Pistons Poems | Examples

Brain Dead Airhead Co-Ed

So, stranded on Framingham Turnpike,
I walked from the corpse of my Vette
(Unsure just what gasoline burns like),
as far as my high heels could get.

The tow trucker guy got my blood up,
his big chest all covered in hair.
He wordlessly lifted the hood up,
and studied the engine with care.

I’d let the poor pistons get wet, or
my battery somehow went flat?
He said, “Crap in the damn carburetor.”
“How often, dude, must I do that?”

M4

M4

Lightweight—
“You are so skinny, Trainee!
You’ll never be a soldier.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, tightly,
each word heavier than steel.

Magazine-fed—
“You need to eat something, son.
He is gone, but you’re still here.”
My face is pale, drained of color.
Each memory chambers in.

Gas-operated—
“Soldier, what the hell is that?
Can’t you even shoot your gun?”
My fingers tremble, shaking,
pistons locked in helpless shame.

Shoulder-fired—
“Shoot back, god damn it! Shoot back!”
The weight of orders holds me down.
My finger pulls the trigger.
The recoil crushes into me.

Weapon—
I squeeze my eyes shut, tightly.
My face is pale, drained of color.
My fingers tremble, shaking .
My finger pulls the trigger.

The Postmodernist Exhibition

Last night's storm
has left its artwork on the beach,
a postmodernist exhibition 
of brown seaweed strewn in clumps 
like hair on a barbershop floor,
broken seashells 
and a fallen rainbow of plastics 
strung out along the shore
where now an exhausted sea
licks the leftovers of a meal.

Chaos has been distilled down
to washed up artifacts 
and red bottle caps, drinking straws
and spoons buried deep inside a ball
of yellow twine. I cannot make
much sense of what is on display
or glean from this haphazard art
a hint of meaning 
other than in its making.

All seems uncoupled, specimens 
torn from lonely souls, bits
and pieces coughed up 
out of the exhaust of a huge machine 
whose pistons pump and drive
a spinning wheel that has no purpose. 
I pick up a plastic sandal 
and wonder whose foot 
it once belonged to, then put it back
and walk home
alone.

Mother Said

Mother said to carry Dad's little green luggage,
Godzilla my foe, I can do a step not a hundred,
Mother said to put in you--that, it's all bronzed,
Ugh, zip-phew Godzilla you stink your breadth.
Godz I gotta look for Dad Mom I ain't no angel.
Godz I told Mother that I heard the car engine. 
Mom prayed for the car using holy oil, via olive.
It needs that. It'll start with a tad of that liquid.
Mother said Dad knows. He'd already glimpsed
it'll drive that bobbing--pistons Mom--amongst
other something, than cars. Like? Stew borscht
Mom says. I say that's not Russian. Mad, whilst
it'll be Mother's last words said, Russia's worlds
are rightfully theirs, and we own ours. Traipsed
not, glory ste..get-MA, PA, joy go I-run anxious.

The Horse Rider

An expert rider, a solid horse, what greater pals can there be?
To stretch the land amongst the hills, to charge past the wind and be free.

The horse's hooves slam to the earth like an auto's fiery pistons.
His mane flows like a mighty river while his wild wide-eye glistens.

Rider balances, holding the reins, and moves as one with the horse.
She gentles her steed, who knows he's safe, and so they complete the course.

How great to ride with the speed of a 'comet' on an Autumn day.
How great to pace with the thrill of the ride, to live what comes your way.

triptych

Hydraulic system, heart made of pistons
Every co-ordinated mechanical manoeuvre
My heart served to you on a platter, your hors d'oeuvre
I look into your eyes, a deplorable disguise
Retinas of glass, I see right through your lies

Figments of my imagination
Don't come and cause me more vexation
Circling my mind
Tormenting, suffering, sempiternal gyration
My nerve endings started with you
Now unaware to whom
Now that you're gone
I can finally take off this costume

Now isn't the time for salvation
I re-evaluate our amalgamation
Not even an antisocial personality disorder
Could sum up a source of order
Wander your favourite forest
Walk past me and get hit with my poignant odour
Uncover my carcass, I don't need a hearse
Just dump me in the Oder

Dismember me piece by piece
Put me back together however you'd like
The puzzle wont be beautiful
Something incomparable to Vandyke

Driving in the Snow with One Windshield Wiper

Diagonal snow
Glides effortless through
the countryside of the
Amputee windshield
For the passenger side
Has always had a reticent view

Steam rises loftily
From a topless treat
Of gas station coffee
That which further
Obfuscates the scene

Mousey and silent
Each flake falls
Like the wings of
An owl unhurried
Speckling the air
With flurries of tiny
Feathers

If snow is a blanket, is the
Earth a frightened child?
Is there a force, a specter
So haunting it summons
A crystal storm that beguiles,
Sure, a burden to some
But a spectacle for all.

High beams undress
The night, slipping away
Its silken onyx sundress
In its unblinking gaze I
Recall conversations with
Someone I no longer see
Hoping for fireplace romance
Surrounded in snow globe scenery

I try not to live 
in the squall of regret
Even if every drop
Falls so softly, I must
Simply keep my foot
On the petal, and listen
To the engine’s counsel
Its kind whispering pistons.

The Forgiven

Held captive and caged
in a tin shed,
an old steam train sulks
in its own stillness, a relic
from another age.
Its skin is cold and hard
and has the smell 
of vintage grease. 

The fire that once blazed 
in its belly has withered 
to a coating of black soot
stuck to the bottom 
of a furnace box,
the steamy snort
from its nostrils, silenced
to a dewy drip. The huge
wheels that were pumped 
by furious pistons
have come to a halt
and now are welded 
to rails by rust. 

Admirers lovingly pat
its iron carcass. The poisons
it spewed out clogging the lungs
of a generation have dissipated
in memory, its breath now
sweetened by a forgiving 
nostalgia, the veneer
of a more innocent past.
Somewhere,
stuck on a siding,
its brutish beauty 
still sits panting in the damp 
of an autumn afternoon, 
immune from time, 
absolved of guilt.

Hissing Swishing Rumbling

Hissing cars
Swishing trucks
Rumbling bikes
Life is a highway
Really?
Combusting cylinders 
Pumping pistons
Turning crankshaft
Spinning flywheel
Engaging transmission
Motoring drive
Tranferring power 
Rolling tires
Hissing 
Swishing 
Rumbling  
Crash and burn
Life goes on

Pushing I

Crank the lever
push the button 
turn the dial

cover the bones under ancient homes
not stirring of things under a stark sapphire sky 

turn the crank
flip the switch 

watch the pistons push n pull 
hot metal into odd ornate objects 
designed in eight sides 

fit into sacred secret sockets
how quaint they are
this is machine
this is god

this is the way of the west
a vast sage of quiet realms 
tell the thunder, that quakes

to still the waters of birth till the day 
languishes away, watch the Rockets fly 
feel the coming fire

the distance rumble of doom
crank the lever 
pushed button
turn the dial 
feeling the hum of the hot room

cover them bones under ancient homes
idle façades, not stirring under 
a stark sapphire sky

turn the crank 
flip the switch 
watch the pistons 
push and pull 
odd ornate objects fly

watch the world go away.

Industrial

Thick smoke sick rising 
into the stormy iron-gray sky 
industrial gears and pistons
grinding eternity…

Lightning lances arcane 
weathervanes over 
a filthy antiquated metropolis!

Wondering!

a wandering of souls at midnight hearts
rising to a dirty sky a tower of Crimson, high...

With dark and narrow windows, fly!
Built to last on desires of a Beauty
build to last, shadowing.

Divinity is a place serene in my dreams 
an alternate realities
the place I find deep in twilight 
a place far, far from the Hidden White 

in the secret, scared hours
as industrial smoke climbs high 
into a bruised broken sky

thick, graying to black rising 
into a storm ominous sky...

a cruel
   industry,
      something promising...

Rolling Wheels

Riding the rhythms of rolling wheels
Driving rusty rock desert miles
Purring pistons pumping power
To my mottled muddy jade jeep

A symphony sprung in my head
Dawning with dainty din of drums
Paving a path for piccolos
And rich rumblings of black bassoons.

Strings sent soaring counterpoint smoke
Playing with a glory sublime
In flawless metronomic time
Mozart tears of joy would have shed.

Music was a top choice grand cru
But when I had to stop for gas
And gulp soothing bubbly soda
My sweet symphony flew away.

Fermented fine without any skills
My heady brew I can't renew.

Burn Rubber

As I get older I’m taking a liking
To relive my youth and go motor biking 
To pull back the throttle and kick down the gear
And tear up the highway, just like yesteryear
My hair flowing free as I ride without care
My wife put me straight, ‘You ain’t got any hair.’

I told her there’s one thing that time never steals
The rush that a man only feels on two wheels
And out on the road in all my old leathers 
My gas driven steed shall vanquish all weathers
I’ll ride and I’ll ride till my legs are like jelly
She said that those leathers won’t cover that belly

Give me dirt on my face and flies in my teeth
Akin to a cow-herder out driving beef
The pounding of pistons driving me on
The joy of not knowing where to or where from 
She said okay go be a speeding banshee
But don’t go too far in case you need to pee

I had to relent there’ll be no pennies spent
I can’t blame the wife, her thoughts were well meant
Don’t wanna get caught short in skin hugging leathers
There’s must be more ways to escape boredom’s tethers
And so this is me, not wild and not free
Just a wannabe biker writing bike poetry

Artist Tries Something New

eyelash fury wondering what has happened
seeking absolution
her dark nostrils flaring
raw pencil shaded face
artist holds her gently
balanced by flower pistons
teardrop pendant holds her place
madness or sensibleness?
the artist laughs at her risk-taking prowess
trying something new, enticing the masses
encouraging others to
live outside the lines

Impromptu

clutching 
my pillow
from first
to second base
racing into third
fourth then fifth

freely speeding
yet not meeting
expected
expectations
stripping gears
shifting down

pistons beating
radiantly steaming
switching off
high beams
now to
broken

down
blinkers
blinking
dimming
giving into
a dead battery

• Short Pistons Poems
• Famous Pistons Poems
• Best Pistons Poems
• Read Pistons Poems
• Long Pistons Poems
• Pistons Quotes