Best Motorways Poems
Soldiers stand erect.
Red and white uniforms guard
British motorways.
The Journey
From petrol station, conurbation,
Queuing traffic moving slowly,
Taxi rank and railway station.
Glimpsing horses, grazing cows
By winding rivers, straight canals.
Open farmland, working ploughs.
Motorways; long distance coaches,
Post card village, pond and green,
Packs and snacks, hurried lunches.
By scenic route and shady lane,
Thru’ darkening forest; silent trees,
Ancient site and sunny plain.
Over bridges, under bridges,
Hidden valley, windy moor.
By the oceans, passing hamlets,
From door to distant door.
Barry Stebbings
3/4/2016
This world is a bewitching illusion
The spring, the fragrant flowers, the chirping birds
The waterfalls, the sky, the valleys, the clouds
Are nothing real but delusion.
The gigantic snow clad mountains and fathomless seas
Are what is called optical illusion
Our eyes are so designed to see things in nothingness
The moon, the sun, the stars we see are nothing
Beauty, colors, lights and shade are nothing
Peacocks, swans, cypress trees and nightingale are nothing
The feats of our fabulous inventions are all fake
The skyscrapers, trains, cars, airplanes and ships are nothing
The super Markets filled with luxury goods are of no avail
The motorways, the subways, airports and runways are nothing
Dreams, wishes, desires, ambitions, hopes and aspirations
Success, achievements, satisfaction and fulfillment
Are only heartwarming assertions
Youth, beauty, seductiveness and glamour are nothing
The love binding you and me together is a mirage
Kindness, sympathy and benevolence are nothing
Why do we have unending lust for this world?
Beauty, elegance and allurement of this world is nothing
Wind, a very strong wind
Uprooting formidable trees
Of righteousness, morality descend
Wiping the butterflies and Bees
That bestow color and sweetness
To discerning sagacious eyes
Tormenting souls witness
How humanity cries
Destroying all that is in path
Reducing frail houses of virtues
To fragments in their wrath
And then the change ensues
Gigantic skyscrapers of lust
In the horizon of ambition
Rise from the ground’s dust
Wearing immaculate condition
And pythons of motorways of concrete
Crawl in the serenity of greenery
With smokes vehicles secrete
Atmospheric imbalance kills scenery
Change is the law of nature
Everything that exists is prone
To change and alteration of feature
Providence has decreed and shown
But must change adopt this fashion
As the smiling bud changes into flower
Can’t there be virtue in alteration
Is conflict with nature only answer
Where am I? Where has my vision brought?
Am I in the boundless horizon?
Or prisoned in my thought?
Is there a way out of this dungeon?
Countless are my profound accomplishments
From the pyramids to the modern skyscrapers and motorways
Faster than sound aeroplanes to rockets
Confined to material gain my endeavour stays
On the moral front, I have nothing to show
In my hardened heart prejudice and hatred abounds
Bigotry, racism, deceit and trickery grow
Lasciviousness, greed and lust surrounds
I know not the meaning of true happiness
To me life is meant for attainment of pleasures
Devoid I am of virtues of love and kindness
Civility and benevolence are forgone cultures
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partygoers partying pock peck pock
A baa is just as good and effective as a peck for wools and beaks can repeal even the smallest of fleas through the movements of neck and the chewing of grass in meadows. It is said to be as hazardous as jumping out of a light aircraft at eight hundred feet when placing a bomb in a bucket. Erotic explosions explicitly excite. And a tidal wave of a tuning fork spins over and over a large table. Cute cockroaches cooing. And a bowl of leavened breadsticks chat to an operatic orange. It is to be ascertained that an orange can swim for many miles after leaping from a trawler at over fourteen million feet. Spool of solo spoon. And a wide angled shot video calls the cards caresses. Mystify nit a traffic jam on the highways, motorways and lanes. And bridleways are left to the little ones who charge through on horseback creating swabs of colourful criss crossed triangular orbs. Pan flash of a mystic mayhem delivered with a spade. But mystical mayhem's of manufactured monotonous musical movements move morously making moronic manic mortals. Pantomime is clever for ducks in tight bras. And whiskey drinking is best left when seated high upon twenty thousand whoopee cushions but when there is two billion people watching this show then the meerkats make money from fields of cane fruit. Stand then. Alight the purple bus backwards in a shape resembling a letter for alphabetical format is to be driven miles over many continents. Wow. And the little rat well he just got fat. Knitting rubbish in the sewers and attempting to sell the creations in the shops. But tinder for tender is not tenderness nor is it a temper tantrum in a glass avenue or a hallway. Hallucinations then. Wow. Fantastic frame. Interesting is it not to sit and dwell with over two hundred tuned bees. Hahaha icing a cake upside down on a ceiling beam. Baldry. And a dome arch very thin watching. Xxxxx catastrophically Z z z with a nice trotting mushroom cantering in a field. Z
We all know 'America' is classed as the land of the free
But any country can only be so, if it includes you and thee
Just like life is, irrespective of your circumstances, they be
For no one should be oppressed, in stone scribed, decreed
But sadly this doesn't happen, be it in many walks of life
To being badgered in your workplace, or on the way home
Even amidst relationships, when actions become traction
No wonder minds become stressed in endless lost roam
Sadly amidst life and it's walkways, canals, motorways, mm
It'll always surface crawling to it's cringe-worthy extreme
Then there's suppression, be we you, us, she or them, him
For whence anger commits, thence throws, becomes, bedlam!
Sirens!
(The Italian wine "Est! Est! Est!" got its
curious name because 900 years ago a
German bishop liked it so much, he
drank himself to death.)
Those bishop guys in days gone by
were deep and subtle thinkers.
They knew their scripture -- and no lie -
were quite accomplished drinkers.
A German prelate of the Church
was summoned down to Rome:
his servants helped him in his search
for taverns ("home from home").
How lucky we, with S.U.V.,
and motorways, and such:
twelfth century was leisurely --
ten miles a day was much!
What matter if the sun may grin,
and forest flame viridian?
To find an inn to shelter in,
their keen concern quotidian.
Not uninclined to "give it large",
unlike before or since,
he travelled with an entourage,
this spiritual prince.
Each morn he'd send a runner off
to scout the road ahead,
to find a decent Gastenhof,
and guarantee a bed.
The bishop stout (need we point out?),
a man of moral fiber,
was quite devout (but there's no doubt,
he was a keen imbiber!)
Well wobbling around in a pear tree dressed in a space suit can be very very dangerous. You might fall. And fallings are failings and failings flay the flesh from even the smallest atom that arrives in a puddle so never question the movements of a pond in the seasonal adjustments. Eradication of waste from slumber kitchen is hidden in an attic drawer. Once opened it slides away in a drip format akin to drizzling sauce onto a plate of freshly carved meat. Carved carbonated creations can carry carnivorous carnivals cleverly closing chasms. And a beetle in a flat cap was racing around wildly while the worrying worm was moving thoughts around and around like a windy day moves leaves through the pathways. Ever since a hill breathed the path was pushed and pushed and pushed. Then to place ones feet upon the tracks ignites thrones, fields, destinations, and a large variety of six foot jars of giggling gherkins. The wearing of aprons at this time is heavily prohibited and the sixty feet of micro beads in a line stretching in gymnasiums is rather like the time the electric elephant circus played a wild thumping trumpeting time to the seven arched breezes of the tea cloud. Ha hats having heated hollering havens. How heavenly. Ha the misted mustard mouse moving mousetraps. Ha the feather forming a giant wheel and going down the motorways with the suitcase on full beam because it is foggy but no frog. X desensitisations x at over a million keys, motors and cute little jumping juggernauts with tiny five centimetre wingspans. Z z z z z z
Interesting to note that a snail can move at maximum speed in the morning mists of moons .
Coming Home - Journeys Of Broken Dreams
Strange journeys,
Of broken dreams, woodland paths,
And mountain streams.
Long long walks between destinations.
Motorways and country lanes,
Railway stations
Taxi ranks
Cities and towns,
Villages.
Silent journeys by bus or car
Long loquacious rides
In eighteen wheeler’s luxurious cabs,
Travelling at the whim of this or that
Modern King of the Road,
Paying my toll by easing his boredom
And not drifting into waking sleep.
Stolen kisses
Exchanged for nights
In warm comforting beds,
A chance to shower clean,
Fond goodbyes,
Long, farewell hugs
Before starting off again.
On this journey of growth and learning.
Nearing and passing,
Approaching and leaving
Until the right time,
Until the petulant youth
Of the selfish ways
Awoke from his coma of growth,
His chrysalid of unthinking exploitation
Into a being ready to give as well as take.
When that day finally came,
After many long months,
Travelling to and fro,
When it was time
For those broken dreams
To finally end
I came back to you
To ask forgiveness,
To make a fresh start,
Appreciate things
Once taken for granted,
Hoping and praying
it wasn’t too late
For the prodigal to return.
And your smile told me it wasn’t.
And so I finally came home.
London is bewildered by its roads
The Circular, the North,the South, the Codes
The Morse and the Enigma Turing broke
So now we have new bicycles with spokes
Once we had the A to Z in hand
Turn it upside down and you’ll be grand
New technology has made great strides
Carrying us to Eden ,what a ride
The motorways are empty for tonight
God decided we had too much Light
He taught the bare cheeked Moon on Jesus’ mount
To turn the other side when love’s about
I liked to use a compass and a map
But now, my dear, most everything’s on tap
I crouch beneath my sister as she drives
In the dark on the M 25
But if it’s closed, we are completely foxed
We left the old Road Atlas in a box
Along with all my ex’s underpants
And naturally his principles of Kant
We may be in Watford or in Bucks
I often wonder what will rhyme with luck
We may be near St Alban’s, we can’t see
The car ran up the trunk of this oak tree
We rang 999 and they are here
A fire engine filled up with Kentish beer
A ladder for the ladies to climb down
Now they are just women on the town
London won’t exist ,destroyed by cars
Angry men who cannot find a bar
Oh on onlookers oversized overridden octagonal oceanographic organised octaves
A shrouded sinister sparkle said hello to a dish cloth today. But the array of plates, pans and cutlery shouted in protest for they required much manual labour to clean and manual labour is neither a manure making messy meres nor is is meandering moonlit motorways moving linking lineages. "Oh do pass one the bottle then of caper spiced spirited sauce" for to remain stoic is to symbolise a washing line beam on a radiating clothes horse. Drying not driving. Method of medial sip. And thus sauce was consumed. With a twist and a twitch from a comically positioned moustache to place in fakery. Not real you see. Rather unbecoming. And the lady's green sea skirt next to me caresses my hand in delightful tidal torques. But Torquemada would be a blind moose in a bakery or a fried frightened biscuit placed close to the fire on uneven levels. So said the party of evening ten. Which droned on and on and on and on and on. Until the misted mistletoe maid slept for three quarters of an hour then left to milk the many lines of the herds. Oh simpleton shrinkage! Hark at arks in prismatic glow style. And go to a view. Ha at no one. Z to slumber. And merely observationally at eighteen peeled plus to fourteen koalas kayaking in kitchens. 1 2 3 4 ~ -
Weight Watchers Paradise
Lemon pies, with feathered wings,
Floating in the sky, as the sun sits and glistens.
Against their skin, yes the beautiful people,
The ones who say, all that food is pure evil.
The bright morning sun, kills off the dark blue night
And shows us the way, to a weight watchers paradise.
With cream filled donuts and chocolate gold bars,
With the sponge cake motorways, full of jelly made motor cars.
So super-size me, put me on the Elvis diet,
I can’t talk right now, for I have to eat.
Oh and don’t forget, to cut the bacon off my fat,
I have no wish, to look anorexic.
Big, fat and beautiful, look at me,
All you jealous skinny girls, are only jealous of these.
My two lethal weapons, that get me all I want,
So take me to a Heaven, named McDonald's.
With Burger Kings, feeding on Kentucky Fried Chickens,
This tasty goodness, is so darn finger licking.
Rabbit food? Don’t make me puke!
I have no desire, to become bulimic.
I’m not Princess Di, I have no wish to die,
No I don’t love to watch, my cholesterol level rise;
But I do love my sexy body and I do love my super-size.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
London is bewildered by its roads
The Circular, the North,the South, the Codes
The Morse and the Enigma Turing broke
So now we have new bicycles with spokes
Once we had the A to Z in hand
Turn it upside down and you'll be grand
New technology has made great strides
Carrying us to Eden ,what a ride
The motorways are empty for tonight
God decided we had too much Light
He taught the bare cheeked Moon on Jesus' mount
To turn the other side when love's about
I liked to use a compass and a map
But now, my dear, most everything's on tap
I crouch beneath my sister as she drives
In the dark on the M 25
But if it's closed, we are completely foxed
We left the old Road Atlas in a box
Along with all my ex's underpants
And naturally his principles of Kant
We may be in Watford or in Bucks
I often wonder what will rhyme with luck
We may be near St Alban's, we can't see
The car ran up the trunk of this oak tree
We rang 999 and they are here
A fire engine filled up with Kentish beer
A ladder for the ladies to climb down
Now they are just women on the town
London won't exist ,destroyed by cars
God himself hates the North Circular
One day a tin got up from a shelf bed and walked out of a house. With the tin went eighty six knives, ten plates, and a large laughing ladle. They reached the outside world and bounced happily down a grass verge whereupon they came across an empty suitcase. It was crying. They all stopped to offer comfort. They did notice the case had wheels. When the suitcase had calmed it offered to give them a lift to the southbound area of flea and flayed flesh. An airport lay just beyond. They pondered for a moment then jumped into the case. Zipping up quickly the case sped off down the motorways over the bridge and beyond. Passing chapel buildings of torturous acts and the despised lemon dwelling. The biscuit man was nearly crushed as they sped down a road. Then finally away from the carnage they were and at the terminals. One two three and hud in the hold if a boeing 809642579000 f and up they did rise to seek fresh pastures in the world. Leaving mould to cause stagnation to suited ones in their turreted ideological sickness. How fantastically placed? Prolonged period pinned. No ha ha or x x merely a % in a flushed pan. Adjudicational. Z