"motorbikes" poems
motorbike motorbikes on the waves
it’s fun to ride motorbikes on the waves
riding can be fun, and riding is so cool
motorbikes motorbikes on the waves
you see he is like evil kanieval
he is like dale buggins
he is like any cool dude, who has walked on the earth
motorbike motorbike on the waves
what a cool motorbike on the waves
riding motorbikes on the waves can be cool
yeah mate yeah he breaks alkl the rules, and that is cool
you see robbie maddison rides on top of an ocean in tahiti yeah
yeah, and i was there in the end with my nice old beer
motorbike motorbike, on the waves, in tahiti, what a rave
motorbike motorbike, on the waves, it’s time to not have a shave
carn the motorbikes, bring on fun
give conserves a boot up the ***
motorbikes motorbikes, yeah we’ll have fun
yeah, up with surfers, having some fun
motorbikes motorbikes, having a lot of fun, ooh yeah
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
The tarmac rushes beneath my feet,
But my body is sitting still,
Pulled back by the seatbelt so tight,
The journey feels so unreal.
Speeding cars and motorbikes,
The smell of fumes and city lights,
My home is getting closer,
I can feel it. I can feel it.
I miss the house I called a home,
I miss the friends I call my own,
I miss the place I used to see,
Of happy lives, a family,
And now my heart feels heavy.
I feel just a little homesick, tonight.
Catch a coach from the airport,
I’m tired of waiting around,
Suitcase in my left hand,
The sound of the engine’s so loud.
Vehicles will pass on by,
Lost in the dark and the city lights,
My home is even closer,
I can see it. I can see it.
I miss the house I called a home,
I miss the friends I call my own,
I miss the place I used to see,
Of happy lives, a family,
And now my heart feels heavy.
I feel just a little homesick, tonight.
Smiling faces will guide me,
The signs on the road will guide me,
The hope of going home will guide me,
To cure my homesickness, tonight.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Long hikes and motorbikes,
Cabins, starlight, kids and tykes,
Parents, and mommies soon to be,
Gather at the greenest tree.
Spirits in ******* are unbound,
Where the silence drowns the sound;
The victories that love has won.
We are never far when we are one.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
Motorcycles are fickle things
fleeting as fairies with whizzing wings
don't always work when you want them to
sometimes faultless sometimes poo
mended mine again today
set fire to it as well but hey,
it goes again and kinda smiles
waiting for the happy miles
we do together in the sun
this winters frost has been no fun
My men's bits froze to popcorn size
don't ride in the snow, so say the wise
so wee and slow it won't go quick
been so cold it's made me sick
but got no licence for my car
and my bike though slow gets me quite far
got the car test coming soon
easier to touch the moon
worry so if I will pass
maybe I should offer up my ***
do the examiner ****** favours
or pray to the lord my only saviour
Hmmm my **** is not so cute,
and prayer is such a selfish route
I'll settle for a mournful wail
when the examiner tells me "Jeremy.. FAIL!"
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
She was the type of girl
who tried her best to love
but recieved none in return
He was the type of boy
who didn't care for much
who didn't crave any touch
She was the type of girl
who place dandelions in her room
to remember that one day
everything would fly away
He was the type of boy
who rode motorbikes by choice
the thrill of the risk
to be close to Death's kiss
She was the type of girl
who had a firm grip on insanity
and often gave way to reality
He was the type of boy
who believe in the realistic roads
and never thought twice about ghosts
She was the type of girl
who didn't believe in choice
but believed in broken toys
He was the type of boy
who rode around all night
looking for misled fights
They were soulmates
But they didn't know
Passing each other in the hallway
Because they thought no one
could understand their pain
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
There are too many people here.
Streets are crowded with vendors
and an indelible smell thickens.
Buildings are painted a faint blue, or pink;
they rise upwards, lofty and erratic.
On the balcony of my hotel their roofs are speckled;
one of every color.
Outlandish art fills sun-glazed shops.
Some are only twenty feet wide. Motorbikes
wiz down the cracked roads with intimidating speed.
I look up to the knotted powerlines strung above
cluttering the backdrop of twine green trees.
In the humidity, there is no fresh air.
I can scarcely breathe. Here is a city
impractically shaped, a different world,
but the tender is coming as I descend further.
In the interior is Birla Orphanage
where laughter spreads.
The children wade gigantic waves
on the shore of Do Son Beach.
Mucky water sticks to the sand on our skin.
A boy, three feet tall, beautiful bright brown eyes
peers into my life. I do not know his language,
the most we can do is share gaping smiles
as this city unfolds its secrets to me.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
The bright light
from my neighbours garage
where he slaves over motorbikes
until late into the night
makes me wonder
if he is working through love
or lack of it
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Remember that day we glided along rice fields,
me and you lagging at the back,
while the 12 of us pedaled bicycles?
The clouds drooled down daylight,
and I was feeling lonely and crap.
You glanced back on the road and waited. "You alright?"
your eyes said.
And we chatted about our problems, time chopping away on an x-asis,
as we passed fields, motorbikes, and watersheds.
Those shared moments every day
with you, our friends, and our Vietnamese teaching staff,
it aligned my universe like a human astrolabe.
I'm so glad our group traveled across the world,
riding bikes and drinking beer unbounded by maps.
It ***** being home now, far away. I miss you and I'm always bored.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
I love old school motorbikes and their purring sound as they emit fragrances which trigger animosity and innocence.
It’s a total eclipse of the heart, don’t you think?
******** Lunatics, Undesirables and Eccentrics. That is the essential nature of angelic blue.
Forget those polished ambassadors of what is deemed to be contemporary.
Chop it up, Chewbacca, whilst spanners are thrown with obscene articulations.
It has been said that my father violently placed a bike in the canal.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.
Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******
Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
yeah, read an old poem again and remember sitting across a dark sticky table, pitcher of beer to wash down the fear of losing control. the guys told jokes - called them "brain droppings", like intellectual pigeon **** puked on the window - but i was fighting not to get lost in the patterns of condensed water pooling from sides of the pitcher, laughing on cue because it seemed the right thing to do. i counted bright flashes, blue, a neon sign - froggy's bar open - for clarity, my fingers still melting into pencils at fine edges of the discussion. i carried a notebook to write in but nobody noticed. i thought i was a poet.
green sat there, slack jaw acid jockey, dead eyed silent fish out of water. educated somewhere. not here. it was hot. i think he'd had too much magic mushroom or that black sticky stuff we smoked in the bathroom that made me choke like a dying newborn, or maybe the pale colored microdot collage on paper rolls we all shared at a concert hall earlier. the humidity.
cool, man - i quietly pined for some brown-skinned chick away at college, home again but still not calling, so i wanted to forget my own name and split in some dime bag fog when the sugar slipped out over my lips; i spit, he didn't, i drank. green was hungry, brain-fucked, out of time, dreaming about some key lime trees in florida, ogres in fairmount's forests, the dealers from new york who wanted to **** us, then gut laughed at something funny he saw in his sneakers. we hefted him by armpits to the stairs and left him there; it was too hot to walk all the way up to the flat's front door. green **** himself; we left. green, by any other name, got lost like smooth longhairs on motorbikes, that girl, the pretend hit men from uptown, none of whom ever cared who i was, because i wasn't really anywhere. but i didn't realize green could fly. it was a secret he'd left on the pavement outside. i'd wished i could fly like green. but he died. i'm still here, bluffing i'm living.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
I want this life to read like an intricate novel. I don’t want to keep sitting at a computer all day while the romance of life slips through my arthritic fingers. They are meant to write beautiful prose that flow over our souls and cover them with golden warmth.
Yet they are tippy-tappy typing away at exhausting, unimaginative emails with signatures like “warmest regards” to cover how calloused my heart has become.
Sitting in this comfortable space behind a giant screen where nothing can hurt me is crippling. We were meant to embrace the love this earth holds us in. We are supposed to bathe in rivers, meet strangers in different cities, and learn to fall. My knees should have scrapes, my elbows bruised from stumbles I take on dirt roads and motorbikes.
While my bones are intact, my life is what is breaking.
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 9:26 PM UTC
Many compositions for all men,
once were found near granite stones.
Many songs
were tied to Rose Hill Cemetery.
Then, travels on a Wind Bag, ended
on the Farm, and became famous.
Wrote Ramblin' and got higher then ever seen for
Southern men who encompassed black and white,
so, did never exemplify the South,but two returned,
because of motorbikes,
and now lie side by side:
recomposing,
at Rose Hill Cemetery.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
36 stories tall stands this condo block , on it's left stands one 47 stories tall
Each story harbors as many stories as there are rooms
Windows that encompass the whole floor showcase this life to the world , from where i stand
i can see below me , a man walking into the ally way to wash from a bucket and a bowl ,
i can see someone watching tv in bed , vest and boxer shorts on whilst his partner sleeps
i can see brothers laughing at smokes , lying on air conditioning vents
i can see a western woman put her washing in the machine
i can see taxi cabs and motorbikes
i can see shopping malls and banks
i can see progress
i can't see progress
i can see sadness
i can see fear
i can smell the nights allure of alcohol and lust
i can see all this from the vantage point of my 15th floor balcony
i wonder who see's me ?
can you smell my sandalwood incense as i light a prayer ?
what satellite passes above my head? who catalogues this internet usage? where do these words exist apart from on a screen?
where have we come from? where are we going? what do we expect?
Humanity has choices to make , break free from the jail keepers handmade jail cell.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
She drew each suit
Of a deck of cards
On my arm with a
Black ballpoint pen
We nursed our shared glass
And took ice once
All the customers had taken
Their motorbikes into the night
We made love beneath
The fairy-lights and
Cleansed ourselves
In simple, beautiful poverty
I knew that the ink
The glass
The ice
The fairy-lights
And the ***
Would all burn out
Or wash away
I knew that the poverty
Would lift
Eventually
And expose
Our rushed
And reasonless
Foundations
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
This is for the most supreme
The almighty Jehova
The creator and mover of earth.
I have sin and not once have i insulted you
Not by word of mouth but through my actions.
I humble myself to seek for forgiveness.
I have trespassed dear almighty
I have used my body sinfully
I haven't been good at all,
I followed the worldly desires out ot my consent
God,I need a chance of reciprocating
I need change and be clean once more
No one,shall confirm me apart from you
My inequities are far much worse
I'm no longer fit for your house at all
Lord Jesus,take me I wipe your floors,
Because it is my only time I will be save
It is my single chance of life that remains
I now have known life though by chance
Thank you God for your eye opening.
I supplicate my prayer to my friends
Save their souls from danger Jehova
God,Father of us
See those in hospitals and heal them
See those in planes,cars,motorbikes ,bikes and pedestrians
Give them save journeys
You know the orphans father ,
Guide them and lead them to prosperity .
The old too Father ,grand them peace.
Lord give me power ,that I curse the demons away
Those that bring confusion I rebuke you in Jesus name
You have no power to thriumph over us
I chase you away in the mighty name of God
You have no power to stand near the people of God
Go to where you belong .
Lord ,Jesus we thank you
We bring praise and honor
All belong to you
I pray this short prayer
Believing and trusting in your name
Amen
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Overslept and tired.
An early start
17 hours a day.
Broken with slashes of sound.
7.43 million Motorbikes in
** Chi Minh City.
The street flowers dying,
no air to breath.
And miles to go before you sleep.
The grass consenting to the dollar,
packs up and leaves the city.
Returning, resuming,
threading your way between
the grey faces.
And the men looking for
someone special today.
The hurt and wounded
pass by quickly.
No soothing hand to pacify
the restless all dark nights.
Some suffer so much.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
I’m in Vietnam right now overlooking the city at 3am watching the ** Chi Minh lights work their shades of violet and jade into the black mass of night.
there’s a lot of poverty out there and with it a lot of generosity.
I commend them for that because while deep-rooted in the garden bed of desolation, I can’t override these frustrations on feeling defeated.
I went to school, participated, put forth the effort and made the grade but the board felt I wasn’t worthy enough when it came to the final test.
the only thing I achieved was retaining monikers such as loser and failure because I have lost and I have failed.
the smallest obstacle had become my biggest hurdle and I am too mentally and physically exhausted to quash it.
each step I take feels frozen and keeps dragging across wet cemented floors
& the skies have listened to my screams
but delivers no answers.
my god, have I given up?
it’s not likely for me to do so.
especially when so much was riding on life.
I watch the motorbikes zoom pass my psyche
as a Tiger beer falls from the balcony and shatters in the debris. a wet heavy sorrow suffocates my heart.
I sob. I weep. I cry. I fall. I wail.
I must resurrect and rise like the sun, the smoke, the symphony but my focus escapes me and I lose my hope.
my mind turns to the system; they decide
who makes a better world and who gets
tucked away in the dust.
but I can’t blame the system, only myself and
my inabilities to try once again until
I’ve reached my success.
I gaze over a man yelling at a woman while roasting a chicken down below.
they’re trying to make it out there on the ***** streets of Saigon.
fighting to survive. one more day. one more time. one more ounce of life.
and my biggest struggle is only with myself.
my stubborn brain clashing against everything I worked so hard for.
beating myself up, tearing myself down,
all that time, money and effort: wasted.
it was all for nothing, I screamed, it was all for nothing as my half naked woman sleeps behind a green curtain and a red rooster crows at another new day full of possibility.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 3:25 PM UTC
Freakishly tall trees on both sides, all ceasing and dying
People's din, cars, trucks, motorbikes,
youse all barefooted, watch the pikes
Tall handsome man, all cool, without trying.
He never pussyfoots, he only calms you with his eyes
**** he sets the gardens ablaze
all barefooted, all in a daze
flickering bulblights, everything still dies.
Silky crinkly smooth voice like sonnets
Look, concrete cages hits concrete
bones crack to the beat
they split him open with onyx.
Always a joy, always a delight
sauntering down the avenue
smoky homes and billboard hue
boys drink joke **** girls drunk ***** fright.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
The train huffs and bellows;
Screeching tracks sparking
Waves of rolling roaring
Like stretched thunder,
Booming in rapid motion.
Above, a plane traces an arc
Of breathy fury, compressed
And exploding voraciously.
It erupts in ignited screams
Across the moon-lit sky.
Always, too, the forever pops
And sliding-low gurgling of cars
And trucks and motorbikes, vague
Ticks of missing-beats, sparse
Rumbles of howling engines and
Flashing sirens piercing
Continuous above it all.
A cat (probably) somewhere
Screams nearby.
All returns to normal.
Jun 16, 2025
Jun 16, 2025 at 5:58 PM UTC
Going home.
On the plain of Alentejo
sacred green grass ornamented with white flowers.
Rolling landscape and big farms
grazing cattle,
sheep in the shade of umbrella trees.
Rolling landscape I would love to be a stallion here.
Alas, I see few horses and no mares,
but many four- wheeled motorbikes
disturbing the peace.
Cows, sheep and big balled bulls
milk and meat,
time to stop for lunch.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
Now It’s CLEAR That I Am ... " GIFTED " ...
When It Comes To Writing Lyrics ... !!!
Articulated Scriptures ...
That Paint Descriptive Pictures ...
of How It Is We’re Living ...
Ism After ... ISM ...
Corruption and Division ...
That’s Bred By Politicians ...
EVEN ON A Day Like THIS ...
December ... 25th ...
I’m STILL Presenting Gifts ...
Through Written Scripts Like THIS ... !!!
That QUICKLY FLIP ...
DIFFERENT Subjects ... !!!
From Politics To Those Whose Gifts ...
Gave Out Some ... SERIOUS LIKS’ ... !!!!!!
Just Like The GREAT ... “ King Viv “ ... !!!
A Cricketer ... SO GIFTED ... !!!
When It Came To Playing Cricket ...
And PROTECTING ... His Wicket ...
That Bowlers RARELY Hit It ... !!!!!!!!
While Others Like ... USAIN ...
Had Gifts That Made Them Train ...
In Ways That Gained ... " Olympic Fame " ... !!!
TOO Many IN FACT ... For This Poem To Name ... !!!
So Let’s Move On ...
To Gifts That Belong ...
In ... OTHER Realms ...
Like ****** Gifts ...
YES ... BIG OL’ Well ...
You Know What It Is ... Or ... Do You ... ?!?
Do You Know What It Is To Be The One Who GIVES ...
MULTIPLE ... ******** Rides ... !!!?!!!
Well I’m ... One of THOSE GUYS ... !!!!!
My Ex and I ... ENJOYED Those Nights ....
Where She Would Be Riding Just Like ...
Those Guys With Gifts To Ride Motorbikes ...
In Ways That THRILLED When She Got FILLED ...
With MUCH MORE Than The ... AVERAGE Man ...
And YES That’s FACT So ... DON’T Doubt That ... !!!!!!!
Such Gifts Are COOL But Now I’m Fuelled ...
To Use My Gifts To ... EXPLAIN Things ...
As I Said At The Start I Now Use My ARM ...
To ARTICULATE Visions of How We’re Now Living ...
So Gifts of THIS TYPE ...
Tend To CHALLENGE The Minds ...
of Those Who Are ...................................................... “ Sly “ ...
Because of The Gift That ... REALITY Brings ... !!!
A Bite That DEFIES The Spreading of LIES ... !!!
But One That Bears Witness ...
To TRUTH And LESS Sinning ... !!!
So ... As I Now End ...
I’m Back To The Beginning ... !!!
I Articulate Scriptures ...
That Paint Descriptive Pictures ...
of How It Is ... " We’re Living " ...
Because It’s ... CLEAR ...
When It Comes To Writing Lyrics ...
That I Am One ... Who’s ...
.......... “ GIFTED “ ..........
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
Remembering what I want to forget. Unable to recall what I need to remember. When did it start? Refusing to ask you because the revelation would make it real. More than it already is. Other pains kept occupying space. It had to wait. Writing it would make it real, trying to forget it becomes harder, there's a record. Is this the root of fear? Afraid of being in a fort not alone but sola. Talks or hints of it. Can't remember, time has a tendency to distort the memories. The motorbikes go by, loud, exhaust, music and maybe plans of it, it's hard to recall. Locked away, innocence dissappearing by the second, or maybe it vanished before that day. When did it start? It's difficult to know. It happened, it didn't feel forced, felt mutual but willingness at five does not seem plausible. Was it that young? Remembering that, it's complicated, you could answer it but forgetfulness gets in the way of asking you, or remembering to ask you slips by. Hard to tell the difference. There was a school day once. Morning it was, the shoes were being tied, memory says that no one else did the tying. Can shoes be tied at five? Can't recall. But being forced to grow up has a way of challenging stages. You said independence was a quality that was shown at five. Where did it go? You asked. It hasn't really, it just shows itself differently. After the shoes were tied, at five there's rejection. Knowledge of wrong and right. Was it really that young? Hard to believe it could be. After that there's no more recollection. Was it before innocence started to die or after? I can't recall and I'm not sure I really want to.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
The mountains stand like giant ghosts behind the shore,
The buildings trap the sand
Their electric lights such vigilants of the sea
Motorbikes as little dispatchment troops
Cars parked as sleeping cops.
The buildings, so aware of the sea,
Forget the glory of rocky tall ghosts from beyond,
Their valleys turned shopping malls and residential areas.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
Vehicle Island
While the owners of parked cars at the seaside
sat in overcrowded restaurants and was served
by sweat dripping waiters the cars started and
drove in a neat formation into the sea.
A mass suicide that lit up the sea for hours, but
more cars came and they became an island
and when there were no more cars left, motorbikes
were used as top soil.
Up from this mess grew traffic cones filling the space
with stop signs and pelican crossings.
A bike, a fortune for a bike, the moneyed class said
and there were the street fights; “it is my bike no I saw it first”
the veneer of civility broke down.
When the populace stole the horses of the Gypsies
undelaying social hatred broke out; it was their right
to steal to defend their country and the Gypsies
horseless now had to live behind tall walls this because
prisoners don’t need cars.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC