Long Wheelers Poems
Long Wheelers Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheelers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheelers poems by poem length and keyword.
Vanessa throws the shot put, track,
In the F34 classification, wheelchairs,
And is a wheelchair racing coach,
For English Athletics, also an activist.
Whilst doing the job she received a call,
From Alison O’Riordan a throwing coach,
Just after she’d survived a breakdown,
And having deteriorated considerably.
Vanessa suffers from the condition,
Described as Ehlers Danlos Syndrome,
And also abnormally postured Dystonia,
Such that she’s now in a wheelchair.
But Alison’s text was bold yet friendly,
“When are you coming out to have
a throw Nessa?” because Alison here,
Believed she could teach Vanessa all.
Vanessa had only joined the club,
Of Haringey Wheelers to get fitter,
And also so to improve her health,
But not to land feet down in Rio city!
Born on June 20th in the year 1977,
Vanessa now studies hard at university,
At the University of East London, UEL,
Examining sport and exercise science.
She hopes to follow on with a masters,
Or maybe even a longer PhD, loves talk,
Which she didn’t have the chance to do,
When she was younger, a young adult.
alone inside with me, less than inspirational
so look out for the more interesting folk
momentary excitement, the fiery motivational
beyond the familiar, to stoke and provoke
daydream departure from mundane conversational
adventures cocooned in my warm cosy cloak
cool charismatic characters, charming skills to admire
the wily wheelers, the dubious dealers
the mighty movers, the shuffling shakers, to these I aspire
delvers of science, the body-mind healers
frisky purveyors of seduction spray fuel to the fire
risky game chancers, the common sense stealers
suspenders of disbelief, poetic weavers of word
jovial jugglers of juxtaposition
addicted acquisitors, spinners shifting the absurd
fabulous fakers, deceptive magician
image presenters, dark or backlit, focused or blurred
sculptors of form, instrumental musician
composers of melody, glorious singers of song
whatever the stage, great performers of art
athletic achievers stretching stubbornly strong
rhythmic dynamo dancers moving close or apart
food-feeding salivators, their tasty pleasures prolong
delightful set dishes or delicious a la carte
whether imbibed on its own or in good company enjoyed
the brewer, the vintner, the masters of malt
innovative designers, architects of structure and void
the philosopher's stone, comfort-zone assault
insightful free thinkers, long-held paradigms destroyed
tall storytelling teachers without fear of fault
mathematical manipulators of numbers and code
quantum diving or high-flying to the stars
engineering fabricators, tunnel, bridge, rail and road
crazy drivers and loop-turning avatars
tinkering technicians, ecologists with wisdom bestowed
planners of protest, the remover of scars
inspirational givers, those with just the skill of their bent
empathy crossing over to be by your side
the meek, the afflicted, those who can ill-afford the rent
the refugee fleer from our wars worldwide
safety seekers, brave rational people with lives to augment
as we build indifferent walls... hope denied!
Inside the water
where they float or sway in their rusting roots
are horse tackle,
buggies,
unhinged parts of eighteen wheelers,
a girl on a tricycle, her bones still cycling in the drifting meld
circle squirrel and possum pelts,
The sludge of a dredging flow
tows bodiless pockets of former times.
No one can tell what is missing, what is still surfacing,
what is now lathered into womb-bearing suds.
A wake nibbles banks, it heaps up
headless pomades,
a filigree of funnel cake,
cotton candy,
half drunken sups of rum,
antedeluvian arrow heads,
the painted missing parts of the once and will be.
A momentous loss drifts by, is found by stooping gulls,
their screams almost musical
on a carousel wind.
Under the brittle reeds late summer copulates with
eddy,
churn
and jism.
There are corroding blooms between spent shotshells,
condoms colonize cattails,
belt buckles beckon
to forsaken underwear
that blossom now like pale squid.
The river slops together every wind-plowed recipe,
blends the newly-unearthed
with the long abandoned.
A backwash seeps moon-spills,
or drives a John Deere deeper into boggy entrails,
while barges slowly push each muddy footprint
toward empty shoes,
sunken slippers,
pumps,
loafers and boots
dropped somewhere between Pittsburg and the Mississippi
yet still moving along.
Long ago duriong my childhood Hon'ble M.L.A.s attended state assembly riding bicycles.
Officers of the govt departmens and staffs attended their offices
riding bicycles.
Policemen in groups went riding bicycles to arrest roadside gamblers.
If caught they were taken to police station on bicycles.
At school our Headmaster, teachers and staff came on bicycles,
some on foot.
As for the students most parents did not allow them to wear long pants nor use bicycles till they clear H.S.L.C. exam.
So they went to schools on foot most of them for miles.
At the college principal, lecturers, staff and studens came riding bicycles.
There were long bicycle sheds in the campus.
But today a few people use bicycles
and on the roads and market places bicycle users are looked down
as poor and starving people
But I dont shed my old habit of riding bicycle
often bumming miles in the countryside.
During the coronavirus lockdown time and again I came out
of the confinement at my home initially with timidity
pedaling my bicycle wearing a protective mask.
Although on the road police stopped the four wheelers, auto rickshaws
and power driven bikes, detained the drivers
or made them turn back non of them stopped me
as they thought bicycle users harmless.
So during lockdown often I pedaled my bicycle to the foot of lonesome
Nongmaijing hill
enjoying the scenary and gentle breeze there,
looking at the egrets flying in the sky and landing on the barren rice fields,
taking snaps of the countryside with my smartphone.
I returned home everytime regaled
without any fear of getting infection with coronavirus
nor police stopping me on the way.
*Image of Nursing Home provided by Pixabay.
Just Stating The Obvious Poetry Contest
Poetic Form: Rhyme
PLACE: Hereafter Harmony House (Assisted Living Facility)
Morning ushered chairs align the walls
blanketed legs with tabled meal trays
infirm progress neath Andy Warhol's.
A chambered room fills every which way
those ably walks passing out game cards
help checkers rounds, the game is in play.
Most play onward while others do naught
some just sit there, a few simply talk
while bingo goes on, helpers will spot.
A blank gaze onward, a blind man feels
his fingers balter a page of braille
while edged lips rise and a smile reveals.
Hue balls tumble, a number is said
it goes till one or more says BINGO
winners got gifts, games till lunch is spread.
TV is watched by the non-sleepers
wheelers part ways, escape to their rooms
prop up on beds made by housekeepers.
Incessant tapping, a hallway clears
an attentive dog nudge e'er so oft
side partner pleased, loyal all these years.
After their dinner and no caffeine
long distant talks with family ties
blissful hearts, sleepy-eyed and serene.
2021 May 09
*1st Place*
'ALL YOURS(May 21)'
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 May 21
*1st Place*
Just Stating The Obvious Poetry Contest
~~Brother Jacob: Judged 2021 May 18
Sacred native forests
remain enraptured in souls
shadowing mysterious nature's silence.
Or when so deluged and brisk winded,
stormed to rage wild absence of restraint
overpowering more domesticated sounds of commodifying busyness,
diesel fueled 18-wheelers
carrying walky-talky caffeine flying drivers,
warning blares of commerce's trains
for those without bodies and brains
to move away from rumbling dust river of busy tracks.
Native forests
speak sacred wilderness power through all five senses.
I cannot see a sacred forest
singing I Did It My Way,
or My Way Or The HighWay
appropriate anthems in their less bird-songed place, yes,
but not sacred lusty psalms of organic notes
for and from native forests,
where sacred sights
sound naturally right
and smell absent of stinky busy fright,
and taste and feel recycling peace.
When she stepped into the traffic
did she see the oncoming,
judge the distance;
the fleet footedness
of her thoughts calculating
the crossing,
or did she read the red end of her life
the way a deer might
caught in a blind light,
paralyzed by decisions?
I watched,
perhaps other eyes were on her
too far away from the moment
to save or rescue her time.
When planes break apart
the passengers fall out of it
thinking, calculating,
& dying before the end.
Possums lay in the road
gambling on deadness
to fend off an 18 wheelers.
Did a ghost of a thought
push her back,
keep her swaying
like a cartoon road-runner
on the curb edge,
or did she plunge into the truck
gambling that she would
always be
a moment away?
Was she already lost
as she unraveled a tangle
at the other side of town.
This we cannot say,
for most of us reflexively
looked away.
Saturday nights at Barney’s
Rowdy Cowboy Honky-Tonk,
Our band sang soulful love songs
That cried while our guitars wailed.
We oozed moods for fresh lovers,
And throbbing hearts on the mend,
Through those timeless tuneful nights
While Gus wiped his rosewood bar.
After crowds slunk off with night
We sang our most heart-felt songs
To the posters on the walls.
We sang for the fallen stars
Who had blazed through there before.
We lullabied a bleached blonde
Whose shining eyes seemed frozen
On bald Gus behind the bar.
On Tuesday nights at Barney’s
Four young Texas country boys
Poured out heartfelt harmonies
For cups in the coffee shop.
Eighteen wheelers chugged by
As hopeful neon winked at stars,
Coaxing folks to Barney’s door
And dour Gus behind the bar.
When the night was on the wane
We sang for the fallen stars
On the posters on the walls,
Who had blazed through there before.
Our final song we played best:
For a tiny nightingale,
A Texas blonde in buckskins
And auld Gus behind the bar.
Now twenty years from Barney’s
Still singing songs for lovers;
At times mending aching hearts
‘Midst stale smells of smoke and beer,
Our drums beat as hurting hearts
While we croon to forlorn chairs
And remember Barney’s where
Gus wiped glasses at the bar.
We sing our final love song
For a Texas blonde who’d sung
To gray Gus behind the bar.
We sing to little Linda,
The faded belle of Barney’s
Whose faint and wrinkled poster
Was found hung loose on the wall,
Beside Gus behind the bar.
(This is a fictional poem)
You used my credit cards to buy stereos, 4 wheelers, motorcycles and even a car.
I owe a ton of money because of your sorry ###, this time you've gone too far.
I told you that you could use one of my cards in an emergency but you maxed
them all out on the internet.
When I made you eat horse manure and crammed a bird's nest up your ###, it
was something you began to regret.
The buzzard saw her nest sticking out of your ### and she landed on your head.
I thought you'd take it like a man but you cried like a little girl instead.
That buzzard pecked out your eyes and #### in your hair.
I video taped it and showed it to your fiance who wasn't there.
When she saw it, she dumped you on the same day the two of you were going to
get hitched.
I learned that the stuff you bought couldn't go back because you gave it away and
I called you a son of a #####.
Your mama got mad because she heard me call you an S.O.B.
She grabbed me by the throat and beat the crap out of me.
When I pay those credit card bills and my hospital bill, I'll be a very poor man.
As soon as I get out of this hospital, I'm going to get as far away from you two as I
can.
Form:
Should you decide to stay in a hotel that is somewhat off the shelf,
Is quaint, a hundred years old but costs a reasonable amount of pelf,
The Steam Train Hotel is yer place in the town of Antonito, Colorado!
Guests have included my spouse and me and the occasional desperado!
There are few amenities and only eight rooms, all on the second floor.
'Tis a family operation and you are given a key to the hotel's entry door!
After they check you in, they head for home, available only by phone!
Baffled guests from thence are pretty much left to paddle on their own!
You enter a long, creepy hall and the floor creaks with each step taken!
(This was gonna be a thrillin' venture, of that there was no mistakin'!)
Antiques adorn each room and various geegaws are hangin' on the wall.
(I keep an eye peeled for fearsome ghosts and this casts a murky pall!)
U.S. Highway 265 passes right in front of the hotel addin' to my plight!
Convoys of infernal eighteen-wheelers keep me awake throughout the night!
There ain't no air conditionin' and it is hotter than you know where!
How I yearned for mornin' and salvation from my miserable despair!
The sun shone through the window revealin' a beautiful October morn!
We later boarded the Rio Grande steamer to begin our railway bourne!
Peerin' back at the hotel I thought it might've been haunted by spooky hosts,
But I reckon that it is probably too hot and noisy for even finicky ghosts!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved