Long Grand prix Poems
Long Grand prix Poems. Below are the most popular long Grand prix by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grand prix poems by poem length and keyword.
A profession that's not the norm.
It borders on the absurd.
In the mountains and down the hollers,
powerful engines could be heard.
I decided to try something new.
Put my driving skills to the test.
Driving from Harlan County to Asheville,
It didn't end well, you might have guessed.
The city fathers got together,
figuring how to make it all work.
Everyone involved in this illegal trade,
from the mayor to the town clerk.
The hillbillies brew the dew.
Most of it safe, some burns red.
Uncle Jessie tried it once.
His eyes rolled back and he dropped dead.
Billie Ray had a hot rod '50 Ford.
Was a race car, lost more than it won.
We popped the trunk, man it was huge.
Perfect for the nightly Asheville run.
In the trunk was a steel tank.
Loaded hooch made the car ride low.
Truck springs took care of the problem.
Now the truck no longer hauls cargo.
Beneath the rear bumper were nozzles.
A switch inside made the oil flow.
When a revenuer was chasing you,
in the rearview, was quite the show.
I always wanted to drive.
Thought this life would be exciting.
Told to keep away from this game.
It's dangerous hauling white lightning.
Blazing out of Harlan County.
At first, it went fairly smooth.
Problems I planned for didn't happen.
I got settled into a groove.
Bo Duke, he would've been proud,
when I jumped the gap at Cumberland.
Crossed the stream at Maynardville.
The engine died, it's not going as planned.
I finally got it restarted.
Pretended I was driving the Grand Prix.
Ahead, I saw the tail lights of the g-man.
Oh, snap! they're supposed to be chasing me!
I pulled off the exit for Knoxville.
Checked the map, found Kingston Pike.
I heard this in a song before.
Outside of Bearden, they were planning to strike.
Kept going in spite of the tune.
There they were, waiting to spring.
Blocking the road, no way to get by,
I lost control, spun into this big electrical thing.
The car quickly caught fire.
The door was jammed, options were few.
It was like an atom bomb going off,
when the flames caught the Mountain Dew.
The next night, my funeral was held.
Played a song about some bird in a tree.
The car lights, they stretched for miles.
This life I guess was not for me.
Buzzfeeding sustenance (eating/drinking) beyond point of satiation
Bloated swollen cheeks
analogous to first Chinese Brother,
who swallowed the sea,
now non sequitur
off beaten track i.e.
less apropos re: guarding
par for race course as if
ace driver won Grand Prix
latter referencing international
horse race for three-year-olds,
founded in eighteen sixty three
931 + 932 = above number
satisfying ghost of Fibonacci.
Original idea predicated whereby
all Americans heartily feast
(stuff themselves to the gills)
salivating cornucopia dime
a dozen lonely people
bemoaning holiday re:
traditional Thanksgiving time,
celebrating joie de vivre chime
wine glasses clink full house,
where ushers pantomime
proffer gobbledygook and
motion rapidly hungry guests
toward smorgasboard prime
tables for gluttonous
to commit punishing crime.
Tentative arrangement made,
whereby oldest sister, and husband,
(who live a jaunt away from Maple Shade
more precisely Woodbury New Jersey)
would swing by Schwenksville
comprising one car motorcade,
thence to shuttle 31.5 miles southeast
our mutual (of Omaha) friend,
I met when counted orbitz
during late 30/early thirtieth decade.
Offer to drive out of their way
presented, since our 2009
Hyundai Sonata did betray
accountability, dependability...
reliability oy vey
woolworth no more than
couple/few Benjamins
yet real challenge constitutes
yours truly, née
theme underlying mein
kampf pennilessness pray
I did (despite being orthodox
atheist) to no avail
relying upon social security
regarding disability (mine) Mayday
forthrightly, feebly, faintly...
calling before men
donned with white coats
came to take me away
to the happy home with trees
and flowers and chirping birds
and basket weavers who sit,
smile, twiddle their thumbs and toes.
Communication break down
compromised eating humble pie
regarding this ole man
upended above mentioned plan
whereby attending
hosted by: Gail la Dorfman
afforded rubber express
thus with Forrest Gump I ran
all the way across
Ocean thru to Japan.
One evening Bob nervously said
I kinda like three in a bed
She said I’ve got friends
And each of them tends
To share the desires in your head
The next night as had been arranged
His ankles and hands were in chains
His lady walked in
With Rodney and Jim
And that kinda messed with his brains
His girl was a leather clad gimp
And Jim looked a bit of a wimp
Rodney said ducky
Time to get mucky
But Bob was decidedly limp
*
Time to collaborate...
First ‘up’... Jan Allison
Bob swallowed six Viagra whole
And soon was like a flag pole
Much to his delight
He stayed up all night
The threesome all enjoyed their roll
*
And from Tom Cunningham...
Poor old Bob was a pitiful sight
His girl decided to put things right
She produced a pump
And worked on his stump
And Bob was like a stallion all night.
Old Bob was so grateful for his girlfriend
But all things good always come to an end
With too much thumping
And all the humping
His thing deflated and started to bend.
*
And Belle Bellevue writes...
Bob went to see the doctor with his crick
Asking please could he do something with it
Doc gave it a jerk
That really hurt
But it became bigger after the visit.
That put a smile a mile wide on Bob's face
He strutted proudly all over the place
The more people looked
The longer he stood
With swollen head penetrating airspace.
Bob begged his girlfriend to bring some more in
The home fast becoming a den of sin
They came three by three
A sexy grand prix
Which ended up with Bob in a tailspin.
*
Mark Koplin adds...
Old Bob was a motherless soul
He liked bears, sheep and woodchuck holes
All three gave him a grin
On his chinny chin chin
Next time he’ll add a few moles
*
And Tania adds this...
Bob was enjoying being wildly bad
Posted a dating site with his fun add
So anxious he couldn't sleep
After being banned a creep
He was now left a frustrated poor lad
*
Since the bloody Battle of Hastings
When 'Arold got killed by French Bill
We've seen an endless invasion of French
And I've just about had my fill
Don't we have enough words of our own
In this wonderful language of ours?
- To seek and find le mot juste
Dunt take much linguistic power
It seems using French has been with us forever
Passed down as a fait accompli
Have we ever really tried to change that?
Or have we always said "C'est la vie"?
But, to think that some long-dead bon vivant
With a certain je ne sais quoi
Used his chic tour de force to put words in our mouths
To me, it's a shameful faux-pas
So, I think we need a tête-à-tête
To form a clique, to mount a coup
Working together, en masse, as a team
We'll swap "Bonsoir" for "How Do"
Then (haute couture) won't be setting the trend
We'll watch racing, not the Grand Prix
No more art nouveau, or cordon bleu
And say "Enjoy your meal", not "Bon appétit"
I never have the soup du jour
Prefer prawn cocktail to poncy pâté
And I'll sit in a coffee house or caff
But never go in a café
Some say I should let it go and relax
Say choice of words is all laissez-faire
But can I stay calm on this bête noire of mine?
No, mes amis ~ au-contraire!
At British Wimbledon let's use "40-all"
Instead of being at deuce
And what's wrong with nil instead of love
Or am I being obtuse?
I know that we'll get nowhere
I sense there's no going back
That it's like being stuck behind burning sheep
Trapped in a cul-de-sac
But I suppose that it is nice to share
Good ideas and a word or two
Like Liberté and Égalité
And that feeling of déjà vu
And with le weekend, le booking, le check-in, le spam
And countless more, I say with a grin
That when we look at our counter-invasion
Even the French agree that we win!
Young and single, just got a job in a neighbour town,
Thought I’d buy a flashy car so I could get around,
My boyfriend at the time said that I should get a Camaro,
It was new, orange and shiny, how could I be so narrow.
I crowned her Bess and drove her home with pride,
All my friends called, they wanted to go out for a ride.
Summer was so much fun, what a splash I was making.
Then gone, both summer and the boyfriend I was dating.
Winter rolled in with tons of snow and patches of ice,
Getting to work in my Camaro, was like rolling the dice.
Ol’ Bess would skid to the left and swerve to the right,
Wow, I held on to the steering wheel with all my might.
So I resigned that Bess was not good in cold weather,
Even with snow tires, she blew around like a feather.
Then suddenly a new quirk started as I turned on the key,
She spluttered, oh great, guess I won’t make the grand prix.
Bess would start well at times then for no good reason,
She’d stammer, then stop, reek of gas - in any season.
Bess and I visited many auto repair shops by way of a tow,
The carburetor was like a fountain, out of it the gas would flow.
Apparently a carburetor is needed to make Bess purr,
So I had it rebuilt, then replaced, oh the bills, what a blur,
Then a starter motor and strut, remember Bess is brand new,
After three years of aggravation, I traded her in, I was through!
Guess a cool single girl may look good in a splashy sports car,
But if your car doesn’t start or run, you won’t get too far.
So I put on my sunglasses, look cool but feel like a real wart,
As I drive to work in sleet and snow in my old Ford Escort.
Written for Contest “Driving Me Crazy”
Won 6th Place
Most people who meet her, consider her charming
But she has ghoulish traits, they’d find quite alarming
With her gleaming blonde tresses and sparkling blue eyes
Her cherubic features are just a disguise
For although she emits a celestial aura,
Angelic pastimes, quite simply, abhor her
Where other girls play with their ‘Barbie’ dolls
She has mystic wars with her hideous Trolls
Her peers, read Enid Blyton in Bed
She takes Stephen King, with his tales of the dead
And, when it comes to the movies she’s seen
A Nightmare on Elm Street, Hallow’een,
Poltergiest, Psycho, The Thing, The Blob too
These are just to name but a few
There’s nothing she likes more than a good ‘chiller’
With ghosts, ghouls and monsters, or psychotic killers
She watches the Grand Prix, to watch the cars crash
She loves to see the players fouled at a soccer match,
Ice skaters, she wills to fall flat on their faces
And athletes, when running, to trip on their laces
Yet, despite her having such a sick and perverse mind
She’s loving and caring, gentle, sensitive, kind
Unselfish and thoughtful, advanced for her ten years
Who on watching Disney films, has been known to shed a tear
Although she won’t admit to it, it’s only herself, she fools
And I wouldn’t change one inch of her, my ‘angelic’ little ghoul.
© Janette Fisher – April 1995
This poem was written 15 years ago when my youngest was 10 - she hasn't changed a bit!!!!
Kare Adenegan
I love the city of Coventry ‘cos it’s disability friendly,
Since it houses Great Britain’s national disabled college,
As Hereward resides there with insight, policies bendy,
Towards its students who mainstream don’t admonish.
Kare who was only 15 at Rio comes from Coventry,
She schools at Bablake and has Cerebral Palsy true,
And, being excluded from the school sports gentry,
After the London Paras decided that sports she’d do.
So she joined one of the many wheelchair academies,
Which vibrate in Coventry and soon attended meets,
Where she could compete with national dungarees,
As a T34 sprinter to cheer the crowds off their seats.
Grand Prix final in London 2015, and she pushed hard,
Revolved those rubber tyres faster than ever she could,
And, unbelievably, she beat flat Hannah Crockroft bard,
To become the first in seven years to lower that hood.
Then in Doha 2015 IPC Worlds she steamed victorious,
When she won bronze in both the 400 and in the 800m,
And then in Rio 2016 she won one silver medal glorious,
Also two bronze, stealing the sprints for the UK by gaiters.
Indeed, both Hurricane Hannah and Kare Adenegan,
Come from Coventry because Hannah’s moved there
To study media at Coventry University. Respect began,
In the war recovery effort: for the disabled they’d care.
I was doing great
Holdin' on
It's been 32 days
Since my best friend passed on
His son, who now lives with me
Walked through the door
Carrying a leather jacket
Out came tears just like before
The kids huddled around me
As I hugged his bodiless scent
"Don't cry mom"
My chair became a human tent
Memories came full blast
Of all the times we had
I'm trying to bury them quickly
I cannot being so sad
Movies, sleepovers, popcorn fights
Rock climbing, rock jumping too
Racing on the highway
Phone calls with "I Love You"
Breakfast at 3am
Burping contests all night
Band practice in the living room
Don't forget the pillow fight
BBQ's, traveling
In one trip, hit two deer
Jesus Racing he started
With his sons he held so dear
Greasy clothes
Six foot seven
Now I hold his leather jacket
For he has gone to heaven
Surprised me a work
Several times a week
Thinking up old bands
Playing hide and seek
Sharing all secrets
Telling no lies
Never judging each other
His sparkling blue eyes
Pinching his nose
When he would snore
Feet hanging off all my furniture
The cutoff shirts he wore
A Grand Prix
That was crappy in the snow
Stopping and having a beer
To the Nugget for a show
Fishing in the Sacramento River
Inventions to copyright
And now a leather jacket
To wear on a cold night
My inspiration comes from my shattered heart
Of all my emotions strung apart
Distance valleys and shining falls
Back me up against mirrored walls
Shattered mirrors fall apart from the walls
Muffled noises and drowned~out calls
Life around my sweet fingertips
So many fake kisses against these lips
Walking alone on a vast beach
Shooting for a goal I haven't quite reached
Sinister sounds exit my four-walled past
As my life drowns my energy so fast
Midnight strikes as waves crash the rocks
Desperately trying to break my internal blocks
Barriers stop the social part of my life
Somehow uncomfortable and it doesn't feel right
Breathing in the salty mist from the sea
I'm racing through a race car Grand Prix
Going so fast and flashing visions I see
Climbing through my soul like an alone maple tree
Wondering and watching my life past me by
Constantly falling no matter how hard I try
Finding fear every corner I turn
Feeling my insides slowly burn
Sand squishing through my feet
Walking alone ~ never a treat
By myself marked and branded again
Branded for living my life in sin
Sinister voices can still be heard
Listening to invisible voices ~ feeling absurd
Watching a storm cloud jade the moon
Loneliness this year is obviously in bloom...
Well there’s Hooverville
on the edge of the river
haint nuttin boot flimsy cardboard
e’en with clothes will shiver
waiting for tension to be released
like a arrow in a taut quiver
major organs ready to burst open
cuz day r all a failin'
unless salvation does da liver
from a stingy farmer
nada one of him a giver
Hence a goin to Cali for n’ya
in battered up truck n wailin' wah wah
ta feed da chill n beasts o burr den –
‘cept un shaw
if me pa
will ever appear on Oprah
whar guest’s literary car –
rears into grand prix hoopla
An win free dim lifts us lock a hawk,
this kid rock will nah
dat he suffered faw a distant few cha
migrants we may be – butta we bah
dog on judas priest, Christ and allah
Rose of Sharon wool extend
da family tree
dat ma will live to see
re:
charging the Joad jalopy
in part from me
tink rin hands dat like ta mess
with oil hand stains
one mo scar – craning neck 2 earn
An huh tha red badge of courage
upon this Okie
hunched o’er with stiff back
while wounded knee
continually bunged up with utter glee
at engine cough fin smoke
to git us free
whar we kin sally in da pacific fields yipeee.