Windshields Poems | Examples

Arbeit Macht Frei

The first weakening of night 
picks out telephone lines, 
black against sky. 

The eyelid of a garage door 
lurches laboriously up. 
A car coughs blue breath. 

With aerosols and plastic scrapers 
clandestine delights of frostwebs 
are raked to chemical sludge. 

Starter motors whine. 
Windshields cloud with pain. 
Gears grind teeth. 

An electric train 
gingerly 
utters inarticulate from the sheds, 
groaning over cold joints. 
Thinking grimly 
of tunnels ahead, 
it flares with ill-humor 
crossing the points. 

On unworked land beside the track, 
a fox is heading home. 
Gliding through 
beneath the "keep out" sign, 
he grins at the engine, 
which just judders along, 
headlights trained 
on parallel lines 
which glint ahead, 
reflecting lurid signal red, 
extending out, but never meeting, 
towards the vanishing point.

When did I get old

we are all drones on the freeway today
hardly any excitement this side of the bay
then two crazy racing drivers head our way
They whip past me, one yellow, one gray

Youngsters I think rolling my hazel eyes
Unsure actually, their windshields dark as spies
But they drive like maniacs, like I did at twenty-three
When did I turn into old aged sourdough me?

I send a prayer down that freeway for them
two children of someone, named Mary and Jim
Crashing would be devastating for all of us
wanting to join them in their speeding, I give a cuss.
never thought oldsters were any fun
Yet now I have turned into one.

Wishful Glimpses Through Timeworn Windshields

I would 
Wish you 
The worst 

But yours 
Came true 
First 

Feels like 
That red light 
Gets longer every day 

Though I can’t 
Help but stare 
At the place I last kissed you 

Counting 
The cars 
In the driveway 

Making note 
Of the purple bike 
Left in the grass 

Picturing 
The perfect happenstance 
That you would be there 

With the devil’s music 
As your dad always called it 
Vibrating my speakers 

The slow motion 
Of realization 
Would cross your face 

While my breath 
Gets scared 
And hides in my throat 

But I pretend 
I don’t
Notice at all 

Focusing on the blink
Of green 
That reminds me to take the right road 

Just keep driving on 
Let the world 
Around me become a fast paced blur

Because the things 
That are meant to stick around 
Will forever remain in focus 

A destination 
Worth 
Running towards 

While things 
Like you 
Are better in the rearview

fear of mirrors hair balloons and paperclips

There are more phobias than you would believe
Some have names, others are a one-of-a-kind nameless fear
People have fear of werewolves, rats, snakes, and ghosts
Fear of long words, mirrors, hair, balloons, paper clips
Fear of belly buttons, vegetables, windshields, flashlights,
I try to see if there is a fear of baths; yes, there is.
Some of these fears might seem unrealistic and strange to you
Until you develop the same fear.

Rose Tinted Windshields

Quicksand caught generation epoch,
restless whirring of a drill in the dust.
Zenith of color shifts saturation to none,
black and white film on video cassette.
Ensnared in a cage lowering to molten,
hourglass is losing sand to run dry.
Eyes fixate to the sunny horizon,
flicker dims as monsters crawl,
from beneath beds, closets,
bathroom stalls.
Those noises,
creaks in the floor,
are very real.
Ignore them,
rummy for thy belly to fill.

chasing cars

one day, I saw a car going by
with my fourteen-year-old self in the driver's seat.
he wasn't even the one driving the car. 
it was hate that was driving the car,
fueling the car,
steering the car,
because the car was a vessel for the thoughts crammed in that trunk
which acts as the engine
the engine was in the back of the car.
that's right; it was the type of car that goes really fast
except when you're stuck in traffic
then you're on the same speed as everyone else.
but there was no traffic
there was nothing stopping the car
the car traveled at the speed of light,
but you see, the thing with traveling at the speed of light,
is that it's hard to stop, easy to lose control,
and time flies away with you,
no matter how little you enjoy the ride.

one day, I was passing by a car wreck
two cars of the same type,
same color,
same age,
the hoods perfectly crushed into each other
the windshields making contact
and I looked at the boy from earlier,
and saw that he had aged four years.

Early Morning Frost

crisp air burns my nose 
windshields frosted over hard 
exhaust smoke rising

Crosswalks

I hear crosswalk signals in my dreams

their constant metered pace is comforting
the command to wait always a touch too brazen

they never change though
-the signals-
they give the same tired palm reading

I take the hint and wave to cars passing by

I can’t see anything but the sun
reflecting off their tinted windshields

Lovebugs Aka Honeymoon Flies

lovebugs has taken on a new meaning
now that I live in Jacksonville, Florida
where honeymoon flies congregate
in hundreds or should I say millions?
flying in tandem, like two-headed weirdos
smashing against car windshields at tremendous speeds
kamikaze pilots, which would be okay
if their acidic dead bodies did not take paint and chrome off our cars

The Joy of Styrofoam

I didn’t expect to be enlightened
on the 5
passing Dodger Stadium
north-bound, but-
A flatbed load of Styrofoam had spilled
and was dancing on the road
in small bits and huge chunks.
We drove through them 
like they were nothing,
bouncing all around
off the windshields
and hoods and sides.
Wisdom flooded through us
radiating an immediate encompassing bond
as we passed this universe
of nothing.
We were, of course, 
the spaces between particles,
the answer to physics.
The answer to everything!
The mystery was revealed, 
The mirages understood.
There are no barriers.
Only those we put there ourselves.

The sun-glassed man in the flatbed
nodded at me and then 
off he went-
the 2 North.

The Chain Letters Road Trip

"The Chain Letters Road Trip" 

Freedom Fall 8 
removed 
her Ray Bans

The Light 
was blinding 
on the other side

dark tunnels 
lead to highways 
unrealised 

goin’ gangsta 
driven 
to distraction

hell bent along the 
Road to the Lotus Eaters
at Loon Junction

chain letters 
flying in the breeze
let loose

out the driver’s side
window, 
to the past 

like bugs
sticking  
to other’s windshields

behind the wheel
terror forming 
smiles

one hand steering
the other
retrieves

her android,
voice 
activating

Mojo
dials

(LadyLabyrinth / 2022) 



“Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” / Pomplamoose
https://youtu.be/z3IGoniElrE





"The Dilettante Diaries: Goin' Gangsta on the Road to The Lotus Eaters at Loon Junction" 
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_dilettante_diaries_goin_gangsta_on_the_road_to_the_lotus_eaters_at_loon_junction_1059240

Stuck In the Rain

Dodging raindrops
like bullets
like sheets
glass shatters
as it downpours
on this old General Store

Tin roof tinking
in mud
feet sinking
flowers in pots
old rinky dink carts
waiting for a jump start
hiding in the car

A stranger watches from afar
the phone rings and rings
a distant bird sings
rain pelting windshields
staring at green fields
someone stops
finally
some help

Winter Overload

Winter bought rights to long life ~ in command
of blizzards, ice storms, unusable roads.
Iced windshields, snowmen--whatever's on hand.
Heat overuse caused great melt overload.
Alas, Winter thawed--and found he'd been snowed.

~Snowed, in this sense, means overwhelmed with lies,
taken advantage of~

December 13, 2021
For Winter Quintain Contest
by Francine Roberts

Day's Window Narrows

Day's window narrows
  the sun now fleet of foot
bolts from yesterday's darkness
  heads toward the jaws of today's

Frost decorates windshields
  drivers lick their breath as they swear
bare branches shiver, some to snap
  brown patches, meadow's outerwear

Pale orb sinks below the horizon
  no colors linger, no twilight show
Night's deep shadows overcome you
  white of winter too soon come to woo

Lovebugs - Plecia Nearctica

A flurry grays the April air
as clouds of speckles swirl and mate,
euphoric, blazing, unaware

of windshields on the interstate
hurtling through their fevered storm. 
These whirlwind-wings pursuing their fate,

in red and black above the warm
blacktop, link up and live three days.
Tripping on truck exhaust, they swarm,

convinced it’s flora which decays.
They catch the fumes, sweet as the spice
of rot, home in on motorways

and, as they’re turned to mush, think, “Nice!—  
manure, grass clippings—paradise!”

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