Best Scooters Poems
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!
AGE OF TEN
Way back then when I was ten
Things were so very different then
I wrote with ink in a fountain pen
Whenever we could we would build a den
And I loved to help my dad in the garden
Way back then when I was ten
I walked to school and was never late
Always ate everything on my dinner plate
Played hop scotch by the garden gate
And was not allowed to go to bed late
Way back then when I was ten
No television colours only black and white
Real Christmas trees and a glass fairy light
We all had a different size of trike
Then I got my first two wheeled bike
Way back then when I was ten
We had so much freedom to roam
But must be in for meals at home
Only a phone boxes with a dial phone
And no phone in many a home
Way back then when I was ten
Latest craze was roller skates
And hula hoop with your mates
Skipping ropes and Meccano gates
But lots of fun with wooden crates
Way back then when I was ten
Coins were in pounds shillings and pence
Mothers talked over the garden fence
Scooters that you could make go at such a pace
Noisy steam trains that always seem to race
Way back then when I was ten
With friends you played out doors
Toys for your imagination scatted on the floor
Skipping ropes, skates and many things more
Sledges of wood, a dolls house with opening doors
Way back then when I was ten
Fun was had with blackboard and chalk
Clay dolls that you could walk
And new plastic ones that wouldn’t talk
Then babies came by way of the Stork UNSUPPORTED CODE
Café Watch
Sitting in a café, watching life pass by.
People rushing into shops; important stuff to buy.
Groups of foreign workers, stopping, shaking hands;
Local people bustling by – can’t interrupt their plans.
Outside, a lonely busker tries hard to make a splash,
But in these post-pandemic days, so few folks carry cash.
Dads and pregnant mums-to-be battle kids and buggies.
Squalling children at their sides; prams piled high with Huggies.
Faces fixed on mobile phones; hand-held gods adored;
Devoted to devices that their owners can’t afford.
Lunatics on bicycles intimidate, unchecked;
Maximum discourtesy, minimum respect.
Fitness freaks in sandwich boards try to drum up trade,
But no-one wants gym membership – don’t want to be delayed.
Pretentious coffee drinkers sip their frappé-choca-mochas,
While obese men in football shirts spout nonsense about soccer.
Invalids and elderly trundle by on scooters.
Workaholics sit at tables, glued to their computers.
Market traders, thin on ground, do their best to trade,
Looking glum and hopeless at the pittances they’ve made.
People come and people go; things go on much the same,
Slipping in and out of sight within a narrow frame.
For casual observers there is so much to descry;
Whilst sitting in a café, watching life pass by.
It was a day of chaos
The day the pensioners struck,
Massed Mobility Scooters moving
Forward like a Rugby Union ruck,
Blocking all the streets
In the centre of town,
To all intents and purposes
Closing the city down.
The police were very tolerant,
Withdrawing their attack
After more than one officer suffered
From a wielded walking stick's whack.
The atmosphere changed
Soon after that
Lots of bonhomie
Banter and chit chat.
The action was called offi
Promptly at five to three
Thus allowing each
To be home in time for tea.
The action wasn't called
For any cause or good:
No it was carried out
Just to show they could.
Massed Mobility Scooters moving
Forward like a Rugby Union ruck.
It was a day of chaos
The day the pensioners struck.
I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025
In the beginning it was just a smell
a smell i could not quite make sense of
a smell that the city was, a smell that the people in it were
in the beginning it was just a smell
a smell that dragged swarms of people of their homes
onto the streets, into the trains, into the strangers’ eyes and their uncharted territories
slowly i realised
all cities are, first, smells to the outsiders
and Tainan was smell sound taste touch to me
there were moments when i felt
this city is just people, so many of them; how beautiful
that i do not know any of them, yet i know them all
sometimes i would think if i emptied the city of all these countless faces
and bodies jostling with each other, what would remain of the city? would it still beat if i put my ears into the hearts of the depeopled Shennong Street
at the dead of night?
i came to Taiwan for the same reason
that a Vietnamese, an Indonesian, or an American comes for,
to chase my dreams, to become more of me,
instead I became it
it wasn’t as easy and quick as they make it out to be;
it took time, for love has its own mysterious ways
i started to embrace Taiwan and its culture
huge numbers of scooters and cars
Everyone follows the traffic rules
wait patiently for the green signals
one in Tainan city never feels pity
city buses and t-bikes are the best friends of a wanderer in the city
people are always helpful,
they adore you as they adore ‘hello kitty’;
small parks almost at every half a kilometer
elderly people like Mr. and Mrs. Wang use them for exercise
sometimes the parks provide sweet beds to the homeless;
i often use the underground passage of the Tainan train station
i look at the people sleeping there
they have made their small worlds in the underpass
they eat, they sleep, they chat with their neighbours
people look quite strange and funny without boundaries around them
their small worlds haven’t yet known the ways of the boundaries, the frontiers; these people are happy in heavy rains and in extreme cold, are they happy?
Tainan has a home for everyone, i guess
when I feel bored, i go to the sea
and bathe in the sounds of its waves lapping against the shores
sunset-platform lets you enjoy the majestic sunset and calming breeze born of the boundless deep
_____to be continue in part-II
So this is it. It’s finally here.
Your last school day has come
No more morning drop offs
No more rushed school run.
No more sandwiches to pack
No more sports kit to acquire
No frantic searching for the socks
Hiding somewhere in the dryer
No more crazes to embrace
No whirring fidget spinners
No scoubidos or scooters
No more school hot dinners
No more earnest pleas for help
Or passionate persuasions
To help with your maths homework
And solve quadratic equations !
A vista stretches far behind
When you were very young
And had to have your hair combed flat
But never in a bun !
Mum was taking all the flack
When your bottom lip would wobble
Armed with just a hairbrush
And a Clare’s, Pink Princess, bobble
Selling cakes and muffins
When cake stall day came round
Besieged by hungry children
At the home time bells shrill sound
Scrubbing out car carpets
With some enzyme killing spray
And vowing I would NEVER
Take you back to “Shakeaway”
No more sunny sports days
Then a picnic under trees
Nor helping at school discos
When the heat hit 80 degrees !
No more frantic walks to school
No chatting at the gate
No more nudge to hurry up
So we didn’t sign in late
No more uniform to buy
No September feet to measure
No school concerts to attend
And glow with pride and pleasure
No more avid watching
For the slightest trace of snow
Yearning for a snow day
Tuned to local radio
No more parents evenings
Time to sort out all the debts
To remember all those good times
and never have regrets.
We will treasure all these moments
Hold them close within our heart
There are other seas for you to sail
So soon you must depart.
These memories are so precious
These moments are so rare
So wherever life’s path takes you
If you need us - we’ll be there.
They watch, they see, not telling thee of their eyes everywhere
In your house, your bed, following you anywhere
on scooters woven in faux green, yelling tell you look
large and seated, tracking you, looking for what you took
RUN RUN, for they cannot, they paint themselves in dance
wash away wash away Jiya and all, who hurt them every chance!
Why do you tell me my stomach to swell
For I dance far more well
I am Whitney I can shine
Till I meet with my cursed divine!
Twirl, leap, shake, hop!
Yet Jiya can hardly make a bop
For I move mountains and rivers and seas
While others move at her every step for she bears smaller than me
Injustice! Terror! All and All! Taken in my name
I have been committed injustices grave
For I am Whitney, big, fat, fabulous and free!
For all I am ,scooter to hat,you must accept me.
The Hush of Christmas Past
It came more slowly then.
After Thanksgiving
the lights and decorations
started showing up.
The excitement started to build.
Santa showed up at the
department store, The
ads in the newspapers
were larger, some even
in color. There was talk of
“the list”, and “naughty or nice”.
It was agonizing – waiting for
the night Mom said “OK, let’s
go buy the tree”. The trip to
the back lot behind the
super market, “This one…
NO! THIS ONE!” We carried
the tree - by any means possible -
remembering Mom’s warning:
“Remember, you will have to
carry that big tree home.”
The tree was somehow decorated.
Lights, tinsel, bulbs, each one someone’s
favorite, ribbons, bows, a picture
of the cat. Now the speculation
began in earnest. “Whadaya
think you’re gonna get?”. “OH,
I hope, I hope, I hope”, “But I can’t
tell you, it’s a secret.” We knew there
would probably be sox, some new
PJ’s, mittens – the usual. But there
would also be those other nicely
wrapped gifts – from Santa.
The baseball glove, the skates,
the “un-wrapable” scooters, bikes,
baseball bats, hockey sticks.
These were always brought by
Santa Clause. Santa supplied the
dreams, Mom and Dad the gifts.
We provided the unmistakable
sounds of Christmas morning.
There would be church and a
Christmas dinner, lost amid the
joy of dreams. Dreams of snagging
that line drive with the new baseball
glove, of racing down the hill on
the bike, of Bobby Orr like moves
with the new skates.
The colored lights took their cue
from the setting sun as we gathered
around the table and savored the
sweet, juicy, succulence of Mom’s -
never to be equaled – Apple Pie.
John G. Lawless
11/22/2014
submitted to HUSH OF CHRISTMAS PAST – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Mystic Rose
Favorite Toys
Matchbox cars and helicopter pads,
Airplane runways and little people lads.
Thomas the train and Dora dolls,
Remote controlled trucks and bouncing balls.
Flash cards and coloring books,
Magic sticks and fishing poles with hooks.
Rocking horse and a three wheel bike,
Racing cars and little tikes.
Don’t break the ice game and play phones,
Magic markers and Fisher price built homes.
Play dough and construction tools,
Scooters and swimming pools.
Butterfly kites and potato heads,
Twister games and Simon saids.
Mechanical robots and rubber snakes,
John Deere Traitors and gardening rakes.
~
With all these toys you have to play,
Why do I have to tell you everyday?
To leave your puppy’s toys alone!
In days of yore when I was four, in my memory I'm sure
there was nothing that you could buy called low fat
you got meat from a cow, and pork from a sow,
pound of lamb from NZ and that was that.
Butter from a pack, there was nothing that it lacked,
spread it thickly and then top it off with jam
or on it's own when times were hard,
and cook your chips in a pound of lard
and deep fry lots of lovely fritters made of Spam.
On the high days and the holy finish off with roly poly
burn it off by playing footy in the yard,
as we kids all stuffed our faces the majority of cases
found that doing up our laces wasn't hard.
So I think it rather strange how the times they've slowly changed
in our best interests to make us really thin
that the products we are buying really must be surely lying
as so many are now bursting out their skins.
In the papers every morning there's a scientific warning
of the problems that we store up for ourselves
as we go off on a jolly with our supermarket trolley
desperately trying to empty all the shelves.
As I sit and watch the fuss as they struggle on the bus
using scooters sticks and frames to get along
all I'm seeing is human beings and before my thoughts start fleeing
in my head they ask 'where did it all go wrong'?
A Trip to Paris
By Elton Camp
On the shuttle bus from de Gaulle airport
Is the first thing candor requires to report
Body odor was no doubt that horrible smell
In the city we could often detect urine as well
Seeing the French with their dogs was a delight
But their manure littering the sidewalks is a sight
But when nature calls for the humans it’s a mess
They clean their toilets once in a while, I guess
Another strange thing about toilets that I must say
If you want to use them, then be prepared to pay
And the car drivers are just as reckless as can be
Besides that, many obnoxious scooters you see
Scooters often go the wrong way down the street
And even on sidewalks you are likely them to meet
But the main thing that really makes me quite mad
Some don’t speak English and others only very bad
Have no pity for the overweight,
the out of breath at the garden gate,
the struggling in and out of cars,
cnsumer of syrup and chocolate bars.
Walking sticks and mobility scooters,
the difficult bras encasing hooters.
Red faced men and lard arsed women,
their promise of tomorrow slimming.
Condemn me now, I'm for the blaming,
in this campaign, this body shaming.
So many things beyond control,
my ugly skin and shallow soul,
but when I walk I leave no hole.
People say I'm out of touch,
I think that we accept too much,
fat piggy people should disgust.
Their need,
selfish
greed,
want,
desire,
gluttony,
feed,
pig,
and
opinionated.
Big is beautiful,
big and proud.
And all the while,
the dying sound,
cry of starvation,
die of starvation,
you,
You lie of starvation!
because the pudding was not chocolaty enough!
because there is no ice cream left,
if your wanting mouth needs to consume,
feast on torment of starving children,
drink only tears of broken mothers.
Hotel terraces art nouveau ironwork and interiors
Mother of pearl cufflinks painters actors musicians
Scooters racing around an antiquity filled Italian city
Mediterranean charm "How do you like your breakky?"
Feeling faint she lay on the comfortable chintz couch
And began to doze off to sleep...two cherubs red hair
Sea-green eyes turned up frecked nose sniffed air
Clove cigarettes perfume of sandalwood musk rose
Fresh strawberries slithered onto his awaiting lap
Beautifully chiselled shaven jawline elegantly poised
Handsome blue eyes dazzled like secret treasures
I have lived in other northern towns
with the loud noise of scooters,
of racing cars that deafened the ears,
but in this town of very soft sounds
the lowest sound is a canary
that wakes me whenever he pleases;
I simply named him," Happy "
for his harmonious chirps so groovy.
In my younger years,
it didn't matter much where I lived,
now it does; the clean street flanked
by beautiful oak trees
is the perfect heaven created by ingenuous hands
that foresaw a happy living...
and with flora and fauna enduring,
all the revealed beauty is shared in joyful moments.
Whenever another sunset approaches,
silence soothes the lonely soul in contemplation;
the children have gone home, the ravens
don't croak, it's time for prayer and meditation...