Long Tires Poems
Long Tires Poems. Below are the most popular long Tires by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tires poems by poem length and keyword.
Lawn Mower Facts
Briggs and Stratton is number one,
Grandpa use to say…
They will last until the cows come home.
Then he dreamed a bit…
The Deere, Oh John, he plows forever,
If you can afford one, that is.
Fixing things that did not run,
with magic hands, old and withered with time.
Still able to join nothing into something,
Spark and start the blades,
whirling and the grass goes down.
Piles of old tires behind the shed.
Decks without engines, gas tanks empty.
This was the land of possibilities.
Grandpa was always moving, forward.
Frames of things, welders to melt steel,
so hot you could feel.
Then…
Mini bikes, with stolen power, leaving the grass too long.
Pushing all the right buttons, changing all the right gears.
Faster and faster.
Grandpa was right. (as always)
Briggs, are wonderful for cutting the green,
but way better
for Kicking
the
dust
up…
instead of laying the grass down!
Dear bastard,
You are the mistake of a failed love affair
Your mother wasn’t aware of your existence
Till your father decided he wanted out
You were just a tiny clot of blood
But it was all your fault.
Your father tried his best to stay
But your mother kept crying at his door at night
So he left
She never saw him again but in your face
Poor bastard
You were never meant to live a life free from rebuke
You were never meant to taste the metal of a silver spoon,
Much less see it
Poor bastard
You will dig through the muck of the gutters and arise with a bottle clutched in your fist
And your eyes reddened by the drink
Your vision will never focus enough to handle the bastards you will beget
Years to come.
But, bastard, right now
You are just a tiny boy
Chasing tires along the streets of Accra.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first glance, the pond is glass~
a stolen mirror, holding sky.
No wind, no ripple, no trespass
of sound. Only the patient eye
of water, deep and undisturbed.
Then—a pebble,
small, but sharp
breaks the skin sending circles
spiraling outward in frantic motion,
each one a question asked too loudly.
Next a leaf falls~
brown and brittle
gliding quietly across
the pond’s surface, murmuring.
The pond swallows it whole.
Later, a storm:
rain needles stitch chaos
into the skin of the water,
a thousand interruptions,
a thousand tiny wounds.
But below~
where light bends and surrenders,
where the cold is a constant companion~
nothing moves.
The dark is still and stoic.
The deep does not answer.
And when the storm tires,
when the pebble sinks,
when the leaf dissolves into silt~
the pond remembers how to hold the sky
without trembling.
They are on the final stage
Of being in their Nascar cage
Soon they will leave the Daytona sun
And under the lights this car racing contest will be done
After putting up with the rain
It is time to deal with the pit crew game
Check the gas and the glass
Along with the discount tires needed to go fast
Since right on the heels is the Pennzoil shell
Who is trying to make all this gel
Pushing a little harder on the pedal made things go
And Shell Oil was a leader during this east coast happy hour show
As many laps and miles went by
Everybody seemed to be enjoying this sunshine state ride
Kroger might have had a spin and those chocolate candy nuts still wanted to win
It was on lap 184 that discount tires found themselves headed for the exit door
There four wheels lost control in this event
Sending many to the emergency tent.
When returned the laps were showing only ten
Oscar Meyer still was on top to defend
Ketchup and mustard were not needed
Only some grueling time of something called competing
Down the wire the seventy-seven set off such a fire
But nevertheless
It was the fed express
Who got there working overtime
Making sure they were first over the checkered line
But the show was not over since there was one last out of control car schtick
Performed as a Nascar trick.
After finishing the race Oscar Meyer made its case
Let’s flip the bun
To see if there is any ketchup left when the stunt is done.
Up in the air they went
Coming down feeling really spent.
At this hour it is in God’s hands and he is in charge
Of this Nascar star.
But all in all, the Daytona meet stayed with in the law
Sending the circus to Las Vegas where they are here to gamble money
Not the stock car who is there true honey.
Back then, life for kids was harder than it should have been.
They say that kids had rights too, but I don’t remember when.
Back then, if there were child labor laws, they never told us.
If labor laws for kids were broken, none ever made a fuss.
Back then, I remember chopping weeds in the oven of the sun.
Kids had to work long hours, but we also played and had lots of fun.
Back then, kids played cowboys and Indians in the light of day,
And chased lightning bugs in the black of night.
Back then, I had a friend name Dennis, and no, he was not a menace
We played baseball, basketball, football, but not golf, socker, or tennis
Dennis and I lived on opposite sides of the busy railroad track;
and he had a big brother who rode a mule loaded with cotton sacks
Dennis and I were best buddies in our early days, but the years went by.
We grew older and went our separate ways. When I think of Dennis, I
remember the good times of our childhood, and how We kept busy shooting marbles and rolling rubber tires throughout the neighborhood; and most of the
time, we did the things we should. I haven’t heard from Dennis, but I would love to see him if I could. I once heard it said in a Christian song that friends
are friends forever. I sure hope to see my friend Dennis on this side of never.
Perhaps we could laugh and talk about farm life and the fun times we shared.
Perhaps we could remind each other when we bought ice cream for a dime.
Perhaps we could chat about when kids were free and fearless of crime.
Perhaps we could laugh about the gray hairs on our heads and under our chins.
Perhaps we could talk about the distant days and ask, “Remember when?”
Perhaps we could share our stories of how we changed from boys to men.
On this side of never, we would write a letter, email, or visit every now and
then. On this side of never, we would both recall when our money was very thin. On this side of never, we would reminisce about house roofs made of tin.
Yes, I well recall “The Perhaps”, “The Back Then’s”, and “The Remember When’s”. I do miss Dennis, and I hope to see him before this life is finished
Posted04192015cjPS
Lamp posts eyes
through cracks
of curtains
spying
sewing needles
through mine
uninvited
screeching tires
honking horns
sirens
plucking mind’s guitar
unstop.
Take me to the Sonoran
steal into a hut
while its inhabitant
hunts
fall asleep in its belly
hidden
from rattling reptiles
hunting grasshoppers
coyotes
the howling hunter mouse
monsters, giants
the Gila, the Iguana
scorpions!
Take me to the Sonoran
illumed by the Saguaro
opening its white petals
at night
a lamp post of
candelabra flowers
where lizards
on waking
take sunbeams
showers
savoring magic
of orange red
golden yellow flowers
winking at sunset
and vanishing.
Honk, honk! Screech!
Splash!
Spilled my glass
of chamomile
slumbering on the sandy
waterless beach
of the Sonoran.
Third Place Winner: Brian Strand-Premier 1196-3/11/23
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours-3/12/21
Third Place: Debbie Guzzi- Exotic-7/22/17
This happens to me ever Fall
when the first frosts slick the grass,
I see the mercury plummet
and I hope the cold comes fast.
Though I try not to rush my life,
and enjoy things as I go,
come Fall I’m just a skier
who’s stuck waiting for the snow.
I wait for the first plume of breath
when I walk outside at night,
it means the snowmakers are out
coating ground in sheets of white.
They may cover but one real trail,
and the conditions often blow,
but it’s like crack to a skier
when they’re waiting for the snow.
While others hate the winter
and are warm besides the fire,
I dream of frozen mountaintops
as I put on my snow-tires,
of racing at highway speeds,
with my legs in zen-like flow,
in truth we’re much like addicts,
and our white powder is snow.
I love, then hate, the weatherman,
curse the Indian-summers too,
I’m ready for a powder slug
that my skis can juts blast through.
It’s such a first-world problem,
so make all the jokes you know,
but it sucks to be a skier
when you’re waiting for the snow.
My bug out bag would include my grandchildren.
It would have to be large, because I have ten.
My cat and dog would go in and my wild raccoons.
They count on me for their food right?
My husband could stay home.
I have had him so long we are redundant.
We can watch eight hours of TV
And laugh at only the same things
And say the same words
For the entire time, and only these words.
I would take a jug of red grapefruit juice,
and a five tires and a large bundle of rope.
Matches for a bon fire.
Wait! I am taking the cat out.
She is ordering the children about again.
Making one cry.
The dog gets to go; she is laid back.
Is that a rat? Who brought that?
Okay. If it has a name,
How can I say no to a pet?
My son-in-law took my 15-year-old granddaughter for a driving lesson.
She has a permit so she needed an adult.
On the way back they stopped for ice cream, and she wanted to eat hers
so my son-in-law was driving back.
A truck tried to get in between my son-in-law’s car and a new Camaro.
This is a two lane road, but the truck was driving too fast to stop, so it sideswiped
them both.
My son-in-law said he watched the other driver in full police uniform get out of the
brand new Camaro. He thought “This is going to be good!”
The driver of the truck pulled out, squealing his tires.
The police officer told my son-in-law “I can’t go after him.
I just got off duty. Did you get his plate number?”
My son-in-law said, “It happened too fast. Didn’t you get it?”
My 15-year-old granddaughter held up a piece of paper.
“I got it,” she said.
Proud?
You bet.
We learned later that the hit and run driver is also only fifteen.
It will be years before
he drives again,
and I cannot imagine his parents’ delight or
the enthusiasm of his
uncle when he gets to make that phone call tonight to the child's parents.
A difficult lesson.
Especially when you hit-and-run.
At high noontime, the tires are burning in the streets
The sound of barking dogs is everywhere; the cats of hell smell
Like never showered rats who are locked up in death row cells
Where the air does not go through sealed windows
No, my friends, I'm not dreaming; it’s a nightmare. The sun
Is warming the pavement and the worms are coming out
En masse. The ravines are crowded with small children
That I could never imagined or seen with clear and open eyes
From such a bizarre, awkward, frantic and satanic scene
They’re talking about revolution, that sounds spooky and crazy
Because we must talk about kindness, evolution, education
Before contemplating such a magical or drastic motion
Everything is aflame. The palace is on fire and the buildings
Are red, inflamed. Oh! Yes, it is a total and capital fiasco
All of this is to show the wickedness of the vile jackals
The wild beasts which enjoy killing daughters and sons
At noon, in daylight, the malefactors have no shame to hate
Loot and burn everything they could neither imagined, nor created
And built. These werewolves come from nowhere, from the wars
Of hell, we wonder. We only know that we can't afford to live where
Vile and wild animals can easily seize the streets manu militari
For any new extenuating excuses, pretexts or fabricated reasons
Where are the technocrats and the intellectuals of the past?
A thin and weak voice coming from nowhere replied cowardly:
They are all hidden or incarcerated in coffers infested with lice
This explains why the werewolves are waltzing in the dusty streets
In mid-afternoon where high priests and high pastors walk on bridges
In ruins and normal toddlers no longer go to church. How awful, the pigs
Are well dressed, during the rainstorm, where the contaminated air
Escapes and embalms the disconcertedly distressed firmament
What misery for a group of goons who are equally surly and jubilant!
Copyright © March 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
This is a translation of the poem 'La Valse Des Loups-Garous'
by Hébert Logerie