Headlights poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best headlights poems ever written. Read all poems about headlights.
They say you can jinx a poem
if you talk about it before it is done.
If you let it out too early, they warn,
your poem will fly away,
I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Dear ghosts, dear presences, O my dear parents,
Why were you so sad on porches, whispering?
What great melancholies were loosed among our swings!
I would leap too
Into the light,
If I had the chance.
In the naked bed, in Plato's cave,
Reflected headlights slowly slid the wall,
Carpenters hammered under the shaded window,
Wind troubled the window curtains all night long,
Creatures of the Night
iron grates over the street drains
roofs for the poor
Did a dry run to see
if I could drive at night.
Joe didn't think it was such a good idea
I sit beside two women, kitty-corner
to the stage, as Elvin's sticks blur
the club into a blue fantasia.
I thought my body had forgotten the Deep
They stood, almost blocking the pavement,
As though at a window display;
The stretcher was pushed in position,
I am no longer myself as I watch
the evening blur the traffic
to a pair of obese headlights.
This poem bleeds dysfunctional desire,
Blood stains through the dirty streets
Mark the paths we trod,
Urban avenues of despair,
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Pumberly Pott's unpredictable niece
declared with her usual zeal
that she would devour, by piece after piece,
her uncle's new automobile.
It is the season of new beginnings...
Spring removes her winter robe
And fades into rainbows of hope;
The sun shines its headlights into April-
Loaded on beer and whiskey, we ride
to the dump in carloads
to turn our headlights across the wasted field,
freeze the startled eyes of rats against mounds of rubbish.
I. Kempton, Pennsylvania
Perhaps the last of the light
the blank windows watching,
the snow reddening behind the stoplights of the cars.
Mist lingers on the surface
of stagnant tea-brown water.
The flat bridge spans a mile,
a sea of spatterdocks.
There are headlights in the fog
With a beating heart and a desire
Hoping to find you
before you grow too old to realise,
Life is on the highway
Choose your way
Cross the right lane if you may
Don't cross the dark left it fills your curiosity
From the Glasgow gallowgate the characters board. We pass the stop at the chippy, the driver shouts back soon! Poor service shouts a passenger, grunts and expletives. After relieving himself he climbs aboard. A wee drunk man speaks to a young Spanish lad. Your from Seville and have a holiday let in the east end! Gasps from fellow travellers! Comments flow, like does he know exactly what's ahead of him! The drunken banter spews out advice on how he can enjoy himself in Glesga! He gets off at his stop and looks bewildered by his run down surroundings, a rabbit in the headlights! The wee man bursts into song of I belong to Glasgow, and is given a round of applause!
Michael Cochrane © 2022
stars do glitter hard and sharp
in black of night before daylight
headlights spear straight before
piercing not the shadows of houses passed
Shot a suspicious look
About flash photography
A second presentation
What does that mean
enveloped in winter fog
a one-armed man
wobbles back and forth
Monday morning, November 26,2018 at 6: 22 a.m., then at9: 48 a.m.;
Thursday morning, November 29 at 10: 21 a.m., then at 8: 20 p.m.;
Wednesday morning, December 5 at 10: 57 a.m.
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