Long Motorbikes Poems
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I may not be so popular with the comments and the views
and although I never make the front liners nor the news
the one thing I do know is this I got friends that are true
They know to find my page and send me my heart's gage
even if I didn't win a contest nor cause the latest rage
I dislike gossip and fake people and yes, I love to sage
I don't evaluate myself by the amount of likes dislikes
preferring Cinderella's stage coach over shiny motorbikes
I don't sit in the cinders and take pleasure in the spikes
I'm an ordinary poet who loves to write about this and that
very private with my sort so I won't say where I hang my hat
and if you really must know, I love dogs more then I love cats.
Motorbikes are not allowed
Out here where people stroll.
Smoking’s not permitted, either;
Fresh air is the goal.
Blasting music’s also banned
So peace can be enjoyed,
Which is why, right here and now,
I’m feeling so annoyed.
A motorcycle zipped on past
And stopped one bench away.
Two guys got off and took a seat;
There’s nothing I can say.
Their music’s loud, their reefer stinks;
They’re coughing up a storm.
Behavior such as this is not,
Around here, quite the norm.
Yet lately I’ve been witness to
Obnoxiousness galore
And it appears that lawlessness
Will happen more and more.
What’s not allowed is just a phrase;
It doesn’t mean a thing,
For nowadays it seems to me
Offensiveness is king.
It was sunny the day our hearts broke away.
A decade has passed—but some wounds ignore clocks.
The news bloomed like bruises on a nation’s chest.
Shoreham stood still.
Time forgot how to move.
Eleven men.
Men of mornings and small routines.
Lunchboxes. Laughter. Motorbikes.
Some had children. Others were children—still.
And one…
one kept wildflowers on his phone.
Too shy to say, “This made me think of you.”
There’s no symmetry to this grief.
It leans sideways and doesn’t apologise.
It smells like engine oil and funeral flowers.
It hums in the throat of widows and mothers,
grows moss in the cracks of pub tables,
clings to the wings of the plane that didn’t stop.
Somewhere, a bottle of red remains uncorked.
Somewhere, a bike rests against a wall no one will move.
Somewhere, wildflowers still bloom—
and someone remembers
the man who loved flight,
but stayed grounded
for everyone but himself.
Still.
Author’s Note:
For the eleven lives lost on 22 August 2015 at Shoreham:
Dylan Archer, Richard Smith, James Mallinson, Mark Trussler,
Matt Jones, Matthew Grimstone, Jacob Schilt, Daniele Polito,
Tony Brightwell, Mark Reeves, Maurice Abrahams.
You are remembered.
Dear Editor,
I won’t let you stand on my throat—
Stifle my compassion,
Weigh down my shoulders
With a chip — not sweet like chocolate,
But sharp like ice.
Not from the old block,
But cracked from the freeze
You placed in my bones.
You guillotine my fire
And return me only grief.
Dear Editor,
I know your job is important—
But is it louder than the truth
That begs to be heard?
Just because a stanza doesn’t touch you,
Or it ends without rhyme or convention,
Does that make it any less real?
Dear Editor,
Please see the substance beneath the design.
We poets are crucified
For daring to call out—
For letting our voices
Tremble, burn, and bleed.
Dear Editor,
I once wrote about loss
So heavy, it cracked the sky.
A plane fell — and a friend was gone.
And I wrote it raw.
And I sent it whole.
And it came back with silence.
Maybe the timing was wrong,
But the pain was right.
Dear Editor,
I beseech you:
Look into your heart,
And look at the piece.
Admire the craft,
But let truth ring through.
Then maybe more of the unheard,
The undervalued,
And the unpolished
Will shine, too.
There's an island paradise located in the blue Atlantic.
No place on earth is quite as charming and romantic!
A shangri-la where beaches are pink and everyone smiles.
The place whereof I speak are the quaint Bermuda Isles!
There are no streets with mundane names like Elm or Main,
But you will find Shinbone Alley and Old Maid's Lane,
Or Aunt Peggy's Lane and unique Featherbed Alley,
Where quaint shoppes welcome you for a spot o'tea!
Brave tourists straddle motorbikes to go for a spin,
Perhaps stopping for a rum swizzle at famed Swizzle Inn!
Or if it's something delectable they desire to munch,
May stop by the Hog Penny in Hamilton for a leisurely lunch!
If looking for a sheltered beach on which to cavort,
There's no finer than Tobacco Bay nigh St. Catherine's Fort!
Ah, to spend an evening at Ye Olde White Horse Inn,
Slurping Bermuda fish chowder and sipping tonic and gin!
At night the shimmering sea reflects the magnificent moon.
Dulcet calypso music wafts from across the glassy lagoon.
Bermuda is known for its lilies, onions and friendly blokes,
And for the beauty of its sunsets the Master Artist invokes!
Entry for Thvia Shetley's "Foreign Travel" Contest
Black Dog
Johnny was a quiet boy:
He lived by Rangar Wood.
Johnny’s mother loved him,
As all good Mother’s should.
Black dog what’s you purpose?
Just to howl at the moon?
To harass poor little Johnny;
Who’s time has come to soon.
Johnny had a Motor-bike,
And a helmet colored red.
He raced with all his buddies
Till Johnny turned up dead.
Black dog what’s your purpose?
Are you only here to fight?
To take away our Johnny;
In the stillness of the night?
He hit a patch of gravel,
Going quickly round a curve.
There wasn’t time to jump;
And there wasn’t time to swerve.
Black dog what’s your purpose?
Johnny’s just begun his life.
He left a crying Mother,
And a devastated wife.
"Keep it between the ditches".
Is what the people say.
To flying boys on Motorbikes;
Before they go away.
Black dog what’s your purpose?
When fine young people die?
They bleed-out on the highways,
While their loved ones cry.
Ah, to this land of the monsoons
or should it have been the sunsoons?
Yet for frozen land tourists, a tropical hot boon.
Where bullock carts, stray dogs, horse carriages and cows
pedestrians, goats, bikes and rickshaws
scooters, trucks, motorbikes and cabs
all compete together in quirky medley of traffic jams
On crammed roads you could ram into bulls and rams
So brakes forever screeching, the cars forever honking, hooting
while beggers begged and pickpockets could go a' looting on a footing
But where else you'd see, ducks and ponds in the city
buffaloes wallowing in mud without fear or pity!
Urban jungle eh, you'd think with a wink
and in many's esteem this land shan't ever sink.
Then pass the huge expanses of paddy fields and the rice farmers
and next come face to face with those Indian snake charmers!
Ah and the imposing edifice, Tajmahal, one of the seven wonders of the world
is no where else found, nor are the epic himalayas on any map unfurled
except for India, and a whole ocean with her name
The Indian ocean knows and salutes her fame!
As for me, meeting relatives there, is the best best part
then shopping too in each and every crowded mart
shopping like crazy, filling my spree's shopping cart!
I always wonder at the folks
Who do not follow rules,
Who violate the status quo,
Think followers are fools.
A traffic light that’s red? Who cares?
No motorbikes allowed?
Let’s speed along where people walk
And blast our music LOUD!
A flight attendant wanting me
To sit here with a mask?
I’ll knock her teeth out; maybe then
She’ll be afraid to ask.
A bicycle chained up outside?
The owner’s not around,
So I can take it for myself
And show off what I’ve found.
The list can just go on and on;
This stuff just isn’t right,
Yet more and more we’re powerless
To stand our ground and fight.
When rules are made and put in place,
What used to be expected
Was that they would be followed
And not nastily rejected.
In loving memory of our Mark,
Better known to most as Skip,
Reunited with Clegg up in paradise now,
Best friends back joined at the hip.
From thrashing about on his motorbikes,
Revving the **** out them in crickmere park,
To his mams house bouncing with hardcore,
As skip raved away to M.C's and afterdark.
He absolutely loved to spend time with family,
Travelling to raves and cutting shapes on the dance floor,
In fact if he was made to choose just one,
Wouldn't be sure what he said he loved more.
All the stories that so many have to share,
In the days ahead filled with both joy and pain,
Means his legacy shall forever live on,
Precious memories will always remain.
We feel you all around us buoy,
Your spirit will never ever be gone,
You never could call it a night,
May your soul forever rave on.
Motorbike
I bought a little motorbike, on monkey spit it ran.
But the monkey I got with it, took a week to fill a can.
So out I went and got a chimpanzee, thinking a bigger ape more fitting.
But it beat my little monkey up and wouldn’t do more spitting.
How could I make my little bike go? I shot the monkeys as I thought.
An answer in an instant! So guess what I have bought
A camel with its bad habits could easy be my fuel.
Now the motorbikes engine's all rebuilt, to run on desert creatures drool.
So pleased I was I named the camel Stanley, he was sure to be a hit.
But Stan turned out to be a flop, the hump back wouldn’t spit.
So I’ve given up on motorbikes, I got myself a car.
It used to run on petrol, but now does 40mpg, on earwax, coal and tar.
Charlie Milne
Who expects to do a deed of kindness...
doesn't it happen unexpectedly?
Late this afternoon strolling down wide streets
with blooming oaks that smelled heavenly,
I helped a blind woman cross an intersection where kids
race on motorbikes with earphones plugged in their ears.
Teens blasting music laughed hysterically at her who's of advanced age,
and screaming they insulted her " Stay home, old fart...don't walk.
by yourself, many crazy boys will run you over and not look'! "
" Shout your foolish mouths! " I fetched words of rage.
" Has any of you done a deed of kindness today? Even the smallest one can make
you proud to have a golden heart! " Listen to this guy! Nice people suck! "
The tallest and scruffiest one said giving me the finger. " Wait until I am finished,
then you wish you had never made that sick remark! "
My voice raised and thundered rising eyebrows in the busy park,
" Do a deed of kindness today, help others in need and be blessed! "
Lots of folks cheered and approached me while the punks ran off,
" They are trouble makers and they think they are so tough! "
Copyright ( c ) 2015 by Andrew Crisci