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I hate bicycles.

I hate repairing bicycles.

I hate replacing bicycle tires.

I hate dismounting bicycle tires.

I hate mounting bicycle tires.

I hate inflating bicycle tires.

I hate barking my knuckles when the wrench slips.

I hate scraping my knuckles when the wrench doesn’t slip.

I hate the fire ants on whose mound I inadvertently sat while repairing the bicycle.

I hate fire ant bites.

I hate bicycles.

Listening to the radio while repairing, replacing dismounting, mounting, inflating, barking, and scraping is fun, though.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
Andrew T Jan 2017
Losing you was like shedding the extra fat off my belly;
I loved it, maybe, too much.

Now I stand tall, thin and gaunt.
Push me over and I may fall over.

Share with me, your story,
Allegories of time times you spent

alone and vulnerable in a single moment,
small as a raisin, large as a glacier.

Forget about me, as you live out your journey
through song and Calligraphy.

You belch and I wipe off the *****
from your chin. Silly me, you say.

Take this blade, cut away the fragile hairs
from my forearm. Let me go,

like a mother unwrapping her fingers
around her baby boy's shoulders

so that he can ride his blue bicycle
and pedal off into the distant sunset.

The light is growing,
and we are smiling.
Francie Lynch Oct 2016
In a museum, or forgotten barn,
A small red twelve inch two wheeler
Hangs on invisible wires,
Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust.
But Tannehill rode it once,
Like something in a dream.
He was too long-framed for it.
He controlled it, rounded the corner,
Pedalling hard down the sidewalk,
Across the street from our new house.
I gawked from the front yard:
He was a boy with his bike,
Like The ****** on T.V.
It was the first I learned to ride,
And the falls were magnificient,
On grass or asphalt.
Girls' bikes were easy,
One size fits all.
Then I learned to pedal
Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'.
Push the pedals,
Shift the midrift, and be gone.
Always from somewhere
To somewhere else,
Far from the soft front lawn.
"Leave It to ******:" "And Jerry Mathers, as the ******."
Derron Schronce Mar 2016
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.
Sarah Kersey Nov 2015
When I was six I was riding my bike through my neighborhood with my dad following in pursuit behind me
He told me to be careful while taking the corner because the turn was sharper than the smooth curves I had been blessed with knowing
But I was six and I was invincible and then I was face down in the gravel with ****** knees and tears pouring out of my eyes like they were directly connected to the fountain of youth
Each and every time I got on a bike after that I had this phantom pain in my knees from the rocks that had made me vulnerable
I still don't go near bicycles because every time I do I find myself reaching for bandaids

I have never been good at being open
The act of spilling my soul onto pavement was an terrifying idea up until the age of sixteen when I thought the world was mine to take
I threw caution to the wind and pressed my knees to the ground for people who didn't care about me and justified it as love
I didn't think about the time when gravel met my blood and I covered up my scars with makeup remover
It only took me three months to realize that I was not taking, I was being taken from
I reached for bandaids but the box was empty
I looked back to realize my dad wasn't riding behind me anymore and I was alone
My knees were bruised blue, mixed with a milky foundation instead of the pure blood red

They say hydrogen peroxide is supposed to help clean out the wounds with minimal pain but I swear I screamed to high heavens when I touched the wound I received three months ago
The bruises from sixteen had faded and the blood from six had dried but they were still there
Brimming underneath the surface
Sigmund Freud once said that unexpressed emotions never die and I suppose he was right
Because when I dipped that cotton ball in the pain reliever and touched it to my battered knee I think every nerve in my body combusted
Everyone looked at me and asked why I was screaming and all I could manage to tell them was that it hurt
They looked at me with bewilderment and told me it was just a paper cut and it would evaporate soon
I didn't know how to explain to them that the phantom of what used to be felt less like a ghost and more like a skeleton coming back to life with a new layer of skin

My bike is collecting dust at a yard sale and the memories should be sold with it but instead they're living inside me
You can sell your material possessions but no matter how hard you try you can't give away your scars
All I can hope is that someone someday won't look at my knees like they're a train wreck but instead look me in the eyes like I'm a person worth patching up
The pile of pine burned with ferocity
While fields of watermellon wore green in generosity

Jerimiah delivered rows of assiduous thoughts
Fertilized in decisions made years ago

Margaret was from Huntsville , working on a divinity degree
She was small , rode a bicycle , studying infinity
Timid , not unlike a titmouse in spring
Margaret had a sister named Judy

Jerimiah left for the mountains of Colorado
He took only his last name Johnson
He spent winters hibernating with the bears
He learned to have no fear and grew a long beard

Tennennessee is in Alabama , just south of Huntsville

A snowslide almost buried Jerimiah

Margaret moved to North Carolina
got married and that's all I know

Jerimiah made tracts in the snow . . . go
He sat above the devide looking down
Sometimes west when the sun went down
But mostly east under the full moon
Howling so forlornly the wolves cry

Margaret looks west every night
Then sheds one tear
Ellen Piper Sep 2014
The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck's seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.

The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots

The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.

That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.

Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don't mind.

— The End —