An Old Tyre (Fun Poem 79)
Someone had discarded an old tyre.
It was all battered and worn.
As I stared at it, I wondered
of what journeys it had been on.
How far had it gone,
and if it had seen
some interesting places on its travels around?
That old tyre discarded on the ground.
When I think of the travels
we make in our car each day,
I bet that old tyre would have a lot to say.
However, it is abandoned,
no use to anyone.
When I looked the next day and the tyre was gone.
Overnight it must have stood up
and rolled along on more travels I presume.
Therefore, this ends the tale of an old tyre,
which was discarded on the ground.
14 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Related quotes
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.
quote by by Edward Lear
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A Story In Everything
As writers we should see
a story in everything,
whether it be a dying twig,
or the birdies singing,
the bit of paper
carried along by the wind
or and old tyre discarded.
Everything has a story
of why, when and where,
and through our imaginations
we should recognise it there.
14 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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I Looked in a River
I looked in a river from a bridge I was on
The river and bridge both small yet so strong
The water so clear you could see river bed
Yet what I saw cast around made me feel sad
A concrete pylon about two meters long
An old sack and Iron Gate and a cycle half gone
Then a blue plastic bag and a tyre yet no wheel
A place in seems for discarded items people steal
It’s a shame a disgrace as this debris is strewn
As around it all river plants and reeds fight for room
Yet again it’s a puzzle as the waters so clear
That’s despite this mess on the riverbed here
Copyright © 2008 Ray Feasey
poem by Ray Feasey
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Psalm 87
The church the birth-place of the saints.
God in his earthly temple lays
Foundations for his heav'nly praise:
He likes the tents of Jacob well,
But still in Zion loves to dwell.
His mercy visits every house
That pay their night and morning vows;
But makes a more delightful stay
Where churches meet to praise and pray.
What glories were described of old!
What wonders are of Zion told!
Thou city of our God below,
Thy fame shall Tyre and Egypt know.
Egypt and Tyre, and Greek and Jew,
Shall there begin their lives anew;
Angels and men shall join to sing
The hill where living waters spring.
When God makes up his last account
Of natives in his holy mount,
'Twill be an honor to appear
As one new-born or nourished there!
poem by Isaac Watts
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Put Another Log on the Fire
Put another log on the fire.
Cook me up some bacon and some beans.
And go out to the car and change the tyre.
Wash my socks and sew my old blue jeans.
Come on, baby, you can fill my pipe,
And then go fetch my slippers.
And boil me up another pot of tea.
Then put another log on the fire, babe,
And come and tell me why you're leaving me.
Now don't I let you wash the car on Sunday?
Don't I warn you when you're gettin fat?
Ain't I a-gonna take you fishin' with me someday?
Well, a man can't love a woman more than that.
Ain't I always nice to your kid sister?
Don't I take her driving every night?
So, sit here at my feet 'cos I like you when you're sweet,
And you know it ain't feminine to fight.
So, put another log on the fire.
Cook me up some bacon and some beans.
Go out to the car and lift it up and change the tyre.
Wash my socks and sew my old blue jeans.
Come on, baby, you can fill my pipe,
And then go fetch my slippers.
And boil me up another pot of tea.
Then put another log on the fire, babe,
And come and tell me why you're leaving me.
song performed by by Tompall Glaser, music by Shel Silverstein from Wanted! The Outlaws (1976)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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How a Heartless Machine Can Feel?
No culture,
No compassion,
No one is with me when I fight for hunger,
No to understand and love,
When we are machines,
Simply machines,
Toys and puppets,
Playing with fate and destiny,
Heartless tiny creatures,
Thinking we are Lord of our own,
Where are my father and mother,
Where are my brothers,
Where are my sisters,
For this money printing machine,
Teller machine to wife and children,
Cook or servant to husband and kids,
Robot for my boss
where is my heart to feel,
When mind thinks of only deals,
Where is that
softness left?
When tyre has to roll on rough terrain,
Any time tyre may puncture or tube may rupture,
What machine can feel,
What heartless machine can feel?
How a machine produced,
In same factory, with different size and purpose,
Different shape and size,
Different manufacture date,
Machines without heart,
If heart is confined to only pump blood,
Know not,
father and mother,
How can call one another,
'Brothers and
sisters? '
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Sad And Empty
How long will you defend the unjust?
For the daughter of Tyre will come with a gift for you;
And your own people will be faters of your muse,
Because your father's home will be very sad and empty!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Little Fairy
I found a little fairy
someone had discarded on the ground.
I picked her up
put her in my pocket.
Never again will she be alone.
She can now sit on my desk
as she has found a new home.
If I have, any wishes
I hope she will grant them to me.
This little fairy I found
someone had discarded on the ground.
poem by David Harris
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The Tyre
Just how it came to rest where it rested,
miles out, miles from the last farmhouse even,
was a fair question. Dropped by hurricane
or aeroplane perhaps for some reason,
put down as a cairn or marker, then lost.
Tractor-size, six or seven feet across,
it was sloughed, unconscious, warm to the touch,
its gashed, rhinoceros, sea-lion skin
nursing a gallon of rain in its gut.
Lashed to the planet with grasses and roots,
it had to be cut. Stood up it was drunk
or slugged, wanted nothing more than to slump,
to spiral back to its circle of sleep,
dream another year in its nest of peat.
We bullied it over the moor, drove it,
pushed from the back or turned it from the side,
unspooling a thread in the shape and form
of its tread, in its length, and in its line,
rolled its weight through broken walls, felt the shock
when it met with stones, guided its sleepwalk
down to meadows, fields, onto level ground.
There and then we were one connected thing,
five of us, all hands steering a tall ship
or one hand fingering a coin or ring.
Once on the road it picked up pace, free-wheeled,
then moved up through the gears, and wouldn't give
to shoulder-charges, kicks; resisted force
until to tangle with it would have been
to test bone against engine or machine,
to be dragged in, broken, thrown out again
minus a limb. So we let the thing go,
leaning into the bends and corners,
balanced and centred, riding the camber,
carried away with its own momentum.
We pictured an incident up ahead:
life carved open, gardens in half, parted,
a man on a motorbike taken down,
a phone-box upended, children erased,
police and an ambulance in attendance,
scuff-marks and the smell of broken rubber,
the tyre itself embedded in a house
or lying in a gutter, playing dead.
But down in the village the tyre was gone,
and not just gone but unseen and unheard of,
not curled like a cat in the graveyard, not
cornered in the playground like a reptile,
or found and kept like a giant fossil.
Not there or anywhere. No trace. Thin air.
Being more in tune with the feel of things
than science and facts, we knew that the tyre
had travelled too fast for its size and mass,
and broken through some barrier of speed,
outrun the act of being driven, steered,
and at that moment gone beyond itself
towards some other sphere, and disappeared.
poem by Simon Armitage
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Soulless Man
Heart of a thousand broken pieces
like gravel or ground glass.
A billion microscopic splinters
that tear the flesh apart.
Intense internal bleeding
yet all beneath the snow
drowning, in fullness of own blood,
none of which will show.
Pain without expression
in the ruptured void below.
Like a tyre with a thousand punctures,
the air of feeling can never fill.
Intensity of emotions, capacity of receiving,
never again to know.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Kiss Is A Terrible Thing To Waste
If you listen, to the night
You can hear the darkness call
I can barely stand to wait
I can barely stand at all
Cmon closer to me now
Its like were sharing the same skin
We gotta get out of this jail
We gotta let the future in
So many things in your life
That your bound to regret
Why didnt I do that?
Why didnt I do this?
So many chances you lost
That youll never forget
Why didnt I make it?
Why didnt I take it right there?
The loneliest words youll ever know
If only-if only it was so
The emptiest words that therell ever be:
It could have been me. it could have been me
The loneliest words youll ever know
If only-if only it was so
The emptiest words that therell ever be:
It could have been me. it could have been me
Youll have to pay for it later
If you dont get it when its going for free
Believe me -! believe me -!
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
Its something thats always been so
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
And one of these nights
Youre gonna show me that you already know
Theres a feast waiting for you
And youve never even gotten a taste
Its later than you think and
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste!
You shouldnt tremble when we touch
Theres no reason for these fears
Its a promise that was made
Weve been promised this for years
I wanna show you it all
What to do and where and how!
Cause well never be as young as we are right now
Well never be as young as we are right now!
So many cries in the night
That you try to ignore
Why didnt I do this?
Why didnt I do that?
So many unanswered prayers
So many unopened doors
Why didnt I take it?
Why didnt I make it come true?
The loneliest words youll ever know:
If only - if only it was so
The emptiest words that therell ever be:
It could have been me
It could have been me
The loneliest words youll ever- know:
If only - if only it was so
The emptiest words that therell ever be:
It could have been me
It could have been me
Youll have to pay for it later:
If you dont get it when its going for free!
Believe me! believe me, believe me!
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
Its something that has always been so
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
And one of these nights
Im gonna show you that you already know...
Theres a feast waiting for you
And youve never even gotten a taste
Its later than, you think and
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste!
Theres a feast waiting for you
And youve never even gotten a taste
Its later than you think and
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste!
Tyre tracks and broken hearts
Thats all were leaving behind!
It doesnt matter what were losing
It only matters what were going to find!
Tyre tracks and broken hearts
Thats all were leaving behind!
It doesnt matter what were losing
It only matters what were going to find!
Tyre tracks and broken hearts
Thats all were leaving behind!
It doesnt matter what were losing
It only matters what were going to find!
Tyre tracks and broken hearts
Thats all were leaving behind!
It doesnt matter what were losing
It only matters what were going to find!
Theres a feast waiting for you
And youve never even gotten a taste
Its later than you think and
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
A kiss is a terrible thing to waste
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Traveller
Reply to Rudyard Kipling’s ‘He travels the fastest who travels alone.’
Who travels alone with his eye on the heights,
Though he laughs in the day time oft weeps on the nights;
For courage goes down at the set of the sun,
When the toil of the journey is all borne by one.
He speeds but to grief though full gaily he ride
Who travels alone without love at his side.
Who travels alone without lover of friend
But hurries from nothing, to naught at the end.
Though great be his winnings and high be his goal,
He is bankrupt in wisdom and beggared in soul.
Life’s one gift of value to him is denied
Who travels alone without love at his side.
It is easy enough in this world to make haste
If one live for that purpose – but think of the waste;
For life is a poem to leisurely read,
And the joy of the journey lies not in its speed.
Oh! vain his achievement and petty his pride
Who travels alone without love at his side.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Pericles: Great king, few love to hear the sins they love to act.
line from Pericles, Prince of Tyre, Act I, Scene 1, script by George Wilkins (1608)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Body And Soul
Through the Museum
I stroll, and see
Goblets fashioned in Arcady,
Spears from the Islands, and robes from Tyre—
Gew-gaws of pomp and of old desire.
On one of the walls
A looking glass
Catches my image as I pass.
Austerely from mirrored eyes, I see
The soul of the past look out at me.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Rape...
Empty roads
Just dust
Multiple tyre tracks
Upon a muddy infrastructure
Side roads
Going somewhere
A family
Another life
Credit card
Somefucker finance
Rape in law
Having a good time
Wish you where here
Doris & family
poem by Howlin' Dervish
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Up To Date And Ready To Go
It may not be the bearded man
who smiles at you and explodes.
It may not be the errant tyre
that slides on the icy roads.
It may not be the scaffolding plank
that bounces on your head.
It may not be pneumonia
that smothers you in bed.
It may not be the fever
that creeps through blood and vein.
Or the quiet worm in the sole of your foot
that climbs up to your brain.
It may be that the breath leaks out
in a mist of expiring pain
and nothing can make it turn about
and slide back in again.
Ready?
poem by Brian Taylor
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The Winners
("The Story of the Gadsbys")
What the moral? Who rides may read.
When the night is thick and the tracks are blind
A friend at a pinch is a friend, indeed,
But a fool to wait for the laggard behind.
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
White hands cling to the tightened rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heel,
Tenderest voices cry " Turn again!"
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel,
High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone--
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
One may fall but he falls by himself--
Falls by himself with himself to blame.
One may attain and to him is pelf--
Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest and travels alone.
Wherefore the more ye be helpen-.en and stayed,
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made--
His be the labour and yours be the spoil.
Win by his aid and the aid disown--
He travels the fastest who travels alone!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Helen of Tyre
What phantom is this that appears
Through the purple mist of the years,
Itself but a mist like these?
A woman of cloud and of fire;
It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,
The town in the midst of the seas.
O Tyre! in thy crowded streets
The phantom appears and retreats,
And the Israelites that sell
Thy lilies and lions of brass,
Look up as they see her pass,
And murmur "Jezebel!"
Then another phantom is seen
At her side, in a gray gabardine,
With beard that floats to his waist;
It is Simon Magus, the Seer;
He speaks, and she pauses to hear
The words he utters in haste.
He says: "From this evil fame,
From this life of sorrow and shame,
I will lift thee and make thee mine;
Thou hast been Queen Candace,
And Helen of Troy, and shalt be
The Intelligence Divine!"
Oh, sweet as the breath of morn,
To the fallen and forlorn
Are whispered words of praise;
For the famished heart believes
The falsehood that tempts and deceives,
And the promise that betrays.
So she follows from land to land
The wizard's beckoning hand,
As a leaf is blown by the gust,
Till she vanishes into night.
O reader, stoop down and write
With thy finger in the dust.
O town in the midst of the seas,
With thy rafts of cedar trees,
Thy merchandise and thy ships,
Thou, too, art become as naught,
A phantom, a shadow, a thought,
A name upon men's lips.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Last Stanzas of the Bush
WHERE is Australia, singer, do you know?
These sordid farms and joyless factories,
Mephitic mines and lanes of pallid woe?
Those ugly towns and cities such as these
With incense sick to all unworthy power,
And all old sin in full malignant flower?
No! to her bourn her children still are faring:
She is a temple that we are to build:
For her the ages have been long preparing:
She is a prophecy to be fulfilled!
All that we love in olden lands and lore
Was signal of her coming long ago!
Bacon foresaw her, Campanella, More,
And Plato’s eyes were with her star aglow!
Who toiled for Truth, whate’er their countries were,
Who fought for Liberty, they yearned for her!
No corsair’s gathering ground, nor tryst for schemers,
No chapman Carthage to a huckster Tyre,
She is the Eldorado of old dreamers,
The Sleeping Beauty of the world’s desire.
She is the scroll on which we are to write
Mythologies our own and epics new:
She is the port of our propitious flight
From Ur idolatrous and Pharaoh’s crew.
She is our own, unstained, if worthy we,
By dream, or god, or star we would not see:
Her crystal beams all but the eagle dazzle.
Her wind-wide ways none but the strong-winged sail:
She is Eutopia, she is Hy-Brasil,
The watchers on the tower of morning hail!
Yet she shall be as we, the Potter, mould:
Altar or tomb, as we aspire, despair:
What wine we bring shall she, the chalice, hold:
What word we write shall she, the script, declare:
Bandage our eyes, she shall be Memphis, Spain:
Barter our souls, she shall be Tyre again:
And if we pour on her the red oblation,
All o’er the world shall Asshur’s buzzards throng:
Love-lit, her Chaos shall become Creation:
And dewed with dream, her silence flower in song.
poem by Bernard O'Dowd
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Tyre
Me your tyre, roll and roll
thousands of miles
You tire
and I smile
My tire is my retire
(C) S.D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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