Throttles Poems | Examples

Hope Flickers in the Reeds

Set sail in feathered ships
mis guided by shattered stars
and bent leaden sextants.
A little white rippled tempest
becomes a blackened water witch
hatched from a devil's chrysalis
sails are whipped and torn in half
sextant and mast fashion a crucifix
earth swallowed by the final horizon
souls churn upon Poseidon's spitz.

Slothful morning arrives 
amidst the frothy angel tide
an armada of prayers ignite
unable to buoy any sign of life.
The last candle flickers in the reeds
hope throttles down-to recovery.

The Deathly Hollows

Angry eyes lurk in the forest

Deep within the Deathly Hollows 

With unsuspected fervency

And malevolence it closely follows 

An apparition from the grave

A vision from nightmarish dreams

With nimble hands that quickly throttles

And icy fingers that stifles screams

None who enters survives this realm

So menacing and devoid of light 

In the Deathly Hollows murky mist

Still is the air and cold is the night

REGRETFUL VACATION

Every thought,
came back,
to you,
pitiful indeed.

Camping in my,
thoughts,
an unpleasant,
nights unrest.

Morning was,
no better,
the smell,
of hot coffee.

The wood fire,
burning,
last nights
desires.

The lake,
ripples,
with sounds,
I remember.

Can you,
hear me crying,
when,
it's storming?

Splashing in the,
waves,
beneath, 
the sun's rays.

The smell of regrets,
repulsive,
like dead fish,
rotting on the shore.

The roar of motors,
out boards,
inboards,
the throttles of life.

Sleeping beneath,
the stars,
my heart forever,
aches.

The Surreal Sight

Looking into the yawning chasm
trying to find the gem long lost
The shattered shambles of the sky
in the backscatters of the running river

The surreal sight:
throttles the medieval poet;
brings back unwelcomed nostalgia, 
a forsaken evocation.

In an attempt to fathom the waters
has she fathomed out a truth unwritten?
In her hand is the pen, 
but do the words listen to her?

Did she ask to be born,
nor the river did ask to flow
How would she end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
The surreal sight:
its voice echoes in her headspace;
How would you end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?

The Pilots Poem

Starting a new plan a project or a new business is very similar to taking a flight.
Once your plane gets off the ground, its smooth sailing through boundless skies graceful as a kite.
When preparing a plan for a flight, the captain always requests that we put on a seat belt for the beginning of the takeoff is the roughest part.
That is the roughest part where most of the jolts and bumps are felt.

In preflight inspection the pilot tests the sails and rudder of his vessel making sure that he has total control.
He throttles up with brakes engaged making sure that once he stops that he will not roll.
As an arrow drawn back aimed at a target, engine at full capacity, he releases the brakes.
With God’s grace on silver wings, gravity is defied over great mountains, valleys, oceans and lakes.

The Poems I Never Wrote

“Time waiting to be inspired is time wasted. When inspiration throttles your neck, go to your desk”- By Poet


With no cover ups, let me be frank
At times my mind goes utterly blank
When I sit down to write poems,
From topic to topic, my mind roams.

But nothing comes to spark off a rhyme
Often, I feel the words do not chime
Today I sat down to write something
And ended up conjuring nothing

No thoughts came up to stir my brain
And no topic I found save my strain
But I wasn’t wilfully ready to give up
And waited impatient for my mind to clear up

I don’t know how long I sat in meditation
On waking up I got a fresh direction
I must wait and need to be really inspired
And poems can’t be squeezed out uninspired 

The sun had gone out of sight
The moon was beautiful and bright
It was already growing late
And I put off my futile fight


October.8.2022

The Poems I Never Wrote Poetry Contest
Sponsor-craig cornish

Lawn Mowers

Lawn Mowers

Grandpa bought old junk, 
and then he made it better. 
He worked all day, 
every day... 
in the hot sun. 
The man
never
complained. 

I spent every summer, 
just this side of Hades,
learning all about life. 
There were lessons on gas tanks, 
chocks and throttles. 
There were exercises in 
patience, tenacity, and forbearance.  
My Grandfather, 
was a tolerant man. 

We fixed wires, changed plugs, 
cleaned decks and sharpened blades. 
These were all important points
to consider now, 
and later, 
as life present(s)(ed) 
it's on questions. 

Keeping busy helped Grandpa live long. 
Showing me what was necessary 
to achieve success...
was a value, immeasurable.  

Shake a man's hand, 
look him in the eye, 
and never lie. 

Do a job worth doing well, 
and one that is not, better than expected. 
The difference will shine, 
in the light of day. 

Thank you, Pa, 
for believing... 
in me.

Lusus Naturae

The dark lake only buoys its own natatory denizens,
it allows some to swim, some to glide, dip or delve,
but those sombre waters pull down children
seeing them only as the cloud spawn of alien shores.

The waters are one unnatural creature, a sucking swirl;
a single stomach, that throttles, snags, and crushes,
it clogs the mind with the coiling swirls
of convulsive ghosts.

I am drowning, I fall upwards into a darkness
that contains no earth or sky.
The lake is a basilisk, it snakes into wide open eyes,
darkens the blood of small boys until they choke,
strangling on their own fear.

Decades later I awake, expelled once more
from the churn of its malignant maw,
still struggling inside a heartless embrace.

That cold lake remains within me to this day
It is a liquiform parasite that squirms in my dreams;
a submerged memory of my death - in waiting.

It Was a Good Morning Until

My body tenses.
The soft padding of footy pajamas
approach
tiny fingers grip my eyelid
lift it....
Bright eyes gaze into
the freshly opened eye.
A voice shouts....DA!!!
The other eye opens.
Yes I'm in here.
                     ......And he knows it.

His PJ's had that 
"potato in a pocket" hang.
I close my eyes...
reopen them...
he's still there...
he shouts again....DA!

Milk dribbles from his chin
as he struggles
to master the spoon
Cheerios dot his forehead
as he throttles a banana.
The "eye" sips coffee
tries not to laugh.
The dog laps up
his portion of sharing.

It was a good morning.. until
he pried my eye open
then....it became
                      .......A GREAT MORNING


John G. Lawless
2/15/2021

Kindness Heals

I listen to whimpers  as duskfall nears
Finding a gangly waif rile from  burnt skin;
My feet throttles along…his grin appears
With palm half-filled with dimes circling therein.

We talk warmly about this waif's despair
Of how prayers- heal abating such plight--
As he shares moist wheat-bread in hours that bear
A street child’s gentle spirit… on etch of night

Gazing far I see the boy wave his arm
As if to echo our words that console :
But from heart’s pit, he enkindles a charm
Restoring my sense of kindness… now whole.


*
3rd place
NA- Re-run 7 Contest of John Hamilton
Originally Written 6/9/2020
Judged 6/9/2020  Re-submitted 6/14/2020

The Lake That Ate Me

I Almost drowned,
which is to say,
I fell upwards into a darkness
that contained no earth or sky.

Ten years old and a strong swimmer,
but that lake only buoyed up
its own natatory denizens, 
it allowed some to swim,
some to glide, dip or delve,
but it consumes skinny 10-year-old kids;
that being the cloud spawn of an alien shore,
must be dragged down and chewed, 
like the pale moons reflection.

The muddy waters are one creature,
a sucking swirl, a single stomach,
it throttles, it snags with cuffing weeds, 
clogs with the intestines
of convulsive ghosts. 

I am drowning,
then they pierce that lusus naturae
with a long pole thrust from a skiff;
yank me out of its crushing press
like bait from a basilisks reeking maw.

Years later I still awake
from that heaving ‘lac sombre’,
an infection of the imagination
I’ve been harboring parasitically 
inside the moil of engulfing dreams.

Perhaps incongruously, 
it takes some time before I will enter rooms
with too high a ceiling.

Suicidal Flavors

Can a poet know life who has not felt the call
Of malevolent sirens who cried "End it all?"
How could sharing of feelings not lead one to feel
Pain that's found all around us when people can't deal.
Their perception is love must have no place to hide,
Or exist, if not drawn to known vacuum inside.
Those alone (with no comfort) live strangers to sleep.
Is one drowning who throttles the tears he can't weep?
If the reaper of life should be shoals for your song,
Is your death my discomfort, or help me feel strong?

To me, death’s more a friend I don't bother to fear,
For if dead, am I missing the ones I hold dear?
But, of course, each friend's passing is felt like a loss,
And yet, mystery teases if you think God's boss!
It seems death's no more 'certain,' than 'faith' God is real,
But for me, life's provision suggests Death's ordeal,
Which lasts hardly a second (and lucky escape!),
Brings up less fear than tax! Misanthropical rape
Of our planet's the threat that kills 'Truth' and the past
Like pro-Nazis before them: the future gets gassed!


Long Tooth
April 23rd of 2019

Agatha Christie Taught Me To Be a Book Worm

Behind a chair 
        Below a desk
 with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
   
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
          marmalade, not cherry or anything else 

Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on 
                     by wet swimming suits running past
                 
I can devour a pile of books.
    History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
    When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….

I am no longer a mere mortal.
             I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf, 
                          I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.

In a treehouse, 
            High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
                            Yet subconsciously hearing everything, 
          I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….

Written 3-08-19
Contest:  The Bookworm Poetry Contest                Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann

Underneath

A foggy presence in the hollow
Doves' coos echo along the way
Roosters' crows greet the sun that flows
As noisy equipment throttles away

Then a silence to man's designs
Like the quiet of years ago
How refreshing the peace assigns
Restful essence amazing joy flows

Then noisy sound return again
Rob the muse of needed peace
Even the crows' watchmen begin
Watch out! Are shepherds guarding the fleece?

What is happening underneath?
Like the bridge in Italy fell! 
Is there good structure to beneath?
Is this nation doomed to hear the bell?

Dogfight

I turned into the fight with a burst from my guns
Please don’t jam on me now
Pouncing unseen onto a ME One One Zero
He’s gonna go down somehow
My cannon have hit the iron heart of this beast
Causing his progress to falter
Ripping in hard to his starboard wing section
I will take no quarter

He’s hit the deck hard, there’s an explosion
Plenty of kites left in the sky
Pull back on the stick, open the throttles
There with a blink of the eye
Looking for a target, another appears
Making this my eleventh kill
The sky is my war zone, let battle commence
Eleventh that is until……

Now I’ve taken a hit, but I’m still in the sky
Glycol streaming away
If this damage should deteriorate some how
I’ll have to leave this fray
Cutting power to my portside motor
Rudder moved accordingly to adjust
The stick has gone heavy, flames eating the wing
My faith above, in him I trust

Losing height fast, but my guns are still blazing
Opening the canopy now
I’m trying like mad to keep this beast airborne
But really don’t know how
Down goes another foe in a hail of cannon fire
My ammunition is out
Looking for a safe place to ditch this fiery crate

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