Best Motorbikes Poems
I remember those days when just a kid,
the old ten shilling note, and the odd quid.*
Teddy boys in their drain pipes, fur collars
smelling of nicotine, street wise scholars.
Conkers,* glass alleys* and comics as well,
bow and arrows, gat* to ring the school bell.
Electric tram, trolley bus and steam train
holidays in Blackpool, not yet in Spain.
Left over stew, dripping dispersed on bread,
a choice of marg or jam, not both was spread.
Roly-poly pud with custard, oh yes
school dinners, oh the ridicule the stress.
Journey in to space radio drama,
while bathing in a tin bath pure karma.
Medicals at school and nit nurses too
combing for the eggs, washing with shampoo.
No drugs, only cigs in small packs of five,
fifty fifty dance halls, old and new thrive.
Outside loo, oh them freezing winter nights
oil lamps, a candle to enhance one’s lights.
High street fish and chip shop charging nine pence,
potato crisps, tab* of salt to dispense.
Tanners,* hape’ny’s* and those threp’ny* bits,
meccano sets, clockwork trains came in kits.
Motorbikes, British pride on just two wheels,
Triumph, BSA, a nation reveals.
Alas long gone these balmy days of laze,
happy to have played a part in this phase!
*Quid:::: A one pound note (UK)
*Conkers:;;; Game played with the fruit of the horse chest nut tree.
*Glass Alleys::::: A type of Marble for the game of marbles.
*Gat::::: A catapult, or slingshot..
*Tab::: One brand of crisps in the UK, place a small blue pack of salt in each packet
*Tanners:::: A sixpenny coin
*Hape’ny’s::: A halfpenny coin
*Threp’ny bit::::: A Threepenny 12 sided coin, also called Thrupence depending where one resided in the North of England
.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Ah, to this land of the monsoons
or should it have been the sunsoons?
Yet for frozen land tourists, a tropical hot boon.
Where bullock carts, stray dogs, horse carriages and cows
pedestrians, goats, bikes and rickshaws
scooters, trucks, motorbikes and cabs
all compete together in quirky medley of traffic jams
On crammed roads you could ram into bulls and rams
So brakes forever screeching, the cars forever honking, hooting
while beggers begged and pickpockets could go a' looting on a footing
But where else you'd see, ducks and ponds in the city
buffaloes wallowing in mud without fear or pity!
Urban jungle eh, you'd think with a wink
and in many's esteem this land shan't ever sink.
Then pass the huge expanses of paddy fields and the rice farmers
and next come face to face with those Indian snake charmers!
Ah and the imposing edifice, Tajmahal, one of the seven wonders of the world
is no where else found, nor are the epic himalayas on any map unfurled
except for India, and a whole ocean with her name
The Indian ocean knows and salutes her fame!
As for me, meeting relatives there, is the best best part
then shopping too in each and every crowded mart
shopping like crazy, filling my spree's shopping cart!
Disco dreams and disco balls
Big city,bright lights
Pub crawls and bar fights.
Mini frocks and hair dyes
Made up faces
Mascara filled eyes.
Vodka martinis and champagne
Bus trips and black cabs
Standing in the rain.
Nightclubs and deejays
Entry stamps on wrists
And tattooed fists.
Late nights and hangovers
Fast cars and kebabs
White wine spritzers
And mishaps.
One night stands and live bands
Autographs and queues
Sing-a-longs and sad songs
And over packed loos.
One line gags and handbags
Glitter and sparkling eyes
Cigarettes and suffragettes
Gossip and lies.
Brawls,another one falls
Drunks and punks
Frilly skirts and love hurts
And late rides.
Secret kisses and front row seats
Cinema aisles
Red lipped smiles
Beauties and beasts.
Flashy cars and night time stars
Takeaways and glad rags
Silly jokes and whiskey cokes
Dreams and high hopes.
Nights out and walkabouts
Cheap thrills and teenage wonder
Hitch hikes and motorbikes
Delinquent lightning and thunder.
They called it school
I called it hell
From the huge imposing prison like doors
To the doom like toll of the bell
Everyday the same
Running for the school bus
Full of uncivilized Wild kids
Being pushed and shoved
Countless kids in uniform
Fearing the teachers and the day they were born
Satchel bags and lucky bags
Late for lessons again
Going to the headmasters office
For the cane ooh how my bum was in pain
Teacher at the blackboard
Pupils getting bored thinking about girls
Motorbikes and cars
Playing football in the yard
Playing sports in skirts and shorts
The one too big that moma bought
School desks fountain pens and ink
Boy how some of my classmates did stink
Trying to blow up the science lab
Bubbly gum and sherbert dabs
Giggling girls and bashful boys
Girls jutting out everywhere
Pigtails and ribbon on their hair
Always getting into a fight
Going home with a torn blazer and black eye every night
Lots of kisses on my homework
Rolling about in the dirt
Pouring ink into the headmasters aquarium
Holes in your trouser bum
Crafty cigarette hidden behind a wall
Morning assembly in the hall
School dinners you couldn't pick
Forced down your throat and made you sick
Being punished and kept behind doing lines
I must have wrote 'I must be good' a million times
Frog spawn put into teachers bag
Gas taps left on in the lab
The school nurse giving you a jab
Riot breaks out in class Running a race on sports day and coming last
Pea shooter and catapult Pulling your tongue out and being rude to adults
First love and nervous thumbled kiss
Girls with new sticky out bits
Hair growing in places it didn't before
Limbs aching and so sore
Always in trouble up to no good playing truant in the wood
Letting the tiers down on the headmasters car
Girls wearing training bra's
Exams were such a sham but wrote the answers under the bandage on my
hand Teachers talking about things I didn't understand
What a waste of time I was going to be a pop star and soon a man
Those daydreams of youth that still remain aloof
Hiding in the bushes watching girls playing hockey and net ball on the field
I still recall how that used to feel
Long school summer holidays away from hell
School books thrown down the well
Then back to school again to days of terror
And pain up early facing hell.
Peter Dome,copyright.2014. July.
Motorbikes and barking dogs
are driving me to drink
With the endless din of traffic
I can no longer think
I’ll have a little nip of Gin
Perhaps a beer or two
or maybe close the window
That might help me too
Perhaps I’ll take my rifle
With the telescopic sight
And find a building with a view
Where I can sit at night
Those random noisy neighbours
Would swiftly think again
If metal jacket bits of lead
were winging toward their brains
Another little whiskey then
To keep the cold at bay
And steady trigger finger
As the targets weave and sway
I did this once before you know
And they kept me for a year
Psychotic Paranoia
Induced by too much beer
I didn’t have the rifle then
just a catapult I'd bought
T’was after several nips of rum
Because I thought I aught
It’s gotten so much quieter here
I nailed it bang to rights
and down below looks pretty
With those small blue flashing lights
I think they’re waving up here
I can see them scurry round
Behind their little armoured cars
They’re kneeling on the ground
I hear the whiz of bullets
But my vodka dulls the sound
Perhaps I’ll have a pop or two
At those insects five floors down
I’m feeling kinda sleepy now
I’m tired upon my feet
And those noisy thudding chopper blades
could ruin a good nights sleep
A small nightcap, a brandy tot
Should calm my trembling hand
And then I think I’ll take a shot
At that choppers rubber band
I expect I’ll get a little sleep
In Broadmoor’s padded rooms
And get out in a year or so
As recessions lay offs loom
So one more shot and then to sleep
I’ll go out like a light
So just before I take it
I’ll wish you all goodnight.
Pi pi pi... kekyo kekyo Hooo- hoke'kyo Hoohokekyo
awakening to the sounds of Japanese bush warblers
they are signalling the start of the day
welcoming warm humid heat wave rising
Humming... rumbled rumbled... Vroom vrooooooooom
cars and motorbikes zooming past the intersection
machines flew by with no care in the world
subway train doors clanking shut
Rattling grumble... snoring growl... Snort snorting snore
drowsy drunkard taking up space on train seat
overworked souls no longer differentiate what's public or private
hearts and minds running cold as ice
Touch-typing... click click click... inaudible touch screens
swapping left and right, getting to the relevant page
words and ideas popping up in the mind
one becomes virtually bonded to unrelated news
Talk talk talk... unstoppable opinions floating around
just because your perspectives are your own
uncertainties based on inductive reasoning
associating with one another through limited views...
The Lady of Sings.
A woman opened her umbrella made of dreams,
painted bluebells, buttercups tulips and rosemary
Now her flowers needed sunlight and the sight of
blue sky. She walked slowly eyes to the ground
looked for horse manure, which is not easy to find
in a time dominated by cars and motorbikes
At the railway station she tripped on shoes not fit
for cobbled streets; trains stood idle, she inhaled
diesel fumes despite the fact that the line had been
electrified years ago. Locomotive drivers on strike,
sat in a café across the road drank black coffee
bore an expression of steely determination, but
they were worried and feared for their jobs,
the line has been privatized, always bad news
for workers.
The lady didn't find what she was looking for, but
the walk had done her flowers well; she put her
umbrella in the chicken coop.
Who expects to do a deed of kindness...
doesn't it happen unexpectedly?
Late this afternoon strolling down wide streets
with blooming oaks that smelled heavenly,
I helped a blind woman cross an intersection where kids
race on motorbikes with earphones plugged in their ears.
Teens blasting music laughed hysterically at her who's of advanced age,
and screaming they insulted her " Stay home, old fart...don't walk.
by yourself, many crazy boys will run you over and not look'! "
" Shout your foolish mouths! " I fetched words of rage.
" Has any of you done a deed of kindness today? Even the smallest one can make
you proud to have a golden heart! " Listen to this guy! Nice people suck! "
The tallest and scruffiest one said giving me the finger. " Wait until I am finished,
then you wish you had never made that sick remark! "
My voice raised and thundered rising eyebrows in the busy park,
" Do a deed of kindness today, help others in need and be blessed! "
Lots of folks cheered and approached me while the punks ran off,
" They are trouble makers and they think they are so tough! "
Copyright ( c ) 2015 by Andrew Crisci
The sun was slowly setting mixed with an atmosphere of peace and calm.
He sat as his usual place, knowing he is in no harm.
All he heard was the rustling of the trees and the birds that flew by.
He placed the flowers next to him as he wiped a tear from his eye.
He began to speak, starting off about his day.
The only person he could talk to, when he had much to say.
He knew he wouldn’t be interrupted as he carried on.
He wouldn’t be judged, even if he was wrong.
He soon became quiet, as he couldn’t stop the tears.
Saying “I really miss you bro and wish you were still here.”
He removed the old flowers and replaced them with the ones he bought
He sat there for hours with his six pack, deep into thought.
He reminisced about the days when they were young.
Laughed a little at the silly songs they once sung.
The mischief they got up to and the girls they use to date.
Two Casanovas you really couldn't hate.
Riding their motorbikes, popping a wheelie down the road.
No one dared to mess with them in their own abode.
How he wished he could relive those memorable days
And spend more time with his Bro, instead of at his grave.
The sun had disappeared, leaving an orange glow behind
He stood up, said a prayer and quietly sighed.
He wiped away the tears and pretended to be strong again.
And left his brother’s grave site filled with the same amount of pain.
RIP Uncle Owen
23 / 09 / 1966 – 05 / 09 / 1985
Written for my dear uncle who visits his brother’s grave on a daily basis.
I never got to meet him but I know he was an awesome person.
I always wonder at the folks
Who do not follow rules,
Who violate the status quo,
Think followers are fools.
A traffic light that’s red? Who cares?
No motorbikes allowed?
Let’s speed along where people walk
And blast our music LOUD!
A flight attendant wanting me
To sit here with a mask?
I’ll knock her teeth out; maybe then
She’ll be afraid to ask.
A bicycle chained up outside?
The owner’s not around,
So I can take it for myself
And show off what I’ve found.
The list can just go on and on;
This stuff just isn’t right,
Yet more and more we’re powerless
To stand our ground and fight.
When rules are made and put in place,
What used to be expected
Was that they would be followed
And not nastily rejected.
Me and my motorbike went out on a trip
As a black leather phantom i looked cool and hip
But with the sun in my eyes the bike did crash
And my whole life was passing by in a flash
I was afraid of dying but my bike didnt care
Like Bob Dylan's Triumph it sailed through the air
I heard the engine was pumpin with a steady beat
And it smashed to the ground with me underneath
The gods had a meeting and they all did decide
that the joke was on me and noone had died
with a pain in my shoulder that was burning like hell
I knew that I just got a story to tell
With dope from my doctor and wine from my wife
I sat and thought about the luck in my life
how it could have ended with a big-bang that day
I bowed my head and I started to pray:
"Dear gods of the road and the motorbikes too
I just wanna say that i like what you do
Like Dylan and me you let bikers survive
To write beautiful songs, hit the highways and drive"
I go to school, but not everyday.
My parents said i should, if i wish to get a nice pay.
But i get so distracted, from the thought of school
We've been told from a young age, to enjoy school is deemed uncool.
But schools a short, important step in life.
Like finding a stable job and a supporting wife.
I do hope my attitude towards school does change, for my attendance and attitude i only have myself to blame.
Maybe it's the bad groups i hang around with, thinking slinging drugs and flashing knives are slick.
The thoughts these people have are far beyond sick.
when i get the motivation to go to school, they'll surely say "don't go to school, hang with us, don't be gay"
Being called gay, is a small price to pay. knowing i'll have a bright future, i think my thoughts on school shall stay.
I think that's what i'll do, i'll avoid them and attend school
Getting called gay by a person who considers himself a mate,
all because i wish to enter a gate and stay for the day?
Well, who needs friends like that anyway. When i have school, a future, motorbikes, and an xbox to play.
There's an island paradise located in the blue Atlantic.
No place on earth is quite as charming and romantic!
A shangri-la where beaches are pink and everyone smiles.
The place whereof I speak are the quaint Bermuda Isles!
There are no streets with mundane names like Elm or Main,
But you will find Shinbone Alley and Old Maid's Lane,
Or Aunt Peggy's Lane and unique Featherbed Alley,
Where quaint shoppes welcome you for a spot o'tea!
Brave tourists straddle motorbikes to go for a spin,
Perhaps stopping for a rum swizzle at famed Swizzle Inn!
Or if it's something delectable they desire to munch,
May stop by the Hog Penny in Hamilton for a leisurely lunch!
If looking for a sheltered beach on which to cavort,
There's no finer than Tobacco Bay nigh St. Catherine's Fort!
Ah, to spend an evening at Ye Olde White Horse Inn,
Slurping Bermuda fish chowder and sipping tonic and gin!
At night the shimmering sea reflects the magnificent moon.
Dulcet calypso music wafts from across the glassy lagoon.
Bermuda is known for its lilies, onions and friendly blokes,
And for the beauty of its sunsets the Master Artist invokes!
Entry for Thvia Shetley's "Foreign Travel" Contest
Motorbikes and barking dogs
Are driving me to drink
With the endless din of traffic
I can no longer think
I’ll have a little nip of Gin
Perhaps a beer or two
And then I’ll close the window
That might help me too
Perhaps I’ll take my rifle
With a telescopic sight
And find a building with a lift
Where I can sit at night
Those random noisy retards
Would swiftly think again
If metal jacket bits of lead
Were whistling towards their brain
Another little whiskey then
To keep the cold at bay
And steady trigger finger
As the targets weave and sway
I used my catapult you know
And they kept me for a year
Psychotic Paranoia
Induced by too much beer
I didn’t have the rifle then
That was an afterthought
T’was after several nips of rum
Because I thought I aught
It’s gotten so much quieter here
I nailed it bang to rights
It even looks quite pretty
With those small blue flashing lights
I think they’re waving up here
I can see them scurry round
Behind their little armoured car
They’re kneeling on the ground
I hear the whiz of bullets
But my vodka dulls the sound
Perhaps I’ll have a pop or two
At the targets five floors down
I’m feeling kinda tired now
It’s hard upon my feet
And that noisy helicopter
Might disturb my good nights sleep
A small nightcap, a brandy tot
Should calm my trembling hand
It’s either that or take a shot
At the choppers rubber band
I expect I’ll get a little sleep
In Broadmoor’s padded rooms
And get out in a year or so
As recessions lay offs loom
So one more shot and then to sleep
I’ll go out like a light
So just before I take it
I’ll wish you all goodnight.
Power points of dimensional spinning graphs are largely placed in cement viewfinders in aerated office space with dome foam chairs. Dome foam chairs are the salt of seats and seating is considered important for lengthy discussion tables whose droning voices appear to form no conclusion yet get salaried by the milliseconds. Thousands and thousands of bold shining gold bullion bars mean thousands of printed bull speeches. But leeches sit on beaches and sip nectar out if the environment they consider their haven. It is never really demystified, added up, or fractioned the carious deeds instead they are multiplications that divide and fracture causing much disharmony in a mustard coloured cereal bowl with many crunching sounds. Cresphontes calls crethus and cynortas then danaus appears in a silvery crown on a semi misted horse. For to be a simpleton at that time was to sport a dimple on ones forehead and bow easterly but only when a westerly breeze was chatting to northern flames. The burst of southerly inclines meant the little trotting army could approach from every angle and therefore a fisherman or shepherd could be made very alarmed and run around flailing arms in the air shouting aloooooo alllooooo alllooooo but no apologies were made to these innocent harmonic workers of the lands. Blup blup fishermen and Barr baaa basalt shepherds left their careers and began work on the structures that would stand to signal power. Processing plants of today are akin to planktonic paintings upon the grounds and are an eyesore to behold. Many an eyesore is many an era in waste. Napoleonic Neptune numbers nurturing ninety nice nimble nymphs nautically. Beam then. Go on beam. Great big grin. Split level chin wobble. Fantastic isn't it? Z autobiographical Z at seven jumping tennis balls in a stew pan to thirteen moons on motorbikes. Z xxxx z