Tricycles poems on Hello Poetry

Sawyer Gowans Aug 2013

A while back I met a girl. No. I met “the girl”.
As the quote goes “To the world you may be one person but to one person you may be the world.” and that was it, she was my world.
Now before you go thinking that I’m just some love sick, idealistic, hopeless romantic teenager caught up in the beauty and wonder of his first love just think!
Actually don’t. Don’t think, don’t rationalize, don’t mull it over assuming and judging, just listen.
Because that is exactly what I am. I am a love sick, idealistic, hopeless romantic teenager.
I am head over heels for this girl. I am knees over elbows, I am elephants over tricycles!
She drove me crazy, actually I think I walked there all by myself but it was nice to finally have someone to share it with.
She was my friend and then she wasn’t my friend. She was more than my friend.
She was my friend, my teacher, my counselor, my idol, my source of instant joy in a world that had proven itself to be cruel and bitter at the worst of times.
She was that person that I could picture running down the streets in the pouring rain in shorts, a T-shirt and bright yellow gum boots handing out colourful umbrellas to people trying to stay dry. She was that one spark from a campfire that stayed brighter longer than all the others drifting up out of the flames into the dark sky
and just when you thought it was going to go out it joined the stars and became immortalized.
She was my love, my everything, my world.
And I didn’t love her for the big "look at me moments".
Its true what they say about loving someone for the little things.
I loved her for the whispered secrets and the quiet murmurs.
I loved her for the way she held my hand when I had to leave.
She had the softest grip but with all my strength I couldn’t break free.
I loved her for the way she looked at me when we danced around her kitchen in our socks laughing.
I loved her for the way she stood up on her tip toes making our kisses last just one second longer before our lips parted.
I loved her.
It didn't matter that I couldn't think when I was around her because her presence turned my brain to mush
because I was with her and that made everything else okay.

One day she stopped holding my hand when I had to go, we didn't dance in our socks anymore, she didn't stand on her tiptoes for kisses.
When she left me I told myself I would get over her and move on, that was over a year ago.
For a long time I wondered how I was going to live in a world where everything reminded me of her.
I tried to date other people and failed miserably when my thoughts were filled with pictures of her. I struggled, my love for her tore me apart.
Eventually I began to live again, functioning with an acceptance that I may never be over her.

Today I met a girl.
No. I met "the girl", the same girl, the girl I had met over two years ago and today, she's my friend and I am still elephants over tricycles for her.

Yen Apr 2017

Pearl of the Orient

Manila,
Manila,
Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys
and the hollers of the drivers as they say,
“Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!)
Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights
that surround every tree around the Meralco building
when September begins;
Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive
twenty-four by seven
where traffic enforcers dodge cars
and vans
trucks and tricycles
and jeepneys and bicycles
while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears
with a smile and a salute to all the drivers
from dawn to dusk;

The noise awakens the outskirts of your city
filled with people who never fails to smile
even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina,
where children watch the roads
transform into this ocean of black water
and small wooden boats become the means of transportation;
paddling in between houses
as the adults try to go to work;
where chickens waddling upon roofs
and cats chasing rats
become the best forms of entertainment

but Manila,
your lingering smell of cancer
comes with the dark blue starless sky
telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies.
Manila, say good night
while they hold it tight
protecting it from the dark humid air
where thieves come out to
thumb down unscrutinised objects
from shallow pockets
by the flickering lamps
across the blazing red and emerald green lights

you see less
and less
and less
faces
as the Sun sinks and says good bye.

Stop
and try to tranquilise yourself.

Your city is now lead
by a blood-thirsty leader.
Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people.
Manila,
ignore them
and sleep well.
Let the truth decay
while lives burn and vanish.
Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy.

Halcyon days are over
but

Manila,
you are still a beautiful city.
Your resilient people
overflows with hospitable hearts.
Their faces plastered with big smiles
as they welcome us for you
and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!)
proud and mighty.
Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits,
Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves,

The Pearl of the Orient Seas
was my hood.

Manila,
despite your lack of snow
and intense weather swings,
You are
and will always be
my home.

#home #city #neighborhood #pearl #philippines #hood #filipino #contrast #manila #nationalism

Lost in my Head Feb 15

Tricycle

Once we mature we forget about tricycles
Leave it to the less mature mind
A plaything for children
Maybe I should forget about tricycles
A remnant of the past I can’t forget
Holding to childlike fantasy
I don’t really think anyone likes tricycles
Cumbersome and slower than a bike
Not practical by any sense
When would we even use tricycles
Maybe a clown at a circus
A child down a hill before scraping its knee
Perhaps one day I’ll let go of tricycles
Hands off the handlebars arms held out
Riding a bicycle into oblivion

At least I’m self aware if nothing else, what more can ya ask for

#love #pain #letting #go #fantasy #hope

mike Feb 2015

bottles of ***

I sleep in a garage.
ten giant tricycles
standing on their backs
sleep next to me.
my bathroom is at sears.
or McDonalds.
or winn-dixie.
male prostitutes post shop
on the street corners
around here
"******* ****
for money
for crack"
as one such fellow
put it to a cop.
there's a blender
and a microwave
and plenty of bottles of ***.

Conor Wilson Oct 2012

The wheels are turning

Lots of people complain about being a third wheel
I somehow seem to end up as the fifth

It's not too bad being a third
Things like tricycles and Reliant Robins justify it

But I've never heard of anything with five wheels

Kylia Aug 2014

*Wonderful* school

Nursery
Blurred shapes, lines of
hazy memories.
Babbling and wailing and curiosity,
Why, why and whys, and kissing boys
And not caring how others
thought of you.
Bright-eyed smiles, hopeful

Kindergarten
Fun-filled days of
Tricycles and grass under my feet
And swinging and falling and
Getting up.
Of giggling and friends forever and
Most of all,
Innocence that know no bounds.

Primary
No more tolerating of
Un-done homework.
Punishments and ugly laughter
And friends who ditch you
No more chortles, guffaws,
Only eye bags and rumours
brought by knowledge.

Secondary
New chapter, new
Friends, new school,
new, new, new...
Balancing precariously on an
Angry horse,
Threatening to buck and
--send you careening--
over the edge...
What's new?

#memories #school #youth #hellofarollercoasteroflife #sacarsm

Sam Conrad Dec 2013

258 days, July

258 days,

July

I don't know what to say about July, love.
I was so awful to you.
There are things I don't remember about July.
I remember things I told you.
But I don't remember experiencing July.
I turned cold and numb and mean.
I kind of became that old man down the street that won't let the kids
Ride their tricycles down the sidewalk in front of his porch, keeps a gun inside the door.

I turned into such a ****.
And you were traumatized too. I don't know
Why I pretended that what happened in June didn't affect you
As much as it did me.
I guess it was because your parents ****** me

I'm so ******* sorry.
I wish I could take back every syllable I said. Every sound. Every word.
I hope you understand some day. Take all the time you want.
Take years.
Decades...
Chances are,
I'll still think you're beautiful when you're 70 and frail.
I promise, if you'd let me, I'll come back and date you like we're young again.
I love you that much.
That's a promise I'll keep.
I'll never make such broken promises
That I made to you throughout our relationship
Ever, the ****, again.

*July

ceilidh Sep 2013

beginning the middle.

we are children treated as adults
(or it could be vice versa)
with no direction,
no hopscotch grid leading to the next stage,
shaking hands in place of patty-cake,
our no longer sticky fingers
cling to paper bills and grasp at plastic and cloth and metal and stones,
almost believing they are what identifies us.
like new toys, we indulge
in touch and feel and romance,
and other drugs too,
to numb our collective fear of the future.
our first day jitters have transitioned to a paralyzing fear of our last days,
and our tricycles have lost their training wheels,
and we take responsibility,
we learn to care more,
to care less,
we find jobs and alcohol and credit cards but never ourselves,
and we grow up.

growing up is hecka scary.
here's to running from the future.

Meagan Berry Mar 2010

Please Don't Be Late

She tricycles down the road
Pigtails and streamers
Flying behind her.
Tiny legs pumping hard
Taking her to the end
Of the neighbor’s driveway
Before she collapses of
Pure exhaustion.
She paints a portrait of her family
That looks more like purple, blue
And red spiders with huge heads.
Everyone is there: Mom, Dad,
Lucas, and Spot.
She plays dress up with Mom’s
Black pumps and red
Lingerie and mauve
Lipstick pretending to be
Sixteen years old when finally
She is there and she realizes
That make up isn’t all its
Cracked up to be.

Emma Zanzibar Jun 2011

Rosella.

She was wearing a purple sweater
His red headphones were swinging around his neck.
I hadn't spoken to her in years.
All we had in common was preschool playgrounds and chalk handprints.
Teaching me how to roll my rrrrr's.
It was funny.
seeing her like that
under the arm of a boy.
It was a context which neither of us probably thought we would be in.
Before all we knew was floral dresses, tricycles and growing lima beans.
Look at us Rosella.

Joseph Childress Feb 2011

Free Wheel

This journal
Is on the journey
Of a young man
Learning to run
After his first steps

Tried tricycles
For quite some time
Now riding
Without training
Free wheeling
And still in motion
By cycles
Of
Trial and error

New skills
Compensate slips
When quick hands
Can’t stop
The falling

No hands
On down hills
Still kicking
Not quite standing
Moving
While sitting
Still with it
With every minute
I’m lifted

Handling
My direction
Handle bars
Hold the
Reflection
Mirrors on either side
Eye’s focused
Front and behind

In line
Like skates
Though grinding
Set’s off a sign
Brakes
Wearing thin
No stopping
In my lane
Flying like
Hydroplaning
Off wet roads

Uncontrolled

Fenix Flight Jun 2014

It's Been Five Years

It's been five years today
since you left my life.
To live in the great unknown

My big brother
My best friend
The person who knew
just how to make me laugh
when I was down in the blues

You were so full of life
Your heart so full of love
My memories of you
will never fade.

Running around like Psychos
in the Target store down town
Taking posters and sword fighting
riding on the tricycles.

Sleepovers at my dads
That the grown ups didn't know about
even though they were in the next room

confiding in you secrets
I had never told a soul.
Confiding in me the fear
you never let show.

But then you were ripped away
Taken from me to soon.

Its been five years
and the pain of losing you
has never gone away.

My Best friend Alex died from lung cancer five years ago today (6/9/09)
He was only 17 years old.
He left behind a girlfriend and a son.
(I am not that girlfriend and his son is not mine)

Soulace Apr 2017

Home Was/Home Is

I miss home.
Maybe it’s the feeling of quiet in the night, how the air seemingly stands still, the silent cricketing of… crickets singing their symphony of the night
Maybe it’s the gentle breeze that graces you through the hot endless summer of the tropics
Maybe it’s nothing more than the endless stream of tricycles drag racing down city streets.
Regardless I miss home.
This place is beautiful.
This place, with the massive stream of culture flowing from every part of the world
This place, with it’s beautiful, clean air, and tap water so clean you could drink directly from it
This place, with the promise of something better - a life full of opportunity
Honestly, this place is amazing. This place to one may seem like paradise.
I’m not one to disregard my blessings, and living here, it is one, but this place lacks one thing.
It lacks family.
This place, in all it’s beauty and it’s cultural mish mash, lacks all the people I wish I could explore it with.
This place, with all it’s opportunity and promises, lacks the people I wish could have a part of it.
This place, though bewildering, endless, and… different, lacks the people i wish to share it with.

Often my heart goes home.
Often my heart flutters off of my chest as I lay face up at night, and takes me to another life.
A life full of what ifs.
What if I didn’t leave.
What if things turned out differently
What if they came with us
What if. What if. What if.

My mind drifts into this hulking chasm, one which the end of it stretches farther than the echo in which I use, curiously trying to finding the end.
The friends I would have made. The bonds I would have connected, severed, connected, and perhaps severed again.
The lessons I would have learned. The mistakes, shortcomings, failures, and perhaps even the way I dealt with them. How different it would have been.
My hair style. My taste in music. Hell, even my skin color.

And as I lie in that bed I start to miss something. Something that was never mine in the first place. I start to miss that life that I never led, the path that has long closed itself to me.

I desperately want it, but desperately don’t. Caught in a cycle of would have been, should have been, never was, and never ever will be.

Nevertheless, though the memories were never made, the bonds that were meant to be are still there, and I’ll cherish them until the day both paths converge again.
I miss home.

#home #long #distance #missing #family

JJ Hutton Aug 2020

Corsican Blackcurrant

The morning, good; the morning, relentless—she tip-toes
out the front door in her ex-husband's brown patent leather shoes.
Outside. Walking again. On her own two feet but not in her own
two shoes. It's a Monday. It's an autumn. It's a neighborhood
with tricycles strewn in front lawns, with spent confetti in the
gutters, with Japanese trees, with Greek columns, with the reliable
sound of the working class commute in the distance. The shoes, four sizes too big, nearly slip as she half saunters, half staggers on
her way to the bakery on Bellevue. She's hungry for predetermined conversation, an exchange between a patron and a cashier. There's a young boy playing with a water hose. He waves enthusiastically. She matches it with a wave of her own as she passes by. The boy turns away, runs toward his home. She feels self-conscious and there's something in the pocket of her ex-husbands linen suit jacket, a bottle of cologne.

The door chimes as she walks into the bakery. The cashier says good morning before looking at her. The cashier's eyes quickly scan her and dart away. She's a child in her ex-husbands clothes. She orders a coffee. She asks for a Splenda packet. "I like my coffee like I like my women," she says. "Hot and artificially sweet." Pity laugh. Nervous laugh, maybe. It's not even her joke. He tells her the price. She hands him the money. Thank you. No, thank you.

She sits alone by a window. She's an alien doing normal people things. She's tired and whatever spark got her out the door may not get her home. A man seated at the table behind her sneezes once, twice, three times.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I think I'm allergic to your perfume."

"Me too," she says.

— The End —