"skidded" poems
trucking down the highway i turned on my cb then a mellow voice said youll be safe with me
i dont know who it was id never heard that voice before so i said goodbye and carried on once more
further down the road i was driving in to snow then i skidded of the road with
just two miles to go. everything was hazy and i couldnt see then i heard a voice again saying now your safe with me
now i was in heaven now my life was free now i know what he meant by youll be safe with me.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 10:14 AM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
He was never as good as the other children,
At school they made him think he was to slow
For their games of
Hide
&
Seek
As how hard is it to find a slug when
A slippery, slimy trails left behind him.
He was never that fast always taking
Time to get to those places that
Others would speedily get too.
But what was the fun of missing
Views,
People,
Scenery
Always rushed past, he would take a
Moment to speak to those taking time
Out of a gradual slow day, until someone not
Gazing,
Looking,
Noticing
The slimly little trail, as they disappeared
Down a soggy path, anger turned to laugher
As they had the time of their life.
And on that day a new venture was played
A slowly little fellow,
Would slowly edge his way up the hill.
Once he was there, once he chilled out, they
Slipped,
Slithered,
Skidded,
Down the slope with glee, a little fellow
He didn't run, jump, skip, only slowly walked,
But no one minded. It wasn't the climb up,
The school walk wasn't as slow anymore,
It was the speed that everyone went the other way down.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Forlorn pleas, angst and aching laments,
Thick like a melange of surreptitiously smoked cigarettes,
And plastics that have melted and burned while too close to the heater.
The teen angst hangs in the depressions and around the corners of this place
Where it is damp and wet in the just-breaking morning.
Among the verdant green, earth-rupturing sprouts
There are flower buds that threaten to burst.
The spring landscape here reveals hewn timber,
And crafted structures
Yet also black loamy dirt
Dredged up from beneath the swollen green carpet
Of ferns and sod,
Marking the unmistakable path
Of an errant vehicle,
That skidded unexpectedly from the narrow road.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
We got drunk
In the moonlight
On a veranda
We weren't able
To pronounce
Some crops of
Cops
Spewed out onto a
Garbage caked
Street
We laughed and
Shouted and
Squealed as they
Peeled and skidded
On their
Plastic heeled
Boots
Were we
Mad back than,
Or just
Happy?
We were drunk
On the veranda
At dawn and at
Midnight
We were alive in
Time where
Time was drunk
And didn't want
To BE time
Humanity
Collapsing and
Taking over
The world
For GOOD
This time
Evil was a
Pip squeak that
Got caught cheating
On their
Science exam
While we
Aced it
Hung over
From the
Veranda
Night embraced us
as
The morning
Clothed us
On that veranda
We were
Quite
Taken
Care of
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
Buddha was the broken hourglass
that spilled seconds across my backyard.
Mother Earth scolded him for his slipup,
so I smoothed her over with my minute hands.
She told me that he who skips an interval
needs to double back his ticks
so, grain by grain, tick by tock.
She rewound my hands to round out
the stonewashed garden that was being fabricated.
So I steadily swept shards of seconds
under the rugged rug of ill will.
I riddled ripples within her granular skin,
skidded stones across her carved clock
face fitting ****** features together like cogs.
Buddha shook the soil off
and fixed his gaze on my clockwork.
He explained that patience is key
if one wants to harvest his feast.
Before the goods go about,
pivots and rivets need to tie together.
Mother Earth collected her thoughts
and agreed with his concept.
I finished my work, stepped back,
admiring the hourglass I rebuilt.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
In the dark velvet lining of a humid gilded box
is a little china doll:
a delicate charm for her grandmother's gold bracelet.
She lies languid. Her sinews are chains and her bones glass.
Light swarms through her: a mess of wispy snakes.
At noon
it bounces wildly like the pinball game
she's heard so enthusiastically described
in a wildly raucous rock and roll song.
Tentatively she reaches for the stars painted through her hair
raised a bit like brail and hot to the touch.
They're made of fire billions of miles away.
They have halos radiant at midnight.
At midnight
the humid gilded box
is damp and muggy and she twists and wakes
sullen with panic and covered in stardust.
The grime of the moon coats her gingham dress,
collected as she skidded to home plate.
Precious Darling,
Bless her heart,
for unbeknownst to her the humid gilded box
is within a teapot,
upon a shelf,
within a cupboard,
beside a grandfather clock
that chimes at each curly hour and rattles the gilding
so that as the hours pass - as the days disappear:
her darling little precious box
dims like the tapestry her grandmother hung
to mourn the grandfather clock.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Fantasy. Take a second look. This is literally one angle on the only fiance I've ever had. No joke. Mebbe see the sonnet titled "why did you hafta die?" next?
(sonnet # DCCCXXV)
We skidded round the corner and the p'lice
Were in our face. "Oh boy, we're out of space
Babe--just be brave, we're gonna win. Disgrace
Will keep them on our case 'til we decrease
Those ******** 'Til they skulk and beg for peace.
Now hang on tight"--(shifts in reverse)--"and brace
Yourself"--(tires squealing loudly)--"we'll retrace--
It might be hard--hold on--don't drop your piece!"
We ducked our heads, careening blythely through
A blockade, sending cars flying everywhere.
Out on the open road 'gain finally, too
Alert to miss a beat--"Get ready! Ere
You see them--fire! This is our rendezvous--"
We won at six. He's now their head. Take care.
05May12
D185c
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
... moving along from Chronicles of a Big Fat Yellow Bootay - (as the title)
She skidded
up SO close,
to that big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay
that was in her way,
that no more than
the width of
a hair
stood between
em.
Long rubber tracks
and patches painting the
road.
Her tires worn thin,
she started to grin.
This big fat bus
with his big fat yellow bootay
was heard to say,
"Whoa,
slow down there little
darlin’.
What’s the big rush?
You almost crashed
into me.
And that quite possibly,
most entirely possibly,
could have,
led to
the end,
for both me,
and for you.
And by the way,
exactly where are
you supposed
to be now?
What are you doing
up in this part of town?"
Oops!
Wrong big fat bus
to be running
into.
She mumbled
her sorries,
threw herself
into reverse,
and high-tailed it
out of there
right quickity quick!
her heart was a beatin',
her heart was a poundin’,
THIS was living!
THIS is what it
felt like
to be
ALIVE!
Really alive!
and not driving along at
STINKIN' 25!
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
I’d much rather push up daffodils than daisies,
should summer be renamed sprung?
Last winter, so cold
I worried all the birds would freeze,
fed them toast, dreamt of knitting them jackets.
A robin died in my hands on Christmas eve one year,
Found on chewing gum pavements barely breathing,
his soft little breast rising and falling heavily like snow,
his neck a little droopy, so soft he was almost boneless,
frighteningly fragile, lovely.
Osiris’ scales about to be tipped,
I tripped and skidded the way home,
broken bird in one hand, dog lead straining the other.
As the door swung open,
a **** for breath, his twist of head and then…
This bird is dead dirt.
His orange crumbled.
Buried in a dog food box,
The guilt of knowledge lies under the duvet,
the winter grows stagnant.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 1:18 PM UTC
I am a work in progress.
A soul adrift.
I have drifted over many seas,
Over beaches and mountains,
Islands and deserts.
I have climbed volcanoes,
and heard the hiss of the sun sinking into the waters.
I have climbed over boulders at midnight,
and skidded with rockslides over barren ground.
I have seen lakes of blue, green, gray, black, white and red.
I have seen a million shades of green.
I have tasted the extravagance of fresh air,
and have been choked by smog and smoke.
I have joined in your rituals,
and told you details of my own.
I have cast spells.
I have summoned courage.
I have spoken in tongues foreign to my own.
I have been understood,
and misundestood,
time and time again.
I have been known,
and i have been a nameless stranger.
I have felt the heat of love,
and the pangs of a broken heart.
I have known longing's name.
I have shaken fear's hand.
I have developed,
I have changed.
I will continue to do so.
I am a work in progress.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
Her hair rested on her back in a silk shift
as she balanced on the arm of the recliner.
She sat on her perch. Her dress wrinkled with time.
The radio was always on nowadays-
the names played, but they’d turned into
the hum of a thousand worker bees.
The faint spring breeze skidded in and out of the open window
and rippled the yellow ribbon,
tied in a careful bow around the tree in the front yard.
His dog tag swung in the breeze from the curtain rod.
The light caught it and released it over and over
like a trapped swordfish.
A crow flew in the open window and hopped on the sill-
a three-dimensional, feathered
oil spill in the living room.
The sunlight split its blackness
into a display of emeralds and amethysts.
The crow set its astute eye on the glinting dog tag,
took the thing in its beak,
and glided out the window with a flourish.
She watched it leave.
She went to the kitchen drawer,
withdrew a pair of scissors,
and went outside.
The yellow ribbon, now severed in two,
fell to the grass with a flutter.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:01 AM UTC
To the right of my mind
a stuttering shudder stroked
into a conjuring trick
mist and fog precluded
with eternal density
Giving way to a definite
bypass of emotion
sitting, wondering, hammering
for the solution to troubled
senses that gripped in tight fists
Gradual senseless doubts
fogged up the highway
skidded into black icy fear
the foghorn sounding its blast
Announcing its brazen load
Keep me safe in corners
despite their black features
poking at me, barricading
my tomorrow with segmented
troubles, woven in pin pricking motion
Grinding statues were still
age transforming their limbs
into crumbling confinement
I struck out and rallied
them, together we circled
Transforming our once isolated
innards into sharing heart
shaped sentences
heard by those who chose to hear
and found droplets of hope
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
Under the soft white glare of the moon
I watched you saunter out of my door, my life to soon
The memories of you linger like your cologne
That helps mask the feeling of you being gone, me alone
I roam the house hearing your laughter
I miss our playful banter
If only you would have stayed with me that night
But only the moon seen that tragic sight
The black marks on the road is all that gives a testimony
The stars where the only witness to the ceremony
Of the Grim Reaper's touch
As your spirit he clutched
He escorted you away from the pain
Your car had skidded and flipped in the rain
My life will never again be the same
In you I had finally found
My bliss
I found my missing passion in you kiss
I found my joy for life in your arms
You chased away my demons with your charms
Your laughter repaired my broken heart
Your love making was a piece of art
Your comforting words in the middle of my despair
They where what I inhale
They where my air
Your heart was what made my blood circulate
How, oh how could this be our fate
Why did you have to go out that night
Why didn't I go with you, because this isn't right
I can't live without my missing parts
You had my heart
You where my soul
Why did you have to go
Why did you leave without me
Surly the fates could forsee
I would crumble, shatter, splinter into bits
For now all alone in our bed I sit
The tears all ran dry
I sit here and contemplate why
Feeling so **** numb inside
Wishing I too would just die
How sweet it would be to let out life's last sigh
I'll be just like that annoying magpie
I will stalk you, till you let my spirit fly
Grim Reaper let me clarify
I'm slitting my wrist and you know why
You know what that implies
My spirit you won't be able to deny
Let me kiss,my now empty life goodby
So I can once again be with my guy
In the plain beyond, in the sweet by-and-by
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
We can sense it.
Something deplorable
is about to happen--
we can no longer stop the ranks
of housebroken infidels
from migrating into the wild
they have never encountered
beyond photo and film.
It's coming out! The stampede
of hairy-legged pheromones
we could once browbeat
into prepubescent shame
with the speed of a smack
upon the tender noggin!
It takes courage to enjoy
the canned campfire stories
we passed off as ageless doctrine.
How they once recoiled, squirming
like slugs thrown in a salt mine!
Now the writhing is self-inflicted,
the sweat off their brows no longer
cold, damp beads but now welcome
lubrication that slithers down
their lecherous masses of flesh!
Despite our most dogmatic toiling,
the iron shroud has revealed itself
as a featherweight curtain within a few tugs.
Anyone else feel the walls shake to and fro?
Why does the water in that glass ripple so?
Has it arrived already? The end of our reign
as dictators of the prevailing value system?
Fetch thee the community smelling salts!
Too late! The young and vulnerable
have already begun to trample!
Push the powder out of your wigs
to blind yourself from the carnage!
*The Age of Inhibition has screeched
and skidded into its evil twin's Renaissance.
Big time sensuality has straddled the saddle,
too busy racing avenues to declare victory.*
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
It’s sometime past midnight
on a wednesday,
stumbling around the
house once again,
where floorboards
cry out and I resent
every thing I said
and held back,
every cigarette
that whispered
until my lungs
turned black,
shards of beer
labels collide
with dust piles,
ashes skidded
aimlessly on
the pine,
hopelessly wandering
looking into
hindsight
was only
a mess to
clean up,
I haven’t eaten today
but the dishes are *****
it’s 11:30
and I’m glued
to the bedsheets
as the bed weeps
with each toss and turn
comes contemplation
to cross and burn every
memory embedded,
the bedroom smells
like cloudy ashtrays
and things unfinished,
our paths crossed
in october,
and yesterday was
tough on everyone.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
The desert air was
stealing water
from the children’s skin.
Their German Shepherd
sprinted along the rusting fence,
her paws flinging dust storms and
leaving a foot-deep moat in their path.
The children’s mother filled the bitch’s trench to its brim
with water from the plastic hose.
It almost melted in her hands--
its oily rubber stench
gave her a headache and she went to rest in the
air-conditioned kitchen, leaving
her ******** son in the care of the middle child,
the daughter from the same father.
Her ******* daughter sat waiting for her,
quivering in a wooden chair.
As her mother rested, her
tears pooled on the table, and she
stuttered to Mother about what their father
stole from her body.
Their mother’s blood became bile,
realizing the man she married
was a monster.
The mother stood up from her splintered chair
to gaze through the murky window
at the children she bore with the beast.
They skidded on their tummies across the only wetland
in the lowly desert town, giggling and
splashing their limbs in the filthy yard.
She wondered how she would tell her son
that they were moving far away, without daddy.
She frowned at the daughter of the *********
could she have at least
one stable child?
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
On my way to post a letter
Out my car Windows
I saw a grammar
Make a dash across the road
In an effort to be punctual
To a function at the TAB.
I skidded my car to a full stop,
Lost control in her direction,
Not in time to avoid my space-bar
I dashed over to find
She was in a comma!
Hit with a forward slash
It was a capital offense
I could not escape
Yet I was bold,
Tensely outlined the events
They docked a dot point
off my pen licence
and after bringing me before the keyboard
Sentenced me to a short spell
In a prison pen
(as it was just a lower case).
Entering the ward,
I paged the shift nurse
After her line break
‘- Would she wake?’
As it turns out her back space
Will have question marks
But her chances are greater-than most
Her progress is fontastic
For her age bracket
But her colon was disturbed -
She may have trouble
with
her
vowels.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
Well, babe, I’ve been let go
I am still learning how to let go.
My hands are so tired.
The people we once were,
the you I once knew,
evaporate into the rearview.
If you refuse to drive
hell, if you won’t even touch the wheel
we’ll keep speeding toward something too dark,
something neither of us can name.
I don't want that for us.
If not for me, then for you.
If I take my foot off the gas,
we go nowhere.
You said, let go.
But there is no way I can let go
without leaving you behind.
We don’t have to crash.
Babe, I’m tired.
We’ve driven too far past the last exit to turn around.
Skidded across the median more times than I’d like.
I don’t mind the potholes,
the chipped paint,
or the blurred lines.
but if we pull over,
I’m not getting back behind the wheel
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 4:21 PM UTC
He awoke on frozen concrete,
The broken glass.
Locked door, let the house run down around us,
At least we’re safe, right?
We had Time on our hands, we always said we’d go Someplace,
said our youth was a tragedy.
We’re our own worst enemies, silent screaming, kicking ourselves out the door, glass limbs.
Your hands fumbling over the catch of the lock, unmending the hinges.
The last glass we owned skidded off the other side of the table,
Throwing itself, disembodied and disfiguring
onto the floor.
We were empty in that last glass,
Cold eyes at means to an end.
Staring at the broken glass, wishing
To his sleeping form
It would glue itself back
Together
Together,
It would glue itself back
To his sleeping form.
Staring at the broken glass, wishing,
Cold eyes at means to an end.
We were empty in that last glass,
onto the floor,
Throwing itself- disembodied and disfiguring-
The last glass we owned skidded off the other side of the table,
Your hands fumbling over the lock, unmending the hinges.
Glass limbs.
We’re our own worst enemies, silent... screaming, kicking ourselves out the door,
Said our youth was a tragedy,
We had Time on our hands, we always said we’d go Someplace,
At least we’re safe... right?
Locked door, let the house run down around us...
The broken glass.
He awoke on frozen concrete.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
i saw the flowers fall in a flash.
winter's wind came with a bellowing crash.
i saw the stems bend and buckle,
turning into a heap of grey.
i felt my shoes become so soaked.
wading through wet concrete cracks.
i felt my heart beat so slow,
reminding me "it's time to go."
i heard the children laugh somewhat soft,
amidst the crying trees and their dying leaves.
i heard panic in the parent's voice,
unable to understand there is no choice.
in a moment,
in a blink,
the scene slipped
as though nothing
more than a dream.
when i awoke,
the sounds were all gone.
i sat in silence.
i sat in the rain.
the rain danced and skidded
along the contours of my frame.
now, there is nothing new to know,
this season had it's show.
i saw how lovely, lonely
nature could be.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 9:54 PM UTC
The car skidded thru the mud
Towards the edge of the cliff
However
We didn't die
------
Smoke from the fire below
Smoke-Signals from the fire
That there is a fire
-------
A man
Signals from the
FIRE that a Fire is here
-----
IF I was dead
Would you still be here?
WHEN I am dead
You will still be here
---
The cobbler cobbles
That's why they call him a cobbler
It's not why he cobbles
--
He who climbs Logan mountain-
Has
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
the way an
unknown part of my stomach once
vellicated on the surface, a
quick burst, single series of
three waves—(I could even
count them)—troughs, crests, passing
the point of kiss (or dream), a
peristalsis veering off course and plunging
(up or down, in this
there is no orientation) to an unexpectedly
known place (likely another one) and I,
seeming strangely uncomfortable. Or
perhaps just light, the way it rippled
just once, one time
off the glass of an opening door, skidded
across the passing wraith that was
one of my shimmering hopes—but no, it
is more the way
the universe sounds outside of
the window, as it is still
being born again and stupendously being also
dying again. The way I am
too leaden or cloyed to shuffle feet,
throw open that calico drape.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
It was a few days ago,
while I was still on holiday with my family in Bali.
We went for a buggy ride and I was with my mum.
It was a particularly wet day and the buggy skidded.
We nearly crashed into a large rock wall but we managed to stop in time.
Maybe we would not have died,
maybe we would have.
But,
the panic I felt in that spilt second,
the panic I felt when I thought I might die.
The fear was real.
I realized that I did not want to die.
Not that way.
I wanted to grow old and leave my mark on this world I did not want to die.
I wasn't suicidal anymore.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC