Long Wheelies Poems
Long Wheelies Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheelies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheelies poems by poem length and keyword.
To the tune of My Favorite Things by Rodgers and Hammerstein...
Pop-ups and wheelies and brodies and skids,
A hand-me-down junker to play with the big kids -
We'd play Red Baron, though I was a tyke -
Now I remember my favorite bikes.
While good transportation, it was, for me,
I wanted a Schwinn Stingray under the tree.
Candy apple-red - what kid wouldn't like!?
Now, I remember my favorite bikes.
Freedom and speed, and the feel of the wind -
My ten-speed became this boy's best friend,
No offense to Jeff, or Alan or Mike -
but I remember my favorite bikes.
When old age brings
Things I dislike
and I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite bikes,
and then I don't feel so bad.
2/4/19
"Nothing Else To Add"
Thinking clearly
I wrote this sincerely
From the one you regard dearly
Nearly
Everybody having theories
Times getting eerie
Yearly
It didn't always turn out ideally
She really
Wanted to get touchy and feely
Telling me how she could heal me
After I did some wheelies
Next she said feel free
To take her up on the deal and see
Soon she'd reveal the key
For both parties it was beneficial
And rather simple
Not no piffle
Yeah I said it
There's no need to edit
It's becoming pathetic
Far too many
Being petty
Filled with envy
Get ahead or fall behind
On the move, or soon to unwind
Saw it coming, or being blind
Struggling, or doing fine
Missing or seeing the sign
Not thinking or using your mind
Being rude or kind
Can't be sad
Had
To get after what I didn't have
No matter if I was doing bad
Sure , life can be sad
But I'm not staying mad
I got to give it a stab
If it's something I want to grab
Still glad
I don't care about any fad
There's nothing else to add
Est 1938
Purchasing candy cigarettes from you
Mischief in your tiny parking lot
Doing wheelies around you on my General Lee BMX bike
Renting ancient overpriced films
Buying superman ice cream
even if it tastes like chalk
Journeying to you in a battered golf cart
Friends strapped to the rear
snickers ice cream whispering our names
A piece of me died when you did
Your fate was not righteous
You were vibrant in your prime
turned to ashes and barren 2-by-4s
soot engulfing blown-out windows
like mascara after a tragedy
Don’t weep dear corner store
I know its unbearable knowing
your life ended hastily
to an abandoned vanilla bean candle
Amelia Earhart
David J Walker
Betcha didn’t know
A previously undiscovered crater
on the moon
Was named for Amelia Earhart.
And if I go real soon
I’ll take part
In the tourist excursion
And swoon at the
Armstrong flag and
Ace the Alan Shepard Mini-Golf course
And drive the Scott and Irwin
Moon-buggy ride
Popping wheelies in the Moon-dust
After that
There’s not much to do
Except wait and gaze at the Earth
And ponder the fate
Of Amelia Earhart
Betcha didn’t know
They think they found her
Anti-Freckle cream
On some remote island
I wonder if there is an excursion
2 November 2019 7:32 AM
Swallowing snot and hawking luggies
Weekend sleepovers and late night movies
Riding bikes and popping wheelies
Telling jokes and acting silly
Throwing knives and taking dares
Living life without a care
Just two boys wild and clever
Running the mountain having the best day ever
Who knew their lives would change so fast
In the valley that day childhood would pass
We both changed that day and our lives grew apart
All because of something that we did not start
We were still friends because we cared
but the brotherhood we had we no longer shared
We had our travels some together but most apart
And now many years later and miles away I still live those days in my heart
The good times and bad, the fights and laughter
The years of life roll faster and faster
Our freindship lives on though tattered and torn
Since the fifth grade when it was born
You were my first best friend my only best friend
And you always will be until the end
Flat pack Wobbler
Procured from mega shop, a straight-lined box amid a cardboard wall
Where jig saw chattels rise above the queues of flatbed wheelies
And underarm catalogues patterned with an iconic list of what they are
When the blocks are sequenced and affixed with laborious strife
A transformation takes place that gives the pack new form herewith
Long live the flat pack table and its tedious sway in frail chipboard
Seated upon upon a quartet of nailed on props that creak objection
It takes its varnished place in harmony with four bolted chairs that match
And for a while it serves to hold the plates and cutlery just grand
Until the careless etch of scratches weave marring patterns on its top
Forever to remain as though a work of scribbled art and wrinkled mess
No longer wavelets in the soup, a tidal wave is now the norm when the legs teeter
Today the food’s aslant and the drinks decide to slide and slither to the floor
The props have given way, they’re tired and now submit to glory
And the table returns again to flat pack with eternal gratitude
quartet of props
ha-ha, my brother,
joined
the club,
with a tilted back,
and wheelies
popped,
from a
mo-bile chair.*
ha-ha’s
looking for-
the morning news,
his glasses,
a snooze…
a giant donut
to eat,
to sit upon-
so sweet.
ha-ha rides
his giant lab
to
the toilet seat.
ha-ha
laughs last
at
me-
his sister joined
this club
initially.
he laughs!
he laughs!
hee hee…
ho ho…
think i’ll poke
him in the eye…
where…are my…glasses?
the joke
died
before
I found
my
sight.
truth is
ha-ha’s
fit
as a fiddle
fabulous
on
a winning
streak
truth is
i love this old
knucklehead,
laughing hyena,
my nemesis,
my protégé.
ha-ha’s a riot-
i’m clutching
my gut.
it’s his birthday
…ha-ha
tag…
you’re sixty!
Happy Birthday, Bro!
9/16/2021
*He is not in a wheelchair nor bent over, just said in jest. Forgive me, if you, yourself have any of these conditions. Love you all <3