Rpms poems on Hello Poetry

Grant Mailo Aug 2012

as I step on the clutch and engage the gear,
I adjust the mirror and look in the rear.
cherries and berries are nowhere in sight,
yellow turns to red as I set to take flight.
boosting RPMs between three and four,
I'm ready to kick the gas down to the floor.
red turns to green and I'm off down the street,
in less than 9 seconds my opponent suffers defeat.

bored so I felt like writing something simple. passed only about 10 minutes of my time lol I need to go to sleep.

Mary McCray Apr 2015

30 Poems About Suffering: Hindsight Bias

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 19, 2015)

Sometimes called the “I-knew-it-all-along” effect, the tendency to see past events as being predictable at the time those events happened.

Today—no question what we would talk about:
L’entrée de Barry Manilow, or as the French say,
Faire son coming out, as if homosexualité

was Americain. You know, like the French
used to say making love in the English way
while the English were saying making love

in the French way. Meanwhile my own closet
of 33 rpms and fan-club letters and all those
barroom assertions. Is he? Isn’t he?

What is the nature of his love? So benevolent
to his fans, surprising them at the piano
of their houses, the spotlight of polite

amid rock and roll infamy. This hindsight
bias is tricky: "At the time." Since when?
Every moment to the now we speak of it.

The was that made the is to be: we will argue this
to our thrones. Like literary ironies of thigh master,
controversial poet of the bedroom farce,

Krissy Snow and her gentle flurry of confession.
Zaftig fans with their quinquagenarian chest pains.
Fantasy is always predictable. It never was.

They are screaming like Beatlemaniacs.
The happy hour question left for us now:
What is the nature of their love?

Huff Post reported that Barry Manilow was outed yesterday by his friend Suzanne Somers.

#napowrimo #napowrimo2015bd

spysgrandson Oct 2013

sang-froid

did you see him,
the stranger,
coming
crotch rocketing
down your tree lined street?
did you see the child
his sandy hair splayed
by his own journey
flying through the dusk
pedaling his bike pell-mell to eternity,
or the end of the block
where his father stood akimbo,
talking soccer, while mother
washed the windows of her SUV
did you recognize the whine
of accelerating RPMs bouncing
off the safe houses,
the cleansed castles
where time’s dust was chased away
by growing mutual funds
and manicured hands
before it had time gather
as dust ultimately must
did you see him
coming
to spoil your story
with a mangled pile
of flesh and Tommy Hilfiger
so far from the desert bombs
your labors paid to build
did you hear the sound
of your own breath when
you ran to see
or did the screams
of all the mothers
of all the stars
awaken you from a dream
did you sleep that night
without the sight of white death
in the fields of suburbia
far from where blood
was written to be spilled
by darker skin under blackened skies
forever invisible to your eyes?

written while in the clutches of writers block, whatever that means

hwilliams Nov 2014

I See This City In Myself

Maybe family roots are calling, so I'll sing back.
Maybe the "streets is watching" -- so I'll wink back.
A city, teeth-deep in tragedy that still talks back.
Detroit, I think we've got something in common, maybe I'll come back.

In the gut of the city, see spots gutted, yeah I know the feeling.
rough and tough, been through enough but there's still bigger-badders threatening.
They say they'll huff, and then they'll puff, and blow your house down again.
This just got hairy, not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.

In the aftermath of perfect disasters in a domino series,
all eyes glue on the ruins, scanning for signs of life & death amid debris,
it's prime-time on Tragedy Channel for train wreck week,
strollin' out of the dirt with a smirk...hey D ---look we're on TV.

Wearing hurt like a shirt, Detroit you're my remedy.
That heartbeat, that house drum, that low, growling energy.
Many think this city is dwindling, Detroit lights are dimming lately.
But listen for that low hum, under the pavement, feel the rumble under your Nikes.

An army survivors, are-me's telling stories in different ways.
Listen to my movement, see me be the music, throttle always open, Motor-City made.
Watch feet jittin' and go cross-eyed, 3000 RPMs in one take.
Music-macguyvers throwing backspins into air-flares, on the snow or in the rain.

Maybe family roots are calling, so I'll sing back.
Maybe the "streets is watching" -- so I'll wink back.
A city, teeth-deep in tragedy that still talks back.
In this city I see myself, we're both about to make a come-back.

#detroit #michigan

Mica Kluge Jan 2016

A Quietly Wild Girl and Her Stick Shift

I called her
At three am.
I asked her if
She was awake.
She lied and said
That she was.
I had woken her up.
"Take me somewhere,"
I asked her.

She had a car.
I didn't.

I didn't think
She would actually
Come because she
Hated mornings.

We were in college
Then, and I met her
In the parking lot.

She held a cup of
Coffee and was
Dressed in a hoodie
And sweatpants.

In the darkness,
I couldn't see
Her eyes.
I thought she was
Still asleep.
Was I ever wrong.

She opened the door
Of her car and
Slid in, lithe as
A cat.

I had never ridden
With her, so the
Moment I climbed
In the car was
The moment I learned
Something unusual
About her:
This girl I knew,
Or thought I did,
Drove a stick shift.
She was the only
Girl I knew who
Could drive a stick shift.

"Are you sure that you're
Awake enough to drive?"
I asked her.

She turned to me,
And, now, I could see
Her eyes in the light
Of the dash display.
I had never seen her,
This shy academic,
Look that wild.
She was alive,
More alive than
I had ever seen
Anyone.

She drove like
She had been born to,
Like it was her one purpose,
The one thing for which
She lived.

The empty three am interstate.
The space between three and four
Thousand rpms.
Incredibly loud music.
I could see the appeal.

This was life.
This was living.

We came back to reality,
Back to school,
As the dawn broke.
"Thank you," I told her,
But I didn't know what for.

I couldn't make a list of what
She had given me that
I was grateful for.
I didn't know if I was grateful.
Having lived in that high,
I couldn't go back to
My life, eking out my existence,
Without such intense torture,
Wanting that high again.

I had lived and
Now, I was addicted to life.
All because of a
Quietly wild girl
And her stick shift.

#life #living #driving #wild #3am

Mica Kluge Dec 2017

Heartsick

I am looking for what's left of my broken heart
In the space between four and five thousand rpms.

There's a dark chocolate Milky Way in one hand,
And a noisily rattling gear shift under the other,
A steering wheel under my left knee, espresso
In my cupholder, and my right foot on the gas.

As if tearing my way through the entirety of Virginia
With streetlamps illuminating tear-stained cheeks
And a voice gone silent from too much screaming
And eardrums dysfunctional from too-loud music
Can unmake the pain riding in my passenger seat.

I already know the answer, but I like playing dumb.

I know I'm just running; I know this is not healing.
But, for right now, it's helping. It's a local anesthetic.
It stifles memories of misplaced trust and heartache
And things that I know were not my fault but I blame
Myself for anyways. You. I blame myself for you.

So here I am, world illuminated by insomniac headlights,
Looking for the face of God in a Christ-haunted world.

Time will always be split: before and after. There's this place in between, and I call it heartsick.

#loss #love #family #life #pain

RobbieG Nov 2021

Unprescribed Remedies

Among the many remedies to fight stress and release anger
I have custom tailored my own cures for my mental-health

Like tearing through my firebirds 4 speed as I take off like a bat out of hell and watch the rpms climb to redline

Like hopping in my truck and burning out while cruising down backroads listening to the radio all the way turned up

Like taking my dog Buster for a hike and watching him enjoy some one on one time with me out in the woods by where we live

Like writing poetry just as quickly as the words try to weigh heavy on my mind, each line wrote prevents the bottling up

These are my most popular ones among some more but most importantly require no dependancy on drugs prescribed by a doctor

Gas, tires, oil changes and dog food is much cheaper than hurt feelings, broken relationships, criminal record or attorney fees

Plan for the worse, hope for the best and if **** could hit the fan then eventually it probably will....... So have a plan

— The End —