"motorized" poems
I was three years out of high school and finally getting
the chance to grow up. I’d been ready since before
graduation day. Everybody in the world was certain
that I would fail. I couldn’t succeed. Thanks for the vote
of confidence. I am proving them wrong. I’m succeeding,
maybe not thriving, but succeeding right before their very eyes.
Success is living on my own. Being able to do every household
chore on my own. Success is getting myself to and from where
I need to be in my broken down, beat up wheelchair. Success
is budgeting my money each month. Success is not getting killed
and ***** on my walk home from work in the dark. Success is
living up to their standards and way of life. Success is faking a smile.
I’ve learned more about life in the last eight months than ever before.
I’ve made mistakes, just like they said I would. What they didn’t count
on was me learning from those mistakes and picking up the pieces.
They told me I wouldn’t last more than a month, six weeks at the most.
I would ***** up, fail miserably, get hurt and hospitalized. Thank you
for the boost of self-esteem. It’s made me tougher than steel.
I may not be the perfect student, skinny blonde ***** award winning
page designer or most eloquent writer. I may not speak Spanish fluently,
have loads of extra cash lying around or a motorized, state of the art
wheelchair. Stop telling me what I need. I don’t need or want any of them.
Success is living how I want to live. Success is a productive day when I want
nothing but hot tea and soft music. Success is having the confidence to ask
for help when I’ve been told I shouldn’t. Success is making friends who can
read through my masquerade. Success is facing the consequences. Success is
found through red ink marks and piles of papers. Success is not letting those
who don’t believe in me get the best of me. Success is sunshine on a cloudy day
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:29 PM UTC
His hat says
I Remember Pearl Harbor
He asks me to put the wine in the basket
Hanging behind his motorized wheelchair
He smells a little like ***
His sweatpants have dark stains all over
Like a leapord who has gone old and grey
"They can put a motor on one
of these things
but they can't make them comfortable"
"When you're an old man like me
maybe yours will fly
but I bet your *** will still fall asleep all the time"
I tell him
that when I am old
I hope they make wheelchairs
that feel like a father's shoulders
He shakes his head after I say that and laughs
"That sounds like it might be nice
But i couldn't say I know what that feels like"
Me neither
I tell him
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
I sit and I dream,
a parasitic dream,
where we aren't
who we were
and we aren't
how we seem.
Where I eat you
and you eat me
and somehow
we're still
happy.
In each pile of
body on body
I walk by
loneliness
and loss.
I love you's
and
I hate me's
saturate the air's
conscience.
Us,
the nation and all
are pinned against
each wall
being ******
mercilessly.
We are
**********
heartbreakers.
Our ***** are
property of
others:
intellectual property.
In my dream,
where I dream,
everyone
I've ever loved,
is dreaming
and
trapped in a pit
of motorized
rubber ******
where the rubber
pumps and eats,
pumps and eats,
breaking ribs,
shattering spines,
ripping esophagus,
splitting spirit like
tissue paper.
Bodies ripped apart
by branded, artificial
"love":
society's configuration.
Brand recognition.
Product placement.
Motor salad.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
at the end of the pier
no one is fishing
a couple from Jersey
leans out over the
rail looking down into
the brown swill
rolling under the
weathered boards
The wife remarked
“Belmar's water
is much nicer.”
on the Gulf’s edge
unhappy gulls convene,
plaintively gazing
over gray waves
ebbing at their feet
Brown Pelican crews
fly in long
ordered formations
incessantly circling
in widening rounds
seemingly reluctant to
plunge into the
endless depletion
of this aquatic
dead zone
I speak with a
Jefferson Parish employee
working a shovel
to regrade disturbed sand
boasting a consistency
of moist drying cement
“How did the Gulf oil spill
affect this place?” I ask
“It took evarding.” she said
With a slight Cajun accent,
“dig down a foot or two in da sand
you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar.
“I live down bay side
near forty years.
Had’nt been in de water fer
twenty five. The ******
******** took evarding.
They should go back
to Englund”
She went back to
tilling the sand.
Deepwater Horizon
yet festers a short
forty miles out to sea
is now covered by
an advancing storm
swelling in the Gulf
standing at the end
of the long pier
my hands grasp the
sun bleached lumber
straining my eyes
peering into a
dark avalanche
the serenade
of bird songs
have been replaced
by the motorized drone
of tenders servicing
offshore rigs
sounding
a constant refrain
filling my ears
with a disquieting
seaside symphony
the taste of
light sweet crude
dances on my tongue
the pungent sting
of disbursements
climbs into nostrils
rends my face
prickles my eyes
grandeur is a
conditional state
never permanent
forever temporary
Music Selection:
Cajun Music:
Hippy To-Yo
Grand Isle
2/20/17
jbm
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
i'll admit i found him humorous upon first sighting.
he was
obese,
with one leg,
in a motorized wheel chair,
wearing large sunglasses,
a volunteer firefighter cap,
and awkward headphones, circa '79.
"hello there, sir!"
he shouted as his wheel chair and body
shifted, slanted, bounced with each crack in the pavement.
"hey, how's it goin'?"
i called back, with a warm and hospitable tone.
i've been trying to be more social.
"i am blessed, but sir, would you be so kind
as to help me get some food?"
"yeah sure. where's the food?"
good deed for the day.
"i don't know, i guess around this here corner. i'm lookin' for that pizza place."
"oh okay, i think it's just over here past the bookstore."
"alright. what's your name, boy?
"josh. and yours, sir?"
"james. josh it is a pleasure to meet you. and i thank you.
you see i'm homeless, mr. josh. and you wouldn't believe
how often people turn away from me, josh."
"that's awful."
"yes it is. but i pray for them.
they need it.
may the lord forgive them. may the lord forgive me."
"here's that pizza place."
"excellent. would you go in and get me some food?"
oh. i'm buying him food.
that's what "help me get some food" means.
"of course. what would you like?"
i returned ten minutes later with a gyro, a pepsi, and some chips.
"thank you mr. josh," he said with a bright smile, "this will be a fine meal.
now, josh, you have done a good thing. look at my eyes."
he removed his sunglasses.
his eyes seemed normal enough.
"i ain't no druggy or dope fiend. i'm just james w. green. mr. green.
i was a bass player that just fell on some bad luck. now josh, i'm asking
you as a friend to just give me a little more, so i can eat tonight."
this made me uncomfortable.
i hate to admit it, but i began to suspect this uni-legged, bass player, of ripping me off.
i gave him a 5-dollar bill. that's a weeks worth of suppers at taco bell.
he said a prayer for me.
then he asked me on behalf of jesus,
"can you look into your heart and give generously? just one big donation and who knows what could happen!?"
i gave him another ten.
"thank you mr. josh. i appreciate it. remember me? and do me a favor?"
"sure."
"tell the world about mr.green!"
you're welcome, james.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 1:41 PM UTC
Used to smoke a pack a day,
now it’s just two cigarettes
in the evening time,
when the lady is in the shower
and after the ******
has been smoked.
I sit on the ledge of our patio,
legs stretched out
Exhaling long trails of smoke.
observing
the busy apartment complex.
Mainly blacks & Mexicans
with a dash of Apache Junction
white trash.
Two girls
in their early twenties
sit on a bench in the little courtyard
talking loudly.
gesturing wildly
about some ***** neither can stand.
Purple lightning flashes overhead,
illuminating
the courtyard.
Then it begins to sprinkle
And then it starts to rain.
A woman walks down the stairs from her apartment.
She’s barefoot and smiling,
head tilted up towards the sky,
taking in deep breaths
of the good rain smell.
I imagine she’s been waiting for this.
Waiting on the rain.
In her apartment.
It’s really started coming down.
She couldn’t light her cigarette,
the rain was dropping from everywhere.
Two children
run and skip down the sidewalk
with their mother running close behind.
Her arms, both of them,
full of mail, grocery bags, and a baby,
yellin at her kids,
“hurry, hurry, hurry up. C’mon, the mail is getting wet and I got Netflix
here, ********* move your *****
A man in a motorized wheelchair
Emerges from one of the halls
across the courtyard.
I watch his electric chair
buzz by on the sidewalk.
He was going for a full lap
of the place it seemed.
When he passed me, I saw
droplets of rain
breaking on his face and streaming down.
Grinning ear to ear
he winked one eye at me.
made me smile.
This is Arizona.
Rain in the summer is a gift.
Means a lot to us. All of us
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
I see the cockroach
caress the counter next to a brewing
*** of coffee, striking a chord of
crystaline sweetness,
that God and Satan could both agree upon.
In the living room,
my best friends are killing each other,
kissing each other,
falling in love,
snagging,
splitting stitches,
chalk outlines,
black mail,
and hopes for a resurrection
swirl and spin with the scent
of perfume
and coffee beans.
My phone lights up with a message
asking for some real advice,
my response is to get a new religion,
and wait for the bombs to fall.
Outside
light pollution fills the sky,
an eerie day that just won't die,
negotiating with eager streetlights,
and all-night diners.
On the corner
of 23rd and Western,
a dancing grinderman,
a homeless woman with a snaggletooth smile,
and their prize of a monkey
are cutting the night with desperation croons,
and delightful foresight.
Just past the construction on the east side of the city,
a one-legged, heathen named James W. Green
is finding solace with
a defeated, overthehill harlot,
going to and fro in a motorized sanctuary,
and grabbing change from her coin-dispensing hips.
I discover a pen embedded in the carpet,
I spend the rest of the evening split
between Midnight Man poetry,
and dictating divine apocrypha,
while once bright-eyed friends of mine
mourn over marriage, self-medication strategies,
and scrape the bottom of the barrel
with their tongues to ensure it's tangible.
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 7:42 AM UTC
the last time i flew
it was daylight
i didn’t look out the window.
now
i look outside and see
a thousand lights;
and each light is
a thousand souls
burning against
the
gaslamp yellow nightscape.
clouds provide a familiar metaphor
yet those nightshade souls still glimmer through
where the cotton grey
is weakest
shining
as i like to imagine they will always shine
even though i know
that always is a relative term.
once in Tokyo i had the perfect drink
like electric moonbeams
and violets
and secrets soaked in gin.
i taste it here
in the recycled air above the nightscape
while viewing the souls
that may or may not be
the remnants of fevered dreams.
listen with me
if we’re very quiet, we can hear
the faint strains of
tokyo jazz
filtering through the soft thrum
of wheels and
motorized air
and a crying baby that’s never tasted
the smoky sweet burn of gin and juniper.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
My black cat
of twelve years
pretends not to know me
following my five months of hospitalized absence.
Perhaps it is the newly acquired wheelchair,
or the motorized invalid bed?
Why should he be any different than some old friends
whose calls are now noticeably less frequent
than prior to my paralyzing accident?
Or perhaps it is I,
too cinched up in my need bag
to reach out for a pet pat
or a pal chat?
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
1
He leant down
Quietly carving his name into the sand;
The pursuing waves,
Repeatedly rippling forward, with
The force of a motorized modern army
Gunning down civilians,
Dragged it clean.
Flies loquaciously buzzed around his head,
As, crushing down seaweed,
He carved his name again.
2.
The roots dug deep, pushing against
The soil. The particles spread apart
With sexless ardour. The man,
Of a tolerant disposition, wrenched
The roots free with drenched hands.
Nothing lasted forever.
3.
The yellow and green of the sunrise
Turned swiftly into unpretentious browns
The light changing shape as the
Morning matured and the sun
Rose further in the sky. Pumped up
Clouds rolled sinuously along, combining and separating
Like fantastic amoeba.
4.
And so it continued
Under the burning sun; more spiteful from year to year.
The man said nothing
As he climbed into the salt water,
Gulls circumnavigating above his head,
With nothing to say or remember
Except the lines in the sand.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
for Beau
this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head
that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,
I thank you suchly muchly
musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!
though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number
no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge
but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator
P.S. It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
That thin line is where
I want to be
Cut off between us two.
No matter how much we
change, this line will
always be.
Between motorized vehicles
the patter of shoes, old & new.
Spaced out between concrete plateaus and
painted highway lines.
The onlookers & passerbys
caught in the wind without second glance,
that thin line where I want to be
Can only be described as
Beside you.
Between the trees, beside the small lakes & birds
of your imagination,
That thin line where I end & you begin.
Our invisible bridge where my voice
tickles your ear & is miles long
That thin line that grasps your hand & mind.
No matter how much we change
this line will always be
& this line where we always meet
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 5:13 PM UTC
I struggle with the seatbelt in your car.
You express passionately,
"You'll have to stay with me forever."
You don't understand how much it frustrates me that I love you.
Because I know the whole unadventured world lays ill at ease outside your smeary windows.
But the safe sentiment of your vehicle leaves me wrestling with myself.
To be free or to be unassailable.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
This is where the beech tree fell
all that remains is a splintered stump
all the birds morn her death
and with no songs bow their heads
The forest weeps in silent tears in falling leaves
for she was the last boarder of the ancient woodlands
now her shadow with never be cast in her majestic frame
never one liken to her will ever be seen again
Through the years by the new road
she had endured motorized impacts
even her new buds of early spring
would replace their own when singed
Mighty was her endurance of winds swift and fast
she had withstood the blight of many a parasite
had broken off limbs for the fear of loosing all
on hot heat waves that could finish ones all
In her younger years of life
she had witnessed great battles
seen many a brave man
fall on her espied battlefield
Yet that night of that great tempest
she made her whispers to the others
and as the corn turned ****** red
she resigned herself to her death bed
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Entombed in chrome, steel, and speed,
Humanity slays the night
With headlights,
Banshee engines screaming
V8 defiance,
High-octane ghosts in the exhausts
Bellowing spectral smoke,
A motorized mausoleum
Driving away from nature
And slipping into darkness
In the midnight heart
Of a graveyard city.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
This is a poem
made by her hand
a poem of marks
you can read
left to right
right to left
any which way
an ascemic script
it tells a tale
late in the day
beside a river still
sunlit clouds vast
in a Maytime sky
down on the mud
and shingled shore
these found things
arrived at her feet
as they do when
waiting for her
dear hand’s touch
upon their metalled
forms rusted and
rivered by the daily
tides the diurnal
wash and dry of
weather and watered
river mud-coloured
beside boats bedded
in the river bank each
plaqued to remember
thirty wooden boats in all
that plied a river’s journey
there and back once
to and fro now
charged up high
on Pulton shore
a motorized trow
a top-sail schooner
Edith and the
New Despatch
steel and concrete
barges Severn Collier
and Mighty Monarch
lying hard into the silt
a yard at rest
a grave of vessels
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Shifting forward
I'm ready for this
rubber on gravel, creaking
I'm ready to not be here
fleeting air on skin
One step, one chance
a sudden screech
I'll pretend I didn't see him
walking casually
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
If I was a droid,
life wouldn't feel the same.
I'd see the world through holograms,
kiss cold-lips, feel just a bit of heat in my LED.
My joints would be motorized-gears, not sinew.
But would I even have the emotion to want to kiss,
any desire to engage in such physical contact?
There would be no need for any of that.
Everything would be just useless-information.
There would be no warmth from the sun
on my Teflon skin, no sex-organ to act
on my lack of inhibitions,
smell would mean nothing.
So I guess,
if I were a droid,
I'd be bored to death &
not living, just existing
in a body containing
diodes & transistors,
hard drives & resistors.
I'd be integrated, solid-state,
driving a data-bus to nowhere,
doomed to misery,
a pathetic, an unfeeling state,
without a real date.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
Burning red eyed glow
Cool to your embers
Blow smothering the flame
Bonfire emotes in flame
Blue oceans deep pass over your heat
Let me sink in I've dove deep
Your pools of blue
Draw and drown
Magnetic energy motorized within me
I spark
Hitherto never shocked
White blinding light
Disappear in the cloud
Trampoline of cotton
Take me higher, higher
Show me wonder
Don't drop me.
For I will fall onto the green
Grass won't stop this descent
Bush won't cushion this fall
Tree won't just impale
Forest nights grow darker
I'm lying down on my blanket
Pressing into the lush
Breathing nostrils tendril tickles
Sink a half inch deeper
into the bending saber tips
Watch from your tower
Rays of gold meld and procreate naturally
Don't take my warmth and life
Golden globular orb melting sloughing sliding down
Un-fathomable happiness
Limitless light life justice
Ice cold depression
Death wallow in grief
When the mighty winks goodbye
The black will rule
Hades rises
Hellish requiem depress souls
Let the forms wander as empty husks
Tombs line roads and no light to see them
Take my vision hearing smelling
Leave me warmth
Even your red eyed glow
I submit
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
On the highway, 3am,
a myriad of stars
looms over the expanse
like a blanket of fairy dust-
you're the only one on the road
You pull off onto the shoulder - stop-
climb out of that motorized wagon,
lean back against a fender-
Stretch those legs a bit
What was it that made you stop....
Something....inexplicable
The desert can get cool at night-
the silence.....part of the mystique,
creating the mood, for what
is about to come.....
You stiffen...silent...pensive
a slight breeze begins to lift-
becoming stronger-more gusty
You turn, facing it-
'listening', waiting....for what?
'for the rumble'
Faint at first
growing louder as it nears-
the sound of steel and wood
breaking the silence
Wagon Wheels!
roll'n atop the wind!
The migration West-
their spirits riding,
relentless in purpose-
Men...women.... children....
You can only imagine-
the expression on their faces-
determined.....dauntless.....
building this country-
You smile.....
as they pass.......
How proud of them, you are....
the spirits of our ancestors
Who carved the path-
A drop of a tear-
as the roars of the wagons
Quieten.......fading........
into..... silence
Standing poised....
absorbing the beauty.........
You understand the magic-....
of its solitude.
the desert
at night
copyright: richard riddle October 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Rain runs down the windshield, blurring brake lights
Heavy drops concentrated into rivulets
Swept away by motorized arms on the glass
Red brick blurs by in the corner of my eye
Speeding by neon signs in the dark
A worn down face on a bar stool, just a glimpse
Of a tired lonely life, drowned in a bottle
When he wakes up in the morning, shivering under sheets
The chill of sweat soaking the mattress
The pounding in his head like hammers smashing bricks
The smell of last nights sickness, cloying & rancid
That spot where she used to lay her head is empty
That spot where she used to lay her body is cold
That spot where she used to touch his heart is burning
Burning like that cheap whiskey he sips with tap water
Burning like her pictures in the fireplace
Burning like the sickness in his stomach
Chained to a bottle & a memory long forgotten
Puddles keep forming, rearranging the dirt
But he's seen enough, for tonight & all other nights
Enough rain & enough snow, he wants sunshine
To sit & sweat, feel the enveloping warmth of summer
When he was young & everything was possible
No one could die & the world was so beautiful
But now all he sees is ugliness & futility
Now all he sees is her face
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 4:55 AM UTC
I say always play nice with the neighbors, don’t rile them up or make them sore
But my wife,( who’s a bit of a hot head), went to war with the people next door.
The “causas belli” are murky, the results of the skirmish unclear
But the fellow next door is a hacker; now me and the wife live in fear.
We have every modern convenience; programmable gadgets galore.
But your password should never be “password” when fighting the hacker next door.
Our motorized shades were ascending as the missus was trying to dress.
“Alexa” just called her a “fat Cow”- who programmed that is easy to guess.
In the depth of the winter we’re freezing As our AC is in his control.
When we shower the temperature varies. Its either too hot or too cold.
We spent thousands on home automation. But now we are riddled with doubt.
We tried for a truce, but , alas, it’s no use. Now we’re paying to tear it all out!
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:58 PM UTC
(From October, 2015)
On the highway, 3am,
a myriad of stars
looms over the expanse
like a blanket of fairy dust-
You're the only one on the road
You pull off onto the shoulder - stop-
climb out of that motorized wagon,
lean back against a fender-
Stretch those legs a bit
What was it that made you stop....
Something....inexplicable
The desert can get cool at night-
the silence.....part of the mystique,
creating the mood, for what
is about to come.....
You stiffen...silent...pensive
a slight breeze begins to lift-
becoming stronger-more gusty
You turn, facing it-
'listening', waiting....for what?
'for the rumble'
Faint at first
growing louder as it nears-
the sound of steel and wood
breaking the silence
*Wagon Wheels!
roll'n atop the wind!*
The migration West-
their spirits riding,
relentless in purpose-
Men...women.... children....
You can only imagine-
the expression on their faces-
determined.....dauntless.....
building this country-
You smile.....
as they pass.......
How proud of them, you are....
the spirits of our ancestors
Who carved the path-
A drop of a tear-
as the roars of the wagons
Quieten.......fading........
into..... silence
Standing poised....
absorbing the beauty.........
You understand the magic-....
of its solitude.
*the desert....
at night*
copyright: richard riddle October 26, 2015
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
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Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC