Best Tyre Poems
Wouldst thou for me an air
upon thy tortoise lyre
play, and sing those words so fair
about the Isle of Tyre?
Within whose walls so grand,
there at bazaar would be
hangings made by weaver's hand,
and colored from the sea.
And ships of cedar made,
all crewed by seamen bold,
sailed to shores afar, to trade
for silk and spice and gold.
Consoled by sweet refrain,
I dwell in dreams of Tyre--
going home will e'er remain
my unfulfilled desire.
_______________
The ancient Phoenician city-state of Tyre, an island off the southern coast of Lebanon, was famous for its production of the prized Tyrian purple dye derived from the murex snails found in its waters. --WW
© 2018 Wayne Wysocki
A boss can The Vigorous retire
While the latter is still a live wire,
His arms still sinewy, his feet sound tires:
The one who vibrant kids sires...
A boss can send home his firm's tears' dryer:
Saver of company's cars from mire,
It doesn't have to die down: 'the fire'
Nor does it need to corrode 'the wire'.
Then, your arguments could hearers tire
And, dragged too long, make you little liar;
Ones clearly seeking a confused buyer,
Wherefore you could not but go that higher...
Bosses mostly retire The Tired
And when they do they have them just fired!
There are people who drive tractors for a living
There are people who ride motorcycles fast
There are times when the two meet
There are times when those meetings are bad
There are times when it's fecking carnage
There are times when the bike rider dies
There are times when he's wrapped round the back wheel
There are times when the bike hits the tractor at 200mph
There are times when both fuel tanks explode
There are times when they miss one another
There are times when the bike drives slowly
There are times when speed limits are respected
There are times when no road laws are broken
There are times when zero accidents take place
There are times when people are sensible
There are times when we all live in fantasy
There are times when we hope this becomes true
F*cking Upside Down In a Blazing Avro Manchester Bomber – Poems from My Life and More
Nick Armbrister
It’s always a man like me
In the mind of donors
Because of my punctured tyre.
My name has become a title
To many charity works
And organisations.
My face is an old cloth
In the eyes of many doctors
And nurses.
I am ever tipsy on the road,
Always looking drunk
Without sipping.
This is why I can’t meet
My future dreams—
Because I am still chasing
My yesterday’s dream.
I can hear in my mind
The voice of a beautiful woman
Calling me for a dance.
The children too are begging me
To teach them soccer,
While my friends are waiting
At the foot of Mt. Rwenzori.
If morning sun comes
With God’s blessing,
Then I pray I receive mine
Before anyone could,
So that my punctured tyre
Can be glued and pumped
Back to its once-hidden path.
Children rolling tyre with a piece of stick,in person or in pictures we have seen and enjoyed this fun such stick is education and the tyre this World