Long Trikes Poems
Long Trikes Poems. Below are the most popular long Trikes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trikes poems by poem length and keyword.
The McCormick family loves wheels
We like bikes, trikes, mopeds and motorcycles
We like Fords, Chevys, Lincolns and Cadillacs.
We are also racers.
Others watch the Indianapolis 500
We like driving like we just left the pit crew.
Our ancestors started us on this journey.
We were having a race on Wednesday
When grandma got on a moped.
I am going to outrun these cycles! She said.
“Let grandma win! Let grandma win! “ we all yelled.
Unfortunately, the little McCormicks are competitive like us.
They outrode, outraced and outran grandma.
The last one to the finish line, she pouted all day.
Riders
Rumble and thunder,
here they come,
no one dare, ask...
from where.
The bikes, their trikes...
their toys for adventure,
seen on the horizon,
like a storm.
Freedom in their banners,
their plates made of;
gold, silver... winged,
Indians'
and Victory'
at hand.
Harley and friends,
well-represented,
in all the land.
Real men, and tough chicks,
enjoying the ride...
like cowboys on the range,
like speeding clouds
in the sky.
Hard rock, no rock,
just talk, or real...
the real deal?
(Heroes?) Whispered...
Depends on the banners,
and the men and women
that hold them up,
---high.
Pray, friends,
and remember...
to always love Our Country,
and American Pie.
Ann Foster
BooksbyAFoster.com
Have a truly blessed day!
As I set out
To jot down this poem
I had no earthly idea
Of what would transpose
And who all would be
Joining along
I'm as surprised as you
To these goings on
I don't recollect
Any of this being nearby
All the glimmer and glamor
Catching my eye
With my mind letting loose
In the wondering why
All of these characters
Are invading my rhymes
There are seals riding trikes
Uniformed Taiwanese
Clowns and their like
With smiley faced knees
Lepords in tights
Like we need more of these
A Kardashian or two
To put our minds at ease
Daryl Hall and John Oates
Singing loud 80's tunes
And what would be a poem
Without a cow jumping over the moon
Or a chimpanzee
Swinging through the stanzas with ease
Using the tails of snakes
Like a flying trapeze
There's even a racoon
By the name of Rocky we know
Using his Boogaloo
To sweep dust from the poem
And look it's Bob Hope
Selling soap on a rope
To keep it all clean
With a rated "G" tone
With so much going on
Inside of this poem
Guess it's best I stop here
As this has gotten rather long...
When I go hiking with my dog,
(let's get that straight, my husband's dog,)
I find that Simon knows no path.
He wants to roam about in yards
which leaves our neighbors in a flap.
This dog has taught me how to jog,
he likes to chase both squirrel and frog.
I like to stop and catch my breath.
Hiking with Simon? very hard
until his run is under wraps.
He's fairly gentle with young tykes,
his boundless love of kids on trikes
finds random riders on our street.
crossing back and forth, side to side
to his delight. He loves to dance.
He tucks his tail to show dislikes
but says, "Hello!" as leg he hikes
at every mailbox that we meet.
With friendliness oversupplied,
each female dog, he will romance.
Back to his barking which is loud
to say the least when in a crowd.
Behind fences, standing at doors
all dogs compete, sharing their yelp
and when they tire they share their moan.
Jerking his leash is not allowed
he slips his head out, looking proud
racing away, commands ignored.
Efforts to catch will not help;
leave him alone, he'll head on home.
Jan. 13, 2015
AW-064
Sponsor BJ Legros Kelley
Contest Name Beloved Pets
Harsh Mission / San Francisco, CA 2011
Through the harsh white sunlight
the random bits of cast offs tumble and stick
smeared to the pavement and layered upon
upright posts, from pillar to post they roll
on bikes and trikes, on roller blades
and skate boards, down and out,
drunk and oh so sober, they meander
as if on the streets of Paris
in their mock Bistros with their
fake hair, their primal piercings, and their
do me do's just screaming of abuse...
The childlike sibyls and torrid sirens
howl at the fog banked moon
as they stumble on the dole from room
to rented room, or huddle in the bus shelters
waiting to sneak a cheap ride down town.
Bizzaro meets his mate in the masked
denizens of the mission district
breasts starred, caped and on display for all to see
face hidden behind plastic lunacy...
The giggling effervescence of misspent youth
crumbles into a heedless epicurean
mosh pit of aimless wandering
joyous neglect...
It is truly hard to know where the
garbage ends and the art begins.