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Deafening noise in waves
Glinting light blinding off mirrors
A circle turns red, steel at a standstill
The quiet lingers for just a brief second
Please let me know what you think. If you enjoyed the poem, leave a comment or share this with someone who would appreciate it!
shogunzoe Nov 2019
A time machine ride.
Teleport on Dayton wires.
Cruising cold as ice.
Original:
Classic tires glide
like hot steel on seared ice. A
vintage private flight.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Rocky squirrel flew through the air
Safely landing precisely where
He wished.

Caught glimpse as Shirley squirrel
(Herself in front of car did hurl)
Was nearly squished.

Rocky had warned Shirley before
Admonition Shirley chose to ignore-
Cars can smite

Such events reveal it's not merely heuristic
Fatalities by car is greater statistic
Than fatalities by flight
6/23/2019 - Poetry form: Light Verse - I call this a flight of fancy (pun intended)! - No animals died during the making of this poem. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Brandon Conway Oct 2018
When I first passed the gates
into the metallic garden
stamping out seeds
                      for the junkyard
with its infinite cardiac output

I gazed upon the eyes of the creatures
that inhabited this oily soil
                            of steel and chemicals
all I saw was a cry for help
to escape
          to be away
                just one day
they cry, just one day

I got caught in the claws
and it scratched
                       and scratched
the wounds heal but the scars stay

I have become a trapped animal
                                     with eyes of dismay

There's little chance of escape
I can dream
           I can pray
one day, I echo
               one day

Now I am just taxidermy
for this godforsaken industry
and they call this
quality.
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
God waited for Abraham's arm to be actually starting down, the biceps fully tensed.

Nothing short would do; in extremity, we learn what's true.

With a good job, a good marriage, a fine son, I had everything one could expect.  
And yet there was a lingering dissatisfaction; a malaise.
It seemed, deep down, that I didn't really feel or believe in anything.

.........                                             ­                                 
On Saturday morning, August 11, 1990, my three-year-old son and I rounded the corner at the south end of the block where we live.  We were out for a walk.  (He had been born through in-vitro fertilization, everything else had failed -- including several previous in-vitro attempts.)  He was riding his tricycle -- it's amazing how fast a three-year-old can go on a tricycle with big wheels. . . .  The house next to the corner had tall bushes growing right out to the sidewalk.  As we passed the house, my son speeded up.  My attention was diverted to men working across the street trimming trees.  Their chainsaws drowned out the sound of a car backing out of the driveway next to the house with the bushes.  The car was moving slowly and I can see in the slowest of slow motion -- I screamed, but I'm not sure just when (there's no sound track to this movie) -- the car backing into the left handlebar of the tricycle, tilting it over to the right, my son breaking his fall with his right hand.   (As low to the ground as he and the tricycle were, they could not be visible in the driver's rearview mirror at this point.)  And, then, the car stopping.  Did the car stop because of my scream?  Or had the old man driving the car seen my son at the last second before he disappeared behind the car?
.......

I learned instantly with the terrible weight of that tire inches from my son's head, that I wanted with a giant, horrible wanting for this boy to grow up healthy and to have children of his own who would, in turn, have children of their own, and that having my wife hate me for losing him would be unbearable.

All the unfairnesses I had suffered in life -- ALL of them --
instantly became meaningless. Everything was clear.
This is what I wanted; this is what I believed.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_062_true.MP3 .  This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Miss Clofullia Nov 2016
When real love kicks in..
And I mean the R E A L deal,
not the one that
TV shows present to you as being "part of life" in 23 minutes episodes!

The ****** up, messy entanglement that takes your heart,
blindfolds it and then starts kicking it from the side,
the parks, theaters and picnic one,
the “please make me a sandwich while I take out the trash” one,
the big-spoon-little-spoon-during-the-night one,
the “we just visited your parents last month and I don’t feel like doing it again very soon” one,
the fuzzy wazzy baby voicey one,
the planes, trains and automobiles one,
the “you snore so bad that I wanna **** you sometimes” one,
the bad morning breath after a hard day’s drinking night one,
the cinnamon flavoured one,
the “not 8 years and a half, but 8 years and 7 months” one
the one for which you cannot find words to describe it right.

When THAT kicks in..
you better be ready to sleep on the couch!
I hear her throttle roar
there is a speed demon that devoted her car
but flex her punch in the midnight air
round the town on her boulevard tonight
her Firebird streamed her heat like a cigar
and headers in a chassis smelting lore
Trump mobile
Mary K Aug 2016
The fog of forgotten memories
Blankets the cracking pavement
So nothing can be seen aside from yellow and white lines
and the bottoms of tires.
A slight drizzle begins to fall out of the clouds
But just as quickly as it started
the fog is receding
And the diluted colors of a vibrant city
pulse all around
Like a heartbeat from somewhere deep inside.
Muffled sounds of people come from somewhere,
come from everywhere.
Its almost as though its all a dream,
you can focus on one thing or nothing but not everything at once,
and everything seems too crazy to be real
But a pinch on the arm can be felt
And the dream doesn’t end.
Everything looks and sounds like its underwater
And the colors blend together until no colors exist at all.
The sounds get louder and everything is coming more into focus
And a symphony is playing
With the staccato of honking horns
And the shrill of constant chatter.
But its all hidden from the rest of the world,
the sensations fading as you cross the bridge away
And looking back, all that is seen is the fog and the road,
Making you wonder if you imagined it all in the first place.
New York City
Leal Knowone Feb 2015
dark hearts lost down dusty path
her soul within inches of my grasp
why must our time be numbered
when we see the angels weep
ill show you solitude
my finger prints were missing
when I washed away the sin
do you fear the things that may be
I turned my back on the crowd
dont turn your back on me now
I ask you your ***** ways
and you felt strange
I gave you everything you want
and then you run away
you always run back my friend
and let me feel your soft hand
the sound of buckels and metal ring
from this chilly automobile
take in the passion of the night
and bask in the warmth you fe

— The End —