Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
the tricycle inches forward toward
the white house with white pillars.
Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
the alone-child pedals with all
his might up the incline, over
the cracked, broken sidewalk,
down the curb, bump. The alone-child
heaves his trike over the opposite
curb, plop. He straightens the wheels
and pedals faster. There at the end
of the block stands the white house
with its white pillars. The white
house is very quiet. Shh, it says
to him. He turns his trike around.
Shh, he says to it. The alone-child
turns his head and stares down
the alley - it is empty! He pedals
faster and the wheels squeak. Ha, Ha.
It doesn't matter. He can stop at his
telephone pole and check his trove.
Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
go faster. There are no bullies today.
Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
have fun! Childhood
Enthralling piece of work... your squeaky wheels poem is really amazing...
Had to return and read this poem again. I'm happy to report that it is as remarkable as it was yesterday and is just as shiny a read the tenth time as it is the first time!
This poem deserves to be displayed on the First page of Poem Hunter!
What a wonderful childhood image you have portrayed through this poem! I also remember your poem 'Washing the baby'.
It doesn't matter. He can stop at his telephone pole and check his trove. Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels, go faster. There are no bullies today. Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels, have fun! Childhood
Part 1/ We rarely remember childhood days, especially after the gap of time with this age for an eight-years-old child, but the transmission of these beautiful and rare images indicates the strength of the poet's poetic memory,
part 2/ well done you have used the words in their appropriate place, so now we can interpret the content of this beautiful poetry to nowadays reality after more Sixty years ago, this short trip on the bike at that time applied to all the trips that came after it, and this characteristic of life which is full of joys, bumps, fear and peace, keep writing poetry and stay blessed, Oh the good poet.. Regards 10/10
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How in the world did you submerge yourself in the mind and body a a child- - an alone-child- - to such a stunning degree? You put your reader in that child's skin, in his mind, and turned us loose on that trike with him and all of a sudden I was remembering my blue trike and the heat of the sun on my arms and spilling over and scraping my knee. That's not a pen you're holding, that's a magic wand. Now I see why they have that rating system because it's the only way to tell you how I feel about this- - I'm going down there and punch in 10 a thousand times
Susan, Your enthusiasm is wonderful! THAT'S NOT A PEN... THAT'S A MAGIC WAND. I really, really appreciate your sharing this view of my poetic performance. This is not an EGO THING. It's about belonging to a community of poetry and writing poetry worthy of the people in it. I say this sincerely - Poetry is my other self.