Piston Poems

September

Its September
Where is your rain muse ?
weve got our Autumn
I'm drawing a line
on Summer past
like some bedraggled piston
its  chore has gone
The buddleia is slightly drawn
and the red roses have died down
The Fern tree is re-splendid
in its promise
potted under my Robina
and weve got our spinach to grow
for spring

Revealed

     In Battery Point, two centuries stayed
     Settlers’ cottage, compact, sandstone stoic
     Paired attic windows see civility made
     From grim past pioneering treachery awoke


     Piston motion push n pull combustion 
     Cloudy tea cups cultivate cow cud, churn
     Tangible treaties are carved, thrusting 
     Structure schools crops convened return


     Stood in a line, life dictates we press 
     Our progenies - dominoes, foretell demise 
     Dots identify, dark remains nameless 
     Two sided story - twists a spritely surprise



     Federation funds finds plenty plausible 
     Bundled under blankets, cash in chest reserve
     Heritage heirloom has relic resourceful 
     Epic ends agony against environment of verve



                        18th April

         Ate what our ancestors Sprinkled

Nigel and Me

Nigel likes to talk about planes
And trains and motorbikes.
He has a few friends
Who like the same.
I say to him: "Why does the piston go up and down?"
He tells me,
But I don't really understand.
I go back to my poetry books
And let my imagination soar.
While Nigel gets on his bike and makes it roar.

Life Is a Journey

Vroom vroom! The car stops to a halt.
Ooh! Dad’s home carrying him varieties of groceries.
Broom Broom! I sweep my room,
Collecting trash using a dustpan. Alas! The place is clean.
Vroom! The driver sped,
Crash! The boy was run over. Blood gutted out of his throat as he bled to death, helpless, while the heartless hooligan sped off to a neck breaking speed. All that remains is the indelible mark, now a blackspot as well as a death spot.
Vroom vroom! The mechanic tries the engine,
So old it is after it is drained its oil, after the previous race.
Tick tok as the team tries to reinstate it back to its performance so as to win the piston cup that he so craves it like the next breath.
Vroom vroom! The motorcycle halts.
The cyclist drops off a passenger at the crucial destination.
The latter, who is also a taxpayer, makes her way into the compound regarded a religious ground.
After six days of toiling the Sabbath is sure the best day for her to give thanks to god after a tough week.

In the Clearing

two boys racing
dash, dart, tear
airburst in a clearing punched open
arms of piston pumping disperse white funnels
                                             dandelion fluff curling
                 scattering flowered stems
as water streaked, streams down joyful faces

clearing, 
            a clawed out seclusion
child claimed freedom unspooling in summer heat
                         pulling back its gauzy veil
                         pushed to disarray 
in this seething space, holding promise

two boys, breath weary, tumble into the tall grass
laugh and roll,
confessions shared like wanting to drift somewhere
                                                           - imaginary to real
claiming turf needing no repair
stories whispered before they're pushed off the page
              in a green clearing, its window-heavy future
till tall tales take a different slant
to rest like beaded sweat
                                  upon lined brows


Poem composed February 21, 2023

The Railway Station

Neon lights outlined stalls
in braids of red and green
in the dim cavernous hall
of the railway station.
Muted drum taps of passing feet
and crisscross talk were pierced
by stabbing announcements
of departing trains.
A stairway tunneled upwards
to the street
where a wall of daylight
met squinting eyes.
Stonework still wore the soot
of steam trains long silenced
from impatient panting,
their age had passed.
My age was diesel with its fumes
pumping out incessantly
without pausing for a breath.
Guttural piston beats
pulsed the air with shudder.

Some of us still left home
riding dreams on train tracks
or else sailed them to England on P&O.
Most stayed at home
and waited for the ballot.
Out of step with the sixties
the railway station languished 
in its nostalgic façade.
Newspaper banners headlined protests
and the Vietnam war.
Through its ageing concourse
young men moved in haste or haze
towards uncertain destinations

I'M Dreamin' of a Dry Christmas

I'm dreamin' of a dry Christmas
just like ones I use to know
where weathermen announce, all use our bypass
where you may go, all clear of night's white snow
I'm a deamin' of a dry Christmas,
just like ones I've used to know,
where tree-tops glisten an children listen
to hear my Harley roar, just for show
I'm dreamin' of a dry Christmas,
where my loved ones expect me, to show,
Home, where my heart is, at our Sunday-Mass, you know...
Ho! Ho!
Packin' gifts like Santa Clause, swiftly as a bike will go
Where treetops, an my Sportster crome glessions
each piston hummin' to, never missin' its tone,
True symphony, as she roams, with clean air without emissions
Tis Christmas, an packin' gear, with my Lady, have gone on home
               Ho! Ho! Ho!
      Have a Merry Little Christmas

Drive

A day to drive,
Coolant sunned,
Last leaves scattered,
On a pedal-fly, 
Ignition lust,
On mother-piston,
Pointed beams like bone fingers,
I sit upright alone,
Dark storm racing,
Lightening spoken to.
Weary of the voric-tendonces,
The telly I left,
From Demille's close-ups,
Of Towers steel rain,
Hand holding Jumpers,
The day of the terrorist tools,
At home I got car sick,
When I was a replay witness,
And our behooved king cow poke,
Started his info-spin,
Telling a child his dad would be ok,
It's a noise vio-licked.
Beget, to begot,
A day to drive,
Needing true air,radio off,
For the ones gone

Halo of Life

Halo of Life
My existence in a hollow core values seething the gear tastes like salt water pool table and chairs for your hand. Take me off for a half did not receive any such nails straight in my coffin. Boards down the sewers grime low level life never seems like the cols.
Open pages of my heart is a loyal type of friend. I grew up in filters and filth. Smothered my head in the pillows to get the hell out of the day but I wasn’t alone. You were there to hold me back into my back. Come hither Green Piston ring you when I wake up.

Last Night I Made Love With Spiderwoman

Last Night I Made Love With Spiderwoman

Clawlike fingers or are they nails painted bird fell on my windowsill calling my name ‘Felicity, Felicity!’ I gelled up with some cookie dough between the thighs crunch curse not the CXurse is kvnt open fingers entering oww ooh she nearly bit me neck bite tethered in braces she hovers over my lips sucking are they fangs? Kiss with golden tongue frolicking in the mouth so succulent her breath on my face lips of sweet papaya mango Mimi munchkin morning melt desirous delirous galavanting throw me over your shoulder WonderWoman! No she tells only the most serendipitous sensuous salts steaming from her brow hot legs shoot from the hip she has a gun it’s loaded pistol on your piston gunfire upload bullet for hire powderworks hut battle of the she grrls beautiful one last night I made love with Spiderwoman

Turn Me On

Sticking your key in me
Goes straight to my battery
Then my starter starts spinning
Sending sparks to my ignition

Your gas goes into my carburetor
Causing an explosion in my piston well
When you press on my accelerator  
That makes me move faster

When you turn me over in the morning
You always signal first
You make my eyes bright with delight
But when it rains

You wipe my tears away
You make me sing when you play with my CD
Please don't STOP
My check engine light needs turning on

My engine isn't HOT! enough

(Making it clear this is a girl car, lol)

The Big Race Is On

Bang! crackles the gun
  The big race is on
Arms pump the air
  Heads bob everywhere

Legs and feet churn
  Elbows angle, turn
Into the first curve
  Rabbit-swift, they swerve

Perspiration streaming down
  From their chins to the ground
Faces grim, taut and tight
  Heel-toe they alight

As the last bend they round
  Piston-like legs pound the ground
Then the lunge for the tape
  Exhausted, they drape

Their arms o'er each other
Comrades-in-sweat, newly brothers
  ~ Though only the sprinter who's won
     Takes a victory lap when it's done

Unrequited Love

Poppyseed Princess with poppyseed lips, 
Fragrant yellow piston, and beautiful hips. 
In the wind, savoring her relationships, 
Never knowing of my dream for her companionship.

I am a simply ugly marigold, gnarly and quite plain. 
Recognizing beautiful, but my tongue I dare refrain. 
If she knew of my love, would she turn away in rain?
I dare not speak, for my view I do not want to stain.

I am just a poppyseed, nothing to delightful marigold. 
I study him quietly, his smile never mean or old. 
A glimmer of a glimpse of a spark I see sometimes within his fold,
But men do not like aggressive women so I dare not be so bold. 

So the smitten poppyseed and the marigold stayed like this until death.
Introduced again in heaven, recognizing each other with angelic baited breath.

In the Night

Is your pen fully loaded,
  is the piston pulled back

Are the words of high-caliber,
  is your target intact

Does intention self load, 
  does conviction re-sight

Will the ink run like blood 
 —when you fire in the night

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

Standing In a Garage

Going to church on Sunday doesn't make you a Christian
Any more than standing in a garage make you a piston
This made me cackle
Like a happy jackal
Then walked into a lion's den and it made me a chicken

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