Posts: 791
Threads: 442
Joined: May 2014
Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 1
Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.
Topic : Write a poem inspired by a Classic Car
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more
Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish.
Questions?
Posts: 1,383
Threads: 279
Joined: Nov 2015
Where’s the Bubble?
The Pacer looks so squarely different now -
its long hood just says “Vega,” “Pinto,” “Gremlin;”
that narrow back hatch makes us wonder how
we thought it could be practical to drive in.
But at the time, mid-Seventies it was,
the Pacer was a bubble-car and wide:
a little curved glass made the look because
it jeered conformity - a classy ride
Non-practicing atheist
Posts: 1,047
Threads: 239
Joined: Aug 2016
7 hours ago
(This post was last modified: 7 hours ago by CRNDLSM.)
Classic Chassis closed for the holiday,
ten employees sent home to have a break,
be with family, and enjoy their pay,
Dave, the last to leave, forced a double take-
Stan keeled over limp in his rolley chair
by the weld machine. Rushing back inside,
calling out his name, meeting his dead stare,
breathless, shaking, 'Stan!' But his hands were tied,
blood was in his mouth, murdered. Dave instinc-
tively called police, someone killed his co-
worker right before closing, and he thinks
it was probly Sue, maybe Mark, or Joe.
The detectives sealed off the crime scene, door
locked up, hidden clues strewn about the floor.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
Posts: 1,282
Threads: 516
Joined: Nov 2013
What makes this 20-something
Toyota Corolla Altis
a classic is how its bottom
got ravaged when I drove
myself, my priest, and my sponsor
to some Miaphysite church
built with scraps from a landfill
where I was freed from the devil
and made a slave to Christ,
as well as how its top
has deepened its shade of grey
through soot and sun-fixed stains,
why do we even bother
to spend any time at the car wash
when it's the tune-up that counts?
Inside, when the dish of water
balanced on the ecliptic
spills across this region
while lines more polar burn,
mold blossoms on the leather
of the handwheel and the gearshift,
dusting the pink origami
crane I've set on the dash
where once I tried to stand
an image of our Lord
flanked by his virgin Mother
and his cousin the Forerunner,
who hangs a string of prayer
beads from the rear-view mirror
when they better serve the pocket?
