The Mopar poem made me think of this
Over the years, I've written quite a bit of poetry myself. I've written plenty of the normal poetry stuff, but my favorite has always been to focus on poetry dealing with drag racing, hot rods, or driving fast.
Lately, I've been toying with the idea of submitting some of my work to automotive magazines for publication, I'm just not sure what kind of interest there would be. Usually, when one thinks of people who enjoy reading poetry, you think of the beatnik type people in coffee shops, in fact, the backyard mechanic is one of the last to come to mind.
So here's two of my poems. The first one was written when I was a freshman in high school, about 7-8 years ago, so it's definitely far from a polished poem. I'd very likely edit it before sending it in. (As a side note, if anyone here is a circle track racer, please don't take any offense
) The second was written maybe 2 years ago, and I consider it to be a much more complete poem.
So without further ado, I present to you, Streaks of Color, and The Need:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Streaks of Color
by Richard Gibbens Jr.
Drag Racing is the art of Horsepower,
Going over 200 miles per hour,
You can hear the blower’s scream over the engine’s roar,
While you know they still have plenty of power in store,
The tree drops and the drivers react with no time to spare,
The car leaves the line with wheels in the air,
Exhaust fumes lit as they race down the track,
Pedals to the floor to not give the opponent any slack,
The Speedometer breaches 100 before the first trap,
By the second its got enough to make you lose your cap,
At the eighth mile the car starts to whine,
The cars look like streaks of color fighting for the line,
As they fly past you with the greatest of speed,
You notice that one of the cars has gained a small lead,
But at this speed a small lead is a huge gap,
So while waiting for the result you stand prepared to clap,
Then the win light comes on and you begin to cheer,
A new record has just been set here,
In Drag Racing this happens every day,
As we all go out to the track each week hoping we may,
Win each race and make it to the end,
Hoping to not have to race a friend,
Because we don’t cuss and drink,
Like the local Dirt Racing rinks,
Our races don’t last awhile,
Like the NASCAR races that go 500 miles,
But we do go faster in a shorter distance,
With no mid-race crew assistance,
No bumping and grinding,
No long courses that are winding,
We don’t have post-race fights,
We don’t have to fix the cars after each race,
No Racing related expenses to face,
No fancy contracts to make sure we keep our jobs,
We don’t all act like rich snobs,
We go out each week and do the best we can,
Making the most out of this short lifespan,
We keep it a family friendly sport,
So you can think of going as a picnic of sort,
One that’s safe to bring your children to,
With no rudeness or any kind of brew,
But the most important thing of all,
Is that you have fun so in the future you can recall,
How much nicer Drag Racing really is,
Then the circuit track racing that’s more popular in show-biz,
I just want all the NASCAR fans to know,
IF YOU GOT TIME TO TURN, YOUR GOING TO SLOW
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Need
by Richard Gibbens Jr.
I see people on motorcycles,
And wonder how they do it
20 miles per hour, in second gear
Out in the open, completely unprotected
Nothing but the sound of the motor, the vibration of the bike, and you.
And it's hard, so hard, to go slow
Because you hold the power of speed within the palm of your hand
All it takes is a twist of the wrist
You feel the power pulling you forward
Accelerating slowly into Thirty
The wind caressing your exposed body
It feels so good in the midday sun
A little more won't hurt
Your wrist turns more
You reach Thirty-Five, shift into third
Keep accelerating to Forty-Five
Exposed to the wind, You're flying
At this point you can't help it anymore,
The wind feels so good
The world so free
The Need has overcome you
And soon becomes a drug
One dose isn't enough
Forty-Five, isn't enough
So you work it even faster,
The engine screams, begging for fourth
Seventy
You can't help it anymore,
You can't take it anymore
The world is your racetrack
You slam the throttle wide open
The bike lunges like a cat upon its prey
It's begging for fifth
Pure instinct, the shift is perfect
Rev a little, let out the clutch
One Hundred
Suddenly, you're into sixth
The wind is wailing
Loose clothing is flapping
Numbing your skin
The motor settles into its final gear.
But you no longer care
You're numb to everything around you
One-Hundred Thirty
You see nothing but the road
Hear nothing but the motor
Smell nothing but the gas
Taste nothing but the Speed
Feel nothing but the Need.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As a final note, please keep in mind that I am planning on becoming a professional writer. Very likely not with poetry because I'm not as good of a poet as I am with essays or books, but that does mean that I have a high tolerance and high appreciation for honest critique. In other words, if you think it sucks, please, tell me it sucks
Author
Logged
