"tyre" poems
Damaged people are dangerous because they know how to survive,
And if you've never been damaged you don't know how it feels to be alive,
See struggle is the sauce that gives success its flavour,
when life kicked you down it was doing you a favour.
Cos it's in your darkest hour, not in prosperity
that you will realise your true ability.
Life dunks you in deep waters not to drown you but to cleanse you.
And that's just the beginning of what it will put you through.
But it's chiselling you down, you won't deflate.
It's not wearing you thin, it's getting you to your fighting weight.
Prosperity makes monsters, adversity makes men.
I believe when you reach the top life will yank you back down again.
You didn't break down, you just had a flat tyre
so get back up and relight that fire.
keep it burning and churning at the pit of your heart
and keep on learning and yearning and never fall apart.
Stare life in the eyes
and say "no matter how many times
my spirit won't break if my drive never dies"
So throw me a burden I won't lose my composure,
It's for this very reason that life gave me shoulders.
Get better not bitter
This weather will wither
I'll turn wounds into wisdom
sadness into spirit
tears to tenacity
I will never quit it
Take a deep breath and concentrate your stare
because a road with no obstacles never took you anywhere.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:40 AM UTC
*Bad attitude is like a flat Tyre
It will leave you stranded*
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
The boy sat beneath the grey gum,
listening to the magpie crooning,
somewhere far above his head.
He watched as the figure approached,
an old man stumbling down a dirt track.
"Yer back than." said the boy, standing.
"Yeah." Replied the man, "I'm back."
The boy sat down again "Yer staying?"
"I should never have left you,
I realise that now." The man replied.
"Was it fun where you went?" asked the boy,
"No, it was miserable." said the man,
"It could never be fun without you.
Have you been to the tree house lately?"
"Not since you left," said the boy.
"I've just been sitting here waiting,
for you to take me to the carnival,
where we could eat candy floss
and hot dogs to our bellies ached."
"I should have taken you with me,
I've missed the carnivals and candy floss."
The man said his eyes filling with tears.
"Is the tyre still hanging over the water hole?"
"Of cause it is," said the boy, "you want to go there?"
"Oh yes!" Cried the man "I want to go there.
More than anything I want to go there!"
The boy stood up and took his hand,
and together they walked across the pond.
03/03/2010
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 1:49 AM UTC
Out on the road in the middle of the night,
I made my way with no one in sight.
Hugging all the tight corners and vrooming on the straights,
Burning tyre rubber at alarming rates.
Little did I know at that hour along the next turn,
There'd be another person.
With the wind in her hair and one of the most lovely face,
She rode her little pink vespa with amazing grace.
I happened to have crossed paths with her in a traffic rule breaking fashion,
A move I made with deadly precision.
Instantly she uttered that lovely swear word with a sweet loud tone,
******* she said, raising her middle finger alone.
Wrong I was and would've apologized if I could stop,
But in a hurry I was and a high speed it all to top.
Late that night, those stream of events ran through my head,
I pondered on it as I lay in bed.
Swear words! Instantly blurted in the spur of the moment,
Yet originating from the heart's deepest cavity and vent.
Pure to the core,
No hidden meaning they store.
Swear words may have been considered in appropriate and shunned in the world,
Yet they convey what a person feels most appropriately when they are hurled.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
*The Sound of delight as the truck tyre rolls on the silent gravel
The clamorous sound of a Child torrents, and marks the race to calls heard by the 'siren devil'
Dusty feet running with cries of others who can't afford that red ice drenched in syrup
Ouma stunning, as a child dampens her tunic with red eyes pressed to see them
Hand reaches in my pocket coined with the Old
Man, I'm missing those times with no dockets for stealing a coin from the Old.*
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.
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These streets are postcards.
Moments of my youth,
My loves.
Each park bench enveloped within,
Licked and pressed to
My forehead.
Return me to those times.
I want my streets back. My memories
Present and my friends
Still readied for me.
Pour moi.
Pour me another drink
Whilst I forget the ones I had.
Red wine has long since replaced
My blood,
My skin; gone stale.
The streets press in on
My chest.
I can’t breath for the dizzy memoirs,
Yowling at the moon in
My brain.
The simple sway of a tyre swing,
You and I,
The chains.
The simple fog of your ice machine,
You and I,
The cider.
The simplicity of you and me,
You and me,
The years.
These streets are ghost ships now.
Bounty once abound, now gutted.
Do not tease me with your platitudes
Oh town,
And just let me be on my way.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
A walk down the road,
Sand in my slippers,
With broken straps,
Life just raps!
Borrow a cycle,
Ride it fast,
With punctured tyre,
Life's a satire!
Neighborhood fights,
Matches every night,
Scoreline's tight,
Life is so bright!
Steal a pen,
For the next day examination,
Cheat a bit,
Life is sometimes ****
Curse Mommy's food,
Don't know what to do,
Anyways have to eat,
Life is so sweet!
Whistling I roam,
On the ***** roads,
Drool over the dimple,
Life is so simple!
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
did you, even now, hope
to shut your eyes to so huge a crime,
my treacherous one, to think you could
stilly withdraw from my kingdom?
did our love not once hold you?
our ardent vows? or even I, Dido,
preparing to succumb barbaric death?
how could you, callous you!,
take wing to prepare your fleet in winter
—i’m sure to run aground—
when Boreas thrashes against the heavens?
but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil
or incited to father a distant nation,
if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war,
would you keep piercing the
wave-washed oceans in your armada?
why do you elude me; is it
because i have acceded irreality?
am i worthless, now?—i implore you!
by these tears, and your troth,
by our wedding vows, and this oath
before ***** we began:
if i deserve anything good from you,
or if you think, i was good enough
for you; pity this household
decaying before us! it was once yours, too.
and if my prayers are still yours,
gut them from my mind!
for now the Libyans and Numidians
hate me! dear Tyre is virulent!
as my honour and once-righteous
stature has vanished, just as i was
about to touch my constellated infamy.
for what destiny, my foreign one,
do you set me aside; ever-knowing
my imminent death?
seeing that only your name endures
from this union, why do i bother to keep living?
am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion,
to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a
Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine?
if only you gave me a son,
a little Æneas to play in my courts,
a boy to remind me of you;
only then, perhaps,
would i not be so utterly
violated, and
consumed.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Ben stands deliberately imposing,
his arms crossed and his stern face
reminding us all we’re x minutes late.
We are each a cell.
Circulating the city’s veins
by foot, tyre and train.
The city doesn’t die, but it does grow old.
And when its veins tire from carrying its load
necessary roadworks interrupt its flow;
Like open wounds. Each yellow hardhat
a fingernail on the invisible hand
of an omnipotent surgeon.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
Bursted tyre, alone,
She tasted 'highway despair',
Lift offer, uplifts!
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 4:19 PM UTC
Morning dew, morning sun
Looking out on the morning run
Past 'Byers Keep' ’n' fields of wheat
'Shurlock row', 'Glebe farm'
Watch out little squirrel I mean you no harm
Sound of rubber coming from the tyre
Past the ducks, the stream, field ’n' 'Blantyre'
Beads of sweat on my forehead
I look up and smile
At one with nature, leaving a busy world for a while
Aug 15, 2023
Aug 15, 2023 at 6:15 AM UTC
If the Scots
get independence
will we get better ****
I'd vote for that.
Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ...
hospitals, schools, fish,
whisky, natural energy
blah blah
The good folk in Scotland
have been drip-fed the
worst **** in history:
coated in chemicals
bath rinsed
molasses
spare car tyre
plastic
flotsam
***
seriously
No wonder -
Bammed (right up)
Givin it
Havin it
Lovin it
is why
bands & DJs
Love to Play:
'up for it'
'Hey MoJo's
share some of
that MTV love'
anything that's called
Council Hash
and accepted as the norm
reeks of class politics;
ah they won't mind
the **** end o that
they're the Scots
The Scottish Government
should embrace
a new Scotland
and the people in it
We want lots of things:
one of which is
better ****
Crime will drop:
- sniffing car tyres for a hit
- sales of Buckfast
will fund the entire
South East of England.
Scotland could lead the world
in upcycling as
Rizla fails to meet demand.
Our days would be so radically different;
auto flexi time
carbon neutral
trams with comfy seats
systematically
mathematically
go faster
than walking:
a mode of choice
I'd vote for that
...
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
foam floral caps, work of wet hydrangea,
or pulse of caucasian lilacs in a sky-relieved frieze.
cambric pennons swag reconsidering
margins of wimpling burn,
wherein the stars…twiring stars,
the declining stars, moon and planets
turned--
purchase light with morning-hands:
green-bedizened;
amber trammeling bud.
absolve qualm suffusing tyre,
violet’s violent leniency--
and feel, o’bask! in velvet
flume of veins,
as beams of conspiracy raise
to post and lintel,
crutching a young god’s legs--
and feel, o’supplicate! bathe in
day’s anatomies,
til greave deposit in lacunary sleeves,
and a genuflecting sun bow eternally--
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
Our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy, had six pups and despite the grey on her muzzle, produced enough milk for them all. She would take her bowl to the sink when thirsty, tinned-meat to the can-opener when hungry. When tired, she would sprawl out on a rug before the coal fire, on occasion, licking her master’s feet before falling asleep.
Sometimes, I would rest my head upon her chest, listening to her breathing. In her dreams she would sometimes yelp softly and I would soothe her nightmares away by stroking her sleek black coat.
In our garden, during the pleasant sunshine of a warm afternoon, we used to play together. Throwing a tennis ball that she would chase then fetch back and drop in my waiting hands for me to throw again. This was by far, her favourite game.
Some considered that she ran out in front of the School Teacher’s speeding car deliberately. “Because of her age,” they said, and “her inability to cope with the pups, only just turned two weeks old,” — that my mother reared, against all predictions.
I never accepted this nonsense. At the time, such a thing never crossed my mind as I looked at her, sprawled across the roadside verge. Her eyes were open, but through my tears I could see they were sightless. I also saw the muddy tyre-print across her unmoving ribs and how her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. I could not help my crying, but I felt no shame: none at all.
The sad regret I saw in the School Teacher’s red-rimmed eyes did nothing to ease my pain. If anything, her sorrow made me feel even worse. I felt guilty because I wanted to hate her. Perhaps I did hate her! I can barely remember now. With the passage of time the pain and the hate, if indeed there was any hate, has faded.
Whenever I pass our old house, where Moss is buried in the garden in which she played, I recall our times together and give her good thoughts. For good thoughts are all that I have for our faithful black Labrador, who was an old lady when I was just a boy.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
Right.
So I did my ankle in on Friday.
****
Thought I'd see how I was to drive by nipping to work and back.
Ok. So far so good.
The tyre pops.
****
But I get there.
Ok - it's cool - change the tyre:
Spare wheel? Check
Jack? Check
Security socket? Check
Tyre iron? No.
No?!
****
So.
Now stranded outside work with a buggered ankle, a popped tyre and without a very important tool to change the wheel.
And for some reason nobody else seems to keep that vital piece of equipment in their boot either.
****
Anyway.
As Lady Luck would have it (in her mysterious way), a chance encounter ended with a lift home.
WOOHOOO!
I will return tomorrow fully prepared.
With luck I won't get a ticket sitting on a double yellow all night.
Hold on.
Luck?
Luck?!
What?!
Dear Lady Luck,
Make up your mind.
Please.
Yours,
Joe Haydon
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
it is baffling that after
a series of unfortunate/emotional/fulfilling events that
someone would ask to use
one word to describe how
you feel
the day was.
my teacher once told me to
cut down on my sentences because
apparently ‘shut up!’ was more
effective than ‘shut up you are
very noisy and disturbing me.’
"but," i protested, "i am a long-distance runner.
my periods end far past the 400m mark.
besides my ‘and’s are your punctuation equivalent and
my full stop your ‘the end’ because i
can’t stop won’t stop not when my chest
is so full of air and lead and
pounds like a mad man locked up
not when there are tyre marks and red lights be ******
not when dots and curves and dashes feel like moving day
as though you can pack feelings into neat spaces.”
how i feel
my day is
is not an entity to fulfill your collection of
singular adjectives because no
one word explains the comfort of a
dear friend in a day with
too many questions and far too few answers
because the dictionary cannot match being sad and angry
for being sad and annoyed for being angry for being sad.
so know that when i say ‘good’ or ‘bad’ or even ‘reflective’
they are poor substitutes for all the
nouns and prepositions i force back down.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
Once
on the red tyre swing
we swung
in our red tyre dreams
we sung
songs of red
then we began to swing and swang and swung
till the tired red sun shone
throughout the world of a red tired toddler’s mind
the redness spread with tired red hands
and consumed every inch of our tired red skin
and there
under the red tyre swing we sat
swimming in the muggy air
breathing
inhalations and expectations of teens
waiting for a life of red faced busy faced love traced excitement
and then
we sat under that red tyre swing
an old couple looking out
our fond red tinted memories of tyre swinging joy
on the red tyre swing with our red tired limbs
and gray tinted minds with hair that once shone
with joy and laughter
and now here we lie under the red tyre swing
with the same tired red sun
tracing across the skin
with grey skin hair
and eyes
and we close them looking skyward past our red tyre swing
into the red eyelids that are all that remain
of our youth
the only unaffected view
for a couple of youngsters
aching to ride our red tyre swing into the red layered sky
at the sunset of our lives.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
*I don't want to sell,
anymore...
I wish not to have sold at all.
Religion is useless...
Spiky-Hats, pointy-things, death.*
*I am not a salesman,
for Death.*
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
There was a Young Lady of Tyre,
Who swept the loud chords of a lyre;
At the sound of each sweep
She enraptured the deep,
And enchanted the city of Tyre.
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I find solace in the melody of the bamboo.
Awaiting the chorus of sunlight
ripping through the canopy
onto the dry leaf strewn clearing caked by the broil of the maker.
All the while a few rebels dance in a cyclone
adding value in their non-conformity to an almost perfect landscape,
a landscape only blemished by tyre tracks, a harsh reminder of the hands of humans in every facet, crevice, orifice, every jar of this earth.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Be not thou silent now at length
O God hold not thy peace,
Sit not thou still O God of strength
We cry and do not cease.
For lo thy furious foes now *swell
And *storm outrageously, *Jehemajun.
And they that hate thee proud and fill
Exalt their heads full hie.
Against thy people they *contrive *Jagnarimu.
*Their Plots and Counsels deep, *Sod.
*Them to ensnare they chiefly strive *Jithjagnatsu gnal.
*Whom thou dost hide and keep. *Tsephuneca.
Come let us cut them off say they,
Till they no Nation be
That Israels name for ever may
Be lost in memory.
For they consult *with all their might, *Lev jachdau.
And all as one in mind
Themselves against thee they unite
And in firm union bind.
The tents of Edom, and the brood
Of scornful Ishmael,
Moab, with them of Hagars blood
That in the Desart dwell,
Gebal and Ammon there conspire,
And hateful Amalec,
The Philistims, and they of Tyre
Whose bounds the sea doth check.
With them great Asshur also bands
And doth confirm the knot,
All these have lent their armed hands
To aid the Sons of Lot.
Do to them as to Midian bold
That wasted all the Coast.
To Sisera, and as is told
Thou didst to Jabins hoast,
When at the brook of Kishon old
They were repulst and slain,
At Endor quite cut off, and rowl’d
As dung upon the plain.
As Zeb and Oreb evil sped
So let their Princes speed
As Zeba, and Zalmunna bled
So let their Princes bleed.
For they amidst their pride have said
By right now shall we seize
Gods houses, and will now invade
*Their stately Palaces. *Neoth Elohim bears both.
My God, oh make them as a wheel
No quiet let them find,
Giddy and restless let them reel
Like stubble from the wind.
As when an aged wood takes fire
Which on a sudden straies,
The greedy flame runs hier and hier
Till all the mountains blaze,
So with thy whirlwind them pursue,
And with thy tempest chase;
*And till they *yield thee honour due, *They seek thy
Lord fill with shame their face. Name. Heb.
Asham’d and troubl’d let them be,
Troubl’d and sham’d for ever,
Ever confounded, and so die
With shame, and scape it never.
Then shall they know that thou whose name
Jehova is alone,
Art the most high, and thou the same
O’re all the earth art one.
1.4k
The Knackers-Yard nursing home, rotted and bleak
Where the occupants dribble and seldomly speak
And the medicine is strong while the coffee too weak
Where there's never a care a fuss
There's a trip to the bingo on regular days
And they visit the beaches, the rivers and bays
For the brick-a-brack stalls and the knitting displays
In a rusty mobility bus
Prunella, the wagon of elderly types
With a blanket for every lap
She's a trusty machine of a hideous green
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap
One morning in May when the weather was grim
Miss Margaret Maywither went on a whim
To converse with the orderly, Terrible Tim
And they sat there and shot at the breeze
They nattered and gabbed a selection paces
And tried to put names to familiar faces
But Maggie with plans to discover new places
Relieved the young man of his keys
Prunella, the stolen mobility bus
Where the wings of bingo flap
With a window down and a dressing gown
She's Queen of the Watford Gap
She took to the road with a skeleton crew
Some heart-attack red or a worrying blue
And frequently stopping when tablets were due
They made for a hasty escape
With a foot to the floor and a screaching of tyres
A stopping of traffic and starting of fires
Such fun can be had when a lady retires
In a bus held together with tape
Prunella, the choice of the senior crowd
Each wrinkled lass or chap
There's a lift for the crips and titanium hips
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap
The police gave a chase at a sensible speed
As the Prunella and Margaret rapidly flee'd
When escape is impossible, each one agreed
They would rather be dead than be caught
With a tug of the wheel and a rattle of teeth
With a serpent of tyre smoke writhing beneath
It was probably too late to order a wreath
And the chance of survival was nought
Prunella, on fire and twisted apart
A smouldering pile of scrap
With the wreckage and grease of a dozen police
She's Queen of the Watford Gap
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC