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"motorcycles" poems
Once I undertook a journey, upon the very face of our entire world. To view for myself the many pictures, and written descriptions in all the geography books and History Classes, National Geographic magazines and movies seen. A Quest to see with my own eyes what I had only experienced second hand. In my mid twenties, like a dream, one foot in front of the other, I went about exploring. I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands, Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry, fried snake and even monkey brains. Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands, Along the shores of Islands and the coasts of many lands. Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects and cultures, smiling and laughing with the families and children of all of them. Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men, heard their chants to their gods above, the moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land. Clapped my hands and moved my feet in their ancient mystic dances. Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood. Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the face of the God of my youthful teachings, disappointed when I did not see him, or Her. Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted to me by Red robbed Monks from within their chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments. Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of nearly forgotten once great Civilizations. Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning. Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks, Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways, rented motorcycles and cars.  Walked perhaps 1000 miles. In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years. And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?" "What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"   All indeed, fare questions. When a boy, I read a simple five word line, “Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and Horizon Lust compelled me.   The next obvious question you might ask is, after all that; “What did you find?” That answer is very simple, I found myself.
0
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
stephen-e-yocum
. . . . . . . . Seek . . .
Once I undertook a journey, upon the very face of our entire world. To view for myself the many pictures, and written descriptions in all the geography books and History Classes, National Geographic magazines and movies seen. A Quest to see with my own eyes what I had only experienced second hand. In my mid twenties, like a dream, one foot in front of the other, I went about exploring. I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands, Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry, fried snake and even monkey brains. Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands, Along the shores of Islands and the coasts of many lands. Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects and cultures, smiling and laughing with the families and children of all of them. Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men, heard their chants to their gods above, the moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land. Clapped my hands and moved my feet in their ancient mystic dances. Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood. Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the face of the God of my youthful teachings, disappointed when I did not see him, or Her. Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted to me by Red robbed Monks from within their chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments. Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of nearly forgotten once great Civilizations. Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning. Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks, Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways, rented motorcycles and cars.  Walked perhaps 1000 miles. In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years. And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?" "What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"   All indeed, fare questions. When a boy, I read a simple five word line, “Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and Horizon Lust compelled me.   The next obvious question you might ask is, after all that; “What did you find?” That answer is very simple, I found myself.
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53
The rich will always be rich, Computers, clean body, nice clothes, Proper homes, not shacks. Elite schools, branded Motorcycles, jewelry The poor will always be poor, A pen, a marvel Firewood, abandoned train tracks YMCA funded classes, Hand-me downs, nakedness Grandfather, father, Son. Same lineage, same burden To pass down Generation To Generation To Generation. A Never-ending cycle Cruel game of Russian roulette, Spin the revolver, watch it Turn, pick it up, iron to temple --BANG BANG-- you're dead. The more the rounds, the More Lethal It Gets It is a gap that cannot Be plugged, A boulder that cannot be put down, Like Atlas holding the sky, If released, the sky and earth Collide, and we die-- All of us. Everyone.
0
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
kylia
Cambodia
The rich will always be rich, Computers, clean body, nice clothes, Proper homes, not shacks. Elite schools, branded Motorcycles, jewelry The poor will always be poor, A pen, a marvel Firewood, abandoned train tracks YMCA funded classes, Hand-me downs, nakedness Grandfather, father, Son. Same lineage, same burden To pass down Generation To Generation To Generation. A Never-ending cycle Cruel game of Russian roulette, Spin the revolver, watch it Turn, pick it up, iron to temple --BANG BANG-- you're dead. The more the rounds, the More Lethal It Gets It is a gap that cannot Be plugged, A boulder that cannot be put down, Like Atlas holding the sky, If released, the sky and earth Collide, and we die-- All of us. Everyone.
Continue reading...
36
He was brought into the world in poverty, in confusion, into a world of conflict and pain all of which was not his fault, all of which had nothing to do with him. He was conceived in love, but by the time he was born love had passed and all that was left was isolation and two separate parents trying hard not to acknowledge that their life together was over. I remember the many walks we took together, my son and I. He was so little and I carried him on my chest facing outward in a baby carrier and he learned how to “steer me” by pressing a foot against one of my thighs so that I would turn in the direction he pressed and he could see better what it was that had caught his eye. We walked all summer and he learned to love a certain stray cat, garbage trucks, fire engines, and motorcycles. We found and explored, it seemed, every construction site in the city and I taught him the miracle of the sunflowers that bloomed in gardens of new life so big it made us think that, perhaps, this beauty that we shared could be enough and, perhaps, could make up for the everything else that was not. When summer ended and the sunflowers went away, I assured my son that it was all right. They would return again in the spring. I had really thought they would. One day we walked on a devastating autumn day, the trees an explosion of colors, the afternoon deliciously crisp with a slight chill in the air. We were late and in a hurry to get home. Suddenly, he stopped me and turned me to see, what? I looked and, at first, I couldn’t see what it could possibly be. Suddenly, I saw. A breathtaking autumn leaf tumbled through parabolas of time now forever present, forever tumbling now for me to contemplate, there forever for me to long for, suddenly awakening our shared beginner’s mind, a moment that will resonate forever, long after the pain of many quiet afternoons without him fades relentlessly into the everlasting October light that leaves behind so many painful, unanswered questions.
0
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
bruce-allen-johnson
The Miracle of the Sunflowers
He was brought into the world in poverty, in confusion, into a world of conflict and pain all of which was not his fault, all of which had nothing to do with him. He was conceived in love, but by the time he was born love had passed and all that was left was isolation and two separate parents trying hard not to acknowledge that their life together was over. I remember the many walks we took together, my son and I. He was so little and I carried him on my chest facing outward in a baby carrier and he learned how to “steer me” by pressing a foot against one of my thighs so that I would turn in the direction he pressed and he could see better what it was that had caught his eye. We walked all summer and he learned to love a certain stray cat, garbage trucks, fire engines, and motorcycles. We found and explored, it seemed, every construction site in the city and I taught him the miracle of the sunflowers that bloomed in gardens of new life so big it made us think that, perhaps, this beauty that we shared could be enough and, perhaps, could make up for the everything else that was not. When summer ended and the sunflowers went away, I assured my son that it was all right. They would return again in the spring. I had really thought they would. One day we walked on a devastating autumn day, the trees an explosion of colors, the afternoon deliciously crisp with a slight chill in the air. We were late and in a hurry to get home. Suddenly, he stopped me and turned me to see, what? I looked and, at first, I couldn’t see what it could possibly be. Suddenly, I saw. A breathtaking autumn leaf tumbled through parabolas of time now forever present, forever tumbling now for me to contemplate, there forever for me to long for, suddenly awakening our shared beginner’s mind, a moment that will resonate forever, long after the pain of many quiet afternoons without him fades relentlessly into the everlasting October light that leaves behind so many painful, unanswered questions.
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4
The sky, black as the eyes that stare at it. Star-studded and as seamless as new programming. I look down, the streets molested by fluorescent splotches -- red ribbons of memory evaporate from the lights of motorcycles, gurgling by. A homeless, pregnant woman, in a bar, once told me, "Forgiveness is letting a prisoner free, then finding out that you were the prisoner." The sunset looks like an explosion of emotions no one understands, yet. The smudges on her lips look like the bruises of an orphan apple.
0
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
joshua-haines
An Orphan Apple
The sky, black as the eyes that stare at it. Star-studded and as seamless as new programming. I look down, the streets molested by fluorescent splotches -- red ribbons of memory evaporate from the lights of motorcycles, gurgling by. A homeless, pregnant woman, in a bar, once told me, "Forgiveness is letting a prisoner free, then finding out that you were the prisoner." The sunset looks like an explosion of emotions no one understands, yet. The smudges on her lips look like the bruises of an orphan apple.
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11
i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness- the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little ***** thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls screaming under their breath, not enough. i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction and- blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street- down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate into sewer pipe salvation- destination unhindered by your humanity. god, this must be insanity and not even the good kind. but let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof- crawl out the attic window i let you go first to watch the electric calico trickle down your legs like a promise. i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair- the handkerchief at your hip, i like the crazy and the cool- the too cute for comfort and the fake angsty danger of your darkside. like morphine- the band or the drug? you're ironically detached with your semi-satanic languidity- and overdue serenity [i got a few overdue books at the library.] [they closed the library a long time ago.] i like to play catch with your presence- our eyes with the back-and-forth, the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking. but we were always looking- or at least i was always looking at you. i could see half inside of you. you were always half-naked- in the scanty rags of the latest fashion. when you breathed it was like nectarine noises- and muffled yelps of love. i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest and told you about "never knows best" it seems i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms. and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day. don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets it's just one more night of strangeness and then you can be free again.
0
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
k_faye
shameless
i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness- the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little ***** thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls screaming under their breath, not enough. i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction and- blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street- down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate into sewer pipe salvation- destination unhindered by your humanity. god, this must be insanity and not even the good kind. but let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof- crawl out the attic window i let you go first to watch the electric calico trickle down your legs like a promise. i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair- the handkerchief at your hip, i like the crazy and the cool- the too cute for comfort and the fake angsty danger of your darkside. like morphine- the band or the drug? you're ironically detached with your semi-satanic languidity- and overdue serenity [i got a few overdue books at the library.] [they closed the library a long time ago.] i like to play catch with your presence- our eyes with the back-and-forth, the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking. but we were always looking- or at least i was always looking at you. i could see half inside of you. you were always half-naked- in the scanty rags of the latest fashion. when you breathed it was like nectarine noises- and muffled yelps of love. i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest and told you about "never knows best" it seems i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms. and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day. don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets it's just one more night of strangeness and then you can be free again.
Continue reading...
51
He was the tough guy, The bad boy, the person You never, ever crossed. He was the owner of the old hotrod, the House you always avoided Because it was too loud and smelly. He was the guy who never Shaved his beard, kept at least Three motorcycles in his garage, and Had a different girlfriend every month. He was the tough guy. But then his dad took ill, And suddenly he didn’t care About his hotrod anymore. His buddies were forgotten, His workshop untouched, As his calloused hands held His father’s weak and shaky ones. The graveside service was A week later, and I remember Him kneeling over his father’s coffin, Head bowed in prayer, Trying to stay calm, but Tears flew down his cheeks with An intensity that no one had Seen before, nor since. And that’s when I learned that Tough guys aren’t always tough.
0
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
TigerLily13
Tough Guy
He was the tough guy, The bad boy, the person You never, ever crossed. He was the owner of the old hotrod, the House you always avoided Because it was too loud and smelly. He was the guy who never Shaved his beard, kept at least Three motorcycles in his garage, and Had a different girlfriend every month. He was the tough guy. But then his dad took ill, And suddenly he didn’t care About his hotrod anymore. His buddies were forgotten, His workshop untouched, As his calloused hands held His father’s weak and shaky ones. The graveside service was A week later, and I remember Him kneeling over his father’s coffin, Head bowed in prayer, Trying to stay calm, but Tears flew down his cheeks with An intensity that no one had Seen before, nor since. And that’s when I learned that Tough guys aren’t always tough.
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28
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!"
0
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
jeremy-wyatt
Winter and motorbikes
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!"
Continue reading...
26
She's got that air of innocence about her Untouched, untainted Draws all the bad boys in. The bad boys? You know the ones, Motorcycles and leather jackets, Cigarettes and black ink tattoos. And even worse than that A fickle charm they possess A good girl they desire, in a pure oh so white dress. She swears she's not naive - I know better than that, she says. The motorcycle stops outside her house. The leather jacket rings the doorbell The black ink reaches for her face And nothing happens. But he held her gaze for the longest time.
0
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
anna-mendes
Motorcycles & Leather Jackets
She's got that air of innocence about her Untouched, untainted Draws all the bad boys in. The bad boys? You know the ones, Motorcycles and leather jackets, Cigarettes and black ink tattoos. And even worse than that A fickle charm they possess A good girl they desire, in a pure oh so white dress. She swears she's not naive - I know better than that, she says. The motorcycle stops outside her house. The leather jacket rings the doorbell The black ink reaches for her face And nothing happens. But he held her gaze for the longest time.
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16
@_cyber @_punk headset not clear enough. can't receive circuitry rewiring veins back to my internal mainframe in which two magnets start to spew out dystopian propaganda. neon motorcycles that can turn at any corner dash through the streets. concept? oh no @_end @_function
0
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
effieebbtide
modem
@_cyber @_punk headset not clear enough. can't receive circuitry rewiring veins back to my internal mainframe in which two magnets start to spew out dystopian propaganda. neon motorcycles that can turn at any corner dash through the streets. concept? oh no @_end @_function
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13
Motion makes me homesick, home makes me motion-sick. I've seen some **** you wouldn't believe in the past month of my young life I'm happy. Makes me want more. I want Guatemala I want Nepal I want the States by trains and motorcycles. I want to make something tall enough to shake hands with god and strong enough to last to the ends of the earth Or longer. I want to give the world back all I've taken from it and all the damage I've done. And then I want to do more. I want to start a revolution, live on a farm, paint a mural, play a symphony, shake hands with the Dalai Lama, write a book, and be home in time for dinner. I want to fold a thousand and one oragami cranes and set them free from space and while they float down to Mauritania and Portugal, to Argentina and Cambodia I want to wish for a reset button. Not to use right away, but just in case **** gets out of hand. So we've got a backup plan. I want to sit in my old age looking down that darkened tunnel and see my own birth pass before my eyes. I want to embrace infinity without soreness or shortcomings, without excuses or refusals I want to watch the universe collapse back in on itself and be part of everything at once. I want more than I can handle. I guess that means I'm young.
0
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
j-c-lucas
Young
Motion makes me homesick, home makes me motion-sick. I've seen some **** you wouldn't believe in the past month of my young life I'm happy. Makes me want more. I want Guatemala I want Nepal I want the States by trains and motorcycles. I want to make something tall enough to shake hands with god and strong enough to last to the ends of the earth Or longer. I want to give the world back all I've taken from it and all the damage I've done. And then I want to do more. I want to start a revolution, live on a farm, paint a mural, play a symphony, shake hands with the Dalai Lama, write a book, and be home in time for dinner. I want to fold a thousand and one oragami cranes and set them free from space and while they float down to Mauritania and Portugal, to Argentina and Cambodia I want to wish for a reset button. Not to use right away, but just in case **** gets out of hand. So we've got a backup plan. I want to sit in my old age looking down that darkened tunnel and see my own birth pass before my eyes. I want to embrace infinity without soreness or shortcomings, without excuses or refusals I want to watch the universe collapse back in on itself and be part of everything at once. I want more than I can handle. I guess that means I'm young.
Continue reading...
28
There are women Short skirts Tight shirts Leaning on counters Popping gum Smiling at every man that passes Handing lollipops out to girls with braids Ribbons And ambitions. Women who get undressed Flip hair, don't care Sliding into passenger seats Standing on tip-toes to reach Wear blue on a golden afternoon Read books "far too complicated" Eat messy food with unmanicured hands Who don't belong to you. There are women Can't even begin to squeeze into that tiny size 2 dress Don't have the time to stress over How many times a week A month A year they shower. Women that don't even think about the color pink. There are women With babies And menstrual cycles With short hair And Harley motorcycles There are tough women And strong women With tattoos Degrees Febreze Who love other women. There are women that save lives Who thrive on the idea of being free "I don't want children" "Don't need no man" Who don't like to sing Don't like to dance There are women who are loud Who take tokes and laugh at jokes Women with hymens still unbroken Or reminded of it's absence every single day. Women who have hair in more places than one. And there are women who are sad Who are broken And angry. But those same women can be glad Can be put back together again. There are women Who don't know stereotypes Or how to break them. And there are women Who have hips And know how to shake them.
0
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
atilol
There Are Women
There are women Short skirts Tight shirts Leaning on counters Popping gum Smiling at every man that passes Handing lollipops out to girls with braids Ribbons And ambitions. Women who get undressed Flip hair, don't care Sliding into passenger seats Standing on tip-toes to reach Wear blue on a golden afternoon Read books "far too complicated" Eat messy food with unmanicured hands Who don't belong to you. There are women Can't even begin to squeeze into that tiny size 2 dress Don't have the time to stress over How many times a week A month A year they shower. Women that don't even think about the color pink. There are women With babies And menstrual cycles With short hair And Harley motorcycles There are tough women And strong women With tattoos Degrees Febreze Who love other women. There are women that save lives Who thrive on the idea of being free "I don't want children" "Don't need no man" Who don't like to sing Don't like to dance There are women who are loud Who take tokes and laugh at jokes Women with hymens still unbroken Or reminded of it's absence every single day. Women who have hair in more places than one. And there are women who are sad Who are broken And angry. But those same women can be glad Can be put back together again. There are women Who don't know stereotypes Or how to break them. And there are women Who have hips And know how to shake them.
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59
the cab drivers always look hopeful and the bicyclists always seem scared but it feels like my ribcage birdhouse could stay it’s my version of home that lives in my chest past the honor of winters plaid sleeves and silver glasses it’s room for just me and my clothespin wrists fold up to fit inside and my braids tickle my nose while i’m there i can get anywhere from there and it’s exactly where i always return there’s a dinosaur on the corner of my favorite place and all his friends remind me to stay happy as they stand by and good bye the places i need to go and i walk up the thousand and six stairs to the top more alone than i wanted to be and i am quiet and i listened but that was the day that the city shut up and i’m always looking for motorcycles out of the corner of my eye because you pause conversation to watch them fly by and i know for a moment there your head gets lost just exactly where you like it or at least i think you like it
0
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
felicia-c
I Fell Head Over Heels for the City
the cab drivers always look hopeful and the bicyclists always seem scared but it feels like my ribcage birdhouse could stay it’s my version of home that lives in my chest past the honor of winters plaid sleeves and silver glasses it’s room for just me and my clothespin wrists fold up to fit inside and my braids tickle my nose while i’m there i can get anywhere from there and it’s exactly where i always return there’s a dinosaur on the corner of my favorite place and all his friends remind me to stay happy as they stand by and good bye the places i need to go and i walk up the thousand and six stairs to the top more alone than i wanted to be and i am quiet and i listened but that was the day that the city shut up and i’m always looking for motorcycles out of the corner of my eye because you pause conversation to watch them fly by and i know for a moment there your head gets lost just exactly where you like it or at least i think you like it
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20
You've got to be kidding me, He looks just like your ******* dad. Fifty and dirt poor, tell me this isn't you. Because darling him fixing motorcycles won't support your life style. And you'll end up in debit, filling away all your dreams and hopes. You were meant for more than this, can't you please be stronger? Stand up for what you deserve.
0
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
jun-poet
Fixing Motorcycles
You've got to be kidding me, He looks just like your ******* dad. Fifty and dirt poor, tell me this isn't you. Because darling him fixing motorcycles won't support your life style. And you'll end up in debit, filling away all your dreams and hopes. You were meant for more than this, can't you please be stronger? Stand up for what you deserve.
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3
He was small, He was long, He was crossing the road when I saw him, Unaware of what is happening around, Motorcycles and Buses were passing by continuously, His Parents left him as if they were aware of the vehicle was coming towards them, I don't know why Parents leave their Children in difficult times, And what happened then scares us, Vehicle crossed by crushing him It's too late till I get through over to him, I wasn't able to save him, I was in the car, Seeing from far what happened there. He was a little Mongoose
0
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
rani
Mongoose.
He was small, He was long, He was crossing the road when I saw him, Unaware of what is happening around, Motorcycles and Buses were passing by continuously, His Parents left him as if they were aware of the vehicle was coming towards them, I don't know why Parents leave their Children in difficult times, And what happened then scares us, Vehicle crossed by crushing him It's too late till I get through over to him, I wasn't able to save him, I was in the car, Seeing from far what happened there. He was a little Mongoose
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14
i walk up cigarettes in hand you already have a conversation going and i'm out of the loop something about john's motorcycle i don't know anything about motorcycles i can't chime in on this one i stand and take a long drag i feel the haze fill up my lungs let it out slow watch it swirl and tumble away i'm nervous so anxious i've been off my meds for days the cigarettes are keeping me calm -ish you look at me eye's bright with intelligence piercing and i feel like you see through me but, i know you don't "right, seville?" you are being sarcastic you are always sarcastic sarcastic and a bit woeful and i like it "oh, yeah totally." i offer up matching your mockingly inquisitive tone i'm in on it now you invited me in the same way you always do the conversation rambles on i throw in a comment take some drags and then another one we're on car engins now that's some thing i know all the while i couldn't care less because i'm watching your eyes flash while you form thoughts your lips contort while you make words your hands fly while you explain i finish my cigarette i walk away
0
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
seville-marina
Untitled
i walk up cigarettes in hand you already have a conversation going and i'm out of the loop something about john's motorcycle i don't know anything about motorcycles i can't chime in on this one i stand and take a long drag i feel the haze fill up my lungs let it out slow watch it swirl and tumble away i'm nervous so anxious i've been off my meds for days the cigarettes are keeping me calm -ish you look at me eye's bright with intelligence piercing and i feel like you see through me but, i know you don't "right, seville?" you are being sarcastic you are always sarcastic sarcastic and a bit woeful and i like it "oh, yeah totally." i offer up matching your mockingly inquisitive tone i'm in on it now you invited me in the same way you always do the conversation rambles on i throw in a comment take some drags and then another one we're on car engins now that's some thing i know all the while i couldn't care less because i'm watching your eyes flash while you form thoughts your lips contort while you make words your hands fly while you explain i finish my cigarette i walk away
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41
Always follow your dreams Even if they involve Lions Elephants Motorcycles Flying through the air Meeting an alternate version of yourself Talking to invisible creatures Throwing pie at people Interpretive dance Singing in nonexistent languages Walking on the celing Contortions Swallowing fire and blades Leotards Hoopskirts Facepaint Masks Or flashing lights Because in the end When other people see it They'll either laugh with you Or stare, breathless and in awe
0
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
breeze-mist
What The Circus Taught Me
Always follow your dreams Even if they involve Lions Elephants Motorcycles Flying through the air Meeting an alternate version of yourself Talking to invisible creatures Throwing pie at people Interpretive dance Singing in nonexistent languages Walking on the celing Contortions Swallowing fire and blades Leotards Hoopskirts Facepaint Masks Or flashing lights Because in the end When other people see it They'll either laugh with you Or stare, breathless and in awe
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A bright blue police box spins through the sky Over 50 years have passed, so no one bothers to ask why. A Doctor in name, but no medicine dispensed His adventures defy all common sense. A Companion is always along for the ride When the TARDIS lifts off; it’s bigger inside. Our open-mouthed guide every step of the way Their first visit extends to a permanent stay The last of the Timelords or so people say From a long-distant planet they call Gallifrey Endlessly loyal with a mind second to none He has never resolved a dispute with a gun. He never seems to look the same for more than a few years A fact that has left some in fits of angry tears But everyone he’s truly known has felt a deep bond Just ask Rose, Martha, Donna, Clara, or Amy & Rory Pond Questioning the world and its traditions, his mind often lingers On the tasty goodness of custard and fish fingers. His personality leaves cause for some alienation But what else can one expect after regeneration? Friends often follow quickly in his tracks Like Danny Pink, Madame Vastra, Jenny, & Strax Otherworldly villains into our imaginations creep Psychotic snowmen, The Master, Daleks, Cybermen, and unrelenting Angels that Weep Dinosaurs in London, the Titanic in space Motorcycles driving up Big Ben fast enough to win a race Green forests of Sherwood; painting with Van Gogh He can take us anywhere we want to go And if when the journey stops your lips begin to quiver Just breathe deep and imagine the Song of a River Don’t go off the handle or fly into a rage Open up a favorite book and tear out the last page. That way, the stories won’t ever end and we can let them be Soon another generation will come along to see How a man whose true name remains unspoken Can face life’s harshest obstacles and still remain unbroken
0
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
umdcorsair
An Ode To Doctor Who
A bright blue police box spins through the sky Over 50 years have passed, so no one bothers to ask why. A Doctor in name, but no medicine dispensed His adventures defy all common sense. A Companion is always along for the ride When the TARDIS lifts off; it’s bigger inside. Our open-mouthed guide every step of the way Their first visit extends to a permanent stay The last of the Timelords or so people say From a long-distant planet they call Gallifrey Endlessly loyal with a mind second to none He has never resolved a dispute with a gun. He never seems to look the same for more than a few years A fact that has left some in fits of angry tears But everyone he’s truly known has felt a deep bond Just ask Rose, Martha, Donna, Clara, or Amy & Rory Pond Questioning the world and its traditions, his mind often lingers On the tasty goodness of custard and fish fingers. His personality leaves cause for some alienation But what else can one expect after regeneration? Friends often follow quickly in his tracks Like Danny Pink, Madame Vastra, Jenny, & Strax Otherworldly villains into our imaginations creep Psychotic snowmen, The Master, Daleks, Cybermen, and unrelenting Angels that Weep Dinosaurs in London, the Titanic in space Motorcycles driving up Big Ben fast enough to win a race Green forests of Sherwood; painting with Van Gogh He can take us anywhere we want to go And if when the journey stops your lips begin to quiver Just breathe deep and imagine the Song of a River Don’t go off the handle or fly into a rage Open up a favorite book and tear out the last page. That way, the stories won’t ever end and we can let them be Soon another generation will come along to see How a man whose true name remains unspoken Can face life’s harshest obstacles and still remain unbroken
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36
I dream of a motorcycle. Being a kid, I rode a bicycle I wish that when I grow up, I would have a motorcycle. using my imagination, pretending that I'm riding a motorcycle, as soon as I get enough money and my license, I'll have my dream of owning a motorcycle
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Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 5:07 PM UTC
addy_lilpeeplover13
My Love Of Motorcycles
I dream of a motorcycle. Being a kid, I rode a bicycle I wish that when I grow up, I would have a motorcycle. using my imagination, pretending that I'm riding a motorcycle, as soon as I get enough money and my license, I'll have my dream of owning a motorcycle
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4
One. Is home, good boy, too good for you. Two. Next door, doctor, married, five kids. Three. Visits every Sunday, doctor, married, five kids. Four. Cherub and sweet, tender, joined the Church. ...Splat. Five. Businessman, wrong people. ...Splat. Six. Married a German girl. ...Splat. Seven. Left for America. ...Splat. Took Eight to America. ...Splat Came back for Nine in America. ...Splat. Ten. Politician... oh well. ...Splat. Eleven Soap opera star, not killing people. Twelve. Love affairs, bad marriage, gets into fights. ...Good men are hard to find. Thirteen. Rides motorcycles, movie actresses, parties. ...He's my baby.
0
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
arden-blackrose
My Thirteen Sons
One. Is home, good boy, too good for you. Two. Next door, doctor, married, five kids. Three. Visits every Sunday, doctor, married, five kids. Four. Cherub and sweet, tender, joined the Church. ...Splat. Five. Businessman, wrong people. ...Splat. Six. Married a German girl. ...Splat. Seven. Left for America. ...Splat. Took Eight to America. ...Splat Came back for Nine in America. ...Splat. Ten. Politician... oh well. ...Splat. Eleven Soap opera star, not killing people. Twelve. Love affairs, bad marriage, gets into fights. ...Good men are hard to find. Thirteen. Rides motorcycles, movie actresses, parties. ...He's my baby.
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35
We used to play guns with sticks and we all knew how to die convincingly with playing cards in our spokes we summit hills atop motorcycles ratatatatatattt we walked through woods explorers and pioneers waiting for dinner or supper or bedtime when summer was another world entirely and the stains on our clothes told stories and not worries We would carve sticks into spears with knives our mothers did not know we had today we hunt pheasant we never did catch one but we made dens deep in the woods and climbed trees until we didn’t know how to get down the hay bales stacked four stories high in the farmer’s field was a jungle gym and when the farmer chased us away in his combine harvester we were playing Jurassic Park back when girls were silly, annoying little things that none of us were quite sure why we liked and fights were forgotten within the hour we had better things to laugh at a marble composition book filled with ****** raps and graffiti designs we would take stones and make them into entire planets but before long our shadows caught up with us a stick was just a stick a bike just a way to beat the heat and we were all too aware of the special effects
0
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
harry-j-baxter
Before We Caught On
We used to play guns with sticks and we all knew how to die convincingly with playing cards in our spokes we summit hills atop motorcycles ratatatatatattt we walked through woods explorers and pioneers waiting for dinner or supper or bedtime when summer was another world entirely and the stains on our clothes told stories and not worries We would carve sticks into spears with knives our mothers did not know we had today we hunt pheasant we never did catch one but we made dens deep in the woods and climbed trees until we didn’t know how to get down the hay bales stacked four stories high in the farmer’s field was a jungle gym and when the farmer chased us away in his combine harvester we were playing Jurassic Park back when girls were silly, annoying little things that none of us were quite sure why we liked and fights were forgotten within the hour we had better things to laugh at a marble composition book filled with ****** raps and graffiti designs we would take stones and make them into entire planets but before long our shadows caught up with us a stick was just a stick a bike just a way to beat the heat and we were all too aware of the special effects
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37
Run your slender fingers through my desert storm, whilst tumbleweed blows past mechanical vineyards. Although it feels like heaven, it would be fitting to acknowledge the indulgent nature of our deprivations. How diabolical are our interpersonal dynamics amidst customised motorcycles with forked tongues where the societal corpus callosum facilitates communication between hemispheres of cultural polarity. Let us expose the violence that is submerged within suave guises of sophistication. I am already seated in the dunes of contemplation where the sky at night reveals mysteries of silent amazement.
0
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
david-barr
Alternating Currents of Nocturnal Lobes
Run your slender fingers through my desert storm, whilst tumbleweed blows past mechanical vineyards. Although it feels like heaven, it would be fitting to acknowledge the indulgent nature of our deprivations. How diabolical are our interpersonal dynamics amidst customised motorcycles with forked tongues where the societal corpus callosum facilitates communication between hemispheres of cultural polarity. Let us expose the violence that is submerged within suave guises of sophistication. I am already seated in the dunes of contemplation where the sky at night reveals mysteries of silent amazement.
Continue reading...
6
the fast car speeds along the avenue and she relaxes at the wheel shell tell you she was born to drive and with a cigarette grey haze she leans into the telling a story of her younger days a summer back in the world back in the dust of 1958 when the motorcycles rode on main street she and her baby sister went to see and stood back of the five and dime marvelling at at the wild men and the chrome machines thouse were the days when the future was brighter and the dream seemed like it could be real this light comes alive in her eye when she speaks of thouse days you can see the years fall away you can almost taste the malted she drank and almost see her in her blue dress there at the five and dime you can see the light in her eyes when she is remembering thouse days the sock hop and the drive thu she is so much a younger soul than i filled with all these beautiful memories and as we drive down the hutchinson river parkway middle of the night in the pouring rain robert gordon on the radio i think to myself that she's right she was born to drive and i was born to be with a girl like her oldsmobile cutlass 440 was her car i was her man .and rockabilly was her music
0
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
mark-john-junor-1
five and dime
the fast car speeds along the avenue and she relaxes at the wheel shell tell you she was born to drive and with a cigarette grey haze she leans into the telling a story of her younger days a summer back in the world back in the dust of 1958 when the motorcycles rode on main street she and her baby sister went to see and stood back of the five and dime marvelling at at the wild men and the chrome machines thouse were the days when the future was brighter and the dream seemed like it could be real this light comes alive in her eye when she speaks of thouse days you can see the years fall away you can almost taste the malted she drank and almost see her in her blue dress there at the five and dime you can see the light in her eyes when she is remembering thouse days the sock hop and the drive thu she is so much a younger soul than i filled with all these beautiful memories and as we drive down the hutchinson river parkway middle of the night in the pouring rain robert gordon on the radio i think to myself that she's right she was born to drive and i was born to be with a girl like her oldsmobile cutlass 440 was her car i was her man .and rockabilly was her music
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37
I had a 750 Suzuki Katana, gray machine learned like a young man 350, then 650 then that 750cc of course in the mid eighties, paid cash but then my mom expected the worst, I was in the army, I said Army, military single man I could handle the motorbike well enough, I knew my limits, too slow one day on a sharp parking lot turn and I earned a cracked signal light casing, too early in the season an April Easter trek home, turned around in Manning Park, near that summit, snow and ice made it dicey and the police wanted me to prove I had chains and snow tires for this late season fall of snow is all, so I turned and went back to the base, too much competitive spirit one day and I thread the needle between a moving car and a parked car, well how to say this, with the driver's door opened wide, in that instant I passed by at thirty miles an hour my Life Cycle almost stopped, my thoughts were driven to, maybe I should go back to bicycles, instead... but I won the race back to the base and both the admiration and admonition of my peers whom I beat. ©DWE102013
0
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
darrell-wade-elverum
Motorcycles, Life Cycles, Bicycles
I had a 750 Suzuki Katana, gray machine learned like a young man 350, then 650 then that 750cc of course in the mid eighties, paid cash but then my mom expected the worst, I was in the army, I said Army, military single man I could handle the motorbike well enough, I knew my limits, too slow one day on a sharp parking lot turn and I earned a cracked signal light casing, too early in the season an April Easter trek home, turned around in Manning Park, near that summit, snow and ice made it dicey and the police wanted me to prove I had chains and snow tires for this late season fall of snow is all, so I turned and went back to the base, too much competitive spirit one day and I thread the needle between a moving car and a parked car, well how to say this, with the driver's door opened wide, in that instant I passed by at thirty miles an hour my Life Cycle almost stopped, my thoughts were driven to, maybe I should go back to bicycles, instead... but I won the race back to the base and both the admiration and admonition of my peers whom I beat. ©DWE102013
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35
Hello. Good evening and welcome back This is tonight’s program The air is ripe Ripe with social abundance And whimsical latte grooves A warmth in the air It caresses your body, this warmth It walks by your side, this warmth It’s there holding your hand Knowing that you’re alone Because this isn’t the same warmth of a person’s hand But this comfort, this invisible hand, this invisible other Is the warmth of the free midnight air The city lights: fluorescent metal plants with flashing neon insects and prowling jungle dwellers The soft ambient jazz that plays from the dripping rain. Giving your life the harmony of passion The melody of joy But with the rhythms of melancholy A lone phrase that passes by each composition Your world goes black and white Full becomes hollow Radiant becomes dull Trust becomes deception Love becomes hate Life becomes death The rain intensifies with translucent color Reflecting the street illumination of grandeur and sensual subtlety Urban poetry doused by mythic ambition Perplexing the eyes of the unknowing artist Raising the half full glass to the half empty person Objects in mirror are closer than they appear You are that much closer to your reflective self The part of you that will never leave the gaze of reflective surfaces There when you look away from your noon time coffee on the café window There when your mind wonders away from your spouses’ arguing; the mirror behind them There on the puddles on the asphalt and street corners, asking you with voiceless faces ‘Where are you now?” “Is this the dream of God subconscious?” “Is God asleep? Is this all just a dream of something bigger than us/’ Having a conversation with your reflection can turn out to be quite enlightening. This program is brought to you by the following sponsors; Oatmeal, tea leaves, voiceover actors, large print books, Lucretius, Bill Shakespeare, handmade leather wallets, chocolate kisses, long hair, motorcycles, Frank Gambale, Daft Punk, Martin Scorsese, Goya, Kevin Smith, Evan Rachel Wood, Jones Soda, Cappuccinos and all the little people (excluding mole people…they know why.) Please swing by again.
0
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
trevor-gates
The Obsidian Theater III: Our Mythic Ambition.
Hello. Good evening and welcome back This is tonight’s program The air is ripe Ripe with social abundance And whimsical latte grooves A warmth in the air It caresses your body, this warmth It walks by your side, this warmth It’s there holding your hand Knowing that you’re alone Because this isn’t the same warmth of a person’s hand But this comfort, this invisible hand, this invisible other Is the warmth of the free midnight air The city lights: fluorescent metal plants with flashing neon insects and prowling jungle dwellers The soft ambient jazz that plays from the dripping rain. Giving your life the harmony of passion The melody of joy But with the rhythms of melancholy A lone phrase that passes by each composition Your world goes black and white Full becomes hollow Radiant becomes dull Trust becomes deception Love becomes hate Life becomes death The rain intensifies with translucent color Reflecting the street illumination of grandeur and sensual subtlety Urban poetry doused by mythic ambition Perplexing the eyes of the unknowing artist Raising the half full glass to the half empty person Objects in mirror are closer than they appear You are that much closer to your reflective self The part of you that will never leave the gaze of reflective surfaces There when you look away from your noon time coffee on the café window There when your mind wonders away from your spouses’ arguing; the mirror behind them There on the puddles on the asphalt and street corners, asking you with voiceless faces ‘Where are you now?” “Is this the dream of God subconscious?” “Is God asleep? Is this all just a dream of something bigger than us/’ Having a conversation with your reflection can turn out to be quite enlightening. This program is brought to you by the following sponsors; Oatmeal, tea leaves, voiceover actors, large print books, Lucretius, Bill Shakespeare, handmade leather wallets, chocolate kisses, long hair, motorcycles, Frank Gambale, Daft Punk, Martin Scorsese, Goya, Kevin Smith, Evan Rachel Wood, Jones Soda, Cappuccinos and all the little people (excluding mole people…they know why.) Please swing by again.
Continue reading...
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