"honks" poems
Being a girl in my day and age,
you get used to all the horn honks,
the wolf whistles,
and the "hey baby's",
and the guys saying "you're too pretty not to smile",
as though not having a smile on my face at all times is a sin.
But why should I smile when harassment becomes normal,
when a girl can't report it because even the police thinks she should be flattered,
but why should I be flattered that a guy wants to see up my dress so much that he 'accidentally' pushes it up,
why should I be flattered when a guy can't even use words so he whistles at me like I'm a dog.
But I am not a *****
I cannot be won over by a whistle and sweet words,
no scratch behind my ears in the form of some misogynistic pick up line,
will give you a chance.
And if I laugh at your poor attempt,
it is not consent,
just because my lips curl into a smile,
does not mean you can come curl up with me.
My self worth does not exist on how fuckable I am in your perverted eyes,
it is not existent on if you want to 'hit that',
if you were to hit anything it should be your mindset that that is okay,
right out of your head.
Because I am not an object for your pleasure,
and I object to you treating me like I am.
I AM!
I AM!
I AM!
A WOMAN!
Built from all the things a man could never be.
And don't you ever ******* forget it.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
Sitting in the car
Waiting for traffic to move
The cold rain tumbling down the window
The drops collide into a single line.
Inside my father and I wait in the warm heat.
We probably just left to get pizza,
Or Chinese food,
A regular Friday night.
The sound of the radio hums softly in the background.
The soft rumbling of the engine.
The drumming of the rain.
Not a word is spoken
between my father and I,
Each of us just ******* up the silence.
Breathing peacefully.
Over the radio comes a song.
A little old, though well known.
Ee-e-e-um-um-a-weh
Wimoweh, wimoweh, wehoweh, wimoweh.
We both know this song.
Grinning we turn the radio up.
Singing along. Dancing along.
Um-um-a-weh.
With each beat of the drum
My father touches the brake.
Quickly, rapidly
Making the car ****
The car behinds us honks the horn
Making us laugh harder.
My dad persists.
Continuing in this child’s play.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter,
that it is pouring, or
that we are stuck in traffic.
It only matters that we are having fun.
The song ends.
The radio gets turned back down.
We return to our former silent state.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
I stand here on a street corner,
daisy dukes and fish nets,
my favorite Metallica crop top
floating up on moonlit skin.
Monster truck inching close,
breath pacing through the city streets,
I walk to the edge of his dark lair
to bite any hesitation.
With curt words and close heads
I smell the whiskey in his breathe.
Pulling into the alley's grip,
I let him lead and grit my teeth.
"Shhhh, I won't get busted again."
the whiskey whispers against my ear,
"Don't make a peep."
Then I'm not sure if it's man or whiskey
who turns me around in callused hands.
He spits first,
entering with a grunt,
and my hands slide down the window with each ******
5 minutes.
I horn honks in the distance, long and mad,
as whiskey man unloads on my back,
along with his long, satisfied growl.
That's it, with a reluctant 20 bucks,
and I'm back biting the wind.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
The rattle is shaken and life becomes unfixed
Torrential rains cascades downwards on ancient bricks
These stunning moments have been rediscovered
In wonder all is flustered in awe as the state of silence honks
Love creeps out of tune in time, the unsureness of cold feet
The voice fades, the toned whispers continually erased
Stormed and soaked, stilled and stalked by a heart that stole my dream
Drenched in uncertainty, non-favouring multitudes won't let me be
These flutters flattens and deflated, I stroll and I will not run
The floating fun fares vanishes, the morning bird furnishes
The time capsule evaporated, unstripped and frozen
Ohh, how I wished to plant and harvest inspiration
Wake up with a renewed breath of air, the flowing river
Of the days when the gloom masked, I hated what life had become
How could humanity be so self centred and selfish?
I looked for silence and the banging never ceased
The masses rushed, never to let me be, they snatched my freedom
I inhaled the hope of the freeness and longed for the racing momentums
How so?
That over time the weather collapsed to coldness, the darkness marbled
A nag of the songbirds, as I escaped in the ****** ozone layer
A disconnect of the mind, body and soul; when I saw my spirit sail
A snail sailing on its own course and journey slowly but steady
Reflections and visions of the timeline of growth and fertility
A heart of one, the soul of all, the mind of many, a tongue in sums
The chandelier hanged on a ceiling, high, holding the flickering bulbs
A condense of energy, the modelled nature of a prognostic intervention
A laughter and synergy rests in the symphony of the unsung melodies
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
If god were real
When he’d appear
It would be out of nowhere
In mysterious ways
God would be dressed as a clown
His front top teeth are missing
And he slurs like a drunk
Sometimes you can’t understand him
He does this on purpose
God was never cryptic
He just had trouble enunciating
DON’T BE MEAN TO PEOPLE
JESUS CHRIST
You have trouble looking at his face
It is hard to take the message of a clown seriously
So you look down at the globes of the tip of his shoes
Red shiny bulbs
Inside the reflection
You are ant sized
You feel small in that moment
God says something but you are busy looking down
You see other ant sized people walking behind you
Towards work
To get food
To go to school
God makes you a halo
Out of balloons
It is white because he ran out of yellow
Before he puts it on your head
Turned sideways
It looks like dangling handcuffs
He makes you a sword and belt too
You have just been turned into an angel
A human angel armed with the necessary tools to fight on his behalf
You don’t feel strong in that moment
You still feel like an ant
God gives you a holy water balloon
Just in case things get hairy
You decide you might be able to surprise baptize someone with it
Then god walks a way
But you totally feel better because he just gave you a halo and a sword
You cry that night
Because you have never felt so small and helpless in your entire life
You never felt so silly
Wielding you faith as firm as a balloon sword
Wearing your blow up halo as a badge
So you throw them away
Not your faith
Just the balloons
DON’T HURT ANYBODY
God says
His tongue pressed to his gums to prevent lisps
Then he begins to pump up another balloon
He honks his horn
And you are so confused
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
What would be like
to be
100%
safe?
I mean
to be that perfect combination
of visible
and invisible.
I mean
to be
left alone
while walking the streets.
I mean
to be
respected.
I mean to be a
white
straight
man.
-
I have to drill it into my head
that I love myself
as I am –
queer, ace, woman-read, brown, crazy, femme –
because if I didn’t
I’d never be able to leave the house.
I have to say
that to be otherwise
would be boring
so that maybe one day
I'll actually believe it.
But I cannot say
I have never wanted to be
100%
safe.
-
Today
I put on a short dress
I have never felt pretty enough to wear,
and walked to and from a café,
knowing what would come.
I kept track –
four honks, one leer, one whistle,
told myself:
*you knew this would happen,
this is nothing,
you’re lucky,
it could be
so
much
worse.*
It still hurt.
I practiced the motion
of flipping off the bird
as I walked,
tried to get it
as reflexive
as a cop with a loaded gun,
knowing
that it would make no difference.
-
To dare to be feminine in public
is to perfect
the art of looking straight ahead
the art of being hard of hearing
the art of fast, fast, fast walking
[just in case].
So often
we have to weaponize femininity
because that’s all we’ve got.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.
Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.
Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.
Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.
As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.
We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.
We are gloriously young.
So **** off.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will
But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
listen
to
the
orchestrated
and
syncopated
clickety clack
clankety, clonk
clickety clack
honks air
through
their
snouts
the sound
that horses
make
when they
trot plop gallop
with their
horseshoed feet
upon
the
resonant
red cobblestone streets
brings
sweet music
to
the
blacksmith's ears
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
The headlights blaze,
a horn honks,
I look at the traffic light, I wait,
at a signal, in a traffic jam,
stuck.
Soldiers storm a university,
in a book a dog dies,
a girl fights tumors in her *******
the world turns,
and in a traffic jam, I remain
stuck.
Later in the night,
in my bed, I lie scrolling
Instagram stories follow one another,
a quick progression:
outrage on an atrocity turns and
becomes 40% Sale on a fashion brand, turns and
becomes the best biryani in town, turns and
becomes a friend at a pub, turns and
becomes my office desk, turns and
becomes an empty page, turns and
becomes a traffic jam, turns and
does not become anything, and I remain
stuck.
Jan 14, 2020
Jan 14, 2020 at 6:55 AM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Dear daughter of mine
Let’s spend time down by
the lake, and watch the frogs
hop from place to place, and
giggle at the geese as they
make their noisy honks and
eeks. And know that I will
always love you.
Small daughter of mine
Let’s crawl through our fort, and
afterwards eat popcorn. But only
if you have finished your homework.
I know you hate it. But how else
are you going to learn?
Little daughter of mine
Don’t fear my wrath from that C in
math. We’ll figure this out, and
you did your best. I won’t deal
onto you what was dealt onto me.
And please bear with me as I try
to explain why you have begun to
bleed.
Lovely daughter of mine
Coming home drunk and muddy
from prom. Sure, I’m not happy,
but I know the song and dance.
I still love you, but go wash
your ******* pants.
Superb daughter of mine
I’m letting you go so you
can claim a new place as
your own. But don’t be afraid.
They are all strangers before
they are friends. And please
behave and leave heavy drinking
to be my forte.
Wonderful daughter of mine
You’re all on your own now, yet when
you visit home you tell me of how he
touched you wrong. I hold you tight
and we both cry. Someone touched me
that way too, and I promise together
we’ll make it through. And I still love you.
Terrific daughter of mine
Your career is on the rise.
And that great guy you have
met seems rather nice. I hope
that fate keeps her eyes on
you and gives you good fortune
in all you go through.
Amazing daughter of mine
Thanks for sharing your pain.
I‘ve been just the same, and I
know suicide more than most and
more than you’ll ever realize.
Don’t take your own life. I will
stay on the phone with you
through the night. I love you.
Beautiful daughter of mine
You said yes, didn’t you?
Hold my hands and let us
have this dance. Twirl around
the room as we ought to do.
I know you know I love you.
And I know that *******
blonde-haired ******* loves
you too.
Stupendous daughter of mine
Now you are all grown. We’ve
sown the seeds for you to be
happy and to keep your peace
of mind. Keep doing what you
do well. I am so proud of you,
and I know your mother would
have been proud too.
Daughter of mine
I’m no longer around. My reckless
self-disregard caught up with me
and brought me to the ground, and
you’ve laid me to rest. But you
don’t have to cry. Just keep the
sweet memories of me as your sweet
daddy deep in your brain. And please
keep an open heart. I love you, I
love you, I love you. Tell all your
children the same.
Dear daughter of mine
We spent time down by the lake, and
watched the frogs hop from place
to place, and giggled at the geese
as they made their noisy honks and
eeks. And all I hope is that you
knew that I would always love you.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
I'm a middle aged man with a menopause d mind,
striving hard to make the ends meet,
struggling to set myself straight,
against the raising concerns from
my boss for not thinking out of box,
dearest wife, that I no longer love her the way it was,
my junior that I don't spare him time for a online game,
One or other almost everyone around had a concern or a claim,
On a thoughtful evening browsing some motivational videos on net,
I discover my mantra "Sweetheart Relax" from a famous Art of living guru,
Determined to surprise all, I keep it a secret,
In no time, I adopted it and started using it here and there, left and right,
Struck in traffic badly and there is no cop to clear it for a long ! "Sweetheart Relax",
The Driver behind you honks too loud, despite the fact that it is a long traffic jam! Sweet heart Relax!
On site team calls for a talk late in the evening for which you to skip your dinner date with wife,Sweetheart Relax!
The newly wed tenant couple fights it out all the night and it did not let you catch some sleep, Sweetheart Relax!
It started working good, even in dreams I started murmuring "Sweetheart Relax"
week went on, finally weekend has arrived!
In the middle of night on Sunday!
My wife wakes me up with kids in front,
takes my hand and placing on my little angles head says,
Swear by the Kid! that you would tell us the truth
how long is this going on?
who is this Sweetheart? why should she relax?
Guess what ?
I said "Sweetheart Relax"!
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
i was behind the wheel and you were sitting on the passenger seat. your hair was knotted in a tangled mess and your favorite korean music was blaring over the speakers for the umpteenth time. i watched you as you tilted your head back and closed your eyes, letting the murmurs of the engine and breeze of the night cloud your thoughts. you held my hand and started to hum the lyrics of your favorite song and in that moment we've never felt so much more complete, we were more than invincible. the tenebrific night swirled into a blur of headlights, and car honks, and whispered wishes and stolen kisses, nevertheless, we didn't care, because we were in love, and nothing else mattered.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 7:13 AM UTC
Veins, veins,
length and breadth,
intertwined
beats to freedom
or desolation;
a terminus
lost on a circular.
An ebbing destination,
unchartered targets,
Follow the signs.
We are a one way street,
follow the signs
on software maps.
Stumped
by sequential lights
and us, caught
in a dragnet
within steely fish,
gasping for air,
choking on smoke,
bilious coughs,
hacking sputum,
gobbing phlegm globs
in interval gaps
within gridlocks;
nose to **** to
nose to ****
The rage, the stares
the shouts, the finger,
the Grrr’s, the Rrrr’s,
the honks, the blares,
the bumper to bumper
expletive shares.
The rolling down,
the alighting,
the threats,
the fighting.
The falling down,
the separation,
reseating,
the rolling,
the thunder,
the trudge,
the stops, the starts.
Follow the signs,
follow the signs.
Robotic conveyors
for humans,
mechanical
fossil fueled
chariots,
grumbling, grunting,
wheee-ing and
screeching,
and screaming
and spewing
and chuffing
and guffing
black plumes,
air tarred,
veins, veins
clogged and bogged,
viscous, molasses,
liquid black blob.
Road fogged,
numbers logged.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
slow crawl.
Veins, veins,
follow the signs,
follow the signs,
sprawl.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
The rooftop setting is all I could ever ask for
It is way more romantic than the sunsets in the shore
You can both watch the stars twinkle and the city lights glow
While you can hear busy chats of the people as the car honks from below
The breeze that makes your body quiver,
Has also caused your dear lips to wither,
Which gave him a hint to wrap you around his arms,
And to carefully kiss you with no possible harm
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
we were drinking wine out of mason jars
and spinning records on the floor.
getting kicked out of our basement bedrooms for burning memories and starting fires.
we were young and leave each other every other week. you and i, we pass each other on the street.
you're in the car that almost hits me and honks instead of apologizing, but you get out and kiss
me after.
we stop traffic you know.
as time progresses for everyone else but loops around and pauses for the two of us.
if the stars were to say we're a fatal combination
i'd say, **** the stars,
nobody speaks for the dead except the people speaking for God and what right did they have?
what cult do i have to join to get to heaven?
where do i sign my body away?
when i signed the papers to become an ***** donor my mother asked me if i was okay with somebody taking my eyes,
nobody sees with their eyes it is beneath them, they can take them.
you, you take what you need.
you put your hand in the cookie jar expecting to bite so you never know sugar but honey.
i am here.
in your waiting room
in your bookshelf
in your breath.
you’re dreaming of a better place.
i'm never leaving before you wake up.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 11:43 PM UTC
You are full of deluges,
thunder lips and
lightning eyes,
footsteps punctured by light claps,
voice parted by turbulent
winds, You
are the last light in this
greying darkness,
the last calm before these endless
howls, the eye of
the storm.
You catch me in this mud-tracked
ground battered
by wind and rain,
umbrella turned and
turning out-inside, and
inside-out like the butterflies fluttering in
my stomach. You watch
my knees begin to shake
and steady them
with your glance.
You make me wish away
the rain dances,
the raincoat choruses caroming
the river-ran streets
in the middle of day
like a colourful charade,
the desperate
songs and car horn honks
and fog-lit buses and street lamps
piercing through this
watery veneer.
Am I lost in Your sea of silence?
I don’t know,
but I know that I have drowned in
these storms before.
And I know, that my cheeks
run with Your rainwater now.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
The old man and I
sat there
at that bus stop
waiting
time seemed
like eternity
we sat there
waiting
silent we were
a casual glance
here
and
there
waiting
I on the left
He on the right
gap
between
us
there we were
waiting
honks
children's laughs
crossing guard's whistle
we silent
calm just
waiting
finally
here was the bus
brakes
opens
on I go
I took my seat
and
looked out the window
off I went
and the man
there he was
just
waiting
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
Merry go-rounds
Twirl around the sky
Shut down ice-cream posts and
Repressed flower petals
Crisscrossed hands and
Popsicle sticks
Loitering the salt-stained pavement
Glints of late-night squares in
Skyscrapers which brush the clouds
The crunch of diseased leaves and the
Distant honks and whistles
In chaotic, zig-zag traffic
Snow falls silently
Its fingertips landing on
Windbreakers and cotton mittens
Of children
With red cheeks and
Exasperated smiles
Chasing after frozen-pond ducks
With tongues extended and catch
Soft white water
Winter dampens the sidewalk cracks
And chills the abandoned earmuffs
But winter will not
And can not
Dampen or
Freeze or
Abandon the spirits
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
when a train honks its horn.
on a calm quiet night.
the sound is less like sound waves.
but sounds more like light.
it sends a wave of ruckus.
that bounces here and there.
then somehow switches on so brightly.
it illuminates the air.
it fades just light a sunset.
so loud and then so soft.
and when its gone the insects play.
in darkness as you loft.
a firefly of some sort.
the train now passes on.
to bring with it a light so bright.
i had to write a song.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
The only thing I can compare to is that time we fed those geese hallucinogens.
Those fowl quickly transformed into black and white lawn darts, exploding into catastrophic fluffy clouds of plumage.
The kamikaze honks they made forever pierced my soul that day.
I still shudder every time I pass by an outdoor wedding.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
Two lovebirds snuggle
in the shade of a weeping willow,
oblivious to chastising honks
of Canadian geese.
Blushing buds begin to bloom,
swollen with anticipation
as the solstice draws near
and blood boils beneath the skin.
Weathered voyeurs train watchful eyes
on the short-lived marriage of the flesh,
scoffing at the consummation of seasons,
knowing the fickle nature of the sun.
When the geese fly south, so will he.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:30 PM UTC
Rain-slicked reflections of
the sun's last offerings
disperse within the por-
ous asphalt, inducing
a faint chorus of tire-
spun splashes fading-in
and out behind impa-
tient honks, like waves against
a cargo ship announc-
ing itself to the docks,
"I have arrived! I have
arrived!" The workers, their
jackets waxing iri-
descent limes and oranges,
wave in the freight, crane up
the containers and shout
down the lines through the bay
mist inscribed by currents
of blustering winds, top-
lit by a swarm of head-
lamps, crane lights and high beams
careening through the in-
dustrial din of space,
ensuring no foot fal-
ters and no hand misses
a hold, and the cargo
slowly, but surely, moves
on toward its final des-
tination, and like great
migrations of butter-
flies, birds and whales, that place
is always home, sweet home.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
Startled!
You were sleep talking
I wrap my arms around you
The fan spins above us
The sun is peeking from behind the curtains
Chirping birds welcome the evening
A passing car honks
But my warmth comforts you
I lay a silent kiss on you
Whew!
You are sleeping again
My little busy bee gets some more rest
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:20 AM UTC