Long Wheeled Poems
Long Wheeled Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheeled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheeled poems by poem length and keyword.
The sun drenchs and heat soaks the air.
It throbbs with fumes.
The drivers of the three wheeled, canvas covered
taxi’s curse, beep, and press
their way between motor cycles
with garishly clad riders.
Males in western-style helmets
drive women, dressed in peacock-colored saris,
down the main boulevards between
the Mercedes of diplomats and
the Range rovers of the wealthy Western usurpers.
Upon the cracked concrete edged sidewalks
lined in a herringbone pattern of bricks walk bird venders,
whose baskets of finches, parrots, and macaws tweet wildly.
The baskets upon their shoulders swing.
The noxious fumes of the traffic apparently insufficient
to quell the beating of their small hearts.
Shop keepers hawk fly covered, freshly butchered chickens
from dirty white porcelain surfaces;
as tomorrows dinner pecks seeds through
the floors of their wire cages.
Through and amongst the plethora of colors and noise
military and police in mundane blue with rifles mounted
on the rear of their vehicles pass by.
Ordinary citizens hack up spittle from raw throats and congested lungs
while horns blare continuously;
blending with the barks of hundreds of stray dogs.
The most thrilling experience anyone can get
is speeding along in a convertible Corvette
This powerful four-wheeled machine is much better than good
when it’s got over four hundred horsepower under the hood.
Driving one of these gems is moving in first class
There is plenty of get up and go under that shell of fiberglass.
What a sweet time on a warm summer’s day
when I can zoom down an open highway.
Just my sweet attractive doll is riding beside me.
We move along at the speed limit so carefree.
You haven’t driven until you get inside a Corvette.
Chevrolet’s sporty model is the best one yet.
This baby displays her true colors when the flag’s unfurled.
There is nothing quite like her anywhere in the world.
The Psycho She Met Online
There was an old woman,who lived
alone in a flat.
Her neighbors laughed and cruelly
called her, "Moonbat!"
Her hair,gray and gnarly, wow!
It scared some folks, she really did
look like a bat from hell.
Moonbat had no kids, but a PC she did.
So she went to online chat rooms,
To laugh and to play and to pass away
her last, dull days.
But suddenly things transformed her,
In a magnificent, unforeseen way!
Moonbat could not even walk to her
front door!
Let alone cross continents, this made
her roar!
"Yes, that's me, the vixen with gnarly
hair and disabled"
The threatening email read as follows:
"Do not touch my man, don't you dare."
Like what? From her wheelchair?
Moonbat, the old crone, wheeled herself
to her sink, howling with laughter!
"To even think I am young and pretty,
Oh, thank God, what a gift" said she.
Moonbat's laughter rang out so loudly
it filled her entire city.
Laughing for hours, hardly a pity!
Such be the nature of online relations.
Yes, but who will believe me?
Perhaps a wizard, on the Council of Foreign
Relations?
Moonbat got a haircut, destroyed her
PC with keyboard as soon as she could!
And moved to a cabin in the dark, deep
woods.
Met a charming, loving man...and lived
on most happily.
And a hearty thanks to the jealous woman
who started this, not so gracefully.
****Three cheers for jealousy****
Panagiota Romios
3/22/2019
It was pretty clear from the start
That she had stolen my blueberry tart.
If that was not bad enough, at the mart,
She turned around and hid my cart.
My purse was inside, so that made my heart
Beat twice as fast right from the start.
Someone asked me if she was smart,
I said yes, due to her amazing art.
Was imaginative as a devil dart,
And her drawings gave you a real start.
When she heard me answer, at the mart,
She gave me back my wheeled cart,
My purse was intact, with my blueberry tart.
So I learned my lesson straight from the heart.
Do not accuse someone, until you find your cart.
We are best of friends now, me and Ms. Bart.
My knees have helped me always.
From my crawling toddlerhood
To my trike, then 2-wheeled riding,
If I needed them, they would…
Let me walk for many miles,
Help me climb up many stairs;
Do aerobics in a gym class,
Reach for shelves from tops of chairs.
On my knees, I’ve dug and planted
Bulbs so daffodils would grow.
I’ve bent down to tie a thousand shoes,
Scrubbed floors so they would glow.
I have jogged and danced and boogied
And played lots of running sports
And throughout, my knees have given me
The greatest of supports.
But at last, with age advancing,
From some things I must refrain
For my trusty knees have lately
Just provided me with pain.
THE EVER DWINDLING FEW
At Juno Beach
At Juno Beach an old man stands and limps down to the shore,
Where on this sand he crawled and ran so many years before.
The skirl of pipes still in the air, the ceremony o'er,
He knows the ghosts who haunt this coast in the fading wake of war.
Huddled in their landing craft, together yet alone,
Some join a cheer to quell the fear that turns young limbs to stone.
Others lost within the thought that chills them to the bone,
Not knowing if they'll see again the fields and hills of home.
A sudden stop, the ramp is dropped and Juno is revealed,
Bullets frothing water, flying shards of red hot steel.
A thrown grenade, a shattered leg, his private war soon done,
Sheltered by a parapet, he prayed the beach be won.
Young men who fell upon this beach who lie not far away
Are still young men among his ken, not having aged a day.
They gave their all when duty called, hair never turned to grey.
They grew not old as he grew old, no feeble steps for they.
For their lost years he'd shed his tears, he'd been there yesterday,
Where snow white stones mark where the bones of all the young men lay.
They cried "Hurrah!" for Canada and braved the gates of hell,
Now walking slowly down the beach he wanders where they fell.
Where chaos reigned and lives were claimed by death's uneven hand,
The shore of war is quiet now, a peaceful stretch of sand.
Old men in chairs with snow white hair are wheeled down to the shore,
They are the ever dwindling few, soon there will be no more.
Some there among are the proud sons of those who fought before,
Believing they were there to win the war to end all wars.
But strife will always be our lot and war will have its day.
Silent prayers for those who dared with home so far away.
So once a year some come back here where many came before.
Warriors then, now ancient men who gather near the shore
To honour those who lie in rows, and comrades still beside.
A time to grieve and to receive a grateful nation's pride.
They are the ever dwindling few,
Soon there will be no more.
Ellis Pringle Craig, 2022.
One’s Own Slipstream
by Odin Roark
Movement frozen
Knows of risks in waiting.
Three lanes,
Seven lanes,
Life’s autobahn,
Always beckoning,
Seduction to follow.
Isn't that what it's all about?
Starting way back…
A grade school playground,
Force takes power.
To stay on side lines,
Failure.
The longing to steer into the "follow" lane,
Surge to the power's fast lane,
Grab the pull,
The bully in front,
Breaking resistance,
Its girth of momentum unstoppable.
You glimpse for the first time…Free rides,
No risk,
Cocooned safety.
School yards,
I-Hop revisits,
GPA encroachment,
Graduation,
Freedom,
Pedal to the metal.
"The World is a Vampire"
You know not,
Not yet.
The interview
The job
The greater pull,
Fast lane in view,
Entrance ramp available.
Quintessential speed…yes.
Follow the leader,
Rise to the top,
Meet the power,
Meet the future spouse,
Ah,
The speed,
The even greater pull,
The free ride really looks free.
Perpetual hang-overs follow…
The grind,
The history,
The babies,
The promotions,
The divorces,
The...
The...
Finally the peace…
The return,
The dirt roads,
The two wheeled bike,
The ruts,
The flats,
The...
The...
Discovering one’s own slipstream,
Nirvana.
“Dream on, it costs nothing. Mind is the biggest canvas on which you can daub any shade to colour the dreams that you see while sleeping or awake.” ~ By Poet
As the earth snoozed under
a heavy shroud of darkness,
weary and work worn, I lay down,
dreaming of a peaceful sleep.
The moon hang like a silver disc,
its shimmering glow filtering
through tangled boughs of oak trees.
A gentle wind came wafting by
with smell of trellised jasmines
and sneaked through my open window.
Soon I drifted to a dream world.
Like a speeding locomotive,
that came to an abrupt halt,
I lay still, in a coffin.
amid scent of burning incense,
frozen silence, heaving hearts
and silently chanted prayers.
The chariot wheeled me along,
in my last journey through
mazy paths, stretching, stretching
to a world, beyond galaxies.
I woke up soon, my eyes still shut,
A vulture swooped down circling,
over my deceased body.
Am I dreaming within a dream?
On that day of our life,
Our loudest silence shall
Turn most eyes to the ground,
Squeezing tears from their once-happy, dry faces.
We shall drive a human-wheeled car through the air
As we lay down majestically, enjoying our final trip
To the dark, silent valley of destiny,
With the crowd moving slowly while they sing hymns
And praises to the Overseer of the universe.
We shall park our car in a short, shallow valley of darkness,
As we hide our faces from the face of the world,
Taking our eternal nap in a place where no light can penetrate.
In this one-way valley of no return, we shall lay down at six feet,
Looking towards the sky, as we watch our spirits
proceed to the godly heaven.
The sound of human feet, running cars, or grazing animals
May be heard, but our screams from this depth
Will never exceed an inch away.
The crowd will return to their homes,
To their women and children,
Leaving our own to despair over the good days gone,
Hoping that the holy words are true.
Our families will console themselves by believing that,
In this valley of silence, we are dancing with the angels
And singing to the Almighty Creator.
They will faintly smile, at least knowing we will never be hungry in this valley.
But the children will cry hard, thinking that
Their parents are drinking all the rainwater that floods around.
They came at dawn, no proof in hand,
Just whispers dressed as fact and brand.
A name, a nod, a hunch, a lie—
Enough to cage the passerby.
The cell was cold, the hours slow,
They said, confess, and you may go.
But truth’s no friend to those in chains,
It starves where silence still remains.
No witness stands, no weapon gleams,
Just shattered hope and broken dreams.
The judge—he sees, his eyes are gray,
He knows the truth but looks away.
Without allocution, guilt’s not sealed,
Yet justice bends, the verdict’s wheeled.
You sign the plea—your soul’s receipt,
A deal struck down where law retreats.
Freedom traded for a lie’s deceit.