Best Cyclists Poems
How the morn wakens with life,
to tether a sleepy soul
with simple delights;
The manna lights upon the land,
the swell of the sun ballooning
like some prim-adonna,
A starling to lead teasing to treetops
(a little black speck)
(star-of-Bethlehem-met)
swaying in soft wind....
Tickling the trees with its breeze
and tender tune;
so soon hushed,
the houses blush below ----
to parks the children go,
cyclists for cars....
The far traffic din slim with Sunday;
this Easter with the peace of Christ,
his everlasting smile,
so lovely upon the land
(A certain Sunday morn)
I was not born here but I’ll probably see out my years here.
Circumstances brought me here twenty or so years ago and I’m still here
It’s a river town, a fisherman’s town and a day tripper’s town.
It is still an important grower’s town, a garden of England town.
The ruins of the abbey are still visible, a reminder that religious hatred is not something new.
The ghosts of battle are still around; Simon De Montfort lost the battle of Evesham in August 1265, but won, because democracy thrives.
In the town there is a great choice of restaurants, Thai, English, Polish, Indian, and Italian a something for everyone’s taste town.
The many public houses in the town have the olde- worlde look with black and white Tudor architecture which gives it a historical look with great tasting ales.
Fetes and festivals throughout the year make it a something always going on town.
In the spring the apple blossom blooms and is beautiful to see and the many orchards surrounding the town attract visitors and cyclists to witness the beauty of it.
There are many churches here where worshippers can pray without fear of persecution or hatred from others, a peaceful town.
The many nationalities that live here, Italians, Polish, Indians Irish, English, and West Indians give it an international feel town.
Evesham is surrounded by typically English villages built of Cotswold stone and some with traditional thatched roofs, they look like a scene from from a Christmas card and when it snows they do.
The silvery waters of the Avon have parted the town but two bridges join it, one town, Evesham my town.
Written 7th August 2018.
Market stall sellers, spewing out cheap tat, for bargain hunting peabrains parting with their cash; items disintegrating from one single use.
City traders impress with tall tales of the day, lapping up each others crap enjoying it's scent and taste; not caring for the common man whose lives they have wrecked.
Office workers looking grey, another mundane day. Sitting at their desks, day-dreaming of a different life while listening to bosses drivel on about deadlines.
Shop workers getting by, mastering people skills, satisfying customers; some are born to please but for others it's just painful.
Buskers playing tunes, some are good, some are not. They enjoy what they do, even to an audience unattentive to the soundtrack of their day.
Beggars in doorways trying to prise money from our wallets but who are the genuine needy? Alcoholics, drug addicts or rich Romanian gangs who treat it as a living.
Cyclists whizz past, jumping the red lights. An obstacle for pedestrians and motorists alike; two wheeled accidents waiting to happen.
Motorists zoom past at speed with arrogance and aggression; the survivors way to driving through city streets. A combination with potential for fatal consequences.
Some walk through the streets, head down, oblivious to all around, focusing on getting to their destination. Others soak it all in; buskers, coffee shops, the bustle of life.
If you're in the city, enjoy the city, even with the smog. Life's too short to be annoyed with the things that irritate us. Embrace what's on offer but accept you'll be ripped off!
I drive around a bi-cycle
a cycle bike psycho
at night a light’s on
my-ma (ma) mountain bike
oh it’s a little delightful
my seat on my cycle
I ride all night on
my-ma (ma) mountain bike
I’ll jump the curbs in acceleration,
and pedal push to my destination,
don’t pay road tax, my declaration,
no f... that, drivers hold frustration
Oh
Oi
These trucks get way to close
thinking they own the roads
Woah
Oi
they test test test my nerve,
these flucking bus ankers
I drive around a bi-cycle
a cycle bike psycho
at night a light’s on
my-ma (ma) mountain bike
oh it’s a little delightful
my seat on my cycle
I ride all night on
my-ma (ma) mountain bike
dirty dank fumes got me spacey
light headed it sways me
others walk or run but I go this way
I like to ride my bi-cycle
I'm cycle bike psycho
all day and night on
my-ma (ma) mountain bike
It must be said, some mouth opinions
you cyclists all smell like onions
which is mean
so I thump them and nick their keys
I speed on
oi oi
and I say ha ha ha you cannot drive your car
they say
woah woah
as I fly fly fly fly over the handlebars
I crashed into an Aygo
a Toyota Aygo
the wheel's mangled on
my ma (ma) mountain bike
I wasn't looking where I go
when I hit an Aygo
so I'm in mourn for
my ma (ma) mountain bike
in a hospital room
going crazy
fresh air seems tasty
they say ha ha can't ride your bike today
I think karma's a bastard
it put me in plaster
and now they have to
ha ha (ha) help me s**t
ma (ma) mountain bike
(oh) mountain bike
(mountain bike) ohh
Hear the song copy and paste link below
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1n6wawuYE5s&index=3&list=PLrWXQQOwWgeAzG8lMiXPHNQeO_aFFxhLi
A flight of birds
Flaunt their enormous wings
Spying the light blue skies,
Of a city protected by trees
Whose sheer leaves
Dance with the January breeze
That hovers over
A people of different origins
A chrysalis unborn,
Wrapped tightly with love
Soon to flourish into a butterfly
This city is,
Of men and women
That toil in light and darkness
In strife for success
Thousand cyclists dot the downtown alley
Where potholes wait still,
Like crocs in a shallow river,
Preying a stray leg,
Or a taxi from a valley of hundreds
That,
From atop their harbor
Evokes in me
The feel of a king facing his people
Twilight sluggishly descends
Upon a tired city,
Ushering in the night lights
That glow of cedar upon the girls of the night,
The streets are quiet yet lively,
With music, liquor stores,
and casinos,
Stray dogs and vagabonds Populate the night,
Clearing the streets of the day's trash
I could still wake,
Oblivious of the morning sun,
Dazed from last night
And still know I'm in this lovely city
That bares untold stories
Of men that fostered it's blossom.
Isaac.O
Headed for the tower
Watch the legs supply the power
Using a simple two-wheel device
Spirited competitive ride healthy and nice
This athletic mechanical dance
Traveling the scenic villages throughout France
Checking the rural roads
Letting everyone know
‘How is it holding up after the mountainous winter snows?’
Twenty-one stages to do all this
An international spectacle not to be missed
Late June and into mid-July
Townspeople applaud as the colorful circus goes bye
Bringing neighbors together
Sometimes enjoying beautiful weather
But when it rains
No one complains
About this strategic cyclist game
Yellow, green, polka dot
Shirts note which riders are winning and are hot
Tour de France is arriving at its destination
City of Lights gearing up for the championship presentation
Under the arch
They glide not march
Thirsty and parched
Knowing soon the accomplishment will be real
Proclaiming well done to the peaceful pedaling deal
Gargoyles stamping the approved entertainment seal
Hitting the end line
Everything finished and fine
Ready to pour the victory wine
While success dines
On time
Using the sponsor's dime
And listening to the Notre Dame bell’s chime
With nothing to fear
Until next year
When they come back here
For the Tour de France cheer
May your day be clad in bright chitenge (colorful flowing garments)
and your ears filled with the music of falling waters!
Lwa mitonda , kaizeli! (We miss you, sister!)
See us run with arms outstretched
like the wings of an airplane
because, if we could, we would fly to you;
see our encircling, turning legs
like those of sprinting cyclists
because, if we could, we would pedal to you;
see us hop, in a sitting posture
like that of a crazy taxi driver
because, if we could, we would race to you.
But we would rather have you here with us
Africa ya kutonda, kaizeli! ( Africa misses you, sister!)
Ku tezi batu - we are waiting for you ( We watch the horizon)
Utwa, ba andamisa - come dance with us. (And the drums are beating)
While distance separates you from us
we talk about you, smile, and say:
Mutu yo munde ki ya na ni sikoka kwa batu; (she will make many friends)
and we want you to remember always:
Ku sebeleza Mulimu, ki makalelo a butali. (it is more blessed to give than to receive)
Be blessed, dear sister!
We wish you peace, we wish you joy
and above all, we wish you love.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning,
an ease. People waiting on line for their
coffee seem more animated, less agitated,
friendlier….almost chatty. The traffic seems
to get along better too. No schedules demand
cut throat tactics to beat the next red light.
School buses, along with their riders, are
tucked away for the weekend. The hum of
the tires on the pavement seems almost
musical, soothing, in a movingstillness
kind of way. Joggers seem more relaxed,
their dogs less pressured to “get it done”.
Ducks idly talk to their shadows. Church
bells chime more jubilantly echoing over
the breaking day. We sit. Two old men
sipping hot coffee. Reveling in the present,
reminiscing about the past, in no hurry
for the future. An elderly woman ambles
past, smiling at the blowing leaves,
shuffling her feet in mock childhood frolic.
Cyclists relax into a near traffic-less rhythm
of wheels, spokes, gears - grinning into the
chill breeze of November. The firehouse
doors are open, the firefighters resting
between rounds, trucks sitting idle in
the bays, hoses rolled and ready. Two
squirrels play tag in front of a blue house
disappearing into piles of leaves only
to re-emerge atop a fence post. A grey
and white cat lays motionless nearby.
There is no rush to the cadence of the
churchgoers. It appears they may have
already entered into the day’s prayer.
A gentle sense of unanticipated hope
pervades the subtleties of life.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning.
John g. Lawless
11/8/2015
My middle aged spread is just spreading
So I thought I should join a new gym
Got to fit in my dress for a wedding
With some exercise I could get thin
I’ve got these new gym pants that sparkle,
And a t-shirt that flatters my tum,
I look like a fat Meghan Markle,
Well, ok, I look like her fat Mum.
I’ve got me a personal trainer
Who’s worked out an exercise plan
And with dieting, it’s a no brainer
Plus, who knows, I might find a new man!
They all hang around by the free weights,
Looking muscly and tanned and exotic,
Saying stuff like “hey, I’ll spot for YOU, mate!”
It’s terribly **********.
I gawp at a steroid packed beefcake
his neat package on full display
Lifting weights with his very good ‘friend’ Blake
It’s a pity they’re overtly gay
I’ve a voucher to try spinning classes
All the cyclists are dripping with sweat
They wobble their cute little ‘asses’
I’m going to get fit you can bet
I might have a go at Pilates
(All those supple but sensitive men!)
But the “down dog” pose makes me quite farty
So I might “blow” my chance there and then.
The Zumba class gets my heart racing
My boobies they wobble like jelly
This gym bug I’m really embracing
It beats sitting down watching telly
Cos it’s fun getting breathless and sweaty
While drinking in all of the sights,
And so long as the staff don’t eject me,
It all counts as cardio, right?
All spent, I lie in the Jacuzzi
My bikini floats off in the bubbles
I look like a desperate floozie
I guess that’s the least of my troubles!
So here’s hoping I gain some more vigour
While my bum shrinks to tiny perfection
Who knows, with my smokin’ new figure
I might pull at the wedding reception!
Written with Nina Parmenter who is a fabulously talented very funny lady and a joy to collaborate with!
2/14/18
Oh, the sunlight heals my soul, right
here in the middle of May.
Fairness and sanity require that
you report a perfect day.
Sunday afternoon, mountain high clouds in the blue,
and a single engine plane somewhere up there
to remind you of earlier days that you once knew.
A question arises to vex you as you sit here.
In the midst of high grass and wild flowers,
above the shrieks of children in the playground down the way,
the question, "Do we ever change?", hovers,
and troubles me throughout this perfect day.
I pass grape vines with new leaves hanging down,
white butterflies and blue agapanthus plant.
Cyclists streak by as if the trail was their own.
Still the thought does not relent.
My earliest memories of well being
are repeated in this very moment.
The cool breeze, the shattered sunlight shining
through the leaves, the children's chant,
even the single engine in the sky
complete a cycle that I am aware
I have been a part of, but I don't know why.
Is this just samsura of which we must beware?
In loving this moment and wanting to cling to it
do I add to an attractive old trap and
did I create it this morn when deciding the day fit
perfectly and drank deeply of air and land.
Do I recognize the return of a moment
already experienced? Is each second
a fractal pattern designed to entrap and torment
or simply a brand new day just found?
Tuesday.
Th sun is faint, but our precious breeze
is alive.
An afternoon of walking.
Walking and feeling and seeing.
An unmarked route around Hermosa Beach.
My only chore of the afternoon was to the bank.
Plenty of pedestrians sharing the sidewalk, cyclists rolling
on the streets.
People walking dogs,
dogs walking people.
Fast pacers, slow street crossers.
Cars in a hurry, always with the windows up,
I don't understand that.
Isolation of the earth around,
headphones in, loud talkers, speedy fingers texting a crucial
message. Blocking the senses, a gift often taken for granite.
I walk uphill and down, hearing the tide brush up on sand.
Many walk with company, chirping to each other the days trivial problem
I have been trying to refrain from my cynical judgement.
Hesse rights on not being able to control the world around, and just to
be apart of it and embrace.
I agree.
I stop at my favorite bench to read.
Freezing the ongoing time,
love to be frozen with no expectations.
Geoff Nicholson, " The Lost Art of Walking "
I enjoy his words.
Inspiring me to walk more but the notion has always
been there. To write you must absorb,
absorb your mind, surroundings, energy.
laugh at the child telling her parents she has a
red lollipop, and her brother has a bruee one.
Listen to the homeless stringing their guitars.
I sit and I read by the coast, occasionally popping my eyes out
to catch the stimuli.
I wonder what others think when they walk.
The strand not so popular today.
I walked and enjoyed my solitude of thoughts and
convseration in my head.
I don't know what I wish to achieve on these walks,
serenity is one,
maybe seeing a shy girl reading is another
I’m very pleased to introduce to you
something once a toy made completely new.
All you need are two good legs and balance! But it’s not a bike.
It’s as healthy as biking, so cyclists, take a hike!
It’s much more fun for everyone to JUMP their way
to where they want to get to every day.
The bottom part of it, once made of rubber,
used to wear down fast and made a few kids blubber.
For when the steel part poked itself on through,
annoying clatter hitting pavement would ensue.
That old-fashioned part that gave bounce for you
is completely remodeled. Now metal won’t poke through!
And better yet, it’s not rubber-made at all!
You now can jump to anywhere on anything, and you won’t fall.
This awesome patented invention will never get stuck
in dirt, grass or gravel, nor in mud and muck.
With longer and higher jumps than you ever had before,
the distance you can jump has increased twenty times more.
No one else but us has this technology.
Come and take a test-jump. You will see. . .
why we call our product the Quick MOGO stick.
POGO redesigned, will make you jump for joy, and that is no schtick!
March 16, 2018 for
"Advertisement: Sell something, make us want it" contest of Lewis Raynes
This is the road that leads to my father's home
It is old and dusty with bullock-carts creaking,
Carrying the heavy weight of the freshly cut sugar-cane
To the mills nearby for our sugar laden tables,
Piled in our court-yards are the freshly made cane balls
Tingling on our taste-buds with its melting ginger tang.
This is the road that zig-zags to my father's dear home
Cyclists are few carrying fodder for the cattle,
Trudging on the pathway with bundles on their heads
Farmers are spotted and responsibilities enumbered,
Carefree children running all asunder
The rural joys have much for us to remember.
This is the road lined with dancing mustard fields
Halt it will at my father's flowering doorstep,
My mother will be sitting in the verandah patiently
Peering her eyes in wait for her daughter to return,
Thirsty is her heart for her daughter's true love
Nestle will I in the warmth of her arms.
This is the only road that I always do treasure
Woven is it with memories to pleasure,
Every pebble and sand grain is drenched
In the sweat of my father's very long sacrifice,
My mother's footsteps are embedded in time
Leading me home with my finger she held.
(Second Place
May 6, 2016
For Nayda Ivette Negron
Memories)
(October 15, 2015
Contest: The Doesn't Fit
Sponsor: Carol Eastman)
June 26, 2016
For Laura Loo
Second Place
.
&
as for
cyclists
...............
how are we
meant to understand
all your fancy hand signals
................................
plus, we can see
your b*lls
.
The bicycle Tour of Britain
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
The tour of Britain’s is coming here.
To Suffolk County, do you hear?
To see those riders is such a sight.
As they flash pass on their bikes, alright.
The switch of tyres on the road!
As those bikes pass with their load,
of humans crouched upon their bikes.
Head held down. What are they like?
Sweaty bodies smell as they pass by.
Backside’s stuck up in the Suffolk sky.
I wonder if potholes will go,
on the route, those bikes do flow.
If not I hope I’m not nearby.
When someone off their bike does fly!
As if they do, it won’t be fair.
As will pollute our Suffolk’s fresh country air!
I do believe it is Friday September 8th 2017 we will be graced by the tour of Britain cyclists. The route being from Newmarket to Aldeburgh.