Hotwheels poems on Hello Poetry

Holly M Jul 2018

i don't think they know how beautiful it is.

empty is not the right word.
what is the word for
not quite empty but not quite full?
there is a glass on the table-
it is not half-empty,
but it is not half-full.
it is just a glass of water.
i am just a glass of water:
not empty, not full;
not happy, not sad-
not anything.
not anything at all.

the clear blue nothingness
reminds me of the fact.
it’s dotted with cotton candy clouds.
i wonder if they are as sweet.
my tongue salivates at the thought.
it is like a land of dreams
without sorrow or pain
yet i am here,
floating lightly
though i feel like a paperweight,
weighed down by the lump in my throat.

it’s hard to remember
what home looks like.
i can’t see in terms of
“where i belong,”
i only see in terms of
“the trees are like broccoli sprouts-” and
“the cars look like hotwheels-” and
“every single one has a person in it, and
they all have their own journeys, and
i am here.”
i don’t think they know how beautiful it is.
i didn’t.

home to me now is a backpack
a couple books
and a trinket from an old friend.
they are the only ones like me:
strangers in a strange land.
i’d like to find my way back someday-
if only i knew the way.

#flying #beauty #empty #water #clouds #home #stranger

Vipul Mehra Apr 2015

Childhood

Thrown away carrom men
Hunting for the queen
Grey white turqoise marbles
a spinning top on the table
an electric motor a gadget then
bifid nibbed fountain pen
Cassette wheels and a chip of steel
ran faster than ritzy hotwheels
tazos and trumps spurred triumphant jumps
peacock clay in redolent sandalwood
I collected and carry in the treasure of childhood

#nostalgia #childhood #toys #collectibles

Robby Cale Feb 2010

Somewhere Thoughts

Somewhere up in here,
All is not well.
It's just a bit too much,
What with those pesky dunce capped gnomes
Prancing about,
Bending gears,
Building steam,
boiling my brain to a blistering sizzling simmer.
I wake up thinner,
Drenched in sweat,
Knowing this will all unfold again tomorrow.
And somewhere up in here,
My friends might actually care about our ever fading dreams,
Because somewhere up in here,
A slip winking sandman keeps whispering my name,
Beckoning me off to New Nevermore
To make peace between the
High minded
Time biding Rhymenians,
And the ever aggressive
Yet articulate Alliterations,
And somewhere up in here,
I Houdini shall lull you into trance.
Ladies and gentlemen!
This shpeel is going just great
As it grates against your senses
Like white wine and cheese
At a dinner party execution.
See I am but a savory hor dourve.
A fleeting morsel between meals
As *** hurts the ones it loves,
A walking talking come on *** conundrum
To come chew you up and stress you out.
Because somewhere up in here,
I mark hours lost in response
To Craigslist fembot synothstitutes..
Wow! You're single too?
We should chat sometime.
Just sign up or register here.
And somewhere up in here,
I'm walk mouthing these very words.
Etching perfection as ogling onlookers
Or misguided miscreants
Manage to mistake me
For a bumbling bluetooth businessman,
Or maybe just another tired old transient
Mumbling profanities to the wind.
And somewhere up in here,
A cop car could almost pass
For a techno rave on wheels,
While your toothbrush keeps taunting
The spinach fondeaux
Haunting my bicuspids.
And somewhere up in here,
I'm sinking these very teeth
Into a good ol' fashioned mystery.
The hunt for the black hounding hole
Wreaking havoc by hide and seeking
From behind my couch,
Pulling back slowly
Only to
Pounce upon my keys, wallet,
Anything in reach.
And somewhere up in here,
My confidential caseload clients
May someday taste freedom
From their self-induced CIA phone taps,
And from those clasp howling clowns in wolves clothing,
Clawing and skat skrat skratching
From behind those thin plaster walls,
impatiently playing for their in-patient souls.
And thinking of them,
Somewhere up in here,
I find good reason to be happy.
As if God truly cares
Even if and when misfortune falls.
So somewhere way down deep,
Below the basement,
Buried beneath old grocery lists and aspirations,
Behind my rusty hotwheels and broken jalopy dreams,
There is a perfect ending
Where you know
Exactly what I'm thinking.

Jeanette Mar 2013

Elliott

He sneaks into my bed,
his tiny hands and feet are cold,
always.

He tangles himself in my limbs,
makes traps,
so he'll know if I try to leave his side.

I am swing set,
a slide set,
my head is a drum,
my hairs are guitar strings.
I never look put together like I used to;
there are tiny stains on all my shirts.

In my purse you will find lipstick,
a tube of jet black mascara...

and a tiny Hotwheels firetruck.

I remember how things used to be simple,
I remember how I used to move,
unencumbered,
alone.

I love him every day more
than the day prior.

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151477927913555&set;=pb.554033554.-2207520000.1364109618&type;=3&theater

Malvika N Hasrajani Dec 2017

May be some day..

May be some day..

The case in my storage fell on my head..when I was hysterically hitting my hands for the lost confirmations of adulthood..
The mother of coincidences and fate was up today..

The box contained all the pictures of my childhood.. which today are on Facebook, and the timely flashes of memories that don’t mean as much, pokes a hole in my heart..

The time where careless was adored and playful and silly was the only way to be.. running behind my little chickens and teasing my parrot for a chilli was the sport that kept me fit..sad that sport today means watching matches at the stadium or late night football leagues..

The exercise that we got when mother ran left and right only to put that bite in our hunger hole.. how so luxurious has that bite of mother’s love become..

When Hotwheels and Funschool and Playdough was the hip of the hour.. when did an iPhone replace it all ?
Popcorns and Rasna, and Uncle Chips and lime juice were the menu desired.. no one told me Rasna becomes *** and coke and uncle chips becomes Pizza and Fries.. or lime juice would turn into a Mojito, flustered..

May be cotton candy will never be ‘buddhi ka baal’ again..and nutties and gems and boomer bubble gum are left just words..

Balloons outside the park were the reason we went to weddings..who knew weddings will be the misnomer for departing friends..how swing sets and see-saws are just equations of physics and childish banter..

When the only cricket teams were the kids in the colony, and we hadn’t to worry about India, Australia and South Africa..
When gangs rode cycles and ate Eclairs for evening snacks.. how has it become bikes and cars and kebabs with whiskey over the years..
When getting hurt in the knees was a sign of strength..how heart breaks have become a taboo of the weak..

Times when fever was a festival of cold packs and mother’s kisses on the forehead and stomach aches were the cheat codes for skipping school.
How even diarrhoea and fractures don’t get us off work..

Chilling meant Cartoon Network.. parties meant cakes and presents in the house..and birthday songs still meant like Grammy nominated jingles of happiness and satisfaction..

Sitting on the floor with a tiny tear and a wrinkle of a smile on my face, I get spotted by my mother. She’s curious to know, how her ever frantic and running child came to a halt.. and the time turned tides, it was 5th grade again, when I shared with my mother all the happenings and happiness and sorrows.. and insecurities meant bullies and not bosses anymore..

Like my wish of ‘may be some day, all over again’.., mommy picks her mess of a child up, hugs me tight with a kiss full of affection on my forehead..
May be someday, again this box will fall into my hands, and Luck will play its tricks to muster a kiss from my mother..
May be some day..

#childhood #memories #mother #photographs #growing #up

mikey preston Sep 12

my heart, the bus stop

i'm not sure what it is, but tonight i'm thinking about people i used to know.
my childhood best friend, i hear she's awful now but i still love her no matter what, even though i haven't seen her in years. the boy who told me he was in love with me and gave me a crescent-moon thumbnail scar that i still carry today, having not seen him in four years. I look at my left hand and think of our friendship. My grandmother, long past ashes now, with her secret candy drawer, teaching me how to knit and giving me incorrect interpretations of country music. the boy that moved briefly into my drama class, downloaded one of my favourite albums to my phone and took my heart with him when he left. i think of him when i hear those songs, still some of my favourites. ny third grade teacher who told me about idioms and made me write my ks a specific way. my handwriting still looks like your name, sir. the boy who would fix my hair when it got messy, who moved on to cooler friends, and acts like he never touched my face for the sake of it. i still have his number. the girl who i loved books with for years, until we began to read different things and ran out of things to talk about. The boy i dated that sat on the floor of the mall with me and talked to me about all his favourite tv shows and held my head in his lap and never read the book i got him for chirstmas and now only calls me by my last name. the boy who i bought hotwheels in an airport with. i haven't peeled the complementary sticker off my headphones yet, so i haven't stopped thinking of him. on nights like these i miss them. i remember them tenderly. i still feel their phantom arms around me, and it is emptier than a lack of sensation. my heart is a bus stop, more empty for having been full.

my heart is a bus stop, more empty for having been full.

#missing #loss #grief #bittersweet #childhood #friends #growingapart

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