Long Wheels Poems
Long Wheels Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheels poems by poem length and keyword.
Dimensions of height, width and length
The watery phases, of ice, liquid, vapor
Life possibly is less after three days without water
The Holy Trinity: Father, Son and Spirit
We are a spirit, soul and a body
The number, 3, indivisible
Triangles with pi are used in Trigonometry
Me, you and God, that is harmony
A father, a mother and children together;
That is 3 in a modern nuclear family
A three-stranded cord is not broken easily
Satellite GPS triangulation gives locations
You, a friend and another person make a trio
A tie breaking vote maybe the third (3)
A poem which only has in it 3-line stanzas is a tercet in poetry
Some three-pointed leaves make fine green tea
A three-sided pyramid does stand enduringly
A triangular prism shows light's hidden colors beautifully
Computing has 3 main components: computers, keyboards and mouse
The U.S.A. has 3 co-equal branches of government
Lithium alkali metallic has the atomic number 3
Tricycles are rolling around on 3 circular wheels
Tripods are standing firmly on legs of three
America's first dollar main colors were white, black and green
Dark energy spreads ink across the universe,
dripping scarlet liquid fated by black magic.
As the wheels spin poets' necromantic verse,
dark energy spreads ink across the universe,
and trumpeting angels’ mighty blasts rehearse.
The baneful sonnets doom driven by tragic.
Dark energy spreads ink across the universe,
dripping scarlet liquid fated by black magic.
Dark energy spreads ink across the universe,
As the wheels spin poets' necromantic verse,
and trumpeting angels’ mighty blasts rehearse.
The baneful sonnets doom driven by tragic,
dripping scarlet liquid fated by black magic.
Disk dim damning polemics prosing perverse.
AND ON THAT DAY…
(APROPOS MLK: PART 1)
And on that day we will rise
And raise the hued shades of ignorance
And let the light of truth shine on our souls
And purify our hearts with warm rays of hope.
And on that day we will rise
And see rumors of wars sucked into black holes of peace.
And the phoenix birds shall give birth to cooing doves.
And on that day we shall confront our humanity
And boldly say to it, you must become all we can be;
And seek forgiveness for the acts that trampled the will of God;
And hope for redemption for the shredded dreams deferred.
And on that day America shall awaken from her slumber
And stretch forth her weary arms yawning a Nicodemus yawn.
And that day shall be the dawning of new beginnings;
And the chameleon shall change its colors no more.
And each hued hope shall be woven into the fabric of common destiny.
And the wheels of time shall roll us over into the New Jerusalem…
And on that day America will sing a new song;
And it shall be: My country’s tears to thee…
And on that day God will say: Well Done!
One day, the mirror didn't show me my face, but a universe hidden beneath my eyelids,
A version no one meets, a world of public smiles and hidden wounds,
Held together by deep silences and storms of anger, a thousand unspoken words like lonely stars,
The mirror didn't ask how I was, but painted my nights when I didn't break, but bent like a bow,
Showing me the version that keeps the wheels of time turning, but never asks for help,
I no longer look in mirrors to see my face, but to ensure that the silent one is still there,
The dangerous version, carved from the shadows of survival, a guardian of silence watching from the dark.
Each reflection becomes a portal to a hidden self,
A labyrinth of emotions and shadows dancing on the edge of the soul like nocturnal spirits,
I know that beneath this mask of calm, a storm is ready to erupt like a forgotten volcano,
And yet, I walk this thin line between who I am and who I must be,
A fragile but necessary balance to move forward through the waves of time, a balance sculpted in clouds.
The mirror becomes a silent confidant, a silver oracle that refuses to reveal hidden secrets,
A reminder of the strength to remain whole in a world that tries to break you into fragments of a dream,
And so, I build walls from whispers and silences, each brick a memory of what I was,
And yet, a promise of what I will become, a castle of light in the eternal night of the soul.
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
(C)London F. BuSS. 2022
MY FIRST CAR
Years ago when I was younger,
So I'd not be so encumbered,
Wil decided that a car,
Would solve our problems near and far.
A run about was what I needed,
So transportation was not impeded,
When he had to go to work,
And I clung to him like a dirty shirt.
"Let me keep the car today,
I'll pick you up without delay.
When day is done and you're ready for home,
I won't leave you waiting there all alone."
But when day was over sure enough,
He'd wait and he'd wait by the curb with his stuff;
So he bought me a car at a used car lot,
Dependable and not costing a lot.
I loved it, adored it, I gave it a name.
So pretty and feminine, I called her Elaine.
Gold was her color, interior brown,
Easy on gas, I drove all over town.
To work and to school and the grocery store,
A gem of a car, could not ask for more.
Then one fine day in downtown traffic,
A man in a Dodge hit my cute little Maverick.
He knocked her right off her two front wheels.
I couldn't believe it, my senses reeled.
She died on the spot, I cried and cried,
"You killed my car!" "It's okay," he sighed.
The police arrived and I told them my story,
How he came out of nowhere, the details were gorey.
"He murdered my car!" I told them again,
"It was never alive." he said with a grin.
"It was a machine so it cannot be dead."
"It won't move again, so it's dead", I said.
All through the years I still feel the same,
About the man who murdered Elaine.
He came out of nowhere in a big Dodge truck,
Knocked her right off her wheels, that big dumb cluck.
So now when buying a car I endeavor,
I say,"Down with Dodge!" and "Ford Forever!"
Judy Ball
For Carol Brown's My First Car Contest
Fragments
They will be...
you do these kinds of things
can't be helped
imagination Band Aids some call them
I know
you just do
fingers wrapped ‘round cold steel
it's then
it's now
differences slight
like playing marbles
tripod-cradled taws and steelies
"Bombers" "Pots"
"shooters" all
aim straight
roll in the hole
you wait a long time
you know there's more to touch
you'll cradle other steel
formidable kind
you know
you hope
you're a kid
you'll do your best
find other holes
aim and shoot
some you dig
some dug for you
explosions know indiscretion
hell...
they say beginnings never end
always renewing
like dawn's edge ever changing
reds oranges yellow
lying on your back
knew those once
before the night never ended
smell the smell now
it's all the same
keeping life going
safe
clean
sterilized
that's what they do
amplified speakers seek help
always there's a page
off the wall
in your battlefront ISP
headgear no different
always the call
always the request
imagination tools
battle tools
you know what's coming
you just do
the swoosh of auto-doors
distant sirens
always there's sirens
always there's arrivals
like now
drinking my coffee
another first day of a new year
every year so familiar
pushing through iron air
waiting to be free
to see a sunrise again
to know a candle still glances
but now
just footsteps
coming at me
a walk I've known
Bethesda recall
remembering when sight
remained at the ready
absorbing fetid squalor
half naked Afghan children
barbarous patience
staring wildly as we passed
elder's eyes theirs
we cradling shooters defenseless
smiling
until
too many buried IEDs
I adjust
steps almost here
sitting seems forever
that's wheeled-life for now
robotic legs in the works
back there
back in Bethesda
coming
coming soon
for now
standard issue dark glasses
covering eyes that once were
footsteps stop
standing now
in front of me
me
Taking my hands
"Lt. Baygen...it's a boy."
"Shall we...your wife is waiting"
my hands grip the steel
following todays fragment
forging yesterday's pieces
a doctor
an imagination beyond
rolling my hands atop the chrome and rubber wheels
my imagination Band Aids
how shiny it all is they tell me
this transport
this evidence
today's somewhere
will he let me cradle him
will he look at me with hatred or compassion
will he know we have made him
what he might become
fragments
longing
Taking delight in your thoughts
Feeling an emotional high?
You hog around the world
Break your own ideals
Let the wind rush past your hair
And find comfort in discomfort.
Any sadness is not heart-wrenching anymore
And the smiles are filled with joy
Find uniqueness in the little flaws
Develop an understanding of the minds.
Live out the kid in you
Jump up high in joy
As wheels of the bus go round and round
Don't let your self in anyway be bound.
Start afresh, start again
Things may go wrong,
There will be more regrets
But as long as you are alive
Adventures should not end.
There is no time weak or strong
Life is out there for you to grasp
Take it, and sing your own song.
The Beauty of Charkha the Spinning Wheel
The Poem is dedicated to Mahatma Gandhi and his Charkha.
When first time I looked
At the Wooden Charkha*
With a child’s curiosity to know,
What it was?
I had seen it
Without caring and knowing much,
What actually the thing was?
For me in my childhood days,
It was then
Just a toy like instrument with wooden wheels
Equipped with some simple mechanism
To move a wheel from one hand
And to take out the yarn
On the wheels of the Charkha
From the other
Emerging like a never ending rope
Resembling the heavenly figures
Which attracts the viewers
In all the classic works of art.
To me in those moments
The making of the yarn on a Charkha
Was like coming out of a magical thing
From the white cotton lovely small bales
From which the Charkha was
Pulling the threads
And twisting the thin yarns
To make to make it a stronger weaving yarn.
The outcome was astonishing
In the form of cotton yarn
Which the spinner produces
On the wheels of any Charkha
By his soft and simple hands
It was a thing which would have fascinated
Any child and even the grownups
In those days
When the treasure of knowledge
Was not so easily available
By clicking a button or moving a mouse
And simple things used to give us
The most delicious pleasures of life
Which we try to find and keep searching
In every possible places today
With the help of innumerable
Search engines.
I had very little idea in my early childhood
How a fabric was made from cotton tree
And what it was
That we know as cotton
Which ultimately gives us
The most fascinating comfort and pleasure
In the form of our soft and sweet
Lovely dresses.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 24th May 2015
To continue in next…
Home is a bright pink crepe myrtle blowing in the wind.
His giggles and laughter while placing his feet in the sand.
Christmas lights wrapped around their hands, full of wonder and delight.
A mighty father making a roar, with all of his might.
A grin so big with that first bicycle tour down the road.
Training wheels coming off for the first time, and everything bold.
His gregarious smile while playing the drums.
A planter of bougainvillea with a bit of a green thumb.
Carving pumpkins with creative flare.
Watching Ginger Rodgers and Fred Astaire.
Home is a safety net where one sleeps tight.
When you lose it, nothing feels right.
Home was a haven where I once felt safe.
Nothing has been right ever since, all out of place.
There once was a teak wood table where Thanksgiving was served.
Full of magical smiles and prayers that were heard.
Home has been lost for quite some time now.
I attempt to move on, but there is nowhere to go.
I’d rather bury my head in ten feet of snow.
Home was where love once shined on bright.
Full of grace, and kindness and magical delight.
Happy little family with little footsteps running about.
I’ve lived on the streets wondering where to find my home.
But it was stripped away from me and now I have darkness to roam.
Home was full of baby Einstein and Alan Jackson too.
With sweet summer days, and country songs blues.
Through shadows, and memories I try to go back.
To find a safe place with family in tact.