In one hour my ex is coming to pickup our two cats
It’s been two years since our marriage of ten years past
My anxiety goes every direction how can I truly prepare?
I’ve seen much worse why do I feel like I need a prayer?
It will be quick I tell myself there is no need to despair
It’s not like I have children were weekends we must share
Please God no smark remarks or poo tossing affairs
She knows I’m with another now so I prepare for glares
Deep down I know it’s just another chapter I must clear
A page that has been sticky and at this point must tear
My composure comes and goes like a storm and fresh air
Let’s get this over with I have a new life ready to share
I'd like to tickle your funny bone
AP: 3rd place 2026
You are one adorable chick.
I could show you a good time.
Do you come here often?
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Pickup
Everything leans towards you, a ranch, a sunset,
one of those pink and mauve and purple jobs
torn from the pages of an old Arizona
Highways magazine. The gate to the corral
is white but all worn out and flaky, and the horses
all have wheels in their eyes and wheels within
those wheels like the transmission
of that rusted yellow Studebaker pickup up
on blocks out back. No one
drives by anymore, but there's a for sale sign
anyway, hanging from a chain, a rusty bucket
shot full of holes on the porch,
and the front door swings back and forth,
open and shut, reveals s female figure
whom the old man took in after the accident,
who lived there briefly, offering some solace,
until the boys came home on one of their visits
and turned her inside out and she wound up
weaving in her best dress down the dirt road to town
wondering if they'd ever leave her alone again.
Two nights later the horses leaped over the fence,
the rosettes in their eyes spun and spun until
they ignited, and people, even those who lived in town,
saw flaming horses plunge across the sky.
feet dangle, rain boots
drip murky droplets black gold
a branch caves then snaps
under
control
all's well
in whole
never
better
to the
letter
what's this
mary ann
open up
worm can
I see
blonde curls
flying
squirrels
am I
insane?
or, just
a bird brain
wait, but
it's open/shut
one minute
wingnut
I'm in the
trenches
taking leave
of my senses
open eyes
light a candle
she flies
off the handle
feelings
linger
she gave me
the middle finger
a big
talker
off her
rocker
in trouble deep
losing sleep
counting
hallucinations
and sheep
twiddle
digits
fuss and
fidget
keep a
tight lip
take
another sip
or a
gulp
beat yourself
to a pulp
living
hell
I hope
it ends well
or maybe just
a hiccup
fifty-two
pickup
A rust-eaten frame, a canvas of scars,
A weathered old truck, a king of the bars.
Its paint, once a gleam, now faded and worn,
Like a story told, a lesson to be born.
The tailgate hangs loose, a creak in its swing,
A testament to loads it has borne and will bring.
The tires are knobby, hardened with grit,
From roads less traveled, a seasoned spirit.
The engine, a rumble, a groan and a sigh,
A symphony of power, reaching for the sky.
Its windows are cracked, with stories untold,
Of journeys taken, in sun and in cold.
Inside, a worn seat, a leather embrace,
The scent of old grease, in every space.
A dashboard of dials, with needles that stray,
Whispering secrets, from yesterday.
This beat-up pickup, a soul in its steel,
A faithful companion, a friend that's real.
It carries the weight of life, with a hardy grace,
A symbol of resilience, in time and in space.
Love may come from unexpected places
Between strangers, unfamiliar faces
Heart is blind, it has no eyes
Mystic's the flip of dice
Fate can come with cards of kings and aces
Oh hey girl, I have to inquire
Do you like to sit on live wire?
You’re making me choke
From all of that smoke
‘Cause damn girl, that booty’s on fire!
rising and falling
hemming and hawing
fifty-two pickup
jokers included
The pickup truck ahead of us
Had decals on the glass,
The first a flag – American –
Like many cars we pass.
The second, a machine gun,
At an angle, all in white,
Announcing to the world
Someone is looking for a fight.
I guess interpretation
May arrive at different ends
But I’m pretty sure that driver
Wouldn’t be among my friends.
Daddy in His Pickup
A farmer just doing his work tells
His theory from where he sits,
"Forty miles an hour is fast enough
for anybody, isn’t it?"
Driving from home from being downtown
Windows down; pure air; feeling fit—
Waving at farm friends or passersby
The whole neighborhood was close knit
One can hardly deny his statement
About driving fast needs to quit
"Forty miles an hour is fast enough
for anybody, isn’t it?"
He traveled as safe as he could be
In red pickup truck; maybe unfit—
Proudly smiling with contentment
As parade of cars did permit
Traffic close at rear; driveway appeared,
Arm out straight, foot on brake, turn left;
" Forty miles an hour is fast enough
for anybody, isn’t it?"
-Evelyn Pearl Anderson
Our father, Orville Jones Carpenter, (1909 -1975) loved the red pickup truck so he would probably laugh at this little rhyme for Father's Day 2021.
You took me to visit,
Ruined in a field,
Green pickup,
Drivers fate was sealed,
Green pickup, I would ride in back,
Into the mountains
Where I heard him slap,
Taken Out of my bed,
And into a ditch,
We won’t see morning, my mother said
Too scared to move,
Waiting for our savior,
His love he’d prove,
Outside my window,
Maybe five years old,
Sounds of vomit,
Truth be told
Heavy breathing from the other room,
Threats of razor blades,
Then silence and doom,
Decades later I remember you,
Green pickup,
And driver too
JEV
I am an Electrical Engineer
But was alone and all was dark
Beneath me and above
My life was full of volts and amps
But not the spark of your love
So will you be the start of my sinusoid?
Dawn in the twilight
With you am on a flight
Your feelings I can't fight
Your beauty is stuck in my sight
My gift from the Lord almighty
Heart full of generousity
Hoovering my religion from Islamic to Chrstianity.
Love...Are you be ready to visit my sub-county.
Trailing steel cans
and rolling out their
long rags.
The morning is a frost
broken in clamorous relief.
Frayed holes in their eaten
gloves carry a crushed chore,
a rotted job bundled in skins
of wet plastics.
They emerge from a deep
hidden hour
riding the back jaws
of neglected mammoths.
A storm hammers
in the scrape of their tongues.
The dogs lunge
for their voices.
They remove what lingers too long
from our past.
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.