates wore
hand-me-down smiles.
They were too big for our faces. We figured that eventually we would somehow grow into the sound of our own laughter, put on our happiness like gloves and wear our skin as if our bodies were made by Louie Vuitton, just hoping to be more than tattered pages ripped from the torso of coloring books.
More than the aftermath of two runaway trains headed to the same direction. Our parents drove their affection without insurance, and we are just head on collisions with no coverage. We got shattered windshields for eyes, and tongues made out of safely glass held together by super glue. It’s no wonder we spoke broken English.
With an entire orchestra drowning inside our throats, veins like guitar strings, our voices cracked like the self esteem of single mothers who carried us in their wombs like Molotov cocktails, and prayed that we would somehow find a way to mature into land mines
exploding underneath the feet that have trampled them for too long. These women, they dream in a language only fully understood by the tiles of an abortion clinic on a busy afternoon.
They raised us on top of broken promises made by men with grape jelly in their spines who were too busy jamming to their own
two-cent mix tape that they chose over their priceless women.
We didn’t come with a screwdriver. There is no picture on our box to show you what we should look like when this all is over.
We were just put into this world with a note that read
“Some assembly required.”
We were built inside of a neighborhood that looked as though it was slowly loosing a fist fight to cancer and kemotherapy claimed all of it’s dreams.
You see at a young age I was told that no matter how much furniture you move with a Honda Civic, it’ll never be a pick up truck
but have you ever wanted to be more than what you were made for?
Was there ever moment in your life when all you wanted was to be more than the wounded options that circumstance has nailed to your shoulders?
People question why we even have the audacity to breathe. That’s why when we walk it looks as though we are apologizing for our lungs.
But we ate not sorry for living this loudly.
It’s the only way we know how.
April 6 Wagontire, Oregon
1973
In 1973, I went on a road trip
With my father
We left Berkeley to go to Yakima
Where my father had a summer cabin
He was a college professor
And had July and August off
And we spent the summers
Every summer from 1968 to 1978
Our whole dysfunctional family
Our annual road trip to hell and back
As we did not get along at all
We decided to drive through Eastern Oregon
Just my father and me
Just for the hell of it
The rest of the family was already there
My father and I shared a travel lust
One of the few things we shared
This was one of our best trips
We got along
Which was unusual
Normally our relationship
Was fraught
As we were so different
We left Klamath Falls
A real nothing burg in those days
And headed east along highway 395
As we entered the desert of eastern Oregon
We entered a different world
High mountain dessert
Almost no one on the road
Then we saw the sign
Wagontire Oregon
100 miles ahead
99 miles ahead
98 miles ahead
We counted down the signs
Miles after miles
As we drove into the gathering dusk
We speculated that Wagontire
Must be a giant truck stop
In the middle of no where
We pulled into the town
Nothing there but a gas station
Motel and café
We decided to stop
Last gas for 100 miles
According to the highway signs
In the morning
We chatted with the owner
He was the sheriff, the fire chief
The owner of the motel, gas station
The only business in town
And the only place open
For one hundred miles
I noticed a highway sign outside
Welcome to Wagontire, Oregon
Population 2 ½ humans 10 dogs, 50.000 sheep
I asked the Sherriff
Say who is the ½ human?
My idiot son!
And we left.
200 miles later
We finally left Eastern Oregon
2016
In 2016 my wife and I drove through Eastern Oregon
As part of our epic cross country trip
10,000 miles
31 states in three months
On the way from Medford to Yellowstone
We drove along highway 395
The signs for Wagontire was gone
And we drove through the town
The motel was abandoned
Nothing there at all
And that sign was gone too
I said I suppose the idiot son
Never took over the business
And we speculated about Wagontire
And all other nothing burgs
We drove through that summer
Heart of Trump’s America
True fly over country
Gonifs and gossips revisited
since originally being crafted
approximately half dozen
dirty deeds done dirt cheap years ago...
Abound and lurk
within every nook and cranny
analogous to some annoying pest
harmless though one reside here,
when off his meds goes berserk
here at Highland Manor Apartments.
They snatch and snitch packages -
meant for other than themselves -
think Grinch who stole Christmas
plus snoop, i.e. eavesdrop
big Dumbo ears as listening devices
(batteries not required)
or serve as rumor mongers
to don self importance
and trumpet "FAKE NEWS."
We (yours truly and his misses)
dwelled at aforementioned residence
July first 2025 will be eight years,
and no sooner did both of us set foot
on premises than hearsay
immediately promulgated
(metaphorically swirled about our heads),
and passed like greased lightning
thru the robust grapevine
purportedly wife of mine
brought in live snakes.
Oddly and interestingly enough though,
I never actually never heard nor saw
a fellow resident
talk (or whisper in hushed tones)
about me outright.
Rather than badmouth other feisty folks,
which leaves unpleasant virtual
aftertaste described as phooey zook,
thus comeuppance to reprobate recipients
I activate viz cluck
king silly reasonable rhyme,
(so keeps head up
for urbane adverse city slicker
you better watch out
(...better not shout...) just duck
and run for cover cuz poet took
effluvia enroute spouted by word huck
stir, he avoids naming
(chatterboxes whose lives
so devoid of meaning,
they figuratively kickstart tittle-tattle),
who vocally ramp up
some juicy tidbit with any luck
taking page from former president playbook
letting their lips uncontrollably run a-muck
totally oblivious to credibility factor being a schmuck
buzzfeed initial kernel of truth and truck
outrageous zingers suitable for National Enquirer,
tragicomical, cuz mistruths
courtesy tenants exhibit chutzpah to pluck
farfetched outright lies and innuendos
rolling of tongues of then occupants such as:
"Bible Thumper/Holy Roller,"
"Bingo/ Phat Cathy,""Crooked Old Man,"
"Curvy Girl/Thunder Thighs," "Frumpty Dumpty
"Mush/Smash Mouth, "Snaggletooth,"
"The Bodyguard," "The Fossil," "The Schvartze,"
"Winkle," and last but not leased "Zha Zha”.
Give me fruit flies, mice
and/or roaches any day,
or give me death!
The Superhero Frog
Once upon a time,there was a frog named
Curious George
he swam in the lily pond and slept in a
hollow log,
It was a very comfortable place for a frog,
He swam and had great fun,
He warmed himself lying in the sun,
But George was often sad,lonely,and scared,
He didn't have any friends because no one
would dare,
Just because he was different, it seemed to
him no on cared.
All the town kids wouldn't play with him,
because of his long green sticky tongue and
his green skin,
Then one day, he heard some loud shouts!
He wondered what all the fuss was about,
He hippty-hopped through a hole in the
fence,
Then he was in grass so dense,
He could just barely see the sky,
This was how he got his name he was
always asking why?
But that was a question for another day,
For right now, he had to be on his way,
He hippity-hopped out on to the sidewalk,
He could hear some people talk,
But he just had to see,
What all the commotion could possibly,
possibly be,
Then he saw a little boy and girl playing ball
in the street,
They were not paying any attention to cars
or trucks they could meet,
An old rickety truck,with wobbly wheels,
bouncing springs, steam pouring from the
radiator spout,
went bouncing and wobbling down the street
with a clatter and bang,
the driver beep his horn happily along to his
song as he sang,
The kids and driver didn't hear the warning
shouts of
LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!
George saw what was happening and quick
as a flash,
He hippity-hopped to the edge of the
sidewalk in a mad dash,
Then he stuck out his looooooonnnnnnnnng
sticky green tongue
as fffffffffffaaaaaaaaarrrr as he could,
He wrapped it around that boy and girl right
where they stood,
not enough space see my page,part 2 for the
rest of the story...
k river
8/12/14
Hearing the news of 9/11 again...and it makes me look back at that destructive day
I remember it slightly...it's a sheer memory in my mind, but at least it's sunny today
Reading signs all around me and feeling at ease for a while
Taking a trip in a truck full of food items and I'm clearing up my boredom pile
Pre-ch: Oooh oooh oooh what is this feeling I feel?
My heart is made of the finest steel
These wounds I bear are about to heal
Hours pass me by and I haven't wasted much of it - even if I did, it's no big deal
Ch: I'm fulfilling success and failure all in one package
Pushing my way out...rummaging out of the wreckage
Now I'm approaching the lane of positivity and negativity
I'm playing the role of a hard worker, carrying responsibility
On my shoulders...there's a huge load on my shoulders
The future is knocking on the door of my cranium and the past neighbors of nostalgic restlessness blurs
I'm holding on to the last ounce of optimism
I am the sand of the sea and you're the precious prism
Stacking boxes upon boxes upon boxes...and watching the shipping man stack boxes upon boxes upon boxes
Volunteering is something I should always be willing to do when I am facing my lonely states
The truck is zipping through the street, making a whole lot of movement but I don't mind at all - as long as we make progress
Fearing the worst is something I shouldn't do, but motivation and hope are one of my most prized traits
Pre-ch
Ch
Blissful silence and guiltless essence are wrapped all in one package...they are the vigilant moons and brilliant suns
Break the eggshells of immense shame and throw all your worries down the drain
Refrain from driving me insane, expired guilt that overflows from a truck load of milk cartons
Why do I suddenly feel calmness and gratefulness at this present time? For once, I feel sane
Pre-ch
Ch
Ch
Honestly, my life has produced its lows and highs
Oh joy, how time flies by and bugs me like flies
That hover all around me like the advertisements of the city streets
Coping with the corruptions and temptations that try to get me hooked on sweets
I have planted myself on the front seat of the truck, feeling like I can relate to the products that are in back of us
We are both all in one package - isn't everyone somewhat in the same rowdy bus? I will work a sweat and not fuss
Its dark, i cant see
In this park, its just me
A wrong turn and I'm lost wandering
Was too deep in thought just pondering
There's no one around its dead quiet
Pitch black at night, total silent
I feel the cold of a beasts stare
From the shadows it's everywhere
teeth that'll tear through bone and muscle
Eyes that glow at night
Gotta pick up the pace and hustle
Theres no way to stand and fight
It's cunning trot is getting nearer
Try to focus my eyes to see clearer
It's large I can feel the steps on the ground
It's quick, I hear it moving around
It's stench is unmistakably evil
It's intentions are unmistakably devil
Like a bullets release, it's come
Now I know where it's coming from
No fight, just flee
At night, just me
What kind of god can let this be
Try to run, feet are frozen
My final moments, right now, I've been chosen
It's gaining speed
It's got one need
To feed
My first step weighs a ton
Step after step, one by one
Pick up the pace
Or it's my last race
It's coming
The fear is numbing
It's got no emotion
Beg for my life?
It wouldn't consider the notion
It doesn't wanna hear me plead
It just wants to make me bleed
Start to run
I'm thinking
This is no fun
I'm sinking
Like running in soup
I can't recoup
The speed I had as a kid
Wishing I could remove a lid
Of a can of whoop ass
On this beast but its too fast
It's breath is on my back
I can feel it
Everything's still pitch black
I can’t see it
One more step, and I'm weightless
Picked up twenty feet off the ground
This part is when I'm helpless
I land hard like a truck, and I'm stuck
It's weight on my back
Ready to attack
Face down
On the ground
The only sound
Is the sound
Of this beast
of a hound
With its feast
That it has found
Why am I awake for this?
Why must I be the only witness?
To these teeth ripping me to a shred
This beast wished me dead
No pain. just the pressure of fate
If anyone came now, it'd be too late
Acceptance is my only mechanism
This is how I die, no more skepticism
As my mind goes, my life passes
My loves, my losses, my contributions
It all passes
The last thought through my mind; this time
The beast that easily destroyed me
Will destroy you, you'll see
Because this beast has a name in this rhyme
The beasts name
Is time
He is cranking up the old rusty engine again, but all that work is in vain, sweat is running from his anxious face and grease is spilling all over the place. There he goes again with his tool bag and greasy overall lying flat on his back underneath the truck, pulling screw, by screw from the belly of the old truck.
Monday comes at a price, and he has to pay a painful sacrifice, fix it or dump it he has no choice but to squeeze Monday into his chest. The old truck is draining the life out of his pocket. It's just the other day he fixed it. He replaced the engine with a second hand one that he imported from Finland. It worked quite well for the first few days but soon it starts to die away.
He pulls down the whole thing and drain the oil out of it, the heaven doesn’t know what this man is about, thirty different parts staring in his face and the oil and water is dripping all over the place.
The Engine block, and the Cylinder Head has sucked out the pressure out of the living dead; the piston, crank shaft, camshaft, and Timing belt are not in place, and it causes the vehicle to wobble and shake. Examine the engine valves and combustion chamber carefully; there is a hole in the oil pan and a blunt on the connecting rod.
The intake manifold and Exhaust manifold has something in common and can heat up your face and plant bitterness into your grave. The spark plugs, piston ring and flywheels are out of place, and you have to tighten them, or you will end in an unpleasant place.
Look at the head gasket, cylinder liner and crank case, they are shifting around, and the distributor ring is hanging on the ground; the cylinder head cover, the rubber grommet and camshaft pulley are out of line, and you have got to replace the oil filter, water pump, and oil pan drain bolt.
The turbocharger and supercharger are defected, and you must replace the timing belt, drive pulley and the starter motor before the engine fail. You need a brand-new truck to satisfy the daughter she will never come back in that truck with you unless you do what you have to do.
The wind is blowing softly, and the trees are shaking violently, the weather is fine, but his emotion is out of line, the sun is peeping beyond the hill and nature is sending him a bunch of daffodils look carefully into the sky and you will see shades of Monday passing by.
Before you stand up to pray you might need to halt
and deal with any grievances that were your fault
and before you come to the altar to give God your treasures
stop and mend the hurt and then return to give your measure
hurt is hurt no matter if you've received it or gave
pain is pain but you don't have to take it to the grave
the Human heart is very fragile and sensitive to any and all strain
and it doesn't take much for it react to any and all pain
God said that forgiveness is the cure no matter the situation
but people tend to make forgiveness such a complication
yet the hurt is always worse when it's intentional and repeated again and again
especially when you're already low in spirit and it comes from a supposed friend
if you were ever to get hit by a big Mack truck
be it intentional or accidental you would still be broken up
to walk in the spirit of forgiveness you need to be most aware
that you in turn don't be the cause of any hurt anywhere
to talk in the spirit of forgiveness you need to watch the words you select
so that your tone and inflection are not perceived as disregard or disrespect
to seek forgiveness position your heart before God and let Him correct it
so start by letting go of the bitterness in life and allowing God to direct it
to come out of that prison and be released from that anger you can't seem to let go
and in turn to seek forgiveness from those whom you've hurt also
and don't ever use that phrase "If I did anything wrong?"
be sincere in your apology and but the blame where it belongs
so what are you going to do about those you've hurt and those who've hurt you?
you need to follow the directives that God has given to you
the Lord Our God said we need to forgive and to forget
to remove all the obstacles that won't let us walk in the Spirit
apologies are needed at home, at the job and the church you attend
you need to show true remorse and in your heart truly repent
as forgiveness is the only key that opens all doors in life
to forgive as the Lord forgave you in the name of His Son Jesus Christ
now free of the bondage and consequences of causing pain
to forgive others and to be forgiven for any hurt, heartache and/or shame
so what are you going to do about those you've hurt and those who've hurt you?
you need to forgive and be forgiven with a heart contrite and true
The most awaited result got publicized, but
Internet hadn't landed the soil of my country.
Televisions were tabled in few pocketed places,
Still they worked, minute and achromatic.
With huge audience circling, signal was word alien,
Viewers would holler in unison, "It's raining!"
I now understand the fluctuation of signal,
We'd leave the jammed hall. No rain outside!
Correspondences saw only lethargic typewriters,
That sounded a poll pecking of a woodpecker.
A single wireless station would be queued
With people waiting for, "Pom, pom, Tango, Charlie."
Communication gravely sought its transmission,
Three-band radio justified on its little way,
Only richer lots bought and owned pompously
And my country had a single frequency squeezed.
The announcement was radioed in a succinct brief-
"The result of 1997 ICSE examination is out."
Nothing more or less, of the India-based examination,
I jumped on my toes only to later feel crushed.
My kiths were dejected with my abortive result,
An unofficial hearsay, they caught hold onto
Their dejection pierced my heart, agonizingly.
I'd to visit my alma mater, result matted least.
A two-day-long journey, not by a luxurious car
But on the hood of a truck on a bumpy roads,
Only the Indian highway would ease the journey
Like relieving the physical pangs of exhaustion.
The mental turmoil intensified as I neared
My school where the sheets would be displayed,
The wall would announce to a hundred lot of us,
The failure provoked sleepless nights and journeys.
My heart thudded as I entered the school premise,
Lips dried, even a pool of water wouldn't wet them.
Shivering, perplexity and numbness, crippled me,
I just wanted me alone to declare the performance.
I walked up the staircase with thundering emotion,
The entrance seemed gloomily unwelcoming,
Saw I a crowd of my mates craning and giraffing,
On the either sides of the entrance, sheets full.
No greetings, no handshaking, I just shied away,
Waited for the crowd to go thinly populated.
Just in one particular column to refer, wanted I,
PCA or PCNA - biggest summary of a year's toiling.
My comrades filed out slowly, forward I lunged,
Searching my name, throbbing took its tempo.
Spotted the name, from the wall, PCA grinned,
Pass Certificate Awarded, I became triumphant!
©?Khachab Dorji