"fenders" poems - Hello Poetry

Morality isolates and fenders bend. Circumference learns, “half-way” but fails to take the name “Radius,” And when she lay a meter nigh With child, my child; I still and will feel horribly alone. Curse my iron fist and rusts the middle knuckle, When another weeps, not for I, not for you but the gods assumed, “Heaven,” And 3 floors above my own; Tucked lies the pain, regret fills fetal; I still and will feel horribly alone. So comes the autumn, the fire prior, “Styx,” Upon borders that could only separate, “fatherhood,” so partitioned, “Winter,” And 3 floors below her own – A pillar wrought persistence and abandoned, my hedonism; I still and will feel horribly alone.

0

Aug 11, 2015

Aug 11, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC

liam-c-calhoun

Pillar of autumn

Morality isolates and fenders bend. Circumference learns, “half-way” but fails to take the name “Radius,” And when she lay a meter nigh With child, my child; I still and will feel horribly alone. Curse my iron fist and rusts the middle knuckle, When another weeps, not for I, not for you but the gods assumed, “Heaven,” And 3 floors above my own; Tucked lies the pain, regret fills fetal; I still and will feel horribly alone. So comes the autumn, the fire prior, “Styx,” Upon borders that could only separate, “fatherhood,” so partitioned, “Winter,” And 3 floors below her own – A pillar wrought persistence and abandoned, my hedonism; I still and will feel horribly alone.

18

romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice he's over on 18hh street as usual lookin' so hard against the hood of his car and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand and for all the pachucos at the pumps at romeros paint and body they all seein' how far they can spit well it was just another night but how they're huddled in the brake lights of a 58 belair and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife and they all jump when they hear the sirens but romeo just laughs and says all the racket in the world ain't never gonna save that coppers *** he'll never see another summertime for gunnin' down my brother and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette and they all reach for their pack and frankie lights it for him and pats him on the back and throws bottle at a milk truck and as it breaks he grabs his nuts and they all know they could be just like romeo if they only had the guts but romeo is bleeding but nobody can tell and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear that every thing is cool now that romeos here but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then and he leans against the car doors and feels the blood in his shoes and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door and he brodys through the signal with the radio full blast leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos and they all try to stand like romeo beneath the moon cut like a sickle and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero but romeo is bleeding as he gives the man his ticket and he climbs to the balcony at the movies and he'll die without a wimper like every heros dream just like an angel with a bullet and cagney on the screen

0

Jan 1, 2013

Jan 1, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC

leeshez

Romeo is Bleeding by Tom Waits

romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice he's over on 18hh street as usual lookin' so hard against the hood of his car and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand and for all the pachucos at the pumps at romeros paint and body they all seein' how far they can spit well it was just another night but how they're huddled in the brake lights of a 58 belair and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife and they all jump when they hear the sirens but romeo just laughs and says all the racket in the world ain't never gonna save that coppers *** he'll never see another summertime for gunnin' down my brother and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette and they all reach for their pack and frankie lights it for him and pats him on the back and throws bottle at a milk truck and as it breaks he grabs his nuts and they all know they could be just like romeo if they only had the guts but romeo is bleeding but nobody can tell and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear that every thing is cool now that romeos here but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then and he leans against the car doors and feels the blood in his shoes and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door and he brodys through the signal with the radio full blast leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos and they all try to stand like romeo beneath the moon cut like a sickle and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero but romeo is bleeding as he gives the man his ticket and he climbs to the balcony at the movies and he'll die without a wimper like every heros dream just like an angel with a bullet and cagney on the screen

50

steel oil engineering labor converge round a Rocket 88 dead man’s curve prescient precocious capitalists concoct Edsels Vegas Chevelles leaping Impalas leak oil staining every American driveway Pintos chase Gremlins across The Great Plains gassing up at Rt 66 fillin stations scramblin Midnight Ramblers detour to take refuge with Goats in Big Sky Indian garages 440 Mustangs nip 327 Stingrays and Mach IV Cobras get snake bit by Dart wielding Mopar muscle cars long fins chrome bumpers and round fenders still get bent in Havana but Motor City is broke nations outta gas whole **** country needs an overhaul Ike Turner/Jackie Brenston: Rocket 88 Nelson Riddle: Route 66 7/19/13 Oakland jbm

0

Oct 30, 2013

Oct 30, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC

james-bradley-mccallum

Detroit

steel oil engineering labor converge round a Rocket 88 dead man’s curve prescient precocious capitalists concoct Edsels Vegas Chevelles leaping Impalas leak oil staining every American driveway Pintos chase Gremlins across The Great Plains gassing up at Rt 66 fillin stations scramblin Midnight Ramblers detour to take refuge with Goats in Big Sky Indian garages 440 Mustangs nip 327 Stingrays and Mach IV Cobras get snake bit by Dart wielding Mopar muscle cars long fins chrome bumpers and round fenders still get bent in Havana but Motor City is broke nations outta gas whole **** country needs an overhaul Ike Turner/Jackie Brenston: Rocket 88 Nelson Riddle: Route 66 7/19/13 Oakland jbm

73

Somewhere between a bicycle and a seat at a daydream... I had to make money so I mortgaged my woods, my sea, my music Words-- left Regaled only with rust my 1938 Columbia bike (sold for a crib) to an antique dealer Fat-tires, red-faded fenders Baskets saddled on wheel for towel and lunch Key chain dangling jingling against jar of cool ginger ale Look back at the baskets-filled afternoons at the park I was a poet The road laid itself bare For my bike and I scrolling through leaves like words that fell like hair across shoulders that I sang to no one the audience-- air I know that now I was not really… nor ready I once was a poet ___ This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist, posed proudly by his magnificent work. First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html

0

Sep 28, 2018

Sep 28, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Bicyle Daydream

Somewhere between a bicycle and a seat at a daydream... I had to make money so I mortgaged my woods, my sea, my music Words-- left Regaled only with rust my 1938 Columbia bike (sold for a crib) to an antique dealer Fat-tires, red-faded fenders Baskets saddled on wheel for towel and lunch Key chain dangling jingling against jar of cool ginger ale Look back at the baskets-filled afternoons at the park I was a poet The road laid itself bare For my bike and I scrolling through leaves like words that fell like hair across shoulders that I sang to no one the audience-- air I know that now I was not really… nor ready I once was a poet ___ This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist, posed proudly by his magnificent work. First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html

39

When I was little, I stuck scissors into the electrical outlet something I never would have had the urge to do if my parents hadn't told me it was dangerous I was a rocket pop, always standing too close to the edge, always carrying a matchbook in my pocket I'm not the only one who flirts with death Death is the quarterback, death is the prettiest girl on the cheerleading team Death is popular at parties And when someone seems so out of my reach like that, I tend to romanticize them So I fantasized about pills that shone like pearls I envisioned ribs sticking out from my skeletal frame, finally frail enough to ****** the object of my desires I thought about razor blades scattered like flower petals on the bathroom floor Etching memento moris into my skin I dreamed of fenders and pavement rushing up to meet my lips for one last kiss God, I had the biggest crush on death But so did everyone else And I saw them falling further in love as if they were tumbling from a skyscraper This is not a love poem, this is a goodbye Because I have instead become infatuated with beautiful things I am a creator, so I must stop destroying myself Dear death I don't want to be just another girl who doesn't look when she crosses the street, hoping to meet you on the other side I will be okay on my own, and I'll keep the scissors locked up in the craft cabinet

0

Jan 22, 2015

Jan 22, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC

nothing-much

I guess I'm a flirt

When I was little, I stuck scissors into the electrical outlet something I never would have had the urge to do if my parents hadn't told me it was dangerous I was a rocket pop, always standing too close to the edge, always carrying a matchbook in my pocket I'm not the only one who flirts with death Death is the quarterback, death is the prettiest girl on the cheerleading team Death is popular at parties And when someone seems so out of my reach like that, I tend to romanticize them So I fantasized about pills that shone like pearls I envisioned ribs sticking out from my skeletal frame, finally frail enough to ****** the object of my desires I thought about razor blades scattered like flower petals on the bathroom floor Etching memento moris into my skin I dreamed of fenders and pavement rushing up to meet my lips for one last kiss God, I had the biggest crush on death But so did everyone else And I saw them falling further in love as if they were tumbling from a skyscraper This is not a love poem, this is a goodbye Because I have instead become infatuated with beautiful things I am a creator, so I must stop destroying myself Dear death I don't want to be just another girl who doesn't look when she crosses the street, hoping to meet you on the other side I will be okay on my own, and I'll keep the scissors locked up in the craft cabinet

22

with a shrill cry we entered here, we pitter-pattered on broken concrete, we channel surfed the static, charged with disdain and an affinity for quickly dismissing hopes for change, with a shrill cry we entered here, diploma in hand, vocabulary expansive-- we tabbed the browsers, waited for the buffer, thought silent prayers, with a shrill cry we entered here, a jungle of shouts, busted fenders, AA meetings, and white male kings, waiting to mean anything more than seem, and while we wait they talk polite- ask us to line up against a newly white-washed wall, the sunlight gleams over barrel, over trigger, with a shrill cry we exit here.

0

Feb 28, 2011

Feb 28, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC

jj-hutton

born to martyr

with a shrill cry we entered here, we pitter-pattered on broken concrete, we channel surfed the static, charged with disdain and an affinity for quickly dismissing hopes for change, with a shrill cry we entered here, diploma in hand, vocabulary expansive-- we tabbed the browsers, waited for the buffer, thought silent prayers, with a shrill cry we entered here, a jungle of shouts, busted fenders, AA meetings, and white male kings, waiting to mean anything more than seem, and while we wait they talk polite- ask us to line up against a newly white-washed wall, the sunlight gleams over barrel, over trigger, with a shrill cry we exit here.

20

(For any family gathering during the holiday season) My father had two brothers and four sisters, which meant there were numerous cousins. At least once a year, sometimes more, we would gather at our grandparents house in Joshua, Texas. Come Sunday morning, the ritual of preparing the Sunday dinner would begin. Now, back then, in the 40's and 50's, it was "old school." The women went to the kitchen(led by grandmom), and the men would go outside, brace themselves against the fenders and hoods of their vehicles, conveniently parked beneath a large Texas Pecan Tree; lightup their cigars, cigarettes, or pipes, and start telling lies and yarns(much the same thing), each trying to outdo the other. The children running around the open yard, or going a hundred yards to the railroad tracks to place coins, mostly pennies, dimes, nickles(maybe a quarter,if you got an allowance), on the track rails, then wait for the afternoon/evening train. A lot of coins got flattened on those tracks. And while the men waited.......a manisfestation began to occur........................ Aromas that would make a king cry..... "Salivating" Becoming impatient Fried chicken Baked chicken Becoming more impatient Laughter.... Coming from the kitchen Roast Beef Mashed potatoes Lord, don't let'em forget the gravy! Lightly braised stringbeans w/buttersauce Fresh baked Acorn Squash Okra All prepared with, the 'secret ingredient'....... " Love! " copyright: January 16, 2016

0

Jan 16, 2016

Jan 16, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC

richard-riddle

The Secret Ingredient

(For any family gathering during the holiday season) My father had two brothers and four sisters, which meant there were numerous cousins. At least once a year, sometimes more, we would gather at our grandparents house in Joshua, Texas. Come Sunday morning, the ritual of preparing the Sunday dinner would begin. Now, back then, in the 40's and 50's, it was "old school." The women went to the kitchen(led by grandmom), and the men would go outside, brace themselves against the fenders and hoods of their vehicles, conveniently parked beneath a large Texas Pecan Tree; lightup their cigars, cigarettes, or pipes, and start telling lies and yarns(much the same thing), each trying to outdo the other. The children running around the open yard, or going a hundred yards to the railroad tracks to place coins, mostly pennies, dimes, nickles(maybe a quarter,if you got an allowance), on the track rails, then wait for the afternoon/evening train. A lot of coins got flattened on those tracks. And while the men waited.......a manisfestation began to occur........................ Aromas that would make a king cry..... "Salivating" Becoming impatient Fried chicken Baked chicken Becoming more impatient Laughter.... Coming from the kitchen Roast Beef Mashed potatoes Lord, don't let'em forget the gravy! Lightly braised stringbeans w/buttersauce Fresh baked Acorn Squash Okra All prepared with, the 'secret ingredient'....... " Love! " copyright: January 16, 2016

21

the truth is, i'd never thought about my thoughts until you asked me what i was thinking and i had no answer. really what could i have told you? all i know is that there are a thousand leaky faucets in me and a thousand overflowing sinks and that my head pounds to the beat of stampedes in south africa of traffic jams and the screeching tearing twisting of fenders (and other such parts) of the buzz of construction sites and wasps, of waves beating against rock, incessant. (i'm really just missing all the crucial components and my skull leaks thoughts in the ugliest symphony known to man.)

0

Apr 11, 2013

Apr 11, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC

noruwei

homunculus

the truth is, i'd never thought about my thoughts until you asked me what i was thinking and i had no answer. really what could i have told you? all i know is that there are a thousand leaky faucets in me and a thousand overflowing sinks and that my head pounds to the beat of stampedes in south africa of traffic jams and the screeching tearing twisting of fenders (and other such parts) of the buzz of construction sites and wasps, of waves beating against rock, incessant. (i'm really just missing all the crucial components and my skull leaks thoughts in the ugliest symphony known to man.)

23

In the morning, rays and grays peek through dark curtains and I can hear the rain dance on double pane I can hear some breath measured and wanting I can hear a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh and fingers tracing cartography on fading maps of Western Europe. I like to hold the secrets of your past close against my chest like bouquets of dried flowers, crumbling in time and dotted with sweat from fever dreams, I watch you sick and typing and moving away from where I stand fast and with increasing frequency. It's only in magic that we ride bikes, wet leaves caught under fenders along a river side by side in shadows of a lifting bridge.

0

May 27, 2014

May 27, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC

lyzi-diamond

Northern Curve

In the morning, rays and grays peek through dark curtains and I can hear the rain dance on double pane I can hear some breath measured and wanting I can hear a foreign tongue and blue-eyed laugh and fingers tracing cartography on fading maps of Western Europe. I like to hold the secrets of your past close against my chest like bouquets of dried flowers, crumbling in time and dotted with sweat from fever dreams, I watch you sick and typing and moving away from where I stand fast and with increasing frequency. It's only in magic that we ride bikes, wet leaves caught under fenders along a river side by side in shadows of a lifting bridge.

21

Wake up from eternal sleep. Wake me up when I need you. Infernal sleep renders you tender. Broken fenders keeps internal clocks from working. Now dusty clogs covered in old dialogue webs from time spent walking in the waking hour when you didn't dream enough. Little dreams, sure, by window sills overlooking shadow hills. But no big dreams, no high hopes, no plans. Until now. Dream is all you do. So silently slumber still you do. I'll have to wait patiently watching you do. Until you tire of dreams, as you did living.

0

Aug 21, 2015

Aug 21, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC

aar505n

Must Be Tonight

Wake up from eternal sleep. Wake me up when I need you. Infernal sleep renders you tender. Broken fenders keeps internal clocks from working. Now dusty clogs covered in old dialogue webs from time spent walking in the waking hour when you didn't dream enough. Little dreams, sure, by window sills overlooking shadow hills. But no big dreams, no high hopes, no plans. Until now. Dream is all you do. So silently slumber still you do. I'll have to wait patiently watching you do. Until you tire of dreams, as you did living.

1

Sick, sick world When pain is the wielded tool, fear the bandage… wounds heal never…never Scarred existence, buried in dark confines cracks in the frame, a thin hopeless terror Splintered nightmares pierce, streets aren’t to be paved in souls…are they? Hatred blooms in thorned gardens of poisonous vines Blind eyes seek misdemeanor violations, powered wigs white as frail skin slam gavels on chalkboard slander and drink their toast, burned in tea…burned Burn in hell…burn, singed of your own disgusting disguise It is a sick, sick world, spinning for some, leering at others Claiming lives like junk yard fenders, rotting in weathered worries, cut and welded into another’s idea of life, painted pretty colors, enameled disgrace that sicken the stomach…shatters my heart And still a star shines, fractured but glowing shedding light to textured canvas Inspiring beauty in another’s ink crying watercolor tears in brushstroke wonder shading edges so the past sleeps in it’s own nightmare pieced together by friendship, so tell me…why does my heart still break?

0

Feb 28, 2014

Feb 28, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC

jack-3

Sick, sick world

Sick, sick world When pain is the wielded tool, fear the bandage… wounds heal never…never Scarred existence, buried in dark confines cracks in the frame, a thin hopeless terror Splintered nightmares pierce, streets aren’t to be paved in souls…are they? Hatred blooms in thorned gardens of poisonous vines Blind eyes seek misdemeanor violations, powered wigs white as frail skin slam gavels on chalkboard slander and drink their toast, burned in tea…burned Burn in hell…burn, singed of your own disgusting disguise It is a sick, sick world, spinning for some, leering at others Claiming lives like junk yard fenders, rotting in weathered worries, cut and welded into another’s idea of life, painted pretty colors, enameled disgrace that sicken the stomach…shatters my heart And still a star shines, fractured but glowing shedding light to textured canvas Inspiring beauty in another’s ink crying watercolor tears in brushstroke wonder shading edges so the past sleeps in it’s own nightmare pieced together by friendship, so tell me…why does my heart still break?

29

gone with the record collection just fly beeeeeitch! I had ten years at least of changing my name and ordering 13 free LP's on Columbia House and RCA invested in that a penny like twenty times had some of the best Tull and America vinyl Eagles and Uriah Heep and you had me thrown out on my *** like I was yesterday by the Beatles the cops came said go I did but I expected my record collection and my Bose 901 speakers that mustang all in parts in our shed and parked without fenders or tires on our carport and I came back to get them and you had gone with all of it so just go I don't think Columbia House is in bizness ****** anymore- what can I do?

0

Apr 26, 2017

Apr 26, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC

wordvango

What can I do?

gone with the record collection just fly beeeeeitch! I had ten years at least of changing my name and ordering 13 free LP's on Columbia House and RCA invested in that a penny like twenty times had some of the best Tull and America vinyl Eagles and Uriah Heep and you had me thrown out on my *** like I was yesterday by the Beatles the cops came said go I did but I expected my record collection and my Bose 901 speakers that mustang all in parts in our shed and parked without fenders or tires on our carport and I came back to get them and you had gone with all of it so just go I don't think Columbia House is in bizness ****** anymore- what can I do?

27

The banter runs in squares. Hot air condensing stories on the things you like, inquiring where they’re from? A lush entanglement of architectures pulled from hungry jaws, unsated, set to gnashing blindfully at light, like worms? Rejoice in proper terms! Renounce those shameless fights with others and yourself, best soldiers for this no doubt war appealing to the combat tribes to both consider lives and shoot them from the fences. Ampleness, bedecked in hero standard, tacks our motto to his brim - “Why Can’t You Be Like Him?” A just extolment of desire (trod lightly otherwise), steps to our eagle-eyes. We’re living. Pry the fenders off the lies that carted us to chaos heedless what it spurned - what gardens have we watered? Labors that upturned the noses of the rulers bidding silence in their undertow - what power, then, to stir below.

0

Sep 1, 2018

Sep 1, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC

rausmend

Exceptionalism

The banter runs in squares. Hot air condensing stories on the things you like, inquiring where they’re from? A lush entanglement of architectures pulled from hungry jaws, unsated, set to gnashing blindfully at light, like worms? Rejoice in proper terms! Renounce those shameless fights with others and yourself, best soldiers for this no doubt war appealing to the combat tribes to both consider lives and shoot them from the fences. Ampleness, bedecked in hero standard, tacks our motto to his brim - “Why Can’t You Be Like Him?” A just extolment of desire (trod lightly otherwise), steps to our eagle-eyes. We’re living. Pry the fenders off the lies that carted us to chaos heedless what it spurned - what gardens have we watered? Labors that upturned the noses of the rulers bidding silence in their undertow - what power, then, to stir below.

28