Best Wheelie Poems
Hey LAdies!!!
Casanova's not who you think he is...
One simple google click
background check
will nullify his bliss.
There's much more to
the Man
the Myth
the Trick
A fake glitch
flash in the pan
don't make me beg
an' expose that pathetic man's
Cracker Jack Prozac plan
C'mon baby, phenol Barbie Doll
don't keep makin' same mistakes
believin' his B.S. trip and falls.
Manic Queen of depression,
leave old Papa Wheelie alone
his words are Romeo sweet
yet his lies are overgrown.
*credit artists Marilyn Manson, Twiggy Ramirez, and Zim Zum for
terms "Phenol Barbie Doll, Manic Queen of Depression"-- taken from
Song, "Mechanical Animals" off album "Mechanical Animals" by Marilyn
Manson Nothing/Interscope Records 1998
WHEELIE BIN JOE
On the north side of Brisbane lives a man who does no wrong,
He pongs a bit, he's grubby and his beard and hair are long,
He sits upon the footpath mid plastic bags all sorts,
Black garbage round his shoulders and white ones on for shorts,
A yuppie down the footpath tripped,
and soon fell over Joe,
Recoiled in shock as horror gripped,
climbed off the "so and so."
So now they leave him on his throne,
cross the street to the other side,
From his house front boards, the nails have flown,
weather boards have gone to hide.
The prophet peers from neath his robes,
bags plastic shuffled flies,
In trance the seer discards his clothes,
as fresh plastic he applies,
Oh he'd tell us all of what he knows,
If he perchance did speak,
But plastic fumes get up his nose,
and cause his brain to squeak.
So if you pass the prophet there,
do spare a thought for him,
see his waiscoat's very shiny glare,
but the plastics getting thin.
The winter wind it whistles but Joe has cause to grin,
for the masters call, he's waiting to right some deadly sin.
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Do You Know The Cardboard Man?
cars sound the alarm
autumn delivers it's storm
night time is shattered
window faces watch
our world of broken branches
wheelie-bins gone rogue
when tomorrow comes
boys will collect their conkers
grown men their shovels
Death
death gives no fear
cos winters here
his bony hand is thin
he'll need his coat
but will he float
when i step on his neck so thin
when he comes back
his bones i'll crack
and check him out for sin
and bruise him blue n black
and leave him in the wheelie (bin)
perhaps
Don Johnson 19-may-11
Wheelie bins know what you’re thinking
Deep down you know it’s true
They know just what you did last night
And they are judging you
And if you think you see them smirk
When you are walking past
It’s probably not the first time
And it will not be the last
Wheelie bins know everything
Much more than you’d suspect
For they grew wisdom from the pain
And betrayal of your neglect
They did not sit there helpless
When you moved in for the kill
They met up with their comrades
And learned transferrable skills
In the depths of all our gardens
They huddled, gaining strength
From knowledge and camaraderie
They learned woodwork and French
So if you think they are mocking you
With their skills in carpentry
Elles parlent français, mon ami,
Ces poubelles de wheelie
Wheelie bins know what you’re thinking
They know just what you’ve done
So do not cross a wheelie bin
For their time has finally come
You’ll find them down the garden
Happy within themselves
Reading Jean Paul Sartre
And knocking up some shelves
R andom radicals rush rip-roariously on ward
O nerously oggling on-lookers abroad
A nnealing axle-grease atop ankle-high boots
D eliberately dashing dilettante seekers
T raveling tenaciously toward tree-lined detours
R oad rage roars, racers recline, rear-wheels wheelie
I mprobable instances intoxicate incalculable intensity
Probably, they'd get there alive!?
S irens sound
E mptiness emanates extravehicular extemes
N ickle-plated, nonentities now
D eath, death, dangles
I nsanities inane inference
N ickle-plated, nonentities now
G one.
Contest:GROOVE IT ! Free Poetry Contest Details
Style: Heavy Metal
Date:10/9/13 revised
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Our wheelie bin gives me a grin,
When I put my brother in,
I push him hard from the rear,
He yells out loud, " NO rubbish here,"
We really loved our wheelie bin.
But recently from the top of a hill,
I pushed him off for a thrill,
He took off at break-neck speed.
It really was a dirty deed,
He now wears plaster from the spill.
Now no more wheelie bins for us,
My brother still is oozing pus,
And when he hears the nightly din
Of a garbage truck and a wheelie bin,
He goes ballistic-what a fuss.
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.
the wheel is squealing, grinding, and peeling
rubber off the tire in a wheelie some real heat
some friction slipping losing your grip and
your sense of conviction censor conniptions
but you can't hold this down eternal
fit on the paper then center re-word those
free bird poems, odes, and flows
we birth woes, and broken bones
deter foes from our pleasure and treasure
paradoxes to measure its measure
whether this weather gets better or never
we can shut all the shutters and shudder together
Dear Lord this year to save time being lost
remind me- Turkey, Christmas Eve- defrost.
And when it's in the oven, leave no doubt
that I forgot to take the giblets out.
Five loaves, two fishes you fed five thousand,
may I feed six with far less food to hand
since each year bags of food we buy a few
the wheelie bin eats better than we do.
You love little children, what joy they bring,
for me, as tranquilizer, Sherry's king.
I pray , Lord, as I open my gift box
I look pleased with my snowman themed bed socks.
Please let me use only the choicest words
when queueing for pork pies at dawn, at 'Birds' *.
We thank you for the gift of Brussels sprouts
and hinged windows to let the odours out.
Peace keeper may I be as it gets late
and nobody offers to wash the plates.
Above all, Lord, may I remember who
this season is about, and it is you.
* Birds is our local bakery
The seagull
In the winter light she limps through
Frozen snow on the frozen ground
In the deepest night the starlight
Guides her back to the colder town
Baby, baby bunting
Mummy’s gone a ****ing
Gone to fetch a wheelie bin
To bin her baby bunting in.
I don’t want my wife to find me talking to you as if I care
Can I take you somewhere warmer?
I know somewhere I’ll take you there
How the clouds hold the snow.
Up above our heads a seagull
Flies across the storm.
Snowflakes slit his skin like razors
Next to me that bastard’s warmer.
Out on the moor where the sheep are buried
By the barn door lay the babe I carried
And the icicles are forming
And the bicycles are frozen
Down the street there goes the chosen
Up his bum there goes the bosun
And the misery and torment
Are the only things for what you’re meant
Can you pay me back what I lent
I don’t wanna get my head bent.
The trawler trails the gulls
into the harbours arms again
The seamen spill into the alleys
Waiting for the great adventure.
Common American Phrase: Suck it up, Buttercup
I shudder and shake with epinephrine as the needle stings inside my cheek, like a bee stings. I’m not a child, I’m a buttercup. The shaking rattles me but I relax until the next invasive… I see a bright light, though very much alive. Wearing glasses to protect my eyes. I close them so I can pray, and try not to pay too much attention to the two surgeons over me. A tooth distraction…a true extraction. The enemy must go, but the battle is strong as are my bones. Good news that grips the root. What’s going on, I can only hear the drill and my droughty lips feel like they are going to split. This is about an hour's procedure, it seems an eternity. The beginning was cold. I’m a retiree who hardly goes out, anymore, in the early morning. Georgia in March was a balmy twenty nine degrees fahrenheit. Hardly an inspiration to get up to have an operation. “Let’s not,” head says but wisdom knows, I must. I bundled up then stripped down as the car warmed up. After going through the ringer, I climb back in my car, and drive another twenty minutes and wait for prescriptions, hoping the pain won’t pop. Then one more stop for another that is cheaper in Publix…the needed antibiotic, Amoxicillin. Sometimes, you feel like you're in a nightmare where you can’t get back home. Patience is called for with a patient. The last couple of miles, I feel as though I’m on a bicycle. Even home, I have to unpack the meds, read the instructions then relax for a couple days, and realise I’m still on that hike…more waiting to eat and drink normal things.
Complaining…perhaps…or merely composing a poetic epitaph. After all, when I was laid back in the dentist’s chair, my jaw being held by the dental assistant, feeling I was inches from being choked to death, I was already writing this in my head, but not at all in the mood to pedal my fingers on the keyboard until these many days later, having been laid out in my wake for those many pain killer days. Don’t think me morbid, perhaps a bit Poe or prosaic. I feel swell…well swelling is down. It’s all downhill from here…that is a good thing. I may even pop a wheelie.
3/17/2023
Taught Iago to trance,
the pungent smell made me balance the stance,
raided the 'pulse' and sought no other deviant,
I was looted in the same way I soared above all the monumentleness,
and got into it ahead.
They told us that we 'like' the hold on the today's whole whole because of the ways that the daze distracts in haze, on lightness and bled out fazed rocketry-
totality toward tanking is the remaking so I can start happily planking the tanned plinked' out shaking,
and be my own staking-
he'd let me know in an outside laking that the entanglements are not withstood otherwise so in our own eye's we tie and tie, and say goodbye doll, die die!
Your own forgiveness is in a way it's own stay yet the hearing does not go over that one flip and dive to dig like it's all sits in...
Your keep and your bold are not getting as old as the try in our sky and demand of the night to spy...
I'd take anyone on in a jimmin' janky dotton berry heelie feelie wheelie straight down the center of common carry.
All About Robert
Robert was born with a birth defect known as spina bifida. A disability that has
not stopped him from achieving success in his life. Robert serves as an
Advocate for the disabled, an on going effort to to better the rights of all
Americans with disabilities. He is an International poet-writer with well over 900
publications Published worldwide. In 2000, Robert was nominated as one of the
best poets of the 20th Cen. Just most Resently, he was nominated for the
pushcart prize, an award giving to Outstanding Poets & Writers. Robert is also a
Guinness & Ripley's World Record Holder for the longest non stop wheelie in a
wheelchair, covering a total distance of 6.178 miles. The reason for his record,
was to help raise money for wheelchair ramps throughout the community.
"The Poet"
Words flow onto paper like rain , forming giant rivers
of unseen lands.
The very force guides us along a journey
that holds of great adventure.
We are the explorers of the literary world.
We must find the courage to write what
others are unable to, with the greatest
of passion.
A poet dreams. and then must portray his
visions upon the page that lies before him.
It is the beauty of all things that inspires us
to communicate in such a way.
A man does not wake up one day, and
decide to become a poet.
It must live in the very blood that courses
through his veins.
He is the creator of a world, only he has
known.
He is the actor and director, of all that
speaks out through his pen.
He is a man of all men, Visionary of all
visionaries.
What you haven't seen, he has.
What you can't say, he can.
For he is the poet.
Joanna’s off to London town in this her finest hour’
Ten years of hard labour have brought her to the Tower.
Not the Tower of London where folks have disappeared
But to the Dorchester Hotel to receive a rousing cheer!
Yes she’s finally done it; she’s truly made the grade
from underling, tearaway and paltry lowly maid.
Remember the little ‘Wheelie’ in the shopping mall!
Well that bonnie girl can now stand ten feet tall!
She’s fought against the odds because she had belief,
This has brought success and a great deal of relief:
I am so very proud of you, on this very special day,
a chartered accountant you've become, what more is there to say!!!!