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Poems On / About CAR  7/31/2015 4:25:24 PM
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  237.     

Saturday, The 14th

Nancy left her car key in the house
And was too scared to go back and fetch it
Freddy Krueger, quiet as a mouse
Was hiding inside, not wishing to beat it

After failing to hot wire the car
She ditched it and walked fast across Elm street
For a cactus juice she dropped into a bar
But after taking a sip, she had cold feet

With heavy breathing behind, she smelled a rat
When she turned around, there was no one in sight
A familiar razor sharp hand gave her a pat
She woke up in her car, waiting for a green light

The red light lingered, and she thought 'That's all I need'
She was puzzled to see it turning ebony black
The car started to run, reaching breathtaking speed
Freddy, her backseat driver, was launching an attack
 
Aram Stefanian

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Read more: car poems, house poems, green poems, red poems, light poems, running poems
   
 

   
   
 

  238.     

A Drop Of Rain

A dropp of rain
fell on the front glass of my car
i had to pull over again
with that squeeze in my heart
i remember when it did start
just like yesterday
more drops of rain
falling on the front glass of my car
and the mountains seems so far away
speeding on the highway by the lake
a bit cold in the winter
with that smell of fresh bake
and the coffee she used to make
i wished that i could stay
but you can't lose what you never had
death takes the best and leaves the bad
watching the drops of rain
on the front glass of my car
is what i need to forget
and thats all what i am going to get
memories and rain drops on my car
 
Ahmed Sabry

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  239.     

Reasons

Terrence says
“Get out of the house. Go off and ride your bike today.”
But I am in a bad mood,
black and growling like the heavy clouds above,
but he throws something at me and it shatters against the wall.
I don’t know what it was;
I am already out the door.
He’s probably forgotten I can’t ride my bike anyhow.
Not since he ran the car over it when it was lying on the lawn.
He came home late and the car was particularly unruly,
for sure the garage kept moving.
It must be very hard
to park a car in a garage that keeps changing.
I walk down the street instead.
I kick small pebbles out of my way,
watching them skip off down the pavement
never the worse for the road rash.
Sometimes I wonder if Terrence would hold up as well
if I kicked him off down the street,
bouncing along before he came to rest in the gutter.
On days like this,
when the sky is holding out for a good long cry,
I think I’d like to murder him.
Murder,
I think, isn’t so bad.
In the movies the good guys do it too, but only if they have a really good reason
and Terrence has done nothing, if not give me good reasons.

I turn off the street and take the overgrown trail that leads to the railroad tracks.
The grass is taller than I am and the weeping willows hang low,
their branches sway,
the wind rustles through them, crying out to me,
lovelorn.
It speaks of days gone by
when the sun wasn’t always hiding
and my mom wasn’t always crying
She didn’t have to hide the bruises because there were none.
She could always make me smile then.
We played hide and go seek on this trail.
In the high grass, I would giggle and she would pretend not to know where I was.
I have gotten better at hiding, since.
There are no giggles,
I keep my breathing quiet and under control and sometimes, he doesn’t find me.

There is an abandoned railroad car by the side of the tracks.
The neighborhood kids use it as a clubhouse, a hide out;
we spray paint it with words we’ve only heard others use
on TV and in movies,
when our parents have had too much to drink and shout at us from lighted doorways
as we run out into the night.
We’ve seen these words
sprayed up on other buildings in the rougher parts of town,
the parts we have to walk through
to get to school.

I climb up into the car.
Alone today,
I take a marker,
there’s always one handy,
and I add to the list that’s growing ever longer
inked on the inside of the car in cramped eleven year old handwriting.
I’ve stopped counting, now,
how many reasons there are.
The important thing is that there are enough.
I don’t really think prison would be so bad.
At least my mom would be safe.
Maybe her face could regain its natural shape and her smile would come out of hiding.
It would be worth it,
I think.

The car shakes,
a horn sounds
and breaks screech as a train rumbles past outside,
masking the sound of rain beginning to fall.
There are a few things we kids keep in the car
for emergencies:
a rusted tire iron
a wrench
a stash of candy and granola bars
bottled water
a few damp blankets
markers
a hammer
for when the going gets tough.
The hammer feels good in my hands and I swing it a bit.
I climb out on the rusting, corroded roof of the old train car.
The rain falls on me and I watch the train go by,
car after car after car after car.
I swing the hammer some more and I wait.
The sky, I think, is waiting too
and the tears keep falling.

In the rain, I’m not sure whose tears cling to my lashes,
run down my cheeks.
The hammer warms my palm
and I don’t know if I will use it tonight,
tomorrow,
next week,
next year,
a hundred years from now.
But it’s in my hand now
and I feel so powerful when I swing it.
I could do anything
and the reasons just keep adding up on the wall inside the car.
Soon it will have spread,
soon all the walls,
the floor,
the ceiling,
the outside of the car,
will be coated in my handwriting,
the rain making the marker lines streaky,
even harder to read.

I hold the hammer in both hands now.
The water in my eyes,
mine or the sky’s, I’ll never know,
blurring the train rushing past
and I lose count of the cars I didn’t know I was counting.
The hammer feels too heavy suddenly
so I put it down.
I climb off the car, slide to the ground.
I will not take the hammer today
but it’s nice to know it’s there.
I walk away without seeing the last car of the train.
I walk away not knowing the last reason.
 
Tsunami HiroshiSu

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  240.     

Family

Family is a car.

Parents are the engine,

Bringing the car to life,

Steering its way most of the time.

Grandparents are the headlights,

paving the way.

Cousins are the radio and air- conditioning,

There to make the ride more enjoyable.

Aunts are the seats,

There for support.

Siblings are the color of the car,

there to make the car look better.

Pets are the passengers,

Just along for the ride.

And you are the driver,

deciding where you go,

and what happens next.
 
Lila Holmes

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