the cool wind in my hair
as you and I glide across
the cement jungle.
You make my life tolerable
in this crazy urban landscape,
my trusty metal steed that
helps me duck and weave in
stand still traffic of the Nation's capital.
nothing like flying through the city on you, my bicycle,
on this beautiful spring day. I know you can't speak,
but if you could, you would also say "wheeeeee" with glee.
This is a portrait of abandoment:
rusty spokes, faulty breaks, and negligent owners.
(I'm still lying on the sidewalk too, waiting for a reason to shift gears.)
I don't know how to ride a bicycle
So you grabbed the bike and showed me how
But I didn't quite understand how you did it
So you let me ride it while holding the backside
I pedalled slowly at first, then gradually faster
Until the breeze hits my face and I've got smile on my lips
At last, I thought, I learned how to ride it
Then I looked behind and saw the view
You're not holding it anymore, you're faraway from me
I'm far from you, and you waved goodbye
So, I turned towards north and pedalled some more
At last, I thought, I learned how to ride the bicycle.
I didn't know how to ride a bicycle
But you taught me how, so I turned towards north, and pedalled some more.
PS I actually don't know how to ride a bicycle. Haha
This is my attempt to rationalize beauty.
A few years ago I saw a woman riding on a
green bicycle. I don’t know how to explain it,
but something clicked in me, and I was never
the same again, though the woman will never
know I exist, let alone that she’s affected my
life in so profound a way. All of my failed attempts
at novels, including the one I’m currently in the
process of disappointing myself with, have been called
The Woman on the Green Bicycle. I think of
her every day. I haven’t the slightest idea why.
I don’t try to invent stories for her, but appreciate
that one little image I have of her.
Mom was driving me home from school. The
Woman was crossing a busy intersection on her
green bicycle. “Do you see her, Mom?” I asked.
She didn’t understand. But I knew I had witnessed
an act of beauty.
the painful, unexpected blow
of the harsh truth
that you're fading out
of someone's life
like an old rusty bicycle
that's full of memories
from your childhood,
left alone, forgotten
in the attic
when you got a new one.
your life is evolving without me
a lot of expensive vehicles
a lonely broken bicycle.
i guess my world stopped
when you left,
and your world started
the second i am gone.