Long Garages Poems
Long Garages Poems. Below are the most popular long Garages by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garages poems by poem length and keyword.
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(Verse 1)
Rust on the spokes but the memory shines,
Dust on the frame like a map of old times,
Handlebars crooked from corners we’d take,
Chasing the sunset down every mistake.
Scraped knees and laughter stitched into the air,
Freedom was something we didn’t know we’d wear.
(Pre-Chorus)
No keys, no clocks, no place we had to be,
Just spinning wheels and a wild, wide “we.”
(Chorus)
Oh those old favorite bicycles, rolling through our days,
Chain-singing summers in a hundred golden ways,
Pedals pushing promises down every street we knew,
With the wind as our witness and the sky as our view.
We were kings of the cul-de-sac, queens of the lane,
Riding forever, never feeling the chain.
(Verse 2)
Bell that would ring like a bright little boast,
Racing our shadows we loved the most,
Trading our stories at the corner store,
Counting loose change for a dream and more.
Tires would whisper on warm, worn roads,
Carrying secrets only childhood knows.
(Pre-Chorus)
We thought the world was a circle we’d trace,
Round and around in that reckless grace.
(Chorus)
Oh those old favorite bicycles, rolling through our days,
Chain-singing summers in a hundred golden ways,
Pedals pushing promises down every street we knew,
With the wind as our witness and the sky as our view.
We were kings of the cul-de-sac, queens of the lane,
Riding forever, never feeling the chain.
(Bridge)
Now they’re leaning in garages, quiet and still,
But I swear I can hear them beyond the hill—
Calling my name in a soft, spinning rhyme,
Turning the wheels of a simpler time.
(Final Chorus)
Oh those old favorite bicycles, echo in my mind,
Rolling through the roads we can’t rewind,
But somewhere in the distance, in the dust and blue,
That child is still riding, still breaking through.
With the wind as a whisper and the past in flame,
I ride them again every time I remember their name.
We have built a world—
Not for the need,
But for the greedy.
Palaces boast of fifty rooms
Where no soul sleeps.
Garages gleam with a thousand idle chariots,
While the homeless pray to wind and pavement.
One man holds
A thousand acres of land,
While millions kneel
With no soil to claim as home.
Step into the White Halls of Power—
Leaders dine in gold,
While the governed die in rags.
Do not lecture me on capitalism.
Do not seduce me with socialism.
No system survives
When fed by the hunger of greed.
In the West,
The poor bleed for the rich.
And the rich—
They only bleed for themselves.
For us, the poor,
Life is not a journey.
It is a sentence—
A maximum-security prison
Called Earth.
The billionaire thief walks free.
But the hungry man who steals a sweet?
The law devours him.
And you call this justice?
Even now, on dating apps,
On poetry platforms,
On every glowing screen—
“Premium Subscribers”
Is the new deity.
It’s no longer about love,
Or passion,
Or talent.
It is about price.
It is about profit.
Money has replaced meaning.
It dictates.
It directs.
It decides.
Only the greedy shall survive.
So tell me:
In a world so rich,
Why are there so few rich?
And you—
You who call yourselves civilized—
You elect thieves and murderers,
And expect to build Eden?
Fools!
A greedy pig eats even its own children.
Not out of anger—
But out of greed.
This…
Is the world we have created.
I feel sorry for the dead rat.
It was not an urban or country,
it was a suburban rat; it had a code of behavior.
It never infested, or stole
it strolled these leafy avenues
with a certain rodent pride.
It’s Autumn
and the trees are aflame with
medium income wealth,
the foliage lush
cultivated to be plush.
Yet here under a mighty maple
lies the body of a noble rat;
rigor mortis
cannot hide from our eyes
its once lordly existence.
With my foot,
I cover it with a blanket of
regal red and golden leaves,
as if it were a fallen eminence
of a minor kingdom,
a place where even rats
may claim title
to two or even three car garages.
Until I die
I'm going to do my best
To stay alive.
While there's still blue in the sky
There's still hope in my eyes
That all will come to realize...
Don't limit the is
For what is has no limits.
Will not the Sun turn our blood green?
Will not the gods... swim with the salmon upstream?
Will not the dream come alive in a bean?
A green bean tossed in a stream
By a boy with really big dreams.
Live in the now, forget the rest.
Live life to the absolute fullest.
So, until then
I'll do my best not to sin.
Tame the beast that roars within.
Play my woodwinds like the puck I am.
Offer up sweet song with my aqualungs.
Pull my Jethro Tull, unleash my Calypso.
Trill with thrills echoing off canyon walls
And public parking lot garages.
Cawing to the gods and anyone with ears.
Perhaps, I am flawed
In believing there is hope
Even after all these years.
Perhaps, I'm just delusional
In thinking love will conquer all,
Extinguish evil
Once and for all.
Perhaps, I'll just keep on playing my flute
And
Keep on swimming in the soup.
We want bigger homes
And a smaller family.
We want mountain tops and
Flowers in the valley.
We want more convenience,
We have less time.
We all have our hills and
Mountains to climb.
We want more degrees,
But no common sense.
We want things to change,
Yet, we are on the fence.
We want more knowledge,
We have less judgement.
We have more crime,
A glutton for punishment.
We want more experts, yet we
Create bigger problems.
We expect what we plant
To blossom.
We want more medicine,
But we're less healthy.
Everyone is getting fat,
But the wealthy.
We have been to the moon
And back.
We have lost our way,
On the wrong track.
We built more computers to
Hold more information.
To make conversation, we open
More lines of communication.
We want more quantity,
We get less quality.
We want equal rights, yet
Deal with equality.
We want a variety of fast foods,
We have slow digestion.
We want the first date
To pop the question.
We want to be taller,
We are short on character.
We want to meet new people,
Yet there is a barrier.
We want more profits, yet we
Have shallow relationships.
We want more friends,
But we have fewer partnerships.
Our garages are full,
Our homes are empty.
We want it to be colder,
We become more sweaty.
Turbo1904 ?
My fellow countrymen, the President, Politicians, and pulpiteers Though not in a cave like Rip Van Winkle, I must have fallen asleep in "indifference and over-business". It was more than Van Winkle's 20 years, because prior to my sleep, I knew an America that dreamed of chickens in every pot; of carports, garages, and picket fences; of a good education and catching the Joneses.
It appears I am awaking, not from, but to, a nightmare; and to what am I opening my eyes to see? Me thinks it's not 'my country tis of thee'; not a chicken in the pot or fryer in the skillet. But I see leaders in the kettle like a frog, where the fire is turned down low and heating slowly. Like the frog, they are relaxed and comfortable. Oh Lord, if they only knew the manner of the frog's demise.
I see changes, and multiple evils have been removed. Recovery and relief have been appropriated and dispatched for the poor. Reforms and revivals have periodically visited us from above. I see blessings and prosperity beyond comparison; melting pots of dreamers and immigrants still dine at our tables. That's part of the American beauty.
Oh America, we are busy face-booking and twitting; But we must realize that we are also bleeding. I weep for what might lie ahead for us. I grieve for what we are becoming. I fear for us, though not of guns and nukes from afar; But for rivalries in the white house and the halls of congress. And I fear for our pulpiteers who also relax in the kettle like the frog.
07312017cjFBPH; August Standard Contest, Brian Strand Part fiction
Mom’s Night Before Christmas
T’was the night before Christmas
Downtown stores they were packed
Shoppers looking for deals
Bargains bound to attract.
My mother navigated crowded streets with care
She put off Christmas shopping until Christmas Eve
Knowing the sales would still be there
She would check off her list – this she believed!
Every year, the same game
This her habit, her tradition
Christmas Eve shopping – her claim to fame -
Like a wise woman on a mission
All parking lots said no room in the inn
Garages full, nary a spot in sight
But mom didn’t worry, slowly she grinned,
She knew the secret for parking this night.
Singing Silver Bells, her favorite carol,
With visions of gifts purchased, just in time,
She wore her mantra like festive apparel
“There’s always room at the head of the line.”
Lo, and behold, what appeared
One parking place at her favorite store
Quickly she zipped in filled with Christmas cheer
Ready to finish her holiday chores.
There’s always room, her holiday legend,
One she passed on to me, thankfully,
When finding a mall space I look to Heaven
“Thanks, Mom!” I say with Christmas glee.
Miracles happen at this time of year
In positive thinking believe
A star in the sky – a Savior appears
All of life’s burdens to relieve.
12-6-22
Contest: T’was the Night Before 3
Sponsor: Joseph May
Every year on Christmas Eve my mom would drive downtown to do her Christmas shopping. With every garage and parking place taken, she would, every year, find a place to park in front of the door to her favorite store!!!! Her mantra lives on – “There’s always room at the head of the line!” Perfect for the belief in miracles at Christmas!
You've heard of me.
You've seen me around.
I nest in cabins, garages, sheds,
Trailer parks, abandoned buildings,
Even on your attic.
I'm not as cuddly as I look,
So don't come near me,
Or dare try to pet me;
You'll get a nasty bite on your finger!
Yes, I'm quite temperamental
And ferocious.
I'm a pest and a half
Who have invaded
almost every habitat you can imagine.
I'm a havoc-wreaker
Who does damage to gardens,
Crops and poultry;
I even knock over trash cans
while scavenging for food.
I hunt both on land and in water,
Munching on insects, fruits, nuts,
Mice, fish, frogs, turtles, etc.
I have gray fur, a ringed tail,
Black stripes on my face,
Long dexterous fingers
That can twist knobs and open doors.
I'm solitary and nocturnal.
I'm a Raccoon.
Date written: 11/14/2021
Look at you haven't you done well
With your custom built library office which smells if rich mahogany and many leather bound book's
Isn't it amazing what money can buy
An entire room of book's for the ignorant and illiterate
A country mansion and more cars than garages and bespoke suits and watches than day's in the week
With a trophy wife in check to adorn his arm
And blessed with everything he ever dreamed of
He still remained unfulfilled
As all the money in the world could not buy the 1 thing he craved left remaining
None of which he owned was earned
His wealth his house his car's his freinds his wife
At the end of the day it was all inherited
And therefore worthless