Short Windscreen Poems

Imagine

Earth a windscreen 

Drops of rain people

Wiper-

Death!...

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Windscreen covered with
hundreds of small ice angels
dancing on the glass....

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Raindrops on windscreen - 
nature's perfect abstract art
- tasteless people frown...

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Rainbow reflection
each tiny droplet captured...
windscreen wiper broke.

© Harry J Horsman 2012...

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A spider on a windscreen wiper
Is gambling with his life,
He better pray the sun stays out
Or he just could be in strife.

Perhaps he could take up poker,
Or roll the dice around,
I think he'd stand a better chance
Than when the rain comes down....

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Silent Spring
Their buzzing gone
Wrist flick done
Peace at last

Silent Spring
Glinting lights dark
Children's laughter stark
Quiet at last

Silent Spring
Bugged windscreen
Butterfly spleen
Clean at last

Silent spring
Digital melodies
Comforting remedies
Dead at last...

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A soft thump
then a skull cracking reverberation.
A sticky smear 
as a crushed form slides away.
A feather flutters fast on the windscreen,
stark between the bright fist
of glass and light.
For an instant death shudders
just as much as life.
Windscreen wipers will not
wipe away the memory....

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The road home from Glasgow airport
Tyres in front crying on my windscreen
Combine with the pain from the dark clouds 
That blanket the horizon 
Make a misty view.

Hard to see
The wipers cannae keep up.

A difficult road to drive
Many lanes to cross
Many emotions to deal with.

Getting closer to home.
Less tyre spray
Clouds breaking up.

I'll see him again....

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I remain, he surmised, the possibility of outcomes, 
I am, he collected, but particles upon their way
like a snowstorm towards a windscreen, I wait to
be a final measurement, and yet, to all miscreants 
in need of harmonious affairs, as Prometheus upon
his rock, as Nicorates in his right hemisphere of my
ever-seeing, I, the incumbent of waves gliding through
plasmas, he trifled, am never at rest in my somewheres....

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The veins pump blood to the heart like an engine’s turbine.
The brain controls the body like a steering wheel.
The eyes see the view like on a windscreen.
The joints move the body like wheels.
Bones hold the body like nuts and screws.
The body has energy similar to the one stored in a battery.
Finally we excrete waste as the cars emit smoke
To all the audience reading this and all my poems, thank you and God bless you....

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There is bird crap on the car window.
In the morning light
it’s a gritty white ghost,
a splatter still passing-by
making its way to earth.
The windscreen is a camera,
excrement caught in flight
like accidental art.
With some imagination 
it could be a city landscape
under a snowy sky. 
A humming miasma of midges
is also fine art if you can stand it.
Regarding art appreciation,
I am on the fence,
but sometimes, like now,
I know what I don’t like....

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When I was young I had a car
It didn’t cost too much
It didn’t have a speedo
It didn’t have a clutch
The doors, they wouldn’t open
And the roof was non existent
The wheels were always squeaking
And the noise was quite persistent
It didn’t have a gear stick 
And the windscreen wasn’t there
This was my pride and joy, and so
I really didn’t care
The only thing that bugged me was
Should it begin to shower
I couldn’t get home quick
‘cause, it was only pedal power...

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