Wake up!
Gotta ride!
Stretch Piriformis
Crawl out of bed
My God my hair!
Cold water in the face!
I can do this, I’ve done it before
One egg fried,
One piece of toast,
One bowl of granola,
One cup of courage w/ cream and brown sugar.
Do something with that hair!
Drink more liquids
I’m awake now,
walk out into the heat
It’s 8am and 75 degrees already
Go back in and fill an extra bottle
Got my Fig Newton’s
Got my Shot Blocks
Got my senses
Air up, 110 in front, 120 in back
Check brakes
Do I freewheel?
I need to clean this ride someday
What time is it?
I gotta **** again
You ready to go Dude?
Helmet on,
Gloves and glasses
Let’s go!
Ride “rollers” for the first 15 miles or so then…
Hit the hill from hell
Drink all your water now, you won’t be able to once you start climbing.
6-8 % grade  
Cat 2-3
Only a few miles long, but seems like forever
It’s like standing still
2-3 miles and hour grind
Gotta stand up now and then, my Piriformis are killing me
So steep you pop little wheelies with every stroke if you sit too far back on the bike
hands sweating through the gloves making it hard to hold on to the hoods
Grip the shifters so tight your hands get just as tired as your legs
Up and out of the saddle now,
rocking the hill, and dancing on the pedals
Glad to see false tops
Catch a breath or two
Hairpin curves so sharp I can see myself coming and going
No “circle back" rule on this hill.
Car passing by asks, “You fixin' to climb 'at dare hill?'”
Cows look at me as if I am crazy
Your mind says no
Your body says no
You say yes…. It’s just one stroke after another
90 degree heat now.
Thank God for the shade
Nothing you do after this will be as hard
But this is harder than anything you've ever done
Your body will remember what happens today
You are in oxygen deprivation the whole hill
You can't talk
You take breaths so big that your you hear your ribs creak and find their place.
You can't take your hands off the handlebar
You can't stop, you'll go down
If you stop you have to go back down to get clipped in to come back up
Your sunglasses are fogging up from the heat
You stop thinking about everything, except how to get up this hill
And then it hits you….. I am going to do this!
I am going to climb this ******* hill!
There is the top!
****, I am going to do this!

And for awhile, just as you come over the summit,
You imagine you're
wearing a polka dotted jersey,
and pretty French girls are handing you flowers,
and a cute stuffed animal,
and are kissing you on the cheek.

Then you ride the other 15 or so miles home,
take a shower, eat a bowl of pasta.
And go to work at the mall selling bicycles
to customers who have no idea
that you just gracefully climbed
a Cat 2-3 hill
in 90 degree heat,
at 61 years old


*http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/fullscreen/246751753/

I watched her for a while,
the lady with a babe in her arms.
With tender care she brushed back its hair,
and sweetly smiled into its face.
Gleaming eyes gaze into her past,
when she was whole.....
when she was a Mother.
But now in her last days,
her death days,
scooting slippered,
wheelchair feet
down forgotten halls,
lovingly holding her babe in a pink blanket.
Occasional drool drips on its plastic forehead,
crystalline blue eyes look into green glass,
searching for some signs of life.

I
Winter's fog swirling,
settling gently on the peak.
Should I,
or should I not charge the beast?
Oh, but to climb,
that serpentine road
through this thick mystical Merlinesque brume.

II
I abandon all reasoning
and don my armor
to do battle with the slithering Wyvern,
"The Pinnacle".
My silver Steed awaits me.
And in almost Ninja attire,
helmet placed,
cleats clicked and locked into pedals,
I am one with my ride.

III
Mist now's upon me.
Mist and bone cold.
I trek upward to the proving ground.
Drifting,
as always,  into a trance,
a meditation,
ignoring pain as a pugilist.
Shut up legs, I say.
Shut up and give me one more day.
Prompt me not  
that I am the aged Warrior,
for with every cadence I am reminded
of my fleeting days.

IV
I crawl upon the spine of the dragon,
out of my saddle and with the fullness of might,
break loose from the fetters of the mundane,
habitual world below these clouds.

V
Mist to rain,
rain to ice.
Diamond hard shards of sleet
bounce off my helmet,
peppering this snaking path towards heaven.
Crystalline obstacles
  to navigate on my surly descent.

VI
I have owned this battle before you know?
Many times past.
But like a moment,
it can't be possessed.
Still this right of passage I must pursue
over and over and over
til I am no more
and my steed has been pawned.

VII
So quiet now
high above the clouds,
so alone,
so away from the world.
What solace.
Oh, to die here.
To fall and lay, looking up at these leafless trees,
on this gray Winter's day.
And to witness my last peacefilled thought.

VIII
But not today.
No, not today
for I am near the precipice.
I step up the pace and route the enemy
and laugh in deaths face.
One more stroke, and I gut the beast.
One more turn and I am exultant.
Oh Rapture,
Oh Felicity.

I could see all neith the flowing dress she wore,
though the moon played its tricks on my eyes that night.
Curled red hair flowing like waves upon the shore,
yet could not hide her fairie wings from my sight.
All night I lay with her on the woodland floor.
We laughed and loved, though she was gone come daylight.
And each night since I've gone to the wood to find,
naught but a fairie ring did she leave behind.



*Ottava Rima:  Italian stanza form composed of eight 11-syllable lines, rhyming abababcc. It originated in the late 13th and early 14th centuries and was developed by Tuscan poets for religious verse and drama and in troubadour songs.

Afterglow
Lover's blush
Passionate blood rush
Insuppressible incandescence on skin
Blossom

Tommy accepted Jesus
the day he turned twenty-two.
When you're raised neath the cloth,
that's just what you're suppose to do.

Down at the river
they washed away his sins,
gave him a new start on life
so he could begin again.

With a bible and a rifle
he took his "righteous" stand,
gunned down 50 "sinners",
who weren't in his God's plan.

Then he took his own life,
thinkin' heaven's waitin' for him in the blue,
but just because you believe in somethin'
doesn't always make it true.
*
Ahmad prayed to Allah
5 times every day.
A faithful boy of Islam,
then his heart began to stray.

Isis gave him food and shelter
if he would join the fight,
gave him a shroud to wear
that was black as the night.

With the promise of the virgins
fixed in his brain,
he pressed the cellphone button
and let the terror reign,

somewhere in the Koran
he believed Allah told him what to do,
but just because you believe in somethin',
doesn't always make it true.

We're all raised
in different lands,
with different holy books
in our hands.

Brainwashed to believe,
we never truly think it through,
just because you believe in somethin',
doesn't always make it true.

Won’t you tell us Miss Minnie,
Miss Minnie Green,
tell us where have you been to,
and the places you seen?

For the clock on the wall,
says it’s time to go.
Won’t you stay with us Minnie,
stay with us Minnie,
Minnie Green we’ll miss you so.

Are you goin’ to Georgia,
to see your family.
or to Cumberland Gap.
here in ol’ Tennessee.

You will always have a place,
in our hearts don’t you know?
So stay with us Minnie,
stay with us Minnie,
Minnie Green we’ll miss you so.

Now they say that parting,
is sorrow that’s sweet,
but without you
our day’s incomplete.

Fare thee well Miss Minnie,
Miss Minnie Green.
you are a friend indeed,
for this friend in need.

And when ‘ere we forget
what true friendship means.
We'll remember you Minnie
think of you Minnie,
think of you Miss Minnie green.

Their eyes meet, for the first time.
Eons of memories flash.
Ancient keys open past love and lust.
How now, why now?
Star crossed? Chance meeting?
Fates in play?
Broken hearts so in need of mending?
Then the awkwardness.
When she looks at me, who does she see?
Am I what he'd imagined?
More, or less?
And then, an embrace.
Finally, flesh upon flesh and another key unlocks a door.
Her scent, his scent,
small talk to lubricate the moment.
Unaware, she looks for a sign,
a subtle grin or tilt of the head,
a gesture, or a reaction.
He waits for the moment, the space in the nervous conversation to steal a kiss.
A kiss that will change everything.
A kiss that says, I love you, you are wonderful.
You are more than I could ever have imagined.
And then it happens, in the kiss,
the hormonal attraction, the innate key to the next door.
He takes her in with a breath, and the sanity begins.
It is as if they've plugged into each other, completing an electrical circuit.
Sparks fly, traveling down her body.
Here and now in this dream-state
one looses all reasoning,
decisions are not made.
Plans are not executed.
Outcomes are abandoned.
Do you want to go somewhere, so we can be alone?
You don't remember answering yes.
Holding hands,
pure adrenaline takes you up the stairs to a new room,
with new keys..............

'Tis darkest midnight of the year,
fire blazing in her eyes.
She dances 'round and 'round the womb,
of Spring's hope, of nature's prize.

Her sunset hair and wind rose skin,
enchant, affix, my gaze.
Naked she moves, as floating leaf,
veiled by moon and blaze.

She dances for the Springtime,
to wash away the mire,
calling me to take her,
join her in the fire.

'Tis the darkest midnight of the year,
hearts find their hidden mirth,
and dance as one, well in the trance,
of life, and love of earth.

A
tree
fell on
the roof
of my truck
early last Spring.
Put there by a tornado,
a very very powerful thing.
I am glad it landed on my truck,
I am so glad it landed smack dab there.
It had 480, 692 miles on the old odometer,
the engine was so tired and all the seats threadbare.
You’d think I would be mourning it's unplanned passing,
but when the Insurance man came with a 3,300 dollar check,
although I knew my demolished truck was only worth 700 bucks,
I took it
and said
what the
heck !!!!!

You'll know who I am,
I'll be wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt, Lucky Jeans.
I am 6'-2", 205lb slim build, with light brown hair.
At a distance you see me and think, this guy can't be 61,
but as you get closer the lines begin to show.
I give you a hug that says thank you for being a friend and it is all OK now.
It may be a bit awkward at first,
but being a master of making small talk I make us feel at home.
There is gray and silver, entwined amid the subtle hints that I am from a totally different era.
I am like a time traveler.
I flit from topic to topic, and you strain to understand me.
You think this guy is either high, or he's..... High.
I'll talk incessantly about me until I realize that I am doing so,
then I'll shift it on you.
I'll watch as the poetess weaves her words like sandalwood incense curling through the air.
She'll take me on her rides and rhymes, reading to me her latest poems.
Time will fly as it has never done before.
I never wear a watch, so I'll fumble with my phone to see what time it is.
Closing time.
****, and I was just getting to know you.
But wait it is Friday.  No, work tomorrow...........

*.......as the last of the Spring rain falls, two old bikes lean against the bricks of the old pub.

Oh Satan's
vexing, gypsy moth.
Icarus
of the lamp.
Torched, foul, smoldering ember.
Aye, the jokes on you.

Good riddance
netherworld gadfly,
dust covered
moon splashed wings,
who flitted too close the sun.
I shall miss the not.

What of thy
onlooking brother?
Is he not
the bright one,
bathing in incandescent
blissful ignorance?

Though he be
but Nature's Dastard,
he'll bask the morrow,
whilst thy apparition flies
to hell, whence ye came.


*While enjoying a beautiful Summer night, I was attacked by a squadron of moths and millers.  The zealous, daring, but stupid one, flew too close to a lamp and got fried. The other, pious, yet too afraid worshiped from afar. By the way, one's just as stupid as the other one. The lamp is not the moon cretins.

Let us tell you of our adventure, they said.
Of war and all its horrors we've seen.
Dying dough boys screamed and moaned as they bled.

And the flash of mortar fire would glean,
displaying his numbers on our surface,
and the terracotta blood and drab green.

We are just a playbill for Satan's circus,
with no part lest our roll is through,
or did not perish in his wicked furnace.

And now, retired, no more to do.
But handed down to next of kin
til now I tell this story to you.

We are not just made of tin,
so many tales lay deep within.

The gardener wakes
to another day of work.
To ****, plant and prune.
He's creating harmony,
his garden is like his life.

Patiently watching,
awaiting its arrival.
And as the day ends,
not the garden did he seek,
but the peace within its work.


*Oh to take each breath in this manner

She texted all through dinner again.
Clickity, clickity, clickity.
Describing to someone something about what the waiter was wearing.
The ******* waiter?

Maybe if she took the time
she would find me at least as interesting,
as handsome, or ****,
as her 2 dimensional clicking keys?
Clickity, clickity, clickity.

They don't write letters on paper here in Clickityville anymore.
I even use to have my favorite pen and ink.
Now they "pencil in" time for everything,
Clickity food, iPod jog, or even clickity ***.
Trying to fit it all so neatly on their Clickityville plates,
but they never do.

When I talk to Clickityville people now
I can tell when I start to glass them over.
They reach for their clickity, clickity, clickity.
So ******* rude.
I'd rather they said,
"I'm sorry, but you bore me and I would rather,
you know.....
clickity clickity clickity."

I can see it in their Clickity eyes,
while they are trying to listen peripherally,                                                                                                            
They want so badly to clickity, clickity, clickity.

****,
they asked me to give them advice on their Clickity relationships.
And while fidgeting in their Clickityville North Face jacket pockets,
looking for their clickity, clickity, clickity,
I was attempting to give them some of my best nuggets of gold.

Just give
your lover
your full attention,
and they will do the same.

To walk with you through clover fields,
and talk of loves and loss.
A hand to help you cross the brook,
rings from a pebble toss.

To take you to a simpler time,
where dos and don’t subside.
Where dreams are lunchtime fare,
no troubles can abide.

We’ll sup on colors rich and bold,
breathe in the subtle hues.
Replace the day’s mundane agenda,
and whisk away your blues.

I’ll hold your hand and tell you truths,
and be at least one friend.
Elated with the glowing sunset,
and it’s melancholy end.

*for my friend in need

Of friends I haven't many you see.
Most don't take the time to know me.
But one reads me like a book,
and keeps me in her nook.
I feel her old soul,
diamond from coal,
let's me be
me for
me.



*A little gift for Rebecca Askew one of my favorites here on HP
A Nonet is a nine line poem, with the first line containing nine syllables, the next eight, so on until the last line has one syllable. Nonets can be written about any subject, and rhyming is optional.

I count the hours till we're alone,
to take my sweet repast.
To savor every word you've written,
and make our moments last.

That you would deem me worthy
someone to share your dreams,
of stardust and deep desires,
of heartaches and moonbeams.

The love within each stanza,
and care within each line.
Crafted only just for me,
your precious thoughts, all mine.

As they were my only food,
my air, my blood, my breath,
I'll take them with me where e’er I go,
even unto my death.

My candle is now burning,
it waits to light your prose.
My heart is ever yearning,
my love for you, it grows.

Think not that I am lonely,
yet lonely I would be.
If your lines to me were broken,
and never more to see.

He's a streamlined man,
now on the road to return.
The spirit farmer,
taking breakfast in the fields,
found his sister soul
and his woman of the world.
He was running blind
with no aerial boundaries.
To communicate
he would watch his life go by
because it was there,
the taproot, the naked stalk.
Free swinging soul, with
silent anticipations.
A Phoenix fire
torched, is once again spring buds.
And ready or not,
the Gospel, the Oracle.

Much sooner comes the Winter now,
the racing clock tics on my wall.
Another wrinkle on my brow,
another Summer, Spring and Fall.

I try to hold the moment's peace,
much sooner comes the Winter now.
So I find solace in release,
and throw away the holly bough

I’m no longer reined to the plough,
and time is not my enemy.
Much sooner comes the Winter now,
but fonder is the memory

Of breaths I take, how many more?
What e'er the seasons will allow.
Adrift am I towards any shore,
much sooner comes the Winter now.

*Empat Empat
Early form of rhyming verse from Malaysia.
8 or 10 syllables per line.
A. b. a. b.
c. A. c. a.
a. d. A. d.
e. a. e. A.

As we stroll through the day
Staying out of each others way
Letting our dreams float away
Paying our bills with our pay
We habitually stay
Like a tune that won't go away
We are but players in our play
Desperately avoiding a fray
And words we'll regretfully say
But much to our dismay
Our lives are turning gray
And librettos have gone astray
Wanting someone to say
Love is here to stay
In this wonderful ballet
We must constantly survey
Lyrics to the song we play

And now, as the sunrise opens my eyes,
I wander through the memories
of the night and my love's embrace.

Of her warm and tender touch,
and kisses sweet with passion,
the moon glow on her face.

Satin skin, opalesque,
her scent is with me still,
imbued upon my mind.

I close my eyes, and again I am there,
her smiling face to see,
so wanting, so kind.

Once entwined bodies,
now wake to love another day,
stretching and yawning.

Peacefilled hearts
at one in love.
On this, a lover’s morning.

====(==O==== )

Troubadour’s lips do tell his tales,
to Kings and Queens and Princes.
With lute in hand his tune entails,
wine, women, war and wenches.

But alas his heart is heavy with pain,
from ballads of loves gone wrong.
Too real the lyrics, too sad the refrain,
for he has become the song.

###====(==O==== )

You arrangers of thoughts and visions.
Sharing that most personal light that filters into your lens.
Opinions on sunsets, and of Autumns,
and attempting resurrections of days gone by.
A childhood Holiday, a skipped Summer stone.
A first heartache,
or a loved one’s soul ascending.
Perfectly honest glimpses into your most precious moments.

How do you do it?
How do you make me feel like a peeping Tom as if I had stumbled upon your most private files,
your family photo albums, your **** stash?
Like intercepting a note passed under a schoolhouse desk to Dorothy, ....what's her name.
Or that little red book in you Sister's night stand.
Her diary under lock and key?
No.
No, not diaries.
The visions you throw up are more than diaries.
They are ancient words that have longed to be spoken.
The thoughts of a thousand souls, you so bravely have loosed.
But you have to do this don't you?
You are so beautifully addicted.
From time to time you have to purge.
You have to stick your fingers into the throat of your mundane day jobs,
or lifeless relationships,
or awkward adolescence,
and for a moment,
for me,
throw up.

How is it that it stirs me to do the same?
I must crave that same drug as you.
To tap that vein and bleed...
But until then I will read you.
I will wander down your lonely paths,
I will let you in so that I may, for awhile,  
find the tear you wanted me to shed,
find that smile you knew was there, hidden among my layers.
And then, to take a breath and cherish the tattoos you have left behind.
To read you.
To see just what you see.
Is that what it is, this poetry?

And now she is only a scar,
you can barely see from afar.
It’s something I’ve learned to live with.

I can hide it well behind tears,
and it changes down through the years.
Just something I’ve learned to live with

When it happened, the cut was deep.
The fall was hard, the climb was steep.
Now, something I’ve learned to live with.

Though it will never fade away,
a wound from an unconscious day.
Just something I’ve learned to live with.



Go Vat
*The French Influence can be seen in this one, where there is a longer syllable count and a repeat line or word, and is believed to have become a popular form in the late 1800s.
It consists of a couplet of usually eight syllables, which sets the rhyme for the subsequent stanzas, and a third line which can be repeated totally or phrase or just the final word.

Before your story about Adam,
and your tale about Eve.
Before the mountains and the valleys,
long before the deep blue sea.

When there were no seasons,
no sun nor moon above.
I was here before everything,
I Am Eternal Love.

You tried to run and hide from me,
though you'd never seen my face.
So afraid of my glory,
so afraid of my grace.

You worshiped many idols,
you put them high above.
But lasting peace can not be found,
without Eternal Love.

And when you've fought all your battles,
and there's no one left to fight.
When the night becomes day,
and the day becomes night.

When you return to ashes,
and you return to dust,
I am all that will remain,
I am Eternal Love.


*A simple Bluegrass song I wrote many years ago.

You walk the Windy with her.
Hands brush, and cheeks blush,
a door is opened, a chair is pulled out.
I'll have what she's having.
Half a glass later, nerves are soothed.
Catch her, watching you.
Quickly look at her and you both realize,
you both want to kiss.
The waiter interrupts,
food is now secondary.
Check please.
You stroll the windy with her,
hand in hand now,
so much is said in silence.
Fingers touching fingers.
My God, please don't let go.
Cue the snow.
You brush the flakes off her face,
"Kiss her, kiss her now"......yelled from a 2nd story window.
People smile as you press your lips to hers.
Her breath carries the sigh that warms your heart.

You walk the Windy with her.


*I have never been to Chicago, maybe someday.........

~~~~{<3}~~~~

how did we happen
you and I
did stars align with moons
did gods use our lonely hearts
to play love's familiar tunes

did the time become right once again
fated friends to be
how did we happen
you and I
I for you
and you for me

has not our life together
been as we were found
everyday
adrift
away
love is ever homeward bound

ebb and flow
never the same
but always as it should be
how did we happen
you and I
I for you
and you for me

enlaced in passion poses
that never are the same
yet always fresh and ever new
still
two flickers from one flame

first kiss to death's final parting
neither could
nor shall I foresee
how did we happen
you and I
I for you
and you for me

~~~~{<3}~~~~



*For my lover

Harrogate, TN    March 2013