Wheelers Poems | Examples

Diesel In The Morning

Daddy drove a truck
I'm a trucker's son
I'll be driving eighteen wheelers
'til my trucking days are done
Momma lives for trucks
looking good under the hood
born in a cab
I have trucking in the blood
and it takes air brakes truck stops
weigh stations too
pedal to the metal
coming on through
fired up wired up shifting gears
running on caffeine
it's music to my ears
I have a yearning
to hear those engines burning
rolling down the road
to the sound of wheels turning
hit the highway as day's dawning
I love the smell of diesel in the morning

Driving While Loud

The Loudest road in America
runs through a rolled out blueprint
of my thoughts today.

Eighteen wheelers hrough
neuron networks 
blasting peripheral warning signals 
on a numbed roadside flesh.

It is hard to hammer words together
amid the unruly traffic of this mind map
I am forced to navigate.

Yet poems come
even in the middle of war and chaos;
they emerge like rest stops or off ramps
on those long and dangerous highways
that thunder on to nowhere.

Brick Walls Do Not Lie

Mysteries abound
riddles and conspiracies
bound around
like cat nipped kittens.
What to consider, what to investigate,
unravel and expose?
Some flounder in the maze and mire
of partial uncertainties.
The clear of eye
believe in nothing they see
or are told
for all is not as it seems;
even so,
18-wheelers may yet occasionally
run us over
with their 40 tons of teachable truth.

Meratus In Jeopardy

Mammals cried on the domestic site.
They were pursued by homeless shelters.
A calamitous plan destroyed the primate.
Declaring war creeped on mining wheelers.
Deforestation triggered ruins.

They left a ministerial threat.
Incendiary propaganda mouthed great.
The rules crawled havoc with it.
State gave them a baleful coat.
Nocent chemical found it.

Trucking

Like thunder scolds
 the big trucks roll
eighteen wheelers rumbling
 turning,  rounded tumblings
 static cling above the blacktop sounds;
each load heavy and unmarked
 catastrophic diesel sparks,
 rhythm pounds loud along the tarp, 
tractor trailers clapping along the ground
 from the midwest highways bound
 slipping thru the backroad byways,
juggernaut bartering the tolls on a skyway
  four wheelers piggyback tows 
  convoy escorts ever on the go;
beating down the macadam and concrete
  trucking down the inner streets
  transportation, what a feat.

Silent Streets

Silent streets, frozen lights
Crystal clear in the silent night
The roads and bridges
Once where two-wheelers and four-wheelers plied,
Now, lie as if deserts
Under the dark clear sky.
Once the streets full of people,
The hustle and bustle of mankind
Now...lie as if a shooting star
Suddenly passed by.
A tiny microbe comes and takes away the lives,
Killing thousands in no time,
Heaven and Earth made alike!
The busyness of the city
The festivals of the people
The duties of mankind
All vanished in front of the eye.
Now, all that is left
Are the silent streets and the frozen lights
Under the dark night sky
Only moon patters its shine
And the stars twinkle bright
The city lies silent with uncanny fright,
The silent streets....
The frozen lights.....

Did She

When she stepped into the traffic
did she see the oncoming,

judge the distance;
the fleet footedness
of her thoughts calculating
the crossing,

or did she read the red end of her life
the way a deer might
caught in a blind light,
paralyzed by decisions?

I watched,
perhaps other eyes were on her
too far away from the moment
to save or rescue her time.

When planes break apart
the passengers fall out of it
thinking, calculating,
& dying before the end.

Possums lay in the road
gambling on deadness
to fend off an 18 wheelers.

Did a ghost of a thought
push her back,
keep her swaying 
like a cartoon road-runner
on the curb edge,

or did she plunge into the truck
gambling that she would
always be 
a moment away?

Was she already lost 
as she unraveled a tangle
at the other side of town.

This we cannot say,
for most of us reflexively 
looked away.

Beyond the Order

Four 
After two 
Then 
Three 
To last one 
Wrong order in maths 
But a thought of myth 

Order of wheelers invented thus 
The vehicles taking ride all of us

Snake At Noon

It is true that daylight robs,
it pushes us into sights 
that we come to question;

such as the python that lay 
like a thick ship’s hawser
in the road, and would not 
move for my jeep.

In the blinding dark of night
15 wheelers rumble through here,
the snake would be crushed in minutes,
pushed through its skin like a sausage,

but in the hot empty afternoon
heavy traffic growls somewhere else
bypassing eyes and ears

and the python,
its muscular rib cage moving
as slow as molasses
nudges the day sideways
as my engine idles.

Splat

Those squirrels aren't born to be squealers
Once flat it’s too late for faith healers
Midway between tyres
Avoids the hell fires
Alas, there are bloody three wheelers

Corona Dag Gon It

dag  gon  it!  now what we gon do..i still have not fully processed it, show wish it would quit  that corona . . . . eighteen wheelers lined up  as temporary morgues.  um holding back the tears lived all these years to witness this?  I cannot process this, I may as well stop right here..dag  gon  it!

the video is on   montyrocke/youtube

Rural North Dakota

Rural North Dakota, fields and scattered farms.
Social distancing in peace, we all bear arms.
I live in the central flyway for all ducks and geese.
No locked doors or hidden keys, dogs and guns keep the peace.

Winters are long and cold, we are left alone to freeze.
Spring brings forth the long awaited Summer's early warm breeze.
It's a bit flat here, some beautiful rolling hills.
Only farmland and open country, plenty of nature's frills.

Four wheelers and a side by side, a couple of dirt bikes for the kids.
Unwanted visitors do not come, the law of this land forbids.
Absolute freedom, fields of corn and the edible bean.
My world is far out of reach, from the Covid 19.

Crustacean Canto

Lobsters packed in eighteen-wheelers
grapple with their feelings.
A mass custody of shrimps
spoon together
still pink with passion.
Crabs cross-dress
bound more-or-less
to nips of salty resentment.
A soupçon of sea bugs
dished up
on bright porcelain plates.
Fresh alien captives
worth more alive than dead
until we break bread.

Summer

Summer is almost here another year done and gone.
          Tan's and flip flops, trips and adventures just waiting to be captured.
          Bonfires and cookouts with family and friends,four wheelers coming around the bend.
           Lighting bugs and a Mason Jar, you can always see that one star that shines so bright and if you look closely you just might.
           So close your eyes and make a wish or maybe instead steal a kiss.

The City and Sunanda

The city, your life is celebrating 
the Durga Puja festival today. 
Fencing four wheelers and busses ... 
A glimpse of the brightest moonlight
'Tilottoma' is there, but 
you are not Sunanda. 
Looking back once again
on every street corner 
has become my old habit now ! 
This is the great Asthami Puja's night. 
This is the time when 
the up Bongaon local train departs
leaving the ocean of people behind. 
At the insistence of three prostitutes, 
three young men hurries and put them
into empty train compartments. 
Sunanda, this city has none except you, 
who can rule the youth. 
There is neither love, no affection 
nor the discipline enough. 
You know the biggest fear ! 
They are loosing principles, 
there is no fear in their mind. 
You please stay Sunanda
as only you can touch the fire. 
Take this society in your unique 
shape of heart. 
Take the pollution on life. 
Shelter the orphan childhood
from shallow soil of the river Ganges. 
Even in the eyes of a wood-louse
lightning is still there. 
You please return Sunanda,  
I want to be sure and certain 
in the next rally this time.

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