Long Rides Poems
Long Rides Poems. Below are the most popular long Rides by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rides poems by poem length and keyword.
She feels the need rising up from her core
Ever waiting to burst into fire
Insatiable, always in need for more
Smoldering ember of her desire
Orange heat pulsating from deep within
Ever waiting to burst into fire
No breeze can cool this, her hot searing skin
Savage her need to combust into flame
Orange heat pulsating from deep within
Her galloping passion wild and not tame
She rides fiery flares all through the night
Savage her need to combust into flame
The hunger in her eyes makes him ignite
She pulls him into her internal blaze
She rides fiery flares all through the night
His body kindling that lights in her gaze
She feels the need rising up from her core
She pulls him into the internal blaze
Insatiable, always in need of more
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Listen up, this is a showcase where words swing as a funky drum beat high on Bop and Swing/
hip talk spoken into a full club room of party goers, high on life drinks and weed/
We talk in half notes and blue notes, cool and defiant, loud and fine, the spoken word giants talkin’ bout Ice rides, and why are Americans bein’ arrested and killed so Trump can have his day/
We be cookin’ up phrases hotter than Tower of Power’s horn section at midnight at the Apollo/
We ride the tempo that never disappoints, tough times tucked into the groove/a melody of grit and glow, where every syllable moves/Monk in the corner, keys glowing like streetlamps on a rainy night/
His zigzag rhythm teaches us to hear the truth just right/
This is a new thing, a blue thing, the shape of jazz to come in the air/a blueprint of sing speak improv words with no fear of corrupt politicians rigging our voter elections/ man, power to the people and down with the evil goons in our politics today/
always speakin’ out was Ornette Coleman, with his avant-garde horn soul to soul playin’ into a new terrain that tore the jazz sky apart/Eric Dolphy, Don Cherry, Archie Shepp—names that make time cry with their bold jazz manifesto playin’ in blocks of new bar structures, and way out chordal jazz sounds. Man, these cats be flyin’ way high on the new thing that they be puttin’ down/
The universe be jazzin’ with zounds of acid jazz, crashing galaxies in a smile, face to face with the solar wind chorus, where the wild and free harmonies pile high the SUN RA way? And where it’s at—the last-minute rush of the jazz workshop’s glow/ Village Gate, where echoes of Lee Morgan still steal the show, Lee’s horn slicing through smoke and memory, like a red comet in bloom, his Sidewinder’s horn of rhythm and hard bop folds into the night of day/It’s out there, it’s always been out there, a pulse you can hear if you listen/a language that refuses to stay still, always insisting, So hear this: the talk isn’t merely a sound, it’s a living parade, a map drawn in jazzy blue notes, where every street corner is a new jazz note played/Keep your ears ready, your feet on the floor/ dig this, man, jazz’s is a living scripture, and we’re only asking for more."
Chick in the pond
Is from double yolk
Born Easter morn
He’s a little slow
He couldn’t swim
He barely floats
Oh look at him
The butt of jokes
One day a kid
Was tossing bread
He hit the chick
On his yellow head
Chick wobbles and splash
Gags and chokes
The other chicks laugh
Calling him a dope
Carrot top kid has an idea
Why should the chick nearly drown here
He wants to help chic persevere
He tosses a toy boat off the pier
So yellow chick
Grabs the toy boat
He rides in it
And leads the row
The other chicks
Now proudly gloat
“Did you see my brother’s boat?”
I always dreamed of being Western born.
Then I got in my Mustang to go far.
I drove my car through plains, desert, and more.
My Western boots are adorned with gold stars.
I ride with joy that stirs my spirits.
Because excitement makes the westerner.
From Texas winds I flow to California's shore.
In my heart with joy for being a rider.
Moving west.
Moving west.
Moving west.
With horses, Cowboy hats, silver belt buckles gleaming, This cowgirl rides the range,
Tirelessly dreaming
Starry eyed with star-bursting cowgirl boots!
There are so many types of Westerners.
And there's much about which they don't agree.
But they love the USA, and they're free.
Furthermore, they've stylish commonality!
Horses, Cowboy hats. and silver buckles!
Ridin' free on the range, rough and lucky!
Moving west.
Moving west.
Moving onward.
With horses, Cowboy hats, big silver belt buckles gleaming, She rides the range,
Tirelessly dreaming,
Blue-sky eyed with star-bursting cowboy hunks!
My shirts are simple. denim jeans well worn.
Frugal and thrifty, steady as the plains!
I love my denim jackets, strong and true.
Love the Bald Eagle, golden hue, that flies!
So glad I am to be a true cowgirl!
To ride the range, to explore this bright world!
~~~~~~~
Pals
Their faces are still there;
caricatures and cameos,
amigo mugs and jug ears.
Cheering, jeering chums
that would phone at four in the morning
to garble drunken thoughts,
make momentous plans,
or borrow ten quid.
The oddball humorist
and part-time suicide,
the drama queen
contesting her own shadow,
the poet who never wrote a poem.
The mon ami that drank for you
when you could drink no more.
Long after the late-night rides,
I see their features pressed against
softly glowing bus windows,
as London transports them
to other decades, even to far Ohio;
their lips silently mouthing –
warnings perhaps, or
maybe just trying
to cadge another ten nicker.
Insanity or Death
Life begins with insanity~~
~Your soul is kicking and screaming,
Ready to exit with the touch of human hands.
Insanity rides on a gallant stallion ready to pant.
Hides in the mind, mourning its captive soul.
Ready to breach over holding its breath.
Projecting in and out without a guide.
Bites away at the feast, enchants for freedom.
From the lips……….....
Taking length against a world of dilemmas,
Contrasting to a never happy end.
The epidermis cover every wall of insanity.
To live, to eat, and to suffocate it determination without air.
Dramatically hallucination against its will of no wells.
Until it realizes it can drink without water.
No further needs a slumber.
The mind-bends and unfolds to ordinary jolts,
When left to human consummation.
Insincerely bidding and cutting to die in the sleep.
Is how it pleads!
Graves where dreams have no meaning.
Caves where goodness can be redeemed.
A temple of misguided fortune.
All respect lost to this infection,
The patients’ weight distracted from an antidote.
The madness begins too finds admiration-
That makes catastrophe go on and on.
The psychosis of the mind and mockeries of them will never be gone
Dictating in everything wrong,
Layers of cramped bricks, level the isolation.
Death drags its feet off into this infinite helix world.
A source of light breeding out of darkness.
"Sanity is no friend of mine!"
Insanity is earth herself,
Where there is life, there is a reason,
Where there is reason, there is madness,
Where there is madness, there you are,
Feeling nothing………………...
Lost in darkness................
~Your soul is kicking and screaming
Life ends with death~~
(first I feared life, now I fear death)
If my happiness rides black horse for joy,
But your sadness takes my horse a calm beast,
Just to create enough scenes to play it toy...
It's glaring all is but a shameless feast.
Against their will,
What God fulfill...
Through life's uphill,
Keeps my goodwill.
If my doubt runs like a white horse for trick,
But your assurance takes my horse a snail...
Just to make pressure fall on struggling prick,
It's time certain impossible to trail.
Against their trick,
What shame flick...
Through threats click,
Grace silent quick.
If my choice sings loudly against your will,
But your take peeps my voice to mime pure you,
Just to have same perspective to stand still...
It's odd your wit lonely bothers off clue.
Against their deal,
What evil conceal...
Through love's ordeal,
Mercy dare reveal.
If life is short of your expectation,
But your chances are to build others taste...
Just to avoid cheap discrimination,
It's shameful but weird, your life is a waste.
Against their hope,
What anxiety rope...
Through dainty scope,
Faith's trial cope.
If death is for all; yes, life is for none
But living your dream is all for yourself,
Just wasting fighting strength on useless fun...
It's nothing to complain luck against elf.
Against their head,
What rumours spread...
Through lies... instead;
Truth gladly behead.
So, just kindly fall in love with moment...
Not justly whole to timing adjustment.
P erception, direction intention, ( lets make spiritual ) earthly..'
O wow..' saving their strength maybe? well maybe..'
O utlaw carriage rides, in N Y C, horses would have more time; 4 T V..?
R egulation in school legislate against.. Against.? hazards in play..?
S ave the wretched flesh from toil, ( really ?) (really?)
E gregious intervention, yes that's it..' let people stay months in their bed
N ot to long till the muscles waste in legs, (hey why not live without living)
S ave mankind from any labour, obesity... Is just the resulting flavour
E quine mammals enjoy moderate labour, D N A I'm sure will agree..'
copyright Joe Maverick.co.uk
In stoic carnival, emotions juggle,
laughter somersaults on a tightrope of reason.
Epictetus, ringmaster, dons a clown's nose,
philosophy as whimsical sideshow.
Stoicism, circus tent of paradox,
where the lion tamer wrestles inner beasts.
The trapeze of fate swings on absurdity,
as three Moirai perform an acrobatic feat.
Seneca's stoic beard, a magical illusion,
transforms into a confetti-spewing waterfall.
Cynicism rides a unicycle of cosmic irony,
while Zeno's paradox becomes a funhouse mirror.
In a carnival of wisdom turned wild,
stoicism pirouettes on the edge of the bizarre.
Life's absurdities, the grand finale,
a cosmic joke echoing in stoic guffaws.
Sounds of Silence !
Where did it all go wrong ?
What brought on this Silence ?
Bitter is the taste of cold, gray winds of silence.
A formidable force that harbours shadows.
Shadows fragment, splinter, dissipate with times passing.
Time becoming the purveyor of so many questions.
Questions that receive no answers from the wind,
receive no answers from the unlit halls of silence.
Silence, enslaver of the story that could be told.
A story Silence has deemed to never set free,
remaining buried deep within its sarcophagus.
No birth realized from that prevailing, cold wind.
Still born is the essence, the heart of the story.
Yesterday, now flying upon the wings of history.
Those yesterdays will, it seems, never metamorphose
into a future, not any kind of actively shared future
as the story rides bareback upon the cold winds of Silence.
I am truly unable to fathom the essence, of this silence,
the depth of thought, of experience that gave it birth.
I know not the currents that drove all upon the jagged edge.
B. J. “A ” 2
March 25th 2019