"firetruck" poems
How do you describe
the indescribable
what is black
"well its a color"
no describe it
what does it look like
how about red?
What do you think of when you think red?
Apple?
Firetruck?
but what is it
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
The day I opened a Bible was a tale of two cities,
The best and the worst of times,
I could no longer lay back and leave the sand in my hourglass,
watch the days of my life drift,
while logans lurk,
wolverine around the brook in the forest,
looking to claw the hope away,
make a ridge between the family I claimed to love.
There seems to be harmony in passions,
But not even Timmy knows which spell Tabitha will cast to cause more division.
The continent of the canine always barking with it's mouth open,
Feed me,
We cry,
now we are fat with corruption,
preying on the piety of poverty,
prophiting leviathans,
the cultish land with a superstition,
fearful never able to hear the mission.
We hold fast but not to the word,
starving ourselves from understanding,
traditions trump truth,
as we defecate more dangerous nonsense into our ear holes,
perhaps we're better off,
we have some peace and food,
we don't have the rat race,
maybe I've been too sheltered,
failing to truly discern the state of the land that houses me.
I couldn't even see that my house was burning but it was cool if it was watered down by a firetruck .
I used to think that every African knows Jesus. Sometimes I act like I don't.
-Kanyanta
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
You take me out,
and pull my strings,
and for you, I do a bunch of things,
when you get bored you lock me up,
with the rest of your things, like your old firetruck.
I'm all alone
in this box
my home
and I want to be free
I want someone with me.
I want to be taken out
my happiest time, no doubt,
playing,
laughing at my antics,
it sure beats that box, and all its Lego bricks
take me with you wherever you go
and know
through it all
I'll be there when you fall
because
your my owner
and I'm your doll.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
We lived briefly outside and at once
all of our one lives one innocuous evening.
I think it must’ve been a round ten.
We’d gone, really and already, in every sense,
a-stoop-smoking to clear the air of Murakami
and his personal identity. I guess we knew
we’d end up breathing significantly
before time came to shepherd us back in.
On the stoop, aglow in rosewood smoke,
in the streaked light of our chosen nostalgia
and strawberry hope, we pointed to things
we really saw—everything—pressing their
dimensions sharp through the buttery plaster
of our personal identities, like certain words
I happened to glimpse, in and out of Murakami.
I was startled when a car cut through the viscous
street in front of me like a hand underneath a piece
of cloth. It bent still shadows around a perfect
globule of movement and returned each to rest
only after each of its past moments had passed.
That’s when I saw my smoke trail slowly leave me,
unapologetically, heading across the invisible prairie
on its horses to drink by the bending river in the street.
It asked me if I knew, now, why I should come along.
I pointed and asked: What was that I just saw?
Where?
There by the street. What was that?
Oh, that was just
antlers on a fire truck this past Wednesday.
I don’t understand.
Of course you don’t. You won’t remember I said it.
Then why’d you say it?
To remind you you’ll forget.
Oh, I see. Thank you, then. I was about to
forget I’d forget. Now I know
I never will.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Author: Kristen Stevens
Current mood: frustrated
Anthony got a firetruck Lego set. The packaging says "ages 5-12". It also makes the claim "designed for easy building and instant play." Now I know he's only 4 but he's smart and not that far from 5 comparatively. I on the other hand am 28. Well outside the parameters age wise. Yet, this smallish box of tiny toys baffled me for over an hour. I have the directions, I've dug through the pieces, and am still mystified on occasion. As I'm searching for yet another microscopic piece of siren or whatever it was, I'm thinking..."5 years! I can't see any 5 yr-old sticking with this for this long without losing his mind. Then Mom would take it away because of the temper tantrum and never gets built. This is stupid! Where did that tiny loopy thing go?...etc" What part of an hour is "instant play" do they not own a dictionary? I could tell them.
Then once it's together, somehow Anthony keeps taking the windshield off. He's not actively disassemble it. He's just rolling back and forth on the floor going "whoo-whoo!" Lego's the most touchy toy on the planet. Maybe he'll get some more when he's 15.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 7:52 AM UTC
the grating voices of neighbors unsuccessfully singing Celine Dion ballads
the monotonous mechanical humming of the metal factory
the squealing of housewives watching an afternoon soap opera
the blaring siren of a firetruck racing with tragedy
the clunks and clangs of a nearby construction site
the roaring of the engine of an overloaded jeepney
the chiming of laughter from kids playing in the streets
the calls of the street vendor peddling sugary cotton candy
the whining of the dog begging to run around outside
this is the music of life in the outskirts of the city
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
You're cute.
Adorable.
Sweet.
****
Lovely.
Amazing.
Rad.
Beautiful.
Awesome.
Handsome.
Different.
Weird.
Crazy.
In the best possible way.
You make me smile.
You make my stomach do backflips.
And 180's.
You make me stutter words that should be easy to say.
You make my cheeks turn firetruck red.
You make me want to write again.
You make me want to love roller coasters.
And horror movies.
You make me proud to be
A womyn
Gender Queer
Gay
A Confused Person
You make me want to learn about feminism.
You make me reconsider my original definitions for words some people use everyday.
You make my heart melt.
You make me happy.
Thank you.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
Wild, wild grass and wild, wicked smile, heavy
wooden barn burning off the hip for us to see, same barn
we made love in, views of red and blue firetruck lights
forever burnt, engraved inside my head, days so hot things
catch sparks in the nights when we come to life again
remember how we couldn't afford clothes (well, still can't)
so we all partied in the **** skinny dip in the lake and a flame
snuck off with Johnny somewhere, but glad no animals lived
inside that barn for years now and the country is where I belong---
telephone poles to nowhere, blue skies, rolling yellow grassy hills
and water towers occasionally, your wild and wicked smile
next to me in the van with our friends doing our time on the road
but a burning barn can't crush our spirits more than they already are
can't ruin the memories of a number of electrified nights
of alcohol and poor decisions, broken people collecting
each other's pieces.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
A CRUISE SHIP
STRANDED IN CITY STREETS
A FIRETRUCK
ON FIRE IN THE RAIN
DO YOU UNDERSTAND
MY LOVE FOR YOU YET
THIS IS DRAMATIC IRONY
YOURE KILLING TIME
IN THE BEST WAYS
AND SOON ENOUGH
IM BLEEDING OUT
TO YOUR VOICE
BOUNCING OFF THESE WALLS
YOU ALWAYS PUT THE LAUGHTER
IN MANSLAUGHTER
[holyoak]
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
1.6k
Bring in me
firetruck
what you could not
in a dumpster baby
child
born
on
a
wednesday
in the sun
it hurted the mummsy,
she cryed
I once saw a whale
eating a preying mantis
whole
as it chewed
I swooned
clearing my throte
and loosing a mating call
to the wind
it blew away
just like your sweet rememberance
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
He sat on the rug and doodled a house
Using his brand new crayons.
Red for the roof, blue for the walls, green for the door.
He drew his mommy and his daddy and a smiling sun.
No one heard the door’s handle click open.
He never heard the screams, because when they began
He was already down, hugging the ground
Still holding his crayons.
Still smiling.
His parents would never see that smile
When in a week, he would have opened his red firetruck for Christmas.
It would remain in a box
In his parents' closet,
Never to be opened.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Feel like a ********** only used at night
Never appreciated, I don't think its right
People make use of me with little thought at all
Without me they'd be in the dark, could trip or fall
Never worry about me, couldn't care if I'm hurting
But! don't they complain when I'm not working
Stuck out here in the weather in all extremes
They all rely on me or that is the way it seems
Only time I get washed is when it happens to rain
Sometimes I short out and spark, oh what pain
My cover is old, yes its all cracked and broken
Does any one give a dam? you must be joking
Dogs **** there leg next to me and take a ****
Birds **** all over me, I don't think I deserve this
Men lean their girl against me for a kiss and a feel
Undesirables stand below me to make a drug deal
Police try to solve crimes perhaps stop an odd fight
No idea most of the time, I try to shed a bit of light
Concreted to the ground, can't move surely not fair
Stuck out in the weather with my head high in the air
Once I was hit by a drunk driver and knocked to the ground
Police and firetruck arrived, driver was nowhere to be found
Sparks and electrical currents, gee **** it certainly hurt
Firemen threw powder over me, too dangerous to squirt
I lay on the ground for a week, some flags around me
People stayed away at night, just wasn't possible to see
Then along came some workers, absolute gentlemen
Fixed me up good and using a crane stood me up again
I cannot understand people at all, certainly not fair
I needed to be run over before they showed any care
They are all happy to use me while my heart glows
Don't they cuss though if my poor old globe blows
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
my pencil taps like a metronome against the wood that is my desk
each second being counted by my mind longing for the sound of the blaring bell
to indicate it's time to move on, I play the waiting game all day
sitting alone in the corner of the room, every couple minutes dazing out the window into the scenery
all the kids in the classroom mindlessly talking away, my ears focusing in and out of conversations
not because I want to hear but instead because I'm forced, their mouths blaring like sirens off a firetruck
I sit here, thoughts eating me away like always waiting for the day to come to an end,
waiting for the time I get to myself to lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling for seemingly no reason at all
I feel more lonely than ever, the feeling that no body cares or has any genuine interest in me anymore,
the feeling that my friends hate me and even if they say they don't I won't believe them
the feeling that I just want to lay here and wait for the day to come where I go to sleep and don't wake up
but I want to live, I want to see the next day and hope that something happens, something of a miracle
maybe everything will come together one day, and that's what I'm hoping for
but until then, here in my bed I will lay pondering of what good things may come
I just hope they come soon
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
at the end of the chilly day,
the edge of the woods is alight-
tall trees and low flickering fire-line
against the pale western sky.
the fierce blaze, wind-driven holocaust
burned hot and hard across the land.
the dancing fire-devils are gone.
a flashing firetruck waits
in the smoky air, the faint crackling radio
echoes the dying pops of the embers-
the quick snapping flare
of a pitchpine stump bright
against the long shadows.
God and man have fired
these woods for all time.
the neighbors congregate to watch
and talk, or lend a hand.
we walk the mile-long line
with our shovels and rakes,
soot-covered and coughing
to ensure the fire is dead.
crazy old sanders shouts
to us from the road:
"ticks and snakes! a fire's good!
it kills the ticks and snakes!"
he rides away on his bicycle-
a voice crying out in the night.
i believe him yet i bend to
blackened boots to check
my weary ankles for
signs of life.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:57 AM UTC
i keep on discovering words, finding them stuck
fast in tight corners and under dust
on the top of a bookshelf, they gum to my shoe soles and rub
against my pants when i walk.
they are everywhere, they are in the air
i breathe, they describe the inside of me perfectly going down
swallow and choke and burp words
they will not leave my mouth alone.
when i apply lipstick they wait eager
little children on the cap
can we describe, can we describe?
firetruck sin apple-picking stopsign pomegranate candyred.
red red red?
---but it can’t be just red!
let us name it for you, let us
stiffen your lip and curl your tongue with the perfect word.
scoff. red?
we can do better than that, my dear.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Cold autumn day,
it seemed that the weather
decided to skip the fall
and move right into a cold and bitter rain.
Tapping down
on the hood of my jacket
and my rather-too-pronounced nose.
Stinging ever slightly,
I was distracted.
By the steam exiting my mouth
and the whine of a firetruck
racing off into the distance.
Distraction was taking me, reminding me
as cold and bitter as that rain.
I was not there.
I was half a year ago
with a girl I loved,
or perhaps didn't.
Together, on a twin mattress
listening to the patter of a cold, bitter rain
tapping on the window.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 3:52 AM UTC
Look a Firetruck!
Why A firetruck?
Look an ambulance!
Why an Ambulance?
WHAT!!!! No I heard you WHAT!!
Heart beats faster everything I told myself was a lie
The joy I had turned to worry
Highly allergic to bees
Freaking highly allergic to bees
my mind turned to images of death and sorrow
I don't know if you are okay or not
Let's assume that you are
Who would have thought that it would take you being highly allergic to bees and getting stung
For me to realize that though I can hate you for as long as I want it won't stop the fact the this heart still longs for you
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
She gave me a box of sixty four
But told me to color in the lines.
I colored inside the lines of the lazer-printed firetruck;
I colored it Forest Green
And Tickle Me Pink.
"Firetrucks are red."Gentle but stern.
Timidly, I took out my drawing of her,
Skin Purple Mountains Majesty.
Her apron was Cerulean,
But her frown Scarlet Red.
My tears were clear.
There was no color for tears
In the box of sixty four,
But all my firetrucks were colored Red,
All my drawings of her were Peach.
And her lips were always Scarlet Red.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
My voice is no mere peep,
No mere iridescent sound overpowered
By the roar of people
Telling me to shut up.
My voice is not a purr or a chirp,
It is not dainty and subtle.
It is not soft or lofty or supple,
It's not like a fuzzy blanket in the middle of winter.
My voice is a brick hitting cement,
It's a siren's wail throughout a quite city,
It's a firetruck screaming as it rolls through
The city to meet it's destination.
My voice is a jet plane taking off,
My voice is an engine starting up,
My voice is a roar like that of a lions-
My voice will echo through your ears down to your core.
My voice is there for a reason;
To be heard,
And by God you'll hear me loud and clear.
You'll hear me over anything you put in my way.
My voice will topple buildings of ignoring,
It will burn down barriers of indifference,
It will destroy blocks of ignorance,
It will be heard, clear and true at whatever the cost may be.
My voice is my own,
Strong and loud, at times to a fault.
I am lucky enough to be able to speak,
And I'm not one to deny myself the pleasure of speaking my **** mind.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
*Wonder what I'll do when I grow up
I could tend to a mighty blaze on the ladder
of a city firetruck
Feed dolphins on the high seas
Explore Antartica with snow up to my knees
I'm the window cleaner high atop -
the skyscrapers of Atlanta
I can see myself driving a dump truck with a load of granite
Leading an orchestra , a game warden in the forest , a candler
at the egg farm , a cobbler in a tiny shop , a blacksmith
hammering horseshoes in the smithing barn* ..
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
It was a small book
he gave me
full of empty pages
and promises.
Like dads who pull quarters
from behind their childrens'
ears
a son
hopes there is magic
in a blank book.
So, I drip letters
from my pen
stacking them
like dragons
or a
firetruck
or a
memory that smells like
the honeysuckle we drank
on bicycle rides.
I pray he finds
a quiet place
where he can hold these thoughts
as firmly as held
his Ninja Turtle sword.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
I met her on a carrousel we'd both been riding
all our lives. I felt my firetruck sliding
round and round and up and down
as I saw her in the distance on a camel
right next to a clown.
I waved
she glanced,
our ways of transportation danced
and slaved
and carried us
but never closer.
Exiting the vehicle in the middle of a round
is against the rules.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
fires all about
sky orange
not from flame
but refracted light from
smoke so thick
you can gather it
in your hand
the flames miles away
for us but for some
on their doorstep
devouring house
ash falls like snow
and sits in drifts
up against firetruck tires
men and women
volunteer warriors
return soot black
and exhuasted
to rest before
returning
to the front
devastation
of wildlife corridors
devastion of small towns
live's lost and broken
and it is still only spring
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC