"axles" poems
Light train chugging, working to outrun
Over exerting, pulling along your freight
Sand is running out under the diminishing sun
Fastidiously you tug on your enormous weight
Segmented equal in seven hulking proportions
Weaving between sleeping rocky giants
Assertion in your drive gifted from the high heavens
Borne of light your cargo load of tenants
Silver blurred rays glinting back as reply
As you power your way through
Defying seconds, before the last rays should die
Against odds, delivering what is due
Questing to alleviate my inflicted darkness
Spear of brilliance slicing through my mind
Illuminating the farthest and tiniest of crevices
Nook and crannies that willed me blind
Careful manoeuvring to keep your balance
Through scenic views fraught with treachery
Furiously working to keep your cadence
Hopeful of unloading the load you carry
What lies dormant in that cargo of yours?
What sleeps easy within those boxcars?
What stokes the fire to diligently run your course?
What promises you bear, travelling near and far?
Bales of hope and crates of strength
Supplies of kindness and self-worth
Reside within your immense length
Intact and lay quiet within your formidable girth
Reliant on the light that fuels and feeds
Your axles seem tireless guiding forth those wheels
Thundering over land with the power of a thousand steeds
Armed to your teeth with alloys and steels
Expelling grit and dirt as you pummelled across
Grey-white fumes, shoot up to the sky
Flag flogged by wind, billow and toss
Blaring your whistle as you race on by
Propelling forward, horizon up ahead
There it is...in all its tenebrous glory
Darkened locomotive seething mad with dread
Brace for the clash and the loads the two carry
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
The rear axles hold the kick of twenty Missouri *********
It is in the records of the patent office and the ads there is twenty horse power pull here.
The farm boy says hello to you instead of twenty mules-he sings to you instead of ten span of mules.
A bucket of oil and a can of grease is your hay and oats.
Rain proof and fool proof they stable you anywhere in the fields with the stars for a roof.
I carve a team of long ear mules on the steering wheel-it's good-by now to leather reins and the songs of the old mule skinners.
3k
Hungry stones line the narrows
a jagged, muddy trail
aspen trees as pharaohs
gaunt columns of massive scale
Broken wagon pieces lie
testament to treachery
splintered axles cry
hopeless dwell in reverie
only insects fly
Lonely road disintegrate
loose shades of beige and brown
fallen roadsigns instigate
nature steal the crown
Hungry stones in narrows
still are left unfed
bodies strewn with arrows
death they do not dread.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Flip flip slide slide
grind grind pop pop
concentration.
hours and hours
sweat pours
bruised ankles bruised kneecaps
scraped shinbones scraped elbows
scabs and scars.
shirts and jeans torn, worn;
shoes a tattered mess--
laces shredded to bits tied desperately
clinging on to lapping tongues.
hair matted to skull sweating within damp skullcaps,
whether be it helmets (by choice or restriction),
or fitted baseball hats turned backwards,
or cuffed beanies in the dead of winter.
(father says the latter choices work well to soak all the blood up, I always roll my eyes in naivete.)
The paved driveway, where on my eighth birthday
a shining basketball goal sat at its full height
towering in the mountain sky--
stood forlorn in place as wide eyes glued to the pavement--
where shoes stood atop the gritty surface of a wooden board
with wheels attached to gleaming metal axles
rolled smoothly excitedly across the pavement in perpetuity.
destiny.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
1120
This slow Day moved along—
I heard its axles go
As if they could not hoist themselves
They hated motion so—
I told my soul to come—
It was no use to wait—
We went and played and came again
And it was out of sight—
2k
antlers
fourteen points
cernunnos stirs
while the daffodils
reach their thirties
orderly routines
-
stones start skipping
replete potholes, puddle-filled
paving the way
capsizing axles
-
sipping steam from fog clouds low-hanging
not really minding that my shirt is wet from the concrete
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
I found you, cast away in the shadows,
hiding from the laughter, of those
painted clown faces
I found you, on the rooftop
sat with your arms, clasped
to you, wrapped around
Searching through the crowd
blinded, the lights of this
crazy, maddening fairground
Colours forming, moving
the Northern lights, blazing
blues, green, pinks, yellows
Kids and lovers, screaming
the Matterhorn spinning,
a frisbee gondola swinging
Midsummer Fair, a fresh green common
distracted, I turn, the Midnight Express
decorated, loosely dressed women and men
Axles rattling in and out
Ferris wheels, bumper cars, waltzes
Ray Davies playing, side stalls and games
Rubber ducks hooked, fathers shadowing
***** misplacing baskets, a high strike to the bell
in among mirrors, I now find myself reflecting
A cacophony of sounds, noise
music of Bob Bradley penetrating
these convex mirrors, movers and shakers
I pace past drag queens, circus freaks
footsteps moving in timely accord
the Helter Skelter, confused, disorderly haste
I am the whirlwind, climbing outside
the spiral tower, to the top
stars and constellations above
At its peak, I see you
you've climbed onto the rooftop
again
I always found you here
hide and seek, morphed into
children's games of sardines
I find you, you have hidden
I stay with you,
until we are found
Together.
© Sia Jane
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Strippers blown out of moving caravans of pornographic stature
Lesbians terrifyingly terrify each other to pieces in the back seat
Of a vintage Camero built for speed and automobile crashes
Blood red runs off black lightening sunshine
Telephone polls and graveyard ditches
Can you handle this the raving seductress asks
No problem with the foot on the floor
Driving west
High on scorpion **** and speed
Fire fighters are ravenous breed
Barb-wired writers are blasphemous breed
Chasing antique dreams towards the sunset
Off lost in the Desert Mountains
Thirst for quench and moonshine howls
LA is a happening place
**
Axes
Axles
Axed
**
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 6:52 PM UTC
Cornflower blue covered capsules
They turn the axles now
I know that you’d be scared too
If you surfed a furrowed brow
I could love the rain more if
I wasn’t made of wooden bones
And I would love me more if
I didn’t have such a fragile soul
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 11:32 AM UTC
A raucous tone of an oldie worm gear
Sound's like a screech that torn ears
Toothed wheel and it revolving spiral, bear
The oodles of blood as the oil of fear.
The products are orderly transmitted diseases
Wrench is limited avast for every pigment of it
And to rely on its asylum, to ceases
are not enough, to cover the dirt or to omit.
Let's stave the stave of reddish fuels!
If life is a wheel and we are its axles,
Our will be done, drawn of our risksha
And let this machine covert chutzpah.
Working of two wheel with sloping square edge,
Is the next wheel with trickery on the ledge.
Our wheel has a will of its spare-part, none Midas touch
But still, this wheel will chase the chaste egg to hutch.
Be the egg of tomorrow, who's snob the chatterbox.
Uproots our machine's cheapskate who's blood are their tax.
Their waste turns to wax from the slave of fox.
It can take away everything outside of our flocks
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
Well girl if you’re stable at overflowing
Just please let me coast inches
I need to sentry how this is growing
There’s a tugging at my sleeve, trying to lead me in a cave
With a slight incline so not even a torrential wave
Could splash safety
Yours or mine
While our synergy matures like wine
It’s in the print of the design that I come across a constant need for repair
Bring tools along the way I swear ruts bend your axles
Bending backwards can’t twist your posture like her
Fur is soft on the skin
In a race the fox always wins
Reach in to the frothy mixture and pull out a piece of the picture
Even though your centered in a fixture a foundation is hard to find
It especially distorts the spine at night
When the light can’t distract you
From the visible glow she radiates
Strong enough to contract you
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
This started out as a joke.
Everything I've ever seen is piled on top of my back.
Suddenly you're here and I know you're going to drag me around like a wagon.
Problem is, I only have axles; my tires wore out a long time ago.
I'm only fifteen.
I'm going to erode slowly and your muscles will snap like elastics.
It doesn't matter how much you lift, I'm much too heavy to carry.
Gravity can't even control me.
Spend your money on a new car instead of a worn down one with a ripped leather interior and a radio that skips every second word.
Please don't waste your time being my tow truck.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
To sit and stare
Going here and there
Is how I tend to exert some flair.
To try and pass the time
With solutions to some crime.
For example on a bus
Where there is usually more than one of us,
I delude myself with the notion that I can save the day.
By way of applying some misc aid
Without the luxury of knowing it’s a charade.
Like now the lady affront of me could get mugged,
And in my delusion, my fear unplugged
I'd bust a move and bust a jaw.
Thereby giving him the what-for.
Or maybe just a mirage of lust?
That involves one with ample bust.
Not attempting to be seedy or deplorable
But to enjoy company so adorable.
Is one a lad can't miss.
Especially when it leads to steamy kiss.
Perhaps, a vision more complex?
Maybe axles laced with sem-tex.
To throw the vehicle into disarray
That’s how I could save the day.
With flames and smoke
As people choke.
Carrying the near dead
To a temporary bed
There will be no death
When life is resumed with a simple breath.
And all at once I awake in shock
As it appears that I have missed my stop.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
Contrary to what is believed
To double think
Undress your mind to it's vulnerability
Outside the realm of possibility
Where one can see
Tickled grey
with inconclusive concepts
Frayed practice
Impulse bandits
turning the axles
Mirror me neuron
Mirror me
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Is this where it happens?
Is this the where
and when?
On a bus going through
nowheres stocked with burned-out houses
and Chevys idling on empty axles?
I have passed so many of them,
that I don't know
when it'll stop;
all this quiet and oblivion.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 6:41 PM UTC
This day winding down now
Cogs of time turned by turetlesGrinding axles ssquealing
In the mouth of a gull
In my wind rocked home
Sounds permeate the gloom
Steam and spilt droplets of
Freshly poured milk mark
The ashen counter top
Grey becomes rose as the sun
Traverses its casing in the sky
Low now, light gets into my eyes
A flock of crows fly to the treetops
Cawing in their cacophinous way.
Daffodils are aging and leaning
On the stems leaves slightly wilting
Crocuses are lying down ready
To sleep the long dream of death.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
Been too long since I have created,
Since i've drawn or wrote owt celebrated.
Having a breakdown to reality,
Working out how life is meant to be,
Unshakled mind but still not free,
I now make sense of the things I see.
Open mind does lead to free thought,
Free from the sick indoctrined fort.
Free thought leads to controversy,
When spoke folk try belittling me.
Words are the most dangerous tool,
To brainwash those who learn at school,
Make us obey each fascist rule.
Why can't we all open our eyes
To all the enslavement and lies?
Why get angry at those awake,
Who care for you for goodness sake.
Instead of cussing those in power,
You insult those while in moods sour.
Laughing, oppressing piece of mind,
With tyrannical words far from kind.
Outrage seething from closed brains,
Not folks faulght, we have been trained.
To regurgitate the lie and do not think,
And let them mould our mind to shrink.
Dissmiss the real with a curse and wink,
Is this what you really want in life?
To let greed and hate and fear run rife?
To stop humans thinking for self,
To keep the slave masters in wealth,
Staying downtrod for there good health?
All roads lead to Rome it's said,
And we're walking roads that they tred.
His story not history,
No truth wrote, why can't you see?
No Darwinism or big bang
No cells turned fish who did evolve
No axles for us to spin,
The puzzles there for us to solve
We can't let the demons win.
Kate Longshaw
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 4:59 PM UTC
A wave of nausea, not hatching in your stomach, but leeching the strength from your legs, out through your feet.
The sound of a slammed door has coursed through the air to leave an indent, an impression, in your shoulder and side. It echoes and bounces inside your fleshy cell, spurred on by the brushed drum of blood
and ticker-tape heart.
What a body.
What a carcasse.
Hear the clicking of thoughts through carbon paper to long-dead wood pulp.
On Endless rolls wide as your middle finger,
your ticker nails down the free, lively thoughts.
For two ticks in ten you'll capture a word that deserves a second and third glance.
This.... thing. This wholly unholy, sacred little jewel will divide it all.
It's as good as a weapon.
But, to slip through fingers, land in mud and be buried; as fate would jump at the chance, a truth worse than fiction.
Everything is rushing towards an end; some end.
Spotting patterns in cycles in routines, like an amusment park ride with a thousand
spinning axles
pinning
branches of branches of branches down.
When you, in your little capsule or gondola, reach the end of the long arching journey, things speed up.
Everything's true shape is revealed in a blur.
Here we go, this is the end.
No.
This arrangment, and exact shape of whirling arms, shall come again, and though it seems like you'll be thrown away, you'll crack the air,
leave a vacuum where you just were,
and whip-cord shimmy-shuffle back to the center.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
I've been eating zebra cakes. Partly for the taste [creamed-up skies, maybe a swan or two reflected in a lake] but also for the animal on the package with his confetti and rainbowed smiles. Four days till Good Friday, lord.
In eveningtime, I sit inside myself and bang on the cockleshell walls with my ribs. Given time, the vibrations start to numb-up the cells of my nerves and lose effect -anyways. Sleep is with a machine who touches me through perfectly oiled axles and aching laughters. He doesn't hear me when i tell him I don't want his incisions and leaves knives by my bed to desensitize any qualms.
Last weekend, I didn't go home with the pineapple boys. I climbed through arms and fingers and faces, but my lover (machine) had since ascended - I kept asking which of the walls i could follow to find him, but They laughed and told me i was blind.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
Looking at pictures from before
Reminds me how soon it will be
When something of such will not be of possibility
Past along like axles in assembly lines
Memories slip through my fingers
Dissolving like dew on grass at sunrise in May
Inanimate flashes of color establish my absence
As if I had planned this departure prior to arrival
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
i'd like you best wrapped up under the axles of my truck
but i'd rather not have to pay your brother to clean it up.
get the **** out of my home town
your driving the real estate value down.
in other words:
go back where you came from.
we don't
need that liberal faggy ****
i'm a man.
i'm a man.
i'm a man.
but i love the way my baby looks in that white summer dress caught around the warm summer air,
with flowers tangled up in her hair.
and the amber sun looks good in her eyes
i'm a man.
**** a ****** stab a ***
make my granddaddy proud.
love my baby, she's WASP like me
we're gunna start a family.
i **** her good, god gave me seed
you know i sow it as i please.
ultimately-
i'm good.
got a gun, bring it to school
always with me. i know i'm cool-
in case i need to get those sunni-shiite *****
shoot my teacher if i fail a test.
it's okay.i'm cowboy.
i'm good.
jesus loves me, he told me so.
******* Hey-Zeus, he mows my lawn.
-be ****** if i let them use the good bathroom
it's all right they'll be deported soon.
and it's good.
back in the city, jesus- girls' ******* drop.
filthy ***** and cherries to pop.
but blondie looks good.
follow her home. i'm a really nice guy.
don't understand what made her cry.
just keep
*******
her anyways.
feminazi ******* wanna blame me
there just mad that they're ugly
jealous of my success
there all just ***** anyway.
blow me.
and all those ***** livin' off the government's dime
handout ******* all of them should just die.
time to rise up
time to be
family man.
i.
oh, i'm a
good ol' boy,
i'm good.
(you know i'd **** you if i knew i could.)
but i love the way
my baby looks in that white summer dress caught up in the ******* air,
with flowers -like a promise- all in her hair.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Darkened, we walk
a wheat road
to unraveled destiny
We who have loved
and suffered
We who have become
these mirrors
Broken
under the weight
of axles burdened
Similar smiles and
shining teeth say
this
It can't be
far off now
Look to the horizon
for broken promises
and side to side
for the real show
We know the path
we walk is a
downhill tumble
but the air is still
and the earth
it rumbles
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
So much depends upon...
how willing
you are to stand
in line
glistening in the rain
waiting to sign
your name
longing to right
the wrongs
and fix the broken
axles of the red
wheelbarrow
and maybe paint
it blue
as a Blue Jay
flying free
in a blue sky
above white chickens
like shadows
of clouds
over the barnyard.
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 5:21 PM UTC