Turnpike 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?”

Chickadee

Coming back home, after a long stint south,
I passed the blue sign on the turnpike that reads

“Massachusetts Welcomes You.”

Under the “Welcomes,” some Mayflower blooms,
And a chickadee perches there, under the "You.”

I’d seen this bird busying our woods as a boy,
Seen its black helmet with small streaks of white,
Flitting from thickets to rest on a branch,
Or maybe on mother's stone up on the hill.
From there, it’d cheer the winter woods with a call:

“Chicka DEE DEE DEE!”

Standing as still as a young boy knows how,
I’d see how it puffs out its tiny, tan chest,
Then sends forth the words
It hopes someone might hear:

“Hello!”
 
“Please be careful!”
 
“Let’s share what I’ve found!”

Sometimes, my human chest puffs out as well,
Set to deliver my own human calls:

“Hi, there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, where are you from?”

Still, some calls get stuck on their way to my throat,
And with all of my puffing, I can’t get them out.
Whenever I try, I feel misunderstood,
And the message gets lost from one tree to the next.

Chickadee, have all songs for your feelings been found
Or do some stay inside, never making a sound?

Where it Began

My grandmother knew
the exact moment I was born.

She was sitting in the passenger seat
of my grandfather’s navy blue Jeep Wrangler.

Speeding down the New Jersey turnpike,
the windows trembled against rushing air.

She closed her eyes and said,
“I just heard my baby granddaughter cry.”

Every time she tells this story,
I imagine my first guttural wail
transcending miles of houses,
trees, and pavement.

I think what a crude force even then
was my unrelenting fear,
its velocity,
its volume,
its stamina.

Making Time

I like your tall shadows
and model village
I could talk mouthfuls for hours
Seeing your visage
behind the blue mountain ridge
was meant to be
by some ancient turnpike
i drink your muse
firing imagination

God Inserted Poems into Soul Horn Whatever Poem

To write poems is my greatest goal;
God did insert them unto my soul,
Along with that created the need;
Sit down in chair and start to read.

While taking long trip on a turnpike,
Found perfect place that I would like;
Aspen quaked while duck had quacked
See what was there my bags I packed

Just Around the Bend

Interstate routes
Endless road
Highway travel the threshold
On and off ramp
Distances being miles
Listening to music while
Once and a while rest stop
Sometimes rain could fall on car top
Highways to anywhere and any major city or town
The map is showing where you are bound
Highways everywhere
There’s always a beware
Hitchhikers all on the road
Keep driving
You don’t know who they are
They could have a criminal history
Not knowing could be your mystery
Highways are often called Turnpike or Freeway
Freedom to explore
Sightseeing with a observe
Embracing a beautiful morning sunrise
The start of energize
A need to travel
Perfect get away
Journey into relaxation
That’s a way to spend a vacation
Just rest
Soak up the effect
The highways are everyone’s friend
From beginning to end.

The Black Ribbon of Possibilities

The long road,
where does your dark thread unwind?
Bent willows follow where you lead,
and sunflowers drink the roadside rain.
The sun and wind,
tumble the weeds down your turnpike.
And I who follow idly the unraveling,
will hope to find upon reaching the end,
a new black ribbon of possibilities.
To thrill the life of the adventurer.

If and When, It Depends

Knit one purl one, knit two together.
Drop a stitch, it runs.
Unpick, pick-up the loops one by one, 
align them, precisely, nicely right,
on your knitting needle.
Get back to counting sheep to sleep
where you left off.
Knit one, purl one, knit two together.
Repeat to end of line.

Seams unseemly, jeans too loose.
Letting out is needed.
Stitch-picker to the rescue.
Pry and poke the needle in
and cut unseemly threads that bind
and hold the seams together.
But if it hurts, depends 
on when you have your stitches out. 

To pick up the pieces,
swivel and swing, parry and prise 
those pick-up sticks in turnpike prickly stack,
red ones, green ones, blue and violet.
It's up to you to choose, the piece you want to lose
without jostling, moving or shaking any other piece.
For if it wobbles, ever so slightly,
your friends will notice
and you lose.

Steeplechase Day

THE RACE

In a rural 
    country vale
Aylesbury's forgotten tale

a steeplechase
       from memory  long gone
the four mile hunt 
     from Waddesdon

Twenty  
     weighed in at the White Hart
the old windmill
   .. the place to start
riders famous & the well-heeled
racing across
         ditch &field.

each carrying
      twelve stone seven
the starters flag
      dropped  at exactly eleven

across brook spinney &
      the Thame
seeking the prize pot & fame

in long furlong field 
    the leaders showed
to the roars 
    from the turnpike road
the well backed grey 
became the toast
  winning
     by a length
     at
the red flagged post

 Year Posted 2007

Freeway of Escape

In this era of experimentation,
unforeseen boulders form 
in the road of progress.

Low interest rates
encourage the right hand to invest,
while the left speculates unnoticed.

Governments spend money before the ink dries,
purchasing assets, forcing lines on economic charts,
following virgin protocols.

Skewed markets seem normal,
kurtosis no longer matters
in this 21st century laboratory.

Social scientists join the parade
with shutdown demands
to end a pandemic.

Boulders become barriers,
traffic crawls,
and anxiety replaces speed.

Fuel runs low,
compensated by steep descent
into a mist blocking the destination.

No one knows where this new turnpike,
with untested exits and unmarked lanes goes,
but drivers follow large road signs overhead.

Rider On Board

Rider on board…..
Life is a road trip,
Where all the experiences,
Are the junctions.
And we travel along,
In those turnpike.
With gloves on,
 With the confidence.
So let's turn the Ferrari,
With a key of luck,
Be like Royal Enfield,
Spread your majesty,
All-over your dynasty.
Why? Should you hasten,
To reach your destiny,
The monarch of mausoleum.

Thaw Time Tune:A Change In the Weather

I remember the thaw 
when I headed South to crawl 
through Carnegie's tunnels 
in a Saab that would stall 
in the mist or the rain 
Spring, Winter, and Fall-- 
O I remember the thaw 
and the chance of a change 
if I could move what I did 
from New York's north grid 
down through the range 
filled with hard blue coal 
where I'd run as a foal-- 
O I remember that thaw 
and the chance-of a job 
in a town near the Mon 
named for the General 
George Washington 
who'd surveyed the vast land 
and survived the deft French 
and I felt my fists clench 
on the wheel of that Saab 
as I drove through each trench 
in a car that might stall 
while I attempted to crawl 
over the P A Turnpike 
to a job I would like 
and knew I could do 
with less snow, ice, and flu 
and a new car in the Fall 
one inclined not to stall 
if the weather turned raw-- 
O I remember the thaw!

At Any Rate, It Was Fast Moving

Driving home for a visit long overdue
 along the NJ turnpike, the Delaware, straight away I flew,
down to Baltimore once more while leaning on the horn
 scenery consistent and familiar with the road weather worn.

The exits looked unfamiliar, tolls now increased and gained
 the road a little wider than before, the tally upward of insane
and backed up to the tolls and bridges - a bevy of traffic
 causing wonder, what, where, when, why spoke vocal graphics.

Then three hours in I finally spied
 the exit missed, in my surprise, I cried, 
I ached from the journey, the drawn out highway slide
 back tracking, at last, I again became home fried.

At any rate, there was the house at last
 and out of the car I hurried fast,
greeted at the door, we hugged, we laughed
 watching my parked car slide down the driveway path.

The short visit planned was now an extender
 bumper and car creating a fender bender.
At any rate, there it was, fast moving, 
 speeding car, driver and insurance disapproving.




Julia Ward's contest - At any rate, it was fast moving

Bedtime Stories

My eyes screamed as the blinding yellow light latched itself modest self upon me.
Why?
It happened so fast—so unexpectedly.
At first, my mouth watered as the taste of peppermint fermented on my tongue and the scent of jasmine danced in my thoughts. I was so happy, and I am still so happy.
But why do I lie here on the ground, drawing a sweat as I have to consciously pump air in and out of my lungs! Why do I stare at the ceilings at night thinking of nothing but those tormenting demons who scream me lullabies at night! I am so happy!

The days are blinks, and the nights linger like the smell of a rotting opossum disemboweled on the turnpike. My bed encases me, and my sheets burn my wrists and ankles as they twist around my unwilling body.
“Help me, please!” I will silently scream. “Please.”
Hours go by and my eyes burn from the salty crust forming around them. Even blinking took too much strength, for the night devours my will, my hope, my time.
 
So here I am. Happy. I truly am happy. But I can’t explain why the nights love me so. Maybe it’s because I might not love myself as much as they love me.

Silent Roosters Sleep

SILENT ROOSTERS SLEEP

Dads don’t sleep.  They drive over-packed cars, and sip coffee from a thermos cup. Kids in backseat mull over grandma’s home ~ roosters never move, cuckoo clock never quits, and grandma’s always at the door, waiting. Front passenger divvies out cheerios and chips. The turnpike yawns with well-worn pitstops. All seats salivate for grandma’s homemade coffee cake. “Are we there yet?” echoes, bounces, plays with the driver’s nerves. Dads get revenge, transforming the auto into a tour bus. Pointer finger flashes toward a birthplace, a high school, and a park, and finally a hearth in the suburbs of Depew.

silent roosters sleep
moonlight auto unpacks dawn
crowing door exhales

7/14/2017
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