A red bicycle just sits on a wall
waiting, waiting patiently, to be rode

To be out on the road once more;
more or less a reason not to be left out in the cold

Red in a fiery paint; red fury blaze in a colour as bold
waiting, waiting patiently; not on display, being
watched and ignored

It had hopes of being picked out of that store;
to be out in the world with so much in store,
—to be so much more

Waiting, waiting patiently; once as excited as the little girl
that opened him out of that Christmas box;
To be found in awe of a child and their parent's applauds

But alas, as it's winter's pricking thorn,
this red little bike has to wait all winter, pierced by the thought
of knowing he has been left out in the cold

The front wheel drags, grr,

short of breath I cycle on --


panting like a dog.

Pleading for a purchased god
Romanticized for its ancien régime
Celiac, and yet I licked the wheat paste
Of the letter I was was trimmed A4

In all that time spent by the basin
(and its traffic-trimming wetlands)
I only rode my bike to the depot
To color code my calendar

When capital kept its calls collect,
When the gravy train kept me idle
Each chamber would be emptied
Fruitlessly: punch drunk with praise

(Indulge a little)

Each from four through five: orchestrated
The plains always claim the sixth
(Respecting the tradition of western folk)
Only three will ever threaten treatment

I climb mountains of emotion
Ride the downhills
Trying to sync
Trying to flow
With the unpredictable path of life
On my soul-cycle Of love.

While I was enjoying my bicycle ride, It started drizzling and I felt happy, then it stopped.

Suddenly it started pouring rain and I felt excitement and comfort rush over me when I remembered my childhood.

The sweet memory of playing under the rain and waiting to get in trouble with my beloved mother felt like a precious gift.

Hussein Dekmak

Can't decide what to play with today.
There are my colouring books and pencils.
I could also find my drawing pad
and use a ruler and some stencils.

I have my Legos and my cars,
and lots of other shiny toys,
but my mum sends me out
to join the other little boys.

It's a beautiful day, she says,
you should be in fresh air,
yet too young for school you are
no need to worry or even care.

I meet Timmy, my friend down the lane.
He shows me his bicycle with considerable pride.
It's new, he says, with bell, brakes and all.
I ask him if I could learn to ride.

Of course, he says, hop on and I'll push.
I follow his instructions - tightly grip the handlebar
and speed away without a plan of further action,
when along comes roaring an enormous motorcar.

Please make it stop, I scream. But Timmy is not there.
So just before the tragic but inevitable demise,
a miracle occurs, I wake up in bed safely,
all grown up and full of surprise.

That day
one I will never forget
my brother set me free
he let me fly like the wind

he removed the training wheels of my life
and set me in motion
that day I found the joy of
two wheels and the wind in my hair

now old age creeps up upon me
but I still have two wheels and the wind
I still fly
my brother set me free
let me fly like the wind

poetry ©2021 Mark Junor

Water Street
After the rain
Is where wayward teens
Ride their bicycles
On damp pavement
Under staggered lamps,
I never knew,
Before seeing from the 2nd floor
That 2am
Is when lost youth roam.

I have friends in High Places,
good friends
tripping *****
floating atop mushroom clouds of ecstasy
Naked,
in otherworldly dimensions
pioneering the mental landscape,
explorers of the mind and soul
Bodies,
breaking free of the Iron Cage
living to Love
working only to get by
getting high
to escape
to a place
where mere existence
makes sense.