Cycling poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best cycling poems ever written. Read all poems about cycling.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
Why do we spend so much time in the gym,
Why is it that we feel we must keep slim,
On cycling, long hours we spend,
But, go nowhere, in the end,
Long and winding road
with patches and holes
The holes which sometimes
turned into small ponds,
By our place in the midst of the furthest seas we were fated to stand alone -
When the nations fly at each other's throats let Australia look to her own;
Let her spend her gold on the barren west, let her keep her men at home;
For the South must look to the South for strength in the storm that is to come.
Grey pigeon flutters on ledge of concrete.
Wonder, how it survives on urban streets.
Seen them flock in city squares as folks throw seeds.
Unlike hawks don’t swoop down and snatch with greed.
Driving along in her bread truck early one morn
With everything going exactly as norm
Margaret spied a lone wheel on the left trundling ahead
Turned to her brother, the newspaper he read
Drudging my way through narrow pavements of dusty roads,
cycling with all my friends,
I played hide and seek with them
in a joyous mood,
GO TO WORK ON A BRAQUE!
Youths disguised as stockbrokers
ULTIMATING IN ZEROING
Beautiful loch, autumn gold and amber trees clear crystal water. Cycling through the wooded paths the air is pure and crisp, warm sunshine shines through the oaks and elms glistening, wild flowers carpet the ground. With my beloved we embrace life and nature.
From Oban we take the ferry to Mull Island Scotland. Haversacks and panniers of clothing, summer cycling we see the sea hawk and a family of seals. Tobermory is in view houses of many colours, fishing boats and nets. Whiskey shops and tartan
blankets and kilts. We have sandwiches and drinks watching the world go by. Happy times.
Circles cycling frenetic spinning tops,
we all, it seems, just go round; trapped revolutions.
like the moon round the earth and the earth round the sun and everything round the spiral galaxy ad infinitum
Promote cycling; respect cyclists.
Make tracks for it on busy roads.
It makes no smoke and save petrol.
It promotes health. Practise cycling
The April rain-drops burst up
On my cornea.
While driving home
In my air conditioned car
Listening to music
I look out side
Although it's eleven at night, or thereabouts, a girl comes cycling
past. On her own, humming. On the outskirts of the village, in one
of those poorly lit streets.
Been out in the centre, of course.
With a friend that lives here, probably. All gone well.
And now she's cycling home in high spirits, to the
neighbouring small village a couple of kilometres further on, where
her parents will lovingly be waiting for her, dad a bit
sleepy. However, after being asked ‘How did it go?' she is able to
reply completely truthfully ‘Fine' (her boyfriend, son of a close
acquaintance of her father, it appeared, is already working) and
everyone then silently gets ready to go to bed (tomorrow indeed
another day), her head fills happily with loving thoughts that have to
do with procreation,
too many rather than too few.
In the distance light gleams: probably a farm.
A place then where people live.
Because even after sunset (before going to bed) mankind
happens to want to be busy with something and then also wishes to
carry out such actions as pleasantly as possible, it has invented
artificial light and
equipped its cosy little houses with it. If people drink something at
home in the evenings, a cup of coffee for example, they because of
the presence of this artificial light (that speck of light there in the
distance, surrounded by immense darkness) do not pour it onto their
clothes but where it belongs: into their mouths.
And they can now rightly make a remark that expresses their
satisfaction (something that people love doing because it has to do
with joy of living):
‘Nothing like a nice cup of coffee,' or something like that.
So now— when silence reigns upstairs,
demanding voices stilled in sleep
and dreams, when in this bare
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