by Kristina Woodhill
The Tin man woke and thought to right his frame
His nuts and bolts of dreams, like oil, had drained
Away, and filtered through cold screen quite crude,
Left him bereft, sad rusting pile of brood
To right, to creak, to up, to flex a joint
Yet she had caught her ride, what was the point
He knew against all odds his love was set
Her eyes only had eyes for Slim's Corvette
The world was theirs to race across and grasp
The tails of winds so fierce it made Tin rasp,
A crying fit one might suspect, but no,
His laughter, oddly manic, paced their glow
The desert sun rose as the Vette's gas sank
That's awl it takes, heart clogged, to pierce a tank
Author's Note: Response to Terry Olynik's forum thread - a little dab will do "I have found a squirt of 3 in 1 oil never hurts when constructing a sonnet." I suspect he is right. ;)
Posted on 05/16/2015
Copyright © 2021 Kristina Woodhill
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by George Hoerner on 05/16/15 at 10:52 PM|
I loved this Kristina.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 05/18/15 at 06:48 PM|
Entertaining story poem, Kris. Fun read!
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 05/19/15 at 01:42 PM|
everything gets to be old and tinny in time and corvettes are nay excluded. love the rhyme in this ode of yours, Kristina as well it ruminates a glow and shades of Poe,
|Posted by Joan Serratelli on 05/19/15 at 05:04 PM|
I love poems that I can "see". LOVED this!
|Posted by Laura Doom on 05/28/15 at 11:07 PM|
Crude oil--that is slick...