Long Motorist Poems
Long Motorist Poems. Below are the most popular long Motorist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Motorist poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm sick of this twisted English
Never meaning what it says
No medals for plain speaking
Ever awarded these days.
Free Cash the machine said
But it turned out to be a skank
Later on that week the B's
Took it back from my bank.
Diverted traffic this sign said
So I followed the direction around
Just a queue of angry motorist
And of diversions not a sound
This door is alarmed it says
For god's sake give it a pill
Who wants to always walk
Through doors depressed and ill
An automatic washing machine
So the price goes up a quarter
But it ain't automatic because you
Add powder, power and water
They must think we are idiots
The language tricks they try
But I suspect we are the idiots
'cos we still go out and buy.
I hear waves of fall leaves
crisply scraping across the
parking lot below my window,
swirling aimlessly back and forth
with each gust of wind
as darkness approaches.
I hear tribes of geese
sounding calls of distress
as they quickly summon the
launch from their feeding
stations on the grass
between the roads,
racing to their night pond.
cars race by,
honking at the geese in the street,
who slow their indignant
right of way.
the geese,
weaker than the car-beast,
shriek! out of the way
as the motorist rushes past,
smug in dominating
a
goose.
I am sitting under the old oak old tree whose roots and branches have withstood the test of time. I am sitting under the old oak tree with hard woody roots descend in into the deep and spirally arranged leaves, with lobed edges, and a nut that looked like an acorn, borne within a cup, reminiscing the passion of time and the species that live through the ages is divided into old world and new world clades crossing legs between time and destiny.
Here I am sitting under the old oak tree watching the traffic moving swiftly in the street and impatient motorist honking their horns and the handyman across the road is cutting my neighbor bushy lawn, and singing a woeful ballad perhaps Mozart or lyrics composed by Beethoven and I am absorbing it all.
Here I am sitting under the old oak trees where endurance and strengths are born and the new age begins, it has spiral around its roots and melody in the trunks that speak the truth and ignite power in mind of the youth.
The power of ancient wisdom lives in the old oak tree with twisted elongated roots that turns across the stream and anchored deeply in the ground, and thick trunk parachuting in the air and glory springing up everywhere and new boots on a journey to the east take a rest underneath the old oak tree.
If you listen carefully to the roots, you will hear the voices of truth as they surround the pinnacle of your soul. The branches are spreading and the leaves are in harmony with the breeze everything you need is underneath the old oak tree.
The new year found me alone at a deserted roadside,
not knowing where to go but thumbing for a ride.
The signposts displayed 2023 South and 2024 North.
Motorists, speeding along in both directions,
saw my two thumbs up pointing in both directions.
They all stared, as if to say, "Make up your mind".
It did not matter to me where it took me, my mind
was set to board any ride that bothered to stop.
Whether we care or dare to go here or there, thumbing
and bombing without care can take us just about anywhere.
As it happened, a Southbound motorist picked me up, and
before I knew it, I was seeing places I had already been.
I felt like a kid on a merry-go-round, except that I felt no fun.
The driver then said to me that some of us might feel like going
backward or staying put for fear of where the Northbound lanes would
lead. And then he said, "The only eyes we have are in front of our heads".
010824PS
It used to be as we approached a bridge,
people would wave, from young to old.
the car drivers would sound their horn.
it could happen any time in the morn.
Now the times have changed,
throwing objects ,is a sick game.
This Easter a woman was killed,
thanks to these mindless thrills.
Every motorist, looks with caution,
gripping the wheel,
pulse racing,
feeling the dread,
wondering if they are next.
I too look twice,
at the person up above,
though if some thing is thrown,
no time is enough.
It is some thing I must do,
I advise you do it to.
I want to get home safe and sound,
not with blue lights flashing all around.
If lawyers get de-barred and clergymen de-frocked
Does it naturally follow and make sense
That electricians are de-lighted and cowboys de-ranged?
Need some answers, no sitting on the fence!
Can a motorist be de-fined, or a balloon be de-flated
This silliness surely must stop
Do dead mailmen de-liver, are old ships de-ported
Better stop before I call a burly cop
Do musicians get de-noted, dry cleaners de-pressed?
Now hold on, I'm getting quite upset
Can models be de-posed, do tree surgeons de-bark?
Haven't heard any answers as yet
Do skirts get de-pleted, has your hair been de-parted?
This must be some kind of a plot
Artists quit by de-sign, symphonies de-compose?
I think about de-strings a lot!
John Denver Poetry Contest
Anthony Biaanco
Gathered around a campfire
Folks sing, clap, and dance
Take me home on country roads
Rocky Mountain high
High above an eagle circles
A passing deer pauses
Other critters awaken
To listen to John Denver
... sing
... of nature and relationships
Where his songs light the fire
And where his heart lights the night
With wholesomeness
... and sentiment and nostalgia
As the night warms on
And more logs are added to the fire
The intimacy grows
A pipe is passed around
Along with a bottle of whisky
As women and men gather closer
To the man, John Denver
Seated in front of the camping fire
... and holding fort to his songs
... with a guitar in his arms
the sunshine on his shoulders
Bespeckled with his blond shaggy hair
Denver fills the air
... leaving on a jet plane
... timeless, down to earth and fun
For this night he played to the crowd
... the Rocky's came alive
His good side, he's the life of the party
Where the exterior of the man is admiring
Denver graced the cover of 40 Albums
Covering four decades
His superlatives include
One of the world’s best-known and admired performers
Songwriter, performer, actor, environmentalist and humanitarian
He also loved poetry (poet laureate), dabbled in aviation and Nasa
However, it would be pretentious to exclude his bad side
... and this is where the passing deer from above sheds a tear
... and perhaps many of his fans
Because behind all that charm is a curse
Denver, according to many accounts on the net, was bad
He was a bad human
A bad drunk, chronic smoker, wife beater, and a bit whacko
Denver died in 1997 in a plane crash, in a plane that he built
Today the Rocky's are full of nature and life
With tall mountain ridges, forests, lakes, and rivers
And well-traveled trails, like the man
Somewhere a motorist is pantomiming one of his songs
... and smiling
This year first snowfall of the season starts to cover the ground
Gently being released from the sky above barely making a sound
The morning commute sure to be a motorist plight
Having to dodge vehicles spinning out of control is not a pretty sight
Arriving at work stepping into the frigid morning air
Greeted with a barrage of snowballs coming from everywhere
Trying to fight back I lose my footing and go flying to the ground
The only thing that would make this day better would be to be homeward-bound
As I open the office door a shovel awaits, apparently I draw the short straw
Even a flock of crows swoop down towards me and start to caw
Finally, this day has come and it's time to leave without delay
After what seemed to be an eternity I finally arrived home met by my kids who now wanted me to go out and play
If lawyers get de-barred and clergymen de-frocked
Does it naturally follow and make sense
That electricians are de-lighted and cowboys de-ranged?
Need some answers, no sitting on the fence!
Can a motorist be de-fined, a balloon's mood de-flated
This silliness surely must stop
Do dead mailmen de-liver, are old ships de-ported
Better stop before I call a burly cop
Do musicians get de-noted, dry cleaners de-pressed?
Now hold on, I'm getting quite upset
Can models be de-posed, do tree surgeons de-bark?
Haven't heard any answers as yet
Do skirts get de-pleted, has your hair been de-parted?
This must be some kind of a plot
Artists quit by de-sign, symphonies de-compose?
I think about de's things a lot!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Liberty Hall
The halls are packed with Liberty,
She cries FREEDOM on the streets.
The halls are packed with Liberty,
The children forgo their sweets.
Let's have a Ball
Smash and grab, fire asunder
Take what you can, who cares!
Come on people, lets' plunder,
Don't worry about the stares.
It's your Call
Hey coppers, we're over here,
What are you going to do in blue?
Like Goliath you have the spear
But we have our stones too.
England's Fall
Forever England, forever scarred,
A scared community up in arms,
Houses burnt, vehicles charred,
Come citizens, sound the alarm.
Murdered All
Standing up for justice,
Protecting innocent blood,
"That's when the motorist
Ran them over m'lud".
England's Rise
To arms people of England
And bring your brooms to sweep
Up those in the gutter and
Take them off to the Keep
It's Our Call
We'll clear our streets of chard
Of glass and wash away the blood.
We know that recession hits you hard
And poverty's doors opened the flood.
The PM's Call
To those of you who caused this pain
I say to you again and again;
"We shall seek you out, bang on your door
To prison you'll go and join the score."
The Rioters Ball.
To the party the hoodies went
Headline news and infamy gained,
Lusted and busted, their energy spent
Their futures ordained and chained.
Whitehall
The doors of power convened in suit
And Judgement Day sprang to life.
Murmurings and guffaws of repute
Resonated like Churchillian days of rife.