Long Cyclists Poems
Long Cyclists Poems. Below are the most popular long Cyclists by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cyclists poems by poem length and keyword.
We are happy about the music,
a Mozart serenade that is not too dangerously deep.
Somewhere in the night
angels are falling off their nightmares,
black horse escaping on an ebbing tide.
Mozart is a skinny youth, his pink bubble gum
is happy, you can tell by the way his tongue pokes
through it, how he snicks the goo through
his front teeth.
Trick cyclists and other men in white tights
hold us spellbound, we beam happily
upturned faces shinning like full moons.
It is good to be radiantly irradiated from doubt,
cajoled by endless bouts of happiness.
The music is remembered as it plays
within the small organic organs of our love.
Good that everything fits now with no sharp edges.
Good to be smoothly functioning
in such a non-challenging way.
A harlequin struts, then bows obsequiously,
we are happy that his triangulated
three pronged hat can ring its little bells.
It is good to stand in the shallow end
and never feel the need to swim, sink or drown.
Good to rely on the orchestrated
dispensing powers that be,
good to be this happiness
measured out in prepackaged cups
for ease of use and no unsightly waste.
The devil is in the very fine print,
nobody reads it, and the Cosmos of All Other Things
snores on. Happily, we sing of he and thee,
run to the television screens for reassurance,
choose only the finest upholstery
to keep us from sagging for another year.
Let the soothing play on
our world is not perfect, but its serenades
are largely happy, and do not hound us out of our joy
like other darker compositions do.
In the City of Light, a new flame ignites
Olympic fire burns, burning bright nights
Paris springs to life, life in full swing
As champions spring forth, forth they spring
The Seine flows with dreams, dreams flow fast
Flowing with athletes from present and past
They run for gold, gold standard set
Running the banks where the sun has set
Towers of strength rise, rise to compete
Rising to challenges, challenges they meet
They vault over bars, bars set sky-high
Vaulting ambitions, ambitions fly
Swimmers stroke hope, hope strokes back
Stroking through waters, waters on track
They dive into glory, glory runs deep
Diving for medals they'll always keep
Cyclists pedal hard, hard roads ahead
Pedalling stories that'll be widely spread
They race against time, time races too
Racing hearts pound as they break through
Gymnasts balance dreams, dreams balance fate
Balancing acts that fascinate
They ring up scores, scores ring out loud
Ringing in victories that make nations proud
Boxers fight chance, chance fights back
Fighting spirits refuse to slack
They punch above weight, the weight of nations
Punching tickets to standing ovations
Archers aim, aim for the stars
Taking shots that push the bars
They draw the line, line between great and grand
Drawing gasps from fans across the land
Fencers parry time, time parries on
Parrying doubts till doubts are gone
They point to success, success points back
Pointing the way down victory's track
In this field of play, the play of words can't capture
Fields of dreams in rapture
The game is on, on goes the flame
Gaming the system of Olympic fame
Paris holds court, court of athletic kings
Holding the world as Olympia sings
A capital show, the show of human potential
Capital moments are essential
So let the games begin, begin anew
Gaming our senses with an Olympian view
For in Paris, par excellence reigns
Paris, where Olympic spirit never wanes
My middle aged spread is just spreading
So I thought I should join a new gym
Got to fit in my dress for a wedding
With some exercise I could get thin
I’ve got these new gym pants that sparkle,
And a t-shirt that flatters my tum,
I look like a fat Meghan Markle,
Well, ok, I look like her fat Mum.
I’ve got me a personal trainer
Who’s worked out an exercise plan
And with dieting, it’s a no brainer
Plus, who knows, I might find a new man!
They all hang around by the free weights,
Looking muscly and tanned and exotic,
Saying stuff like “hey, I’ll spot for YOU, mate!”
It’s terribly **********.
I gawp at a steroid packed beefcake
his neat package on full display
Lifting weights with his very good ‘friend’ Blake
It’s a pity they’re overtly gay
I’ve a voucher to try spinning classes
All the cyclists are dripping with sweat
They wobble their cute little ‘asses’
I’m going to get fit you can bet
I might have a go at Pilates
(All those supple but sensitive men!)
But the “down dog” pose makes me quite farty
So I might “blow” my chance there and then.
The Zumba class gets my heart racing
My boobies they wobble like jelly
This gym bug I’m really embracing
It beats sitting down watching telly
Cos it’s fun getting breathless and sweaty
While drinking in all of the sights,
And so long as the staff don’t eject me,
It all counts as cardio, right?
All spent, I lie in the Jacuzzi
My bikini floats off in the bubbles
I look like a desperate floozie
I guess that’s the least of my troubles!
So here’s hoping I gain some more vigour
While my bum shrinks to tiny perfection
Who knows, with my smokin’ new figure
I might pull at the wedding reception!
Written with Nina Parmenter who is a fabulously talented very funny lady and a joy to collaborate with!
2/14/18
I’m very pleased to introduce to you
something once a toy made completely new.
All you need are two good legs and balance! But it’s not a bike.
It’s as healthy as biking, so cyclists, take a hike!
It’s much more fun for everyone to JUMP their way
to where they want to get to every day.
The bottom part of it, once made of rubber,
used to wear down fast and made a few kids blubber.
For when the steel part poked itself on through,
annoying clatter hitting pavement would ensue.
That old-fashioned part that gave bounce for you
is completely remodeled. Now metal won’t poke through!
And better yet, it’s not rubber-made at all!
You now can jump to anywhere on anything, and you won’t fall.
This awesome patented invention will never get stuck
in dirt, grass or gravel, nor in mud and muck.
With longer and higher jumps than you ever had before,
the distance you can jump has increased twenty times more.
No one else but us has this technology.
Come and take a test-jump. You will see. . .
why we call our product the Quick MOGO stick.
POGO redesigned, will make you jump for joy, and that is no schtick!
March 16, 2018 for
"Advertisement: Sell something, make us want it" contest of Lewis Raynes
There is a presence to a Sunday morning,
an ease. People waiting on line for their
coffee seem more animated, less agitated,
friendlier….almost chatty. The traffic seems
to get along better too. No schedules demand
cut throat tactics to beat the next red light.
School buses, along with their riders, are
tucked away for the weekend. The hum of
the tires on the pavement seems almost
musical, soothing, in a movingstillness
kind of way. Joggers seem more relaxed,
their dogs less pressured to “get it done”.
Ducks idly talk to their shadows. Church
bells chime more jubilantly echoing over
the breaking day. We sit. Two old men
sipping hot coffee. Reveling in the present,
reminiscing about the past, in no hurry
for the future. An elderly woman ambles
past, smiling at the blowing leaves,
shuffling her feet in mock childhood frolic.
Cyclists relax into a near traffic-less rhythm
of wheels, spokes, gears - grinning into the
chill breeze of November. The firehouse
doors are open, the firefighters resting
between rounds, trucks sitting idle in
the bays, hoses rolled and ready. Two
squirrels play tag in front of a blue house
disappearing into piles of leaves only
to re-emerge atop a fence post. A grey
and white cat lays motionless nearby.
There is no rush to the cadence of the
churchgoers. It appears they may have
already entered into the day’s prayer.
A gentle sense of unanticipated hope
pervades the subtleties of life.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning.
John g. Lawless
11/8/2015
Market stall sellers, spewing out cheap tat, for bargain hunting peabrains parting with their cash; items disintegrating from one single use.
City traders impress with tall tales of the day, lapping up each others crap enjoying it's scent and taste; not caring for the common man whose lives they have wrecked.
Office workers looking grey, another mundane day. Sitting at their desks, day-dreaming of a different life while listening to bosses drivel on about deadlines.
Shop workers getting by, mastering people skills, satisfying customers; some are born to please but for others it's just painful.
Buskers playing tunes, some are good, some are not. They enjoy what they do, even to an audience unattentive to the soundtrack of their day.
Beggars in doorways trying to prise money from our wallets but who are the genuine needy? Alcoholics, drug addicts or rich Romanian gangs who treat it as a living.
Cyclists whizz past, jumping the red lights. An obstacle for pedestrians and motorists alike; two wheeled accidents waiting to happen.
Motorists zoom past at speed with arrogance and aggression; the survivors way to driving through city streets. A combination with potential for fatal consequences.
Some walk through the streets, head down, oblivious to all around, focusing on getting to their destination. Others soak it all in; buskers, coffee shops, the bustle of life.
If you're in the city, enjoy the city, even with the smog. Life's too short to be annoyed with the things that irritate us. Embrace what's on offer but accept you'll be ripped off!
May your day be clad in bright chitenge (colorful flowing garments)
and your ears filled with the music of falling waters!
Lwa mitonda , kaizeli! (We miss you, sister!)
See us run with arms outstretched
like the wings of an airplane
because, if we could, we would fly to you;
see our encircling, turning legs
like those of sprinting cyclists
because, if we could, we would pedal to you;
see us hop, in a sitting posture
like that of a crazy taxi driver
because, if we could, we would race to you.
But we would rather have you here with us
Africa ya kutonda, kaizeli! ( Africa misses you, sister!)
Ku tezi batu - we are waiting for you ( We watch the horizon)
Utwa, ba andamisa - come dance with us. (And the drums are beating)
While distance separates you from us
we talk about you, smile, and say:
Mutu yo munde ki ya na ni sikoka kwa batu; (she will make many friends)
and we want you to remember always:
Ku sebeleza Mulimu, ki makalelo a butali. (it is more blessed to give than to receive)
Be blessed, dear sister!
We wish you peace, we wish you joy
and above all, we wish you love.
They saw a 19 ton truck rampage their way
Death came to France on Bastille day
86 French folk died that patriotic date
when Mohammed Bouhlei drove for Islamic State.
At a Christmas market also sudden death
She looked at an oncoming truck, drew her last breath
11 others died with her on what should be a happy time
Anis Amri drove the truck, was it war, or just a crime?
Death on a bridge over an English River
Khalid drove the car, no shame, not a sliver
A car can be a weapon - a use that breaks our trust
That in a peaceful day it couldn't happen to us.
Civilization depends on trust every day
Drivers stay in their lane; people don't get pushed off the subway
If you work in a building that bursts into flame
It could a killer finding a new use for a plane.
He was shopping in Sweden, then a stolen truck drove fast
The sight of it was to be his last.
Another holy warrior, felt that five should die
He claimed that revenge was his reason why.
Another rented a truck, drove it down a path
Manhattan cyclists plowed and split in half
A guy called Younis drove a van in Barcelona Spain
I shrugged at the dead, didn't bother to learn their name
Bourbon Street, New Orleans, a self-righteous guy
Saw a celebration, thought happy folks must die
He drove a truck, I'll spare the gory details
In an open society, terror never fails.
What's with these killers you might ask, you might not understand
You feel you didn't do nothing: you don't have a bloody hand
But as a member of a group, that's all some need
to wipe you off the map and take pride in the deed.
IF you march for a cause, that's OK, that's free speech
But if others do this kind of murder, that's overreach
Perhaps the peaceful types who ignore means for ends
Are courting their own death, where the sidewalk ends.
Barcelona, Bourbon Street—the same refrain:
A van, a truck, a cause, the dead remain.
I admit I don't remember one name.
Or feel the waste, the shame, the pain.
The Bus to Dublin
Excited for days before,
My mother and I boarded the bus on a Sunday afternoon.
From Shercock,we headed south, and just beyond Kingscourt
adjacent to to the Gypsum factory I saw a small railway line.
Wow, such an exciting thing to see.
And then further on close to Navan,a race course.
Wow!, such an exciting thing to see.
And on the wider main road,just before Dunslaughlin,
a bunch of cyclists on racing bikes,
An unusual thing for my young eyes to see.
The journey,is often as exciting as the destination.
The destination already glowing on the horizon.
In the falling dusk of a November evening.
And then on the outskirts the first double decker bus
Announces,
'You are almost in Dublin'.
Getting off in Parnell Square we walked down O Connell Street
Past, as of yet, a still standing Nelsons Pillar.
And somewhere along the keys of the Liffey River on whose banks the.
City was founded,
we boarded the magical, double decker bus, bound for Kimmage.
Signs of the cross and silent prayers whispered as we passed Mount Argus church
Before getting off at the last stop on
Sundrive Road to walk the final straight to
Blarney Park.
Auntie Mary, animated , flamboyant and as mad as a bag of cats.
Ushered us into a cosy, city sitting room,with its open fire in full bloom.
And welcomed again by her Kerry man husband, Pat
As mad as a second bag of cats;
Funnier than any BBC TV comedian.
And here I am scores of years later,
Back on the bus to Dublin
And it's still an exciting journey, from the heart of the country
To the soul of the city.
To still be connected , and to marvel at the magic of everyday things.
Seeming unseeing, expressionless being
Asleep in this wide awake town
Leant on the side of a bridge cross the river
Her gaze and demeanour are down
Considered a knife for taking her life
But thoughts of whom-ever might find
her blood drenched cadaver, decided she’d rather
not mess up an innocent’s mind
Spent some time thinking, painkillers while drinking
Might bring her the peace that she craves
But what if they merely left her feeling bleary
So now she stands gazing at waves
Nobody asks if she’s needing assistance
As busy folk head on their way
Ladies with lippy and cyclists nippy
And suited chaps seizing the day
A note she laid down, then without tear or frown
She climbed up and over the side
Made her last pledge on a protruding ledge
That really was not very wide
Well Lord, that was me, what had you hoped to see
Whatever it was I have failed
Messed up all my life, but I’ll get one thing right
For I’ve got my final act nailed
Behind her a groan in a juvenile tone
The nine year old face wore a frown
From under the bridge, that scared little kid
Said, please Lady, don’t let me drown
My dad paid a man who had a white van
To find a long life of good health
Snuck out of Francais then to my dismay
Abandoned me here by myself
She said take my hand, then climb up and stand
Safe on the bridge, then we’ll go
Miss, said the lad, did God have this planned
Honey, she said, I don’t know