"motoring" poems - Hello Poetry

My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime. A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk. Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles. How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power. By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.

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Apr 7, 2011

Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC

kara-rose-trojan

Word-Play : Kid-Play : Memory-Play : More-Play

My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime. A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk. Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles. How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power. By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.

15

My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime. A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk. Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles. How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.

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Dec 18, 2014

Dec 18, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC

kara-rose-trojan

Word Play : Kid Play : Memory Play : More Play (Revised)

My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime. A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk. Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles. How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.

15

In the mood to have a drink, A glass of champagne, Watch Big Ben count down the time, Until the New Year enters in, Party Poppers popping proudly, Magic music motoring, In the mood to have a dance, A dance to enchant, Watch the fireworks explode, The clock meets the midnight hour, Party Poppers popping proudly, Magic music motoring.

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Aug 27, 2012

Aug 27, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC

simon-clark

In The Mood

In the mood to have a drink, A glass of champagne, Watch Big Ben count down the time, Until the New Year enters in, Party Poppers popping proudly, Magic music motoring, In the mood to have a dance, A dance to enchant, Watch the fireworks explode, The clock meets the midnight hour, Party Poppers popping proudly, Magic music motoring.

12

every word birthed and in format, crafted by this mans poor life motoring skills, is the sole fault of his fault lines, all taken, this responsibility but the good that transverses the arteries and veins of his profferings, fair credit shared now and then, for those that listen to these, his poetic heartbeats, raise him up to more than he can be...

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Oct 27, 2015

Oct 27, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC

stillcrazyafteralltheseye

raise me up to more than I can be

every word birthed and in format, crafted by this mans poor life motoring skills, is the sole fault of his fault lines, all taken, this responsibility but the good that transverses the arteries and veins of his profferings, fair credit shared now and then, for those that listen to these, his poetic heartbeats, raise him up to more than he can be...

11

(For Sia Jane) once he wrote: "Writing is more important than any of the individual senses that feed this (writing) addiction. Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste, I can (still) live quite well." and she loved this, for well she lived this ideation so textual emendation for this girl, one of god's human poems irony kick in the head, truth driven home by body of late, crossed and staked, weeks pass, I cannot taste or smell, eyesight distorted by streaming eyes, no matter, sight, sees only a decrepit man lousy repeating repetitiously older spasms of writing, all this time he is one who touches nothing lest he infect the world, with something other than joy... all thanks to some insidious bacterial invaders and one or two Lifetime Movie Channel dramas playing out in full color in his own sad reality so let me amend my prior write, for this time, I make no overly boastful claims, for I could pen nary a verse all these hours, that was deserved of your affection... write I could with any one of the five, if four were repleted, deleted, none elited, but one is this man's de minimus need at least one to function, to master the bronco impulse to create... don't matter which one, which orifice writes the code, all sensory inputs end up residing in your heart and soul but gotta have at least one in order to express my love for love... and if I can't do that, then experience shows, no way can the being supersede its thrumming, hum drumming, existence, motoring along highways circularized of watching old tv shows if I lose my hands I will write with elbows, nose or toes... my tongue cut, my mind will love more, its recollection of your taste, delicious twice over blinded and bereft, my mind's eye will do double shifts, get paid overtime, for reliving connecting your birthmarks my jesting muted, my seers closed, my nostrils sealed, even terminated, dare you think, that I cannot hear or smell my thoughts, of the pleasure of a world in which loves existence demands we heal the sick at heart, so we can extend love to ourselves and others beyond the mere limitations of our corporeal senses.... one, but one, all I need, any one, in order to sense who I am, to love, and be loved, therefore, to write

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Sep 7, 2014

Sep 7, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

A New Poem: A Sense of Who You Are

(For Sia Jane) once he wrote: "Writing is more important than any of the individual senses that feed this (writing) addiction. Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste, I can (still) live quite well." and she loved this, for well she lived this ideation so textual emendation for this girl, one of god's human poems irony kick in the head, truth driven home by body of late, crossed and staked, weeks pass, I cannot taste or smell, eyesight distorted by streaming eyes, no matter, sight, sees only a decrepit man lousy repeating repetitiously older spasms of writing, all this time he is one who touches nothing lest he infect the world, with something other than joy... all thanks to some insidious bacterial invaders and one or two Lifetime Movie Channel dramas playing out in full color in his own sad reality so let me amend my prior write, for this time, I make no overly boastful claims, for I could pen nary a verse all these hours, that was deserved of your affection... write I could with any one of the five, if four were repleted, deleted, none elited, but one is this man's de minimus need at least one to function, to master the bronco impulse to create... don't matter which one, which orifice writes the code, all sensory inputs end up residing in your heart and soul but gotta have at least one in order to express my love for love... and if I can't do that, then experience shows, no way can the being supersede its thrumming, hum drumming, existence, motoring along highways circularized of watching old tv shows if I lose my hands I will write with elbows, nose or toes... my tongue cut, my mind will love more, its recollection of your taste, delicious twice over blinded and bereft, my mind's eye will do double shifts, get paid overtime, for reliving connecting your birthmarks my jesting muted, my seers closed, my nostrils sealed, even terminated, dare you think, that I cannot hear or smell my thoughts, of the pleasure of a world in which loves existence demands we heal the sick at heart, so we can extend love to ourselves and others beyond the mere limitations of our corporeal senses.... one, but one, all I need, any one, in order to sense who I am, to love, and be loved, therefore, to write

66

An pleasant night...Amore mild ,than wild. You..zoomin,stumbling,moving alright for my most,minimised sets of vision insights. Made in...moved in for meeting without no consciences of moonshine. We Smiled..it shined,tough to deny the uprise..the valued climb. Where everything seems to rhyme. Or was i at the center of meltdown on my melting point.And you kept mesmerising. It took a'while to memorise..you were too mazed to measurise,to my surprise. Or was it you,on the monocyclic ride in &off; my mind.And i'd still moo down like an moonbeam ,my way. Morphed down,above some waves...moss hags, mrches across our way,the muted disguise. Dis-mantling apart my motor cortex and hers as well. Motoring,defflexing us far away Misprized off,what we hold of we were misplaced...mislayed so cruel,the perfect mishap. Waving off,from the monstrance of our retraction irreticulating without no demise Avowed i stood by..Upon those marks,beyond the maze of multiplicated edges 'Hope they'll know..Coz we knw weGA

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Jan 8, 2015

Jan 8, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC

avXdas

few fine sights.

An pleasant night...Amore mild ,than wild. You..zoomin,stumbling,moving alright for my most,minimised sets of vision insights. Made in...moved in for meeting without no consciences of moonshine. We Smiled..it shined,tough to deny the uprise..the valued climb. Where everything seems to rhyme. Or was i at the center of meltdown on my melting point.And you kept mesmerising. It took a'while to memorise..you were too mazed to measurise,to my surprise. Or was it you,on the monocyclic ride in &off; my mind.And i'd still moo down like an moonbeam ,my way. Morphed down,above some waves...moss hags, mrches across our way,the muted disguise. Dis-mantling apart my motor cortex and hers as well. Motoring,defflexing us far away Misprized off,what we hold of we were misplaced...mislayed so cruel,the perfect mishap. Waving off,from the monstrance of our retraction irreticulating without no demise Avowed i stood by..Upon those marks,beyond the maze of multiplicated edges 'Hope they'll know..Coz we knw weGA

18

in her eighties motoring in wisdoms and whimble beddened by stroke subtle effects and an unlucky stumble agilely un-humble willing to poach after life put in the work willing to comb back in old welcome habits revive living through past youthful revisits

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May 7, 2025

May 7, 2025 at 4:34 PM UTC

neth-jones

notes on Joan.. the patient in room 32

in her eighties motoring in wisdoms and whimble beddened by stroke subtle effects and an unlucky stumble agilely un-humble willing to poach after life put in the work willing to comb back in old welcome habits revive living through past youthful revisits

8

Passing up through the stairs unencumbered ensnared Through these walls there is nothing left Only the feeling that I have sorely mistepped Was there fervor in the cup of nines? Was there magic all the while inside? Destiny shouts out loud at the roving crowd Dead on the Earth and a walking around Telling me something as I stare far away The world is a real place with real disgrace Caught in the whirlwind of evaporation I took the notes, I took the boats, now I'm floating fast Knowing now that it will never last Too hear these voices inside of my head And these fast faces passing by headed to bed I'm thinking of their reasons of sizzling in being Where the streets have no names and the sign posts are twisted Lost with no dollar signs so I keep on a drifting Where time has no handle on me, only the body With the teller handing out bank notes, can't say that she wrote And the whine of the train whistle taking me home To a place way back that I no longer know With heads that seem familiar but are actually not at all With the creeping wind breaking and I won't make it till Fall There were ways to win a woman that were elegant and bold Now there is too much, every minute is being told We are not supposed to know these things with these tricks The Man has its magic, to know all is tragic Saluting in sorrow knowing that I can no longer borrow Shifting my gaze high towards the cracking yellow sky A wind roars woefully all the while knowingly Music moves motoring toward a horizon creaking and showing To lose a love is to lose a way of life Hours spent in head bent, knee buckled strife How have I tossed myself into this place, this mischief? To belong in a world that has never seemed like home, I feel inside the guts a twisted and shifted Low low low these hours do pass by and slow Help me see the light Help me be alright

0

Apr 19, 2011

Apr 19, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC

ashby-brown

To Know is Tragic

Passing up through the stairs unencumbered ensnared Through these walls there is nothing left Only the feeling that I have sorely mistepped Was there fervor in the cup of nines? Was there magic all the while inside? Destiny shouts out loud at the roving crowd Dead on the Earth and a walking around Telling me something as I stare far away The world is a real place with real disgrace Caught in the whirlwind of evaporation I took the notes, I took the boats, now I'm floating fast Knowing now that it will never last Too hear these voices inside of my head And these fast faces passing by headed to bed I'm thinking of their reasons of sizzling in being Where the streets have no names and the sign posts are twisted Lost with no dollar signs so I keep on a drifting Where time has no handle on me, only the body With the teller handing out bank notes, can't say that she wrote And the whine of the train whistle taking me home To a place way back that I no longer know With heads that seem familiar but are actually not at all With the creeping wind breaking and I won't make it till Fall There were ways to win a woman that were elegant and bold Now there is too much, every minute is being told We are not supposed to know these things with these tricks The Man has its magic, to know all is tragic Saluting in sorrow knowing that I can no longer borrow Shifting my gaze high towards the cracking yellow sky A wind roars woefully all the while knowingly Music moves motoring toward a horizon creaking and showing To lose a love is to lose a way of life Hours spent in head bent, knee buckled strife How have I tossed myself into this place, this mischief? To belong in a world that has never seemed like home, I feel inside the guts a twisted and shifted Low low low these hours do pass by and slow Help me see the light Help me be alright

39

Motoring. Listlessly. Evening crawl. Halogen blue-blur. Spit-shines clear. The asphalt highway. That goes no where. Solemn moon. Pale and dull. Leans against the rock people. Walking the desert. In disguise. Quiet winds. Deaf and aphasic. Feed the alluvial ribbons. That perch the stoic. Introverted. Black Apache elevations. Cliffs of blened sandstone. Surrender without a fight. To the oily, alien sky. Slumbering in the night. Silent partner. Nameless horse. Sandscape still. Geological corpse. Lifeless. Barren. Thirsty too. My Valentine's Day. Without you.

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Jun 10, 2018

Jun 10, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC

joflo82

My Valentines Day

Motoring. Listlessly. Evening crawl. Halogen blue-blur. Spit-shines clear. The asphalt highway. That goes no where. Solemn moon. Pale and dull. Leans against the rock people. Walking the desert. In disguise. Quiet winds. Deaf and aphasic. Feed the alluvial ribbons. That perch the stoic. Introverted. Black Apache elevations. Cliffs of blened sandstone. Surrender without a fight. To the oily, alien sky. Slumbering in the night. Silent partner. Nameless horse. Sandscape still. Geological corpse. Lifeless. Barren. Thirsty too. My Valentine's Day. Without you.

31