"scooters" poems
maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts
maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.
maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces
staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on booze-cruises to nowhere
What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?
What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?
From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?
Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
tootsie pops, pop rocks, rock candy
sweet tarts, smelly farts, war-heads, sour patch kids
reeses pieces, reeses stix, snickers lickers
fudge pile, chocolate smile, peanut butter bile, sugary style
baby ruths, almond joys, soy bean sauce, creamy steam
ill give u a payday, mayday, hay tastes good with parfai
milkyways stay gay to play games with sunrays
icing splicing with knife dicing
makes cakes, cook steaks, rumcakes
****** sprinkles, rip van winkle, diddily dinkle
gummy worms, germs impregnate firm, permed urns
angel food, carrots, pineapple upsideways
fruits, ***** parachutes, scooters, jello shooters
goobers, corn on the cobbers,
veggie wedgies, pepper leppers, squash boxes,
fry foxes, fleet rocks', carrot tops',
dishes of fishes,
witches brew platypus and fat kush
pushy slushies riding skateboards on gary busy
fussy hussies getting blushy about cussies
cereal made of creoles, bread straight from dreads,
rice is nice with spice, yeast is beast,
last but not least, wheat is a treat,
kiwis, shmiwis, dodos on go phones, starfruits,
bartlejuice, grape drank, sushi stinks.
ill eat anything.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
strawberry frenchfries dipped in chocolate fondue.
cry me an 8 oz cup of water when i step on you with my giant blue shoe.
dance through the forest with gnomes stapled to your shoulders.
hide your foil gum wrappers in manila folders.
left and right. front to back,
oxygen in the atmosphere may lack.
pluto and jupiter intertwine when night falls.
orange and green leather sewn to your ragdoll.
licking the excess frito crumbs from under your fingernails,
eyes pealed to the scenery of wacky inmates in jail.
selfish yellow and blue fish yelling at dr. seuss,
reading books in sunrooms drinking orange juice.
camera flashes and ripped dollar bills,
making chocolate pancakes on top of cherry hills.
hazy eyes drowning into a dream,
winter nights as cold as ben&jerrys; ice cream.
red hand chasing numbers on a clock,
movement of legs turns muscles into rock.
acid drops from black heart clouds falling onto driveways.
little kids on scooters munching on happy meals while saddened by the loss of sunrays.
23 degrees celsius and shine forcing itself through.
ice cream trucks and roadraged humans trying to get through.
bumble bee roads with lines and street signs,
teens boredum, smoking dope, drinking ***** getting fines.
police on the prowl everyday, every night, seeing through lies,
keeping their sight wide-open like a mouth in surprise.
fettuchini alfredo at fancy restaurants.
ice cold water knocked over on a ladys lap.
words missing letters, conversations missing sound.
apples and basketballs losing shape and sense of round.
flat chested skinny ******* slipping through cracks in wooden floors,
obese transexuals getting stuck in between doors.
puzzle pieces glued to the top of a bald head,
veins appear blue but blood is red.
blowing kisses, blowing out candles
cats,dogs,birds wearing sandals.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
Where Gloria lies
Lydia once lay
Gloria's boyfriend
sleeps beside her
(Gloria)
& Lydia having to sleep
in the cot bed
feels the aches and pains
in a bed too small
and sits moodily
on the red tiled
front door step
gazing at the Square
chin in her small hands
pouting lips
the baker with his
horse drawn cart
goes by
the man with his boxer dog
walks on by
waves as he
is wont to do
his dog sniffing
the ground
her father's voice
sounding from indoors
her mother's voice
bellowing above his
Benny rides along
on his imaginary horse
& rides over to her
sitting there
what's up?
he asks
fed up
she replies
staring at him
my big sister
& her boyfriend
still have my bed
& I'm stuck in
the cot bed &
I ache & feel angry
& I could spit
I see
Benny says
getting off
his pretend horse
anything I can do
to help?
only if you kidnap
her boyfriend
& send him off
some place
Lydia says
what you doing
anyway?
she asks
standing up
& rubbing her behind
which had become
pins& needlely
I was going to ride
my blue scooter
but you can come
& we can share it
along & down
Rockingham Street
he says
she looks at him
& says
ok if I can
have a ride
even if it is blue
or
he says
I can ask my sister
if you can borrow
her red one
will she let me?
Lydia asks
sure to if I ask
nicely & promise
her some sweets
he says
ok
Lydia says
let's go then
so they walked up
to the flat where
Benny lives with his
parents & sister
& brother
& he asks his sister
who says yes
& so Benny & Lydia
ride off across
the Square
on the two scooters
& Benny has
(for safety against
bad cowboys)
his two 6 gun
shooters.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
The trees expand with my eyes, here in
this solace, this international scene.
Pigeons, rowboats, the water and a
solitary swan – each a gift or a
gift’s ribbon. Snaking off into the air,
a balloon is cradled by the bustle
of the restless London-summer’s landscape.
The ordinary habitation is
so releasing: a miniature smile
scooters by; slow sweeps of saxophone
notes clear the sky; two bodies blended
in shin-height grass release a single sigh.
Abstractions felt but failed by my speech
take root here. Like semi-singed threads or strings,
they slide upward from the dirt to grow leaves.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
I'll love you
From silky smooth
To wrinkled,
From sane
To senile,
I'll love you
From sandy blonde or brunette
To ashen grey or balding white,
From twenty/twenty
To glaucoma,
I'll love you
From hushed whispers
To hearing aids,
From skips and hops
To rascal scooters,
I'll love you
From fast food and coke
To ensure and depends,
From broken fingernails
To fractured hips,
I'll love you
From baby boy
To great grandchildren,
From skydives
To rocking chairs,
I'll love you
From glitter
To pill reminders,
From off the lot
Until rusted into the ground,
I'll love you
From now
To forever,
From hello
To the grave...
APAD13 - 058 © okpoet
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
tiny blue houses line the beige, red, and green grass that lines the runway
the city from above is a rainbow mosaic of bustling focus,
in markets, on scooters, in neatly trimmed parks
now it fades to white, a blending for from ground to sky
meeting, joining, the whispy clouds that lay, for now above
Hồ Chí Minh city
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
In the freshly seared hours of the morning
there's a hot, bothered growling
coming from beyond
the rose-studded chipping fence posts,
sick with the stench of stained mattresses
and mounds of cage-less garbage-
tossed willy-nilly
into a smoldering, contorted
**** of stacks.
Here,
in this spot of dawn
-in today's un-showered
moist enclave-
I find, syncopated
by the vrooooming scooters
and gassy buses,
a fresh hope diffusing faster
than the steam from drains,
-subtler than the soft soju snores
of last night's curb cuddlers-
slinking up, down, around convenient stores' corners
past every security camera,
bouncing off rib cages,
tickling the barbules of the songbird
perched in my utility wires
in a nest neater than my bed.
This is summer, Korea.
This is Korea in the summer.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
She taught me
how to whistle,
folded a blade of
grass between
her teeth and
scared frogs half to death
in the woods
behind her house,
that chord struck
deep in the crater
she punched through
my heart
Her sandy skin
burned in the memories
of boys, who watched her
run across a field
with hair swinging
like a beacon, those
candied lips quick to laugh
at a passing joke,
they thought that
she belonged to them
But those lavender evenings
of junior high summers,
bikes and scooters lying
like faithful pets against
the hot pavement, chalky
hands with nails painted
resting against her
scabby knees, those knees
were my altars, I prayed there
more than I prayed in any church,
She was an anthem
unclaimed, she was
an American soccer girl
****** into a taste and color world
where she could be worshipped
by boys with football scars
and veins coated thick
with peanut butter & jelly,
she fell so hard that summer
cupped into the hands of
one after another, after I fell asleep
on the leopard carpet
of her bedroom,
I could hear her
whispering, and the
magma in my throat
filled to bursting,
the fireflies I'd cradled
in the bones carved
from her wrist --
I knew I'd never hold them
when the sun rose,
they escaped far too soon
This mosquito-stung life,
we wore our bites like
champions,
brought them home
to our mothers
until they would fade,
facing the plastic leaves
of autumn, I wanted to
stay locked
in her cage.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
Drunken stupor
Pooper scoopers
Give me a shooter.
Then riding scooters.
I found my wife
the one for life.
Working at my local *******
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
Wheels spin
Laughter Laughter
“Scooters are more fun” He says
Wheels spin
Laughter Laughter
His father sits tired and old
Bourbon in hand 4 ice cubes
To cool his tongue so he wont
Yell at us to be careful when we ride
Wheels spin
Laughter Laughter
3 bikes 1 Scooter the old kind before
Razors were ever invented
With big wheels and big handles
Unsteady and rusting
“But Scooters are more fun” he says
Wheels spin one handed Balance Balance
****
Down Down red red
And he is screaming
My knee red red
Wheels spin
“Rock in his leg” He says
Dads bourbon left on front steps
The ice melts Waste
And there’s blood on the road
On the steps on his shirt on his face on the grass
His hand is reaching
Inside red red
His knee red red
Out rock out
You have no business there
****** and ****** off
The rock leaves without saying
Goodbye or even Thank you
red red red red
****** ground and yet
He won’t cry
No tears only screams
Scooter broken
****** old thing
The wheels bent and spinning still
3 Bikes and a trip to the hospital
Wheels spin
Knees Bleed
14 Stitches
Laughter
Laughter
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
To be a woman:
To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…
bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?
Who has he bled for?
He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.
You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.
Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 6:27 PM UTC
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Paths of cratered concrete, cracked
By morning frost and midnight freeze,
Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures.
Children fall and skin their knees.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Canvas for a budding Rembrandt,
Using colored chalk as paint,
Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family,
Curbing not her young restraint.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Adults dare not let loose the leash,
As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress,
Must carry bags and tiny shovels,
To clear the concrete of the mess.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes,
Off the path, then on again
While yielding the right-of-way
To lovers walking hand in hand.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Collecting children at the corner,
A guard, with yellow vest and sign,
Moses parts the sea of traffic,
Cautiously keeps kids in line.
Through front yards, across drive-ways,
Toward bus stops, stores and schools,
Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow.
There are poems in small town sidewalks,
Imagination on the go.
Phil Lindsey 1/11/17
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
We're kinda small,
But we can be tall,
And play with the switches
On the walls.
We can run.
Ready. Set. Go.
You'll never catch us,
Don't you know.
We can reach anything
Out of reach.
We ride our bikes on our street.
We sometimes laugh until we ***
We get our bruises riding scooters.
We're one on our teeter-totter.
We see-saw you.
Jul 28, 2021
Jul 28, 2021 at 9:00 AM UTC
Man Card
You must know that all men have one
That we use when we're in need
I would take mine out and show you
If I thought you would believe
I always have mine with me
But its hardly ever used
Unless I think I need it
When im shopping for new shoes
I will pull it out and wonder
If you will ever think its real
For you saw me walking fifi
My toy poodle with no tail
Now I know I'll have to show it
If ever I am found
Outside planting flowers
When college football comes around
My scooters not a harley
Every real man knows that sound
It wispers where's your man card
As I putter around this town
I have had it for so very long
But now my man card cant be found
I know I dont deserve it
With this pink shirt I wear now
I'm not worried I lost my man card
For there are plenty to be found
All married men have lost one
For not putting those tampons down
Carl J. Roberts
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
13 years ago
that Magnolia tree hovered over my yard.
it cast such a shadow
that everything underneath was always so cool.
the flowers were so beautiful;
the purest white to the palest pink.
when the sun was at a certain angle
the tree looked magical.
5 years ago the tree split in half.
back then
the grass was so much greener.
i don't mean the metaphor
the feeling of thin lucious grass running through my toes
always amazed me.
the grass is dead now.
we used to love the rain.
we would run up
and play in the middle of the street.
until the thunder cracked
and we'd race back home,
laughing the whole way.
I'm terrified of storms now.
you used to be able to hear kids playing.
you could drive through any neighborhood at any time of day during the spring and summer.
there would be kids outside.
playing baseball, rundown, release, soccer-
riding bikes, scooters, skateboards, go karts-
jumping on pogo sticks, trampolines, and over ropes.
even at night
we would go out
trying to catch lightening bugs.
we're inside on our phones now.
the trees going to school.
God were they something.
they lined the road,
every tree was the exact same
but something about there being so many in one place
could take your breath away.
2 years ago the road and trees were destroyed
I wish things never changed
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
I should have gone to school
not fooled around.
I should have settled down to algebra
Nah..
I enjoyed my lazy days on river banks
I enjoyed the walks through ranks of butterflies
and fish that looked through fishy eyes at me
where I could be the master of my destiny.
Oh foolish child
what wild ride did I take?
I broke the hearts of tutors preferring roller skates and scooters to the formality of education.
No dried out formulae or calculations could tempt this boy
to attend a place where joy sat silently on the back row.
What I didn't know I found out the hard way
the way I knew
too late now to do
anything about it.
I should have learnt to sit and learn
not learnt to swim
or burnt my bridges.
Furrowed ridges on my brow
Now I know why education
should have been
seen as number one.
But life goes on
another lesson learnt
another bridge that wasn't burnt
but crumbled
under years of weight.
I chalk upon the blackboard slate
'could have done better'
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
So many times
Trying to turn reasons
Into rhymes
Newest muse
Desperate attempt
Only to fall short
As soon as attention
Noticed
Wide eyed girl
Obsessed may I
Lacking depth
As soon as
Emotions copied
Or furthermore
Replaced
Gravity
With weights and stools
Climbing higher
Reaching further
Grasping air
While the painted red smile
Walked further north
And the Abled girl
With wide frames; golden bay
Lingered patterned
Against broken scooters and watched
While I made a fool over feet
In autumn leaves and new beginnings
You held my arm
While minds wander
Of heavenly thought
Of what it would be like
To hold your hand
And not mess it up
With my idiotic tongue
And presumptuous lip
Always rushing
Like one constant race
When the rules
Clearly states
Walk not run
Try to slow my tracking feet
From making another big leap
Intensively driven
Pretty glass eyes girl
Did you want me to admit my defeat?
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
there is a quick energy here
the scooters flow without caution
traffic courses like a delta
changing, dynamic in every moment
a city in the wake of pain
constructing, making anew
the streets are wet and *****
yet every bush is neatly trimmed
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
you park with the windows
rolled down for a kiss
that doesn't come,
and now you're pressed up
against him with his chin on your shoulder.
painfully hart crane knew
what day it was,
but I'll never look at the
calendar.
its better,
the gulls would just get sick
the old folks in power scooters
cant handle much more than
a jigsaw.
if I were to choose how
I die I'd want it to
be hungover and by the
hands of a silverback.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
We were 6 years old, we were innocent, we we're playing. Just playing, in the most innocent sense of the word. With dolls, or blocks, or trucks, or dirt. I don't remember. We we're playing and then we weren't. We were playing and then the darkness came, and it took away our blocks. It took away our safety net of protection and threw us down the slide of demons.
Your demons. His demons.
We were 7 years old, we were innocent, we we're singing. Just singing, in the most innocent sense of the word. Songs, or lullabys, or comercials, or imporved words. I don't remember. We we're singing, and then we weren't. The darkness struck again, and this time hit us hard with liquor filth and stench.
Your stink, his drink.
We were 8 years old, we were still innocent, we were riding. Just riding, in the most innocent sense of the word. Bikes, or scooters, or rollerblades, or skateboards. I don't remember. We we're riding, and then we weren't. The darkness grabbed our wheels and lurched us onto the pavement 'till our skin ran red and he told us we were *****
His fault, our blood.
We were 9 years old, we still had bits of innocense, we were running. Just running, but not so innocent. On feet, we ran. I remember. We ran towards the sunset, quickly, but not quick enough. The darkness caught up to us, panting. Struck through us with quivering blades, and took away every drop of innocense left.
His addiction, our innocense.
We were 10 years old, we no longer had any innocense, we got away. A big man in blue took the crying darkness away, and stored him in a box made of cement and metal. Darkness said he'd see us when we were 18, thinking we loved him. Loved him through his addiction, because deep down there was light? And we were good girls, weren't we? We could see the light in him, right?
No light, Only darkness.
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 3:57 PM UTC
We went from “who loves orange soda?” to take a shot for me.
To waiting in lines at the DMV, from waiting in lines at the school dance like “bruh hold my spot for me”
From N64 controllers to leasing a Toyota Corolla
Dealing with these adult life problems we don’t have no control of
From pillow forts to the rents due
From action figures to hopes of six figures
From razor scooters to shaving with razors
From love letters to car notes
crazy right?
The only losses we worried about were argued through Rock Paper Scissors.
Now we worry about losing jobs, material things and on the news daily we lose our brothers and sisters.
The only pain we felt was scraping our knees on the concrete.
Now we scrape change tryna pay the bills hoping that our ends meet.
I wish I could go back, I close my eyez with my memories and feel gratification.
And the thing I miss most of all at that tender age is my imagination
I can’t believe I couldn’t wait to get big
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
blue scooters
false pride
blue house
bus rides
laughter, oh the laughter,
the smell of your fragile body worn out
fifty cents
screams
all of the whispering
broken chair
bullied blue faced
baby boy
brother
memory covered
in green paint
yellow paint
was it ******
was it ******
the end all be all
last breath
blanket
shame faced
who murderers
what a way to go
was it worth it
star trek
was it worth it
are you happy yet
did you do it
boy scout
noose knots
after thoughts
in the quiet streets
one last
prehistoric animal screech
ambulance tires
i was on the sidewalk
laughing, laughing
showing off
did we care
why am i sitting here
broken chair
broken boy
pants down
feet up
how did they find you
little brother
step father mother
swinging of you body
cold and white
kids who pushed you
wearing ties
cutting classes
all the third grade boys
looking up
confused
clenching souvenirs
blank permission slips
you genius
where are you now
insubordinate fool
you would have been our boss
you would have taken care of us
where are you now?
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 7:38 AM UTC