Jon Po Dom Apr 10

I see your green pastures
Coming back to life
Hear birds singing
The woodpecker moves
To the beat of the tree
Springtime has arrived

The waters rush fierce
Moving fish in its current
Leaves slowly returning
The building blocks of life
Arching over like a tunnel
Springtime has arrived

Water droplets fall off the rocks
Creating miniature rivers
Leading to roaring waters
A stream that flows with life
Washing away my cares
Springtime has arrived

Man made beasts
Move through the paths
Post hibernation
Breathing fresh air
And little ones following closely behind
Springtime has arrived

JM 4/9/17

Went hiking with my son for the first time this season. This is what we saw, heard and felt.
John Reilly Jan 28

Four months
Too long
Too cold
Too dark
Too busy
Held ransom
By reasons
No excuses
Idiopathic idiocy
Pathological apathy
Four months
Of pain
Eradicated by
four seconds
Of cycling
Cognitive breakthrough
A synaptic symphony
Endorphin re-indoctrination
Free flight
From myself
Four months
Fuck you

Solaces Jan 25

On the far side of me was you.  I ride on my lightning bike passed Neptune in route toward home.  Its good to see my solar system.  I have been all over the galaxy.  Seen wonders no one has ever seen.  And yet none are as wonderous as you smiling at me for but a moment.  I cannot have you nor will I steal you away.  All I want is your smile. Just to see it.  Then I will ride off for the 2nd universe.  On my lightning bike made of star glass.  To see if I can find a wonder that is more wonderous than you.  I smile at the thought of me coming back again. Just to view your smile.  Because I know that even in the 2nd universe there is nothing more beautiful than you.

And there she is.
Temporal Fugue Jan 11

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

Kinda gleaned this from a Dire Straits song "Skate-a-way".
Took it down a bicycle bend, based on seeing vids of delivery riders in NY, who did crazy things on a bike. :D
TKO Aug 2016

I recall inheriting my first bike.
Solid steel.
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
And take
Three hundred dollars
In its place.

This melancholy brings me back,
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.
John Reilly Jul 2016

I am up
Before the sun
It's arrival
Heralded by
Colors creeping
Out against
The retreating night sky
Do not mistake me
For a morning person
I do not relish this
Nor do I mourn
For sleep
It could be  
But this
is necessary
Not without joy
Not without sacrifice
Without a word
It simply is
A ride
My Fortress
of Solitude
For a mind
By thought
At war with
Do not
Into the past
A ruthless place
A heckling pace
That tells you
You cannot
Hang on
Give no portage
To fate
For you cannot grasp
What the future holds
Keep moving
This ride
It is the only ride
That matters
I wrap myself
In its tight fabric
It's sounds
Clicking and clacking
Racing thoughts
Centrifugal forces
As I order
As long
as I pedal
I am

Amber Valencia Aug 2016

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

Biking incident. Left me in the ER yesterday, pretty unpleasant day.
JR Rhine May 2016

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.

I just realized that I used a red herring in this poem and that geeks me out to no end! Shoutout to my friend Frank DeRose for introducing to me the word "demarcate." Check his poetry out on this website as well.
Derron Schronce Mar 2016

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

Winds nudge,

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

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.

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