"chevys" poems - Hello Poetry

Rusty dusty pick up trucks Old Fords and busted Chevys Trucks that tear the road apart And some stuck down the levy Showing off at the truck show All polished up and nice When an old man in a beat up Ford Looked us over once or twice It don't matter how the cover looks It's what's beneath the hood You may look awful pretty But, with no power...it's no good You wanna get the ladies Remember, it's what's beneath the hood Although they like a real good ride There ain't no ride, if there's no wood I smiled and I watched the gent Walk and laugh and smile some He'd mumble something to the girls And they'd follow to where he'd come His truck, was old and battered Wasn't tricked out like the rest But, when it came to having girls around This old man was the best It don't matter how the cover looks It's what's beneath the hood You may look awful pretty But, with no power...it's no good You wanna get the ladies Remember, it's what's beneath the hood Although they like a real good ride There ain't no ride, if there's no wood A truck may last a long long time But you've got to use it right You've got to check the engine And try to run it every night I remember what the old man said It's about what's there beneath the hood The girls don't want it pretty The girls, they want it good..... It don't matter how the cover looks It's what's beneath the hood You may look awful pretty But, with no power...it's no good You wanna get the ladies Remember, it's what's beneath the hood Although they like a real good ride There ain't no ride, if there's no wood

0

Sep 9, 2013

Sep 9, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC

roger-turner

It's what's beneath the hood....

Rusty dusty pick up trucks Old Fords and busted Chevys Trucks that tear the road apart And some stuck down the levy Showing off at the truck show All polished up and nice When an old man in a beat up Ford Looked us over once or twice It don't matter how the cover looks It's what's beneath the hood You may look awful pretty But, with no power...it's no good You wanna get the ladies Remember, it's what's beneath the hood Although they like a real good ride There ain't no ride, if there's no wood I smiled and I watched the gent Walk and laugh and smile some He'd mumble something to the girls And they'd follow to where he'd come His truck, was old and battered Wasn't tricked out like the rest But, when it came to having girls around This old man was the best It don't matter how the cover looks It's what's beneath the hood You may look awful pretty But, with no power...it's no good You wanna get the ladies Remember, it's what's beneath the hood Although they like a real good ride There ain't no ride, if there's no wood A truck may last a long long time But you've got to use it right You've got to check the engine And try to run it every night I remember what the old man said It's about what's there beneath the hood The girls don't want it pretty The girls, they want it good..... It don't matter how the cover looks It's what's beneath the hood You may look awful pretty But, with no power...it's no good You wanna get the ladies Remember, it's what's beneath the hood Although they like a real good ride There ain't no ride, if there's no wood

48

In the Deep South There is always a woman In an apron calling out to her kids Warning them to hurry in Or the corn bread might get cold The kids couldn’t care either way And at their age Food doesn’t taste as good as The marshes feel around their ankles They’re just young enough to be nourished Off of adventure alone With sticks in hand Grazing the tops of half-way grown Up to their heads wheat In the Deep South the outside Is still the Wild West Where you can walk a few blocks From your front yard To deserted boulevards You can’t but a greeting card From. And among all the untamed Nature and desolate fields and lakes There is so much space For kids to create In the Deep South Kids see broken down Chevys As breeched kingdoms Open fields as battle grounds Littered with rocks that look like grenades Every vacant marsh a ****** planet Where you use overall clasps As radios to your fellow astronauts. Why would anyone be in a rush To come home To something so real As Mama’s cornbread.

0

Jun 24, 2014

Jun 24, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC

hayley-neininger

Deep South Imagination.

In the Deep South There is always a woman In an apron calling out to her kids Warning them to hurry in Or the corn bread might get cold The kids couldn’t care either way And at their age Food doesn’t taste as good as The marshes feel around their ankles They’re just young enough to be nourished Off of adventure alone With sticks in hand Grazing the tops of half-way grown Up to their heads wheat In the Deep South the outside Is still the Wild West Where you can walk a few blocks From your front yard To deserted boulevards You can’t but a greeting card From. And among all the untamed Nature and desolate fields and lakes There is so much space For kids to create In the Deep South Kids see broken down Chevys As breeched kingdoms Open fields as battle grounds Littered with rocks that look like grenades Every vacant marsh a ****** planet Where you use overall clasps As radios to your fellow astronauts. Why would anyone be in a rush To come home To something so real As Mama’s cornbread.

37

I was seven. The sidewalk lured. The Huffy beckoned. The hill... The hill... Skinny locomotive legs Pumping madness blindness happy Freedom flight pumping pumping The hill... The hill... Baseball cards in spokes were roaring Soaring wheels and squinting windy Boymachine thrumming heavy The hill... The hill... Swerving Fords and Chevys curving Hopping curbs and doggie-dodging Lightspeed hoping Seven and no sign of stopping Hit the rock... Funny how it all got slow, now Boy/machine were separated One went one way one the other Gravity The enemy

0

Apr 6, 2011

Apr 6, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC

timothy-mooney

The Grande Collapse

I was seven. The sidewalk lured. The Huffy beckoned. The hill... The hill... Skinny locomotive legs Pumping madness blindness happy Freedom flight pumping pumping The hill... The hill... Baseball cards in spokes were roaring Soaring wheels and squinting windy Boymachine thrumming heavy The hill... The hill... Swerving Fords and Chevys curving Hopping curbs and doggie-dodging Lightspeed hoping Seven and no sign of stopping Hit the rock... Funny how it all got slow, now Boy/machine were separated One went one way one the other Gravity The enemy

25

Soil turned in summer’s eye Flattened blades from weary boots Trees are singing; hopping birds Return their polyphonic tune Rusty Chevys rumble by Wandering, but never lost Laughter makes the soil gleam Restless wheels and sodden leaves Stories follow, day by day Always moving, never rest Scent of timber feeds each breath Far from home, but never left

0

Jul 4, 2014

Jul 4, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC

Olivebird

When the Morning Speaks

Soil turned in summer’s eye Flattened blades from weary boots Trees are singing; hopping birds Return their polyphonic tune Rusty Chevys rumble by Wandering, but never lost Laughter makes the soil gleam Restless wheels and sodden leaves Stories follow, day by day Always moving, never rest Scent of timber feeds each breath Far from home, but never left

12

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.

0

Feb 6, 2012

Feb 6, 2012 at 6:41 PM UTC

Waverly

All of This.

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.

10

on the stoop, I glue my tuckus to a plank of mundane as the Chevys cruise in the turquoise Tannebaum of Twilight, churning shadows into velvet. I surrender when the fog’s kiss, lifts the Veil and I ponder It. I choose where my dyslexia is a coin and barter for less dementia. serving silent things in the tapestry of untapped maladies, masquerading as polymer gods in a hedgerow of impossible odds. I fumble for my keys like the rest of you darlings… but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe. I’m barging into a rumination, as we speak. taking the hill of a landscape as a Sharkfin- gloating in Existential Soup. My egga roll, something less discreet than Yellow Journalism in a Lava Lamp as Lovers do.

0

Feb 1, 2020

Feb 1, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC

third-eye-candy

Barging Into A Rumination

on the stoop, I glue my tuckus to a plank of mundane as the Chevys cruise in the turquoise Tannebaum of Twilight, churning shadows into velvet. I surrender when the fog’s kiss, lifts the Veil and I ponder It. I choose where my dyslexia is a coin and barter for less dementia. serving silent things in the tapestry of untapped maladies, masquerading as polymer gods in a hedgerow of impossible odds. I fumble for my keys like the rest of you darlings… but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe. I’m barging into a rumination, as we speak. taking the hill of a landscape as a Sharkfin- gloating in Existential Soup. My egga roll, something less discreet than Yellow Journalism in a Lava Lamp as Lovers do.

13

the backroad to Florence, the one along Elm that cuts past the McDermott trailer park-- from matt's house past Cedar and the old liquor store at 50mph the cicadas sound more like a cry or a lingering scream the crickets don't stop for passing trucks creaking to the metronome of a swishing cow tail farmers switch off their brights, come around corners slow, in striped beat up Chevys, rusty toolboxes weakly sliding from side to side like their owners in threadbare leather seats the young kids trail close, bumper to bumper on a two-lane road, just me and some kid named after his grampa, poppy, Clint, who needs to get home before mama chews him out-- sunday service still warm from this morning where a single beetle clung to the wall and translated my father's sermon, morse code for the elders, for the elk and deer, he's been known to speak to hummin'birds anyway, I think.

0

Sep 18, 2016

Sep 18, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC

broooke

cream skies.

the backroad to Florence, the one along Elm that cuts past the McDermott trailer park-- from matt's house past Cedar and the old liquor store at 50mph the cicadas sound more like a cry or a lingering scream the crickets don't stop for passing trucks creaking to the metronome of a swishing cow tail farmers switch off their brights, come around corners slow, in striped beat up Chevys, rusty toolboxes weakly sliding from side to side like their owners in threadbare leather seats the young kids trail close, bumper to bumper on a two-lane road, just me and some kid named after his grampa, poppy, Clint, who needs to get home before mama chews him out-- sunday service still warm from this morning where a single beetle clung to the wall and translated my father's sermon, morse code for the elders, for the elk and deer, he's been known to speak to hummin'birds anyway, I think.

25

This is it, my final minutes of life Siting here, thinking, racing against the clock My hand shaking, tears rolling down my face I want to say my final goodbyes, to those I hate and love Sitting here thinking, I have so much to say For I am grateful for my short life. I'm sorry for all my careless stupid mistakes And any of the greatest moments ruined But I'm happy for all the people I've met Wondering if those people in school will miss me Or that the death of me will bring my family together. Hoping that my family can get over my disappearance And that my friends will now learn to appreciate me. Wishing I could take one last walk with Frankie Or have that one last play fight with Chris. Treat my mother to that god awful place Chevys. Maybe letting my dad beat me one last time in cards. Like I said I'm going to miss all of you, I've got to go death is knocking on the door...

0

Oct 21, 2014

Oct 21, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC

BarretoKayla

Burning Building

This is it, my final minutes of life Siting here, thinking, racing against the clock My hand shaking, tears rolling down my face I want to say my final goodbyes, to those I hate and love Sitting here thinking, I have so much to say For I am grateful for my short life. I'm sorry for all my careless stupid mistakes And any of the greatest moments ruined But I'm happy for all the people I've met Wondering if those people in school will miss me Or that the death of me will bring my family together. Hoping that my family can get over my disappearance And that my friends will now learn to appreciate me. Wishing I could take one last walk with Frankie Or have that one last play fight with Chris. Treat my mother to that god awful place Chevys. Maybe letting my dad beat me one last time in cards. Like I said I'm going to miss all of you, I've got to go death is knocking on the door...

19

Grantville Police "patrol" a piece of interstate They hunt like Lions , lie in wait Zebra Chevys and Ford Wildebeest Night and day they gorge and feast ...

0

Nov 4, 2017

Nov 4, 2017 at 6:07 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

The Speed Trap ....

Grantville Police "patrol" a piece of interstate They hunt like Lions , lie in wait Zebra Chevys and Ford Wildebeest Night and day they gorge and feast ...

4