Slipping and sliding, that's how she flies
Dodging the taxis, avoiding semis
Expert in the clinch, a move of her hip
Death so defied, a professional trip
Delivery assured, she's never been late
Vouchers and packets, she makes no mistakes
Gliding the white line, a perfect traverse
No greater her time, in this universe
She prefers her Schwinn, it's light and it's fast
Weaving a path, all traffic to pass
Don't try to catch her, she's over the moon
She ducks as she hums, singing her tune
No records to break, nothing to prove
Doing the freak, shooting the groove
Flying off to the left, a sexy sensual move
She does as she wants, all silky and smooth
Took it down a bicycle bend, based on seeing vids of delivery riders in NY, who did crazy things on a bike. :D
I recall inheriting my first bike.
Pink as a Maritime sunset, only more bright.
I remember replacing my sister's bike after two long years of back-n-forths -- two years of childish insults and character building -- as I choose to see it.
The thing was invincible -- rain or snow.
Save the rust, which had its way.
I missed that old bike for a time...
It was sentimental, as they say.
My next two broke down fast -- they were hardly comparable.
When I was able to buy my own, the excitement was unbearable.
What a beauty 14", titanium dirt jumper,
Canadian made Norco -- Red, it gleams.
Even to this day, twelve years downstream.
It's too bad it hasn't grown with me
Because I'm having trouble giving it away...
We've spent a short lifetime together
And I know I will rue the day
I forsake my childhood
Three hundred dollars
In its place.
Because this doesn't feel unlike
When the rust took away
My sister's bike.
This is a true story, I hope you enjoyed it.
I am up
Before the sun
The retreating night sky
Do not mistake me
For a morning person
I do not relish this
Nor do I mourn
It could be
Not without joy
Not without sacrifice
Without a word
It simply is
For a mind
At war with
Into the past
A ruthless place
A heckling pace
That tells you
Give no portage
For you cannot grasp
What the future holds
It is the only ride
I wrap myself
In its tight fabric
Clicking and clacking
As I order
as I pedal
A mind curious by step, sucking in streams of vitality
Grasping its journey..... Spirited by step
Oh, curiousity, spirit - placed before caution....
Stuck between one or the other, unmixed?
Only a singly misstep and its curiousty's mistake without prior consideration- you tumbled.
Rolled down, the wind knocked out of you!
Heaving, anxiety of dying......
Every single curious idea was lost in faultful recklessness
Enjoying the cool evening air
in the middle of May.
Walking my dog through the neighborhood,
enchanted by its bucolic setting--
Besotted with the scent of freshly cut grass,
and the drone from the lawnmower that renders it,
and the chatter of crickets far in the distance,
preparing for their evening performance,
and closer to me are the squawks and chirps of the birds
hunched in the brush and perched upon telephone wires.
Enamored with the sight of lush foliage,
scintillating at the utmost tier of the woods
where the golden haze of the shrinking afternoon sun
is still hopelessly chromantic in its fading vigor.
The clouds, dispersed like shreds of cloth
against a looming soft blue sky,
the color of the walls in my crib-room as an infant.
The affable hand-waves veiled behind translucent glass passing by
propelling fleeting smiles onward in the journey.
Though the atmosphere is dense,
its ambiance expounds a soft lull.
There's a hush over the six o'clock late afternoon day,
as the auriculariae settle gently aside my temples,
placating the rooted tendons wrapped tautly
in my grove of flesh and bone.
It suddenly becomes disturbed
by the creaking and squeaking of a rusty frame,
the slow groan of old worn tires treading across harsh gravel,
and the conductor of the indistinct cacophony himself:
A placid old man,
in his worn red and black plaid long sleeve shirt,
faded grey work trousers,
dingy black socks,
muddy crusty ragged off-white sneakers,
and an old camouflage military cap to top it all off.
His face, barely visible under the old cap
and the worn silent shroud of his visage,
holds dull dark eyes steadfast peering ahead,
off into the horizon,
with slackened skin the color of clay,
from afar having the countenance of subtle cracks in worn concrete.
The One Man Band rides atop his aged machination silently--
I hear no stressed breath or grunts,
but in passing--
a slow mechanical raise of the right hand,
a slight tip of the head,
and a soft whisper of a hello in greeting.
If I had blinked I would have missed it.
He slowly creaked and squeaked and groaned his way onward,
in his slow and steady rhythmic pace,
until he disappeared in the golden afternoon horizon.
I see him every morning and afternoon
as I drive in and out of the neighborhood--
I wave, always he in return with that slow mechanical gesture,
like an old theme park ride from the fifties.
It was the first time I had actually heard and felt his presence,
to see up close the picture of health and resilience that he is,
the Dorian Gray of bicyclists,
transferring his years of wear and tear onto his metal frame
and his balding rubber soles.
Every time I see him come round the bend now,
I still think of that aged Carousel with the rusty horses
and the song worn a semitone off-pitch,
or the "tranquil" boat ride with the languid mechanical dolls
with thick black eyes goggling eerily
and sallow arms waving infirmly--
but he will not erode as the horses, dolls, and his bicycle--
he will live on, and only he shall demarcate
the trash from the treasure.
Curls of clouds,
high above the songs of cardinals,
their red wings brush the air that chill my face
Upon the road that beckons forth the wheels,
they carry me through joy,
to places wide and free
From which my mind will abandon thought and then,
my heart does sing a melody of love,
with sun on my face and brow
they drive me forward in motion towards peaks and plains,
the landscape changes its mind, and my view
Riding there and back,
out beyond the limits of lights and lanes,
there lies tranquility on my bike
Setting out, Sun reflects his light through trees bare of leaves, their limbs cast shadows on the road, like veins made visible they lay across the land connecting everything…shift.
Ahead, eyes focused forward, the larger picture is laid before me, the details in the distance dance out of bounds, only becoming clear when they wish for me to know them…shift.
Standing tall, rising to heed the call of the climb, I feel my breath and hear the beat of my heart keeping time with the turning of my feet. Adversity rides with me, he questions my confidence and fortitude without seeing I have made it this far before…shift.
Flying, only downward rather than up. My legs quickly turn, refreshed from the release of tension. The howling in my ears mixed with the rush of speed assures me I am alive…shift.
The winds refuse to ease, and they remind me of their promise to make me stronger. My body is slow, but steady is the rhythm, and my acceptance of the challenge rewards me…shift.
Behind me now is all that has been achieved. Turning home, Sun warms my shoulders as birds dart from bush to branch, asking me to stay. Shadows grow long while lingering clouds disappear giving way to Moon, her face pale in the hours before twilight…shift.
Out here, I am offered perspective. Beautifully, nature eases the effort of riding through life, shifting gears.
We're in this together
At least for now that is
Too soon to say
When we will finally decide
To go our separate ways
Ebb and flow
As we traverse hallow ground
We make it look easy
Together yet apart
Fluid in symphony
Floating soap bubble
Waiting to erupt
Make no mistake
Should you falter
I will fly
You will hunt me down
Crush me for my
Swallow me whole
Embrace me in your fold
Act as though
It never happened
Click back in place
Smile disguised grimace