Types of Poetry

This is one type - A poem celebrating my first love affair – with a 55 Chevy.
Types of Poetry

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55 Chevy

by
Richard A. McCullough


Types of Poetry
55 Chevy humming flat and hard
little six whining out it's high pitched protest.

We would swing out our tail
in a high pitched rubber scream
and layyyyyy.......aaa--rooooound.......the corners
laughing,

the grill mouth sucking wind through its teeth.
.....oily bottom hunkered down in the front
.........hugging knobby asphalt
.............chattering tires over uneven pavement
huuuummmmmmmmmmmmming.
Whoooooaaahhhhh baaaaaaaaby!

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Types of Poetry
I never did give her a name
just went out each morning
and swung open that rounded door and slid in,
sighing down into the seat.

Snip snap buckle up that red fiber and chrome shiny seat belt,
jam the key in the ignition
and roooooooll down the window,
while she warmed her oily innards.

JULY!!!!

hotter than a pistol, but that smooth rounded baby always ran

cooooooollllll.
Huuummmm.

Red faded paint over smooth smooth lines,
with that big open grill mouth, smiling
when I gunned her into a corner,
always riding smooth like a feather,
springs and shocks gone soft and spongy, with age
and toooooo, toooooo many, hard run corners.

Shift that steel chrome ball floor-shift down to second,
double clutch and jam for first,
"Come on baby, this one's sharper than the rest."

Tires are squealing, engine's tacking up who knows where.

I only drove her with my ears and the seat of my pants.

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Types of Poetry
Some-times....
we would go out in the cool of the evening,
when the wind was just starting as a breeze
and we would go idling around the smooth rolling hills,
roads twisting from canyon wall to canyon wall,
then down this valley and back up the hill again,
under the rippling of hard waxy oak trees,
by the stubbly spread of Manzanita,
reflecting the same almost dull red,
faded hue of red,
this baby's body was so proudly polished with.

And we would swish by,
just idling,
elbow out the window,
arm on the back of the seat,
practicing,
for when we would take our girl friend Debbie for a ride,
and we would want to be real smooth,
driving with one hand, cruuuuuuuuis-in',
with our hand on her shoulder,
or fingers playing in the hair at the nape of her neck.

Dual pipes making that delicious gurgling
and then that stronger sound,
pulling from this corner, and
then up the little hill and around another bend again.

Blotches of sunlight and shade
rippling across the sun faded and hand worn hood.

Dead leaves stir and swirl from their quiet sleep
at the edge of the road.

............And we would keep on keepin' on.
Types of Poetry
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Now we know this section here, so with the blood pumping, and the thin hot oil coursing, happily through our veins, we put the pedal just a little closer to the floor, and rushing on the next bend, across this long straight knobby stretch of tar, we let the pipes roar, and the wind whips through the open window, whipping our hair and feel.....

the exhilaration,
of flying at low altitude,
across the waving surface of a cow studded meadow.
Watch the white faced eyes lift and slowly turn at our passing.

A faded red and white topped smooth lined flat oily bellied Chevy, smelling of summer, chortling high pitched murmurs from its tail pipes, warming the asphalt with it's passing,

humming
forever,
towards,
that next turn.

Write on...

Richard A. McCullough

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