Short Cranked Poems

Hurricane jester
spinning with the calmest eye;
Cranked on retrograde....

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Here lies the body
    Of a dead muse;
Cranked for two months
    And blew out a fuse....

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Filterless~
                                            Cranked















***...

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So, I
Cranked 
My treadmill
Up to max for
15 minutes today
and when I finally 
took my roller skates 
off they were WHITE hot...

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Backseat bingo- such a blast!
Passion pit- made in the shade.
Fat City- cranked and crazy!
With dolly- cloud nine!

...

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The 'New Math' has been around quite a while
  It's time 'Journalism' cranked up her dial
    Red pants suits are fun
    Orange be the sun
  Ms. Clinton and Trump at last reconciled...

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The second I sit my fingers begin clicking the keys
What are you doing, I ask, if you please.
None of your business my muse says, typing away.
Another poem or two, cranked out, on this weird ass Thursday....

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We drove to our house 
In a dusting of snow,
Surprising us all
With its sudden swift show.

We got out the shovels 
And cranked up the heat,
Then covered the deck chairs
To make things complete.

But meanwhile my sister,
A Florida gal,
Was about to go swim
In her too-hot locale....

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Iced down in a wooden tub,
Chilled more with rock salt,
Taking turns, Tom Sawyer style,
Hand-cranked until firm.
Remove the paddle,
Barely scrape,
Lick!

Homemade ice cream with fresh fruit
Is reason enough
To suspend any diet,
Avoiding further
Justification.
Just have some
Now!
...

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My brain is awake even when I’m not.
My thoughts fly with memories sought.
Like an old-fashioned machine,
My thoughts are cranked out unseen.
Thoughts are birds upon my brain!
They drip, drop, pattering like rain.
Thoughts are sticky and stay stuck like glue.
Thinking is such a glorious thing to be able to do....

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The gap between his feeling and what is going on gets wider
Cranked shrunk move and wave, he goes on and on like spider
See his personal things via this programmed lines on screen
From page to another reading more to that we have seen
To mother arms,
back to nature
Back to her tender arms
The end 
Last silence....

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Light gleaming, bouncing to and fro
Raybans and Coppertone Sport
Man's best friend ridin' shotgun
Radio cranked...volume 10, what else!
Trunk filled to the brim
Pabst Blue Ribbon gettin' frosty
Scarf a'blowin' 
Nothin' but taillights and blue sky
Bends up ahead, straights behind
Worries, off with the wind
Joy, palpable, like the midday sun
Cruisin'...

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My new red truck is just so sweet,
I feel like I'm in heaven going down the street.
Now I look down at the cars when I stop at the light,
And I have to admit it is quite a delight!

The open road is now calling my name,
I will be travelling in style from whence I came.
The music will be cranked, and I’ll have my wife by my side.
I love my truck, my brand new ride!...

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Ms. Potter caught her daughter Lollipop
There dancing in the grocer’s parking lot
And scolded her profusely
‘Til someone cranked up “Juicy”…
Ms. Potter stopped and dropped it like it’s hot


Comments:
How soon some forget that they were once young too. If the power of dance is ones 
passion it is not the worst vice a child can have, in fact it is good exercise.  One 
Love...

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They said he'd cracked,
like a jar in the wind,
ajar to within.

Grumbling gears in an attic of a mind,
cranked with the resiliency of an old steam engine,
chugging along.

Muddy cigar for the failures,
basement couch for the come-backs,
after being knocked off a hundred times,
the podium has never had this many scratches,
climbs back up every time,
but gallows are never very accommodating....

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Cranked a surprise with his jack in the box
            Chained stays my flower in chastity locks
                         Power down, without  T. V
                     Painful night crawled tauntingly
           Deafened by raised legs' rotate inside clocks




30th August 2020

Written for Contest : Fun With Limericks
           Sponsor : Tania Kitchin
      Syllables are: 10, 10, 7, 7, 10...

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The river runs wild
An orphan child
Bottom rock tile
Through each mile
Trees along the bank
To hide and play a prank
Fishing boat cranked
To life here’s our thanks
Mud in between toes
Dirty stained clothes
Bait the fishing poles
Fun, fun, fun
Dry off in the sun
Its dark night has come
The river runs calm
Smoothing lip balm
Cool sweaty palms
Nice sweet mom
Time to go home
Sit down read a poem!...

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I wear the same sweater more than twice in two days
My car has a dent and 
hand cranked windows
Must make me poor
You are poor

Poor of soul,
happiness,
freedom of your once untrained mind
Walking in whatever direction a finger points 

without question

I am rich
Rich of self
Rich of presence.
You are caged

I am free
Free to wander
obedient to self
Joy,  and sorrow
embraced
You turn away
oblivious to sight
You have conformed...

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A death-dance, 
a horse swept away.
Hooves flash and slap
the frothing pitch.
Neck cranked tight,
in the cascading 
white-waters.
Terrible to behold.

A large chunk of tree,
just a large log
branches mimicking
thrashing legs.
Not a real horse in the act
of being swept away.
But terror is real
even as an illusion.

My mind is still
looking through its own
alarming image.
For a moment the river 
had its spurs in me....

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The innocuous white powder; 
those dusty crumbs, 
sniffed off distorted, glass mirrors 
reflect images not his own. 

Straight up or cut down, 
it shames the weak 
and weakens the poor. 

Cracked up or cranked out, 
oozing from a crusty nose, 
dripping from his blank stare, 
in eyes too blind to see that this 
is the residue of his LIFE; 
leftovers from the best parts of him; 
refuse, ruins, pieces and particles that 
can't 
be blown away!...

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By day,
By night,
We fight,
Summoning all of our might.
They try to douse our flame, but it's still burning bright.

Our crime,
in time
You’ll find,
Is popular for a certain kind of mind.

Goodbye hate,
Goodbye sorrow,
Wonder who life will take tomorrow.

A product of our wills,
Crossing the hills
cranked out by the mills
of those who are ruled by this system still,
who believe life is already filled, and distilled,
discounting freewill....

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A neighing through wind-swirled waves.
Frozen hooves branch,
a neck cranked tight in a crossbow of fear,
a horse being swept away!

No! I miss-saw...
just a chunk of tree in the white running water,
A momentary delusion,
yet alarm took flight,
became a moth gone crazy
on the light of my skin.

Not a drowning horse -
not what I perceived there
in a quick moment of terror.

Yet for an instant,
my mind threw a saddle
over what was never there....

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He was known as the love poem generator
His poems it was said could not be greater

He cranked out at least a dozen at a time
They quickly swooned at his love words of rhyme

Soon he started missing subtle clues from his wife
Like, I've never been so horny in all of my life

He'd shout out, I'll be there in a minute dear
Just got a couple of more lines to write here

One day she yelled back, don't worry, that's okay,
The Plumber and I need time to finish anyway!...

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