Coloured flags
signal green for go
to race car drivers
as the sound of engines roar.
Eight cylinders
of oil and steel pump
like stallions galloping
around an oval track.
Clouds of dust
invade our ears and eyes
like a swarm of bees
with angry stingers.
The smell of fuel
mixed with burning tyres
wafts from the pits.
The commentator’s voice
screeches from speakers
as a blur of machines
take the checkered flag.
By Courtney J.
Your writing made me think that we should do more interesting poems. That poem made me feel very nice and I think it's beautiful. I've never been to the speedway but I can describe some of it now that I've read your poem.
ReplyDeleteHayley
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