Lubrication Poems

Mother Nature

A welcomed soaking, blessed lubrication
Priming the gears of fertile production.
We can label them, but only She designs
Them, in counsel with our nurturing God.

Reflection

Tackling a slick problem like D’Alembert’s paradox— 
a cylinder set in motion, destined to roll on and on— 
My fresh numerical method spoke in the same voice, 
but sparked sharp debate—someone blamed me for ignorance. 
Until a quip cracked the tension: “D’Alembert’s paradox doesn’t account for lubrication.” 

Truths can slice deep, sharper than we expect, 
Yet a wry smile, a joke, can transmute iron into gold. 
Humor doesn’t erase the sting—it dulls the edge, 
revealing strength when despair weighs us down. 

A sense of humor is our forged armor: 
a spark of joy in the heart, a reluctant laugh on the lips— 
it signals someone who grasps life's brittle elegance. 
A gentle jest softens the hardest truths, 
shading overwhelming realities with grace. 

When wit stands as a stronghold, 
even bitter truths echo with less sting. 
You don’t flee reality—you greet it with a grin— 
and in that greeting, you find the courage to begin again.

She’s No Longer Dry - bawdy limerick warning

My auntie, who was on vacation
Was lusting for fast fornication
She met a well-hung guy
But her foo-foo’s too dry
She blurted, “It needs lubrication!”

The fella, whose first name was Dick
Said, “Stay put. I’ll be back real quick
I’ll purchase sticky Jell-O
‘Twill turn your foof bright yellow
But ensures my entry is slick!"

The Jell-O lube worked really well
Dick satisfied my Auntie Mel
Next time she needs some lube
She’ll melt a Jell-O cube
Aunt’s shagged out. I think you can tell!

Lubricant- MJF

I feel it smoothly, gliding freely,
Liquid fluidity surging.
Not a fraction of too much friction,
An undulating path followed effortlessly.
Movement and balance allowing continuous flow.
A sense of harmony as the lubrication guides easily.
Embracing depth with no distraction.
No tension felt as if all melts with fluid energy.
A transition of like particles melding without abrasive motion.
A sleek silky transition is accomplished.
Liquid fluidity surges.
The artist textured an abstract artwork to the canvas.
Bold gradient strokes, are a pivotal attraction adding to the ambience.
Light, and layered emotion captivate through transitions and bold contrasts.
The paint melts across the canvas, intersected by frivolous bubbles and a masterful juxtaposition of cracked and fluid textures.
Each element from the fractured patterns to the luminous flow of paint, contributes to a sense of wonder of movement. 
The more I gaze into this painting the more I see the effects of lubrication.
Imagining the paint is still actively moving freely on the canvas to a degree.

Lubricant

We all love love, but all agree
that friction is our enemy:
when all slides nicely, that’s the thing!
Of lubrication do I sing.

The oil of primrose, asphodel, 
or axle grease, or KY Gel,
one substance that the people hunt
will always be a lubricant.

In Kokomo, Kalamazoo,
rubbing, scraping, just won’t do.
If you’re from Oshkosh or Duluth,
you know the truth – it must be smooth.

When solids meet, before, behind,
they’re bound to shudder, judder, grind.
So crush those olives, pound that seed –
the lubricant is what we need!

Tin Man's Dilemma

The Wicked Witch was Tin Man’s fantasy
He'd never seen such a beauty as she
It rained and his joints seized
Left poor Tin Man quite peeved
Every step that he took was misery...

They stopped at Yellow Brick Rd gas station
Asked the pump jockey for lubrication
He sprayed Tin Man with grease
So, he could move with ease
Tin Man jumped up and down with elation... 

He held the witch’s hand but wanted more
But didn't foresee what fate had in store
Something hadn't been greased
Tin Man wasn't too pleased
When his rusted man thing dropped on the floor...

Gentrified

Ratchet Gentrification 
Sneaky Dislocation 
A People Sank Deeper Into An Abyss of Desperation 
No Lubrication....
In Summation....
Screwed... 
Without Consideration
of The Deprivation of Unaffordable Habitation 
Nostalgic Disintegration 
Of Memories Nesting in the hearts of Generations 
Shameful Demonstration of Humanity...
Straight up Insanity...
Sad to Say
Failure to Realize Damage Done Today...
Create a Price Future Offspring Will Pay....

A Prime Time Rhyme Meme Theme

Some of those closest to me
are concerned my poetry
does not rhyme
every time.

I do not complain,
but try to explain
that total symmetry
is not important to me.

The meaning of a verse
is, for better or worse,
the point of a piece.
Rhymes are just grease.

Mental lubrication to let words slide by,
while I try
to impart a certain feeling,
repulsive or appealing.

This frees myself and my reader from the
tight restraint of what seems sing-song.
But maybe just this once,
I will kind of go along.

Sluggishly Different

Enough of golden daffodils, romance and paths not taken
Let's lend poetic airing to a subject quite forsaken.
An opportunity's emerged to give a little plug
To that much lambasted creature called the common garden slug.
Though snails have stirred the poets' muse on many an occasion,
The slug has been subjected to a poesy evasion.
No poet worth his salt would waste much time on this intruder;
A slimy, homeless gastropod and shameless gunge exuder,
Repellent garden wrecker with a squirming gloopy tail
Which lathers lubrication in a sticky winding trail.
But just to be contrary have you ever stopped to think
How an absence of these creatures would create a mighty stink?
They go about their business eating signs of plant decay
And help the ecosystem in a beneficial way.
The hedgehogs, frogs and badgers, salamanders birds and shrews
Would view their disappearance as quite catastrophic news.
So next time you are tempted to dismiss them as a pest
Take pity on the homeless and give naked slugs a rest!

20.05.20

And Now For Something Completely Different Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless

Nonsense Revisited

We are what we are
or are we?
what if we are not
like a drought
like a fish on a bike
like a fleeting thought
like a drain plug
where water never flows
like lubrication
for non moving parts
like a door to nowhere
in the middle of it (nowhere)
like this poem
going nowhere
but here it is now
like the thunder in the sky
and we are
what we are.

My First Love

True love was once a distant fantasy
An affection based on a fallacy
A theme for movies and stories
A thirst for the rejected and lonely

A self-conscious boy, I lived
A vicious world around me, I believed
Who has time to love?
When there are only moments to survive

Time for myself, is time I scrambled
Words for myself, are words I mumbled
But discovered time is never enough and words can lie
When I saw a glimpse of myself in a girls eyes

One hello, one phone call, one snack
I felt a hungry emptiness inside
One hug, one long call, one stroll in the park
Then came a longing I couldn’t hide

Our common tastes gave me a thrill
Our conflicting views made me real
I opened up and knew myself more
And when she did, I began to adore

That which was distant, was as close as an instant
That which was a fallacy, was truer than a romance
My first love was like a birds first flight out of a lonely nest
The thrill transcending fright, as I aimed for the crest

In my arms was a centre of my attention
I grip that could not be loosened by any lubrication
She turned a fantasy into this reality I have
I learnt a new side of me with my first love

Craving's Bliss

Floating gentle on the wave
only felt within the brain
hidden from the sight of those
wondering why the need exists

a delightful fuzz that consumes
agitation of the mood
always there beyond the veil
responsibility that must prevail

damning all to turn the wheels
creating thirsts of the soul
asking lubrication to extend
to the balm of troubled woes

a comfortable numb with regard
for the depths of agony
escaped at last in the waves
dependence spun from craving’s needs.

Reving Her Engine Up

She is a beauty her curves are sweet
I polish her each and every week
I love to turn her on and her motor runs just fine
When I stick my key into her ignition

My battery ignites my spark plugs and, with her permission
She distributes all of my pistons love
She moves them one by one
Using 5-20 oil lubrication is more fun

When I rev her RPM’s and the sound of her motor roars
If I rev her to high by pressing her accelerator her motor will blow
Then all the oil I placed into her will be dripping out of her
Then I will have to rebuild her and run her again

Using Higher temperature Oil

Subjects of Time

Subjects Of Time
As a fine clock
Run by motion of the earth,
We are masters of 
Gears and lubrication
Though remain 
The subjects of time….

Lubrication

"I can't get it up" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"I can't get it in" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"This thrusting is making it sore" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"Now its really red raw' I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"The pain I suffer for you" I cried
She replied "try more lubrication"
"Its in and gliding nicely" I cried
She replied "no more lubrication"
"Fixing these pistons by hand really hurts" I cried
She replied "try hand lubrication"
"This cream really soothes" I sighed
She replied "I love lubrication"

Written 9th March 2014

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