NaPoWriMo #11: V8 Melody

The last wail of a dying breed,
a thunderous eight cylinder bellow
facilitated by perpetual ignition,
by the constant cranking of pistons
and the onslaught of fresh oil.

Yet the habitat of the V8 diminished.
The roads it roamed in ancient times
now infested by silent hybrids
and lifeless, whirring batteries,
imitations of the age of oil.

Perhaps it was inevitable.
To survive by guzzling and burning
fuel till the fumes choked the sky,
the eight pistons rattled along
until their sustenance evaporated.

On a few isolated country roads,
a distant roar can be heard
by those who stop and listen
for a rising and falling vibrato,
the final note of the melody.

NaPoWriMo #19: Spitfire Swing

He's done it ladies and gentlemen. After nineteen days I've finally broken my record from the last NaPoWriMo two years ago. To mark the occasion, I present another car poem, this time about a classic British sports car.

Spitfire Swing

The older cousin of later Triumphs,
yet overshadowed by its relatives
both older and younger.

Low slung, bulging headlights,
narrow grill, flared curves
along its back wheel-arches.

Not as fearsome as the Stag,
not as refined as the 2000,
Not as alloyed as the Dolly Sprint,

yet as swift as a gazelle
when it meets a turn in the road
and as fast as the best of its league.

NaPoWriMo #13: Chrome

Yet another car themed poem graces the blog today for NaPoWriMo. This time, I talk about a feature of classic cars which is not seen often on today's vehicles.

Chrome

There was a time when chrome
caressed the curves of cars.

The bumpers, the doors, the headlights,
those vehicles were adorned
with mirror-metal.

Prestige, that's what those
silver trimmings meant,
and still mean after forty years
of sitting in someone's garage.

Then the plastic and fibres arrived,
and chrome faded into dull metal,
the polish set aside
for sunny Sunday afternoons,
to see the sunshine once in a long summer.