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Lily 4d
I am on Mackinac Island,
Lying down on a big white lawn chair
In front of the Grand Hotel.  
The faint scent of fudge
Lingers on the air so I can almost taste it,
And my hair is getting constantly blown
By the wind that flows among the
Chairs, grass, and music.  
The music comes from the direction of the water,
Where an old style jazz band has
Temporarily set up shop,
Creating gorgeous silhouettes
Against the orange and pink sunset sky.  
The purring of the clarinet
Bounces off of me like the waves are
Bouncing on shore,
But even lighter than that,
Even lighter than the
Wings of the seagull trailing overhead.  
The clarinet drops in and out of sync
With the waves as the silhouettes start to
Bounce to the music.  
A distant bike bell dings,
But it matches so harmoniously
With the music that I don't notice it.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
A constant cycle interrupted only by
The saxophone and drums occasionally.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
The sun is set.  
Silhouettes turn to shadows.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
Waves, bike.  
Waves.
I hope you are all staying safe and healthy!  I can't wait for the time when we can go enjoy live music again.  Thank you for reading!
George Apr 13
You are selfish, shallow, adrenaline seeking. Blind, short sighted, borderline death seeking.

Thrill catching, leathers matching, fuel flowing, shallow breathing.
The release of control, self preservation is screaming.

Your intrigue for the wild has brought you here. In seeking proximate demise your intentions are clear.

However is there more, to his bottomless hole? More than adrenaline, flight, the search for extol?

Could there be meaning found where reasoning retires? Is there space in this world for simply following desires?

Vast I’m sure is your strength of intrigue. Or fear of what if, what next, what indeed. The roads may be littered, treacherous, packed. But what really matters when all what ifs are sacked?

It’s the smell of the air, the fumes, the tires. Enveloping you whole, until you retire.

No question of when, how or why. No pondering which, what, wondering eyes.

Pure pleasure, indeed, is what we seek. Here and now, not bitter or bleak.

An antidote to chaos, here we have found. Me and my bike, 3 feet from the ground.

X
I went on my bike following the red thread.
Just like every other day, the one thing I ever had.
And so I went and the water next to me got so wavy.
And so dark, darker than darkest blue navy.

It won't cover me here cause there's no burning suffering.
When the red thread is covering my skin.
I can just keep on cycling.
Always singing.
About how I won't be ok.
It's not alright and it can never be fine.
Still this moment is always mine following the red line.

I went on my bike cycling and singing.
That is always ok.
So the burning will finally stop stinging.
Like every single day.
05-03-19
Coop Lee Feb 26
took his bike to the end of the street and disappeared.
he was laughing.

maybe today, just find a way
to bell the bones of magnificent fun.

she thought he was funny. he
took to the day like a wild oat.
took a bullet to the chest, still had long to go.

that old bless of a naked always-stretching lung
     [can we account for nuance?]
took.  took.  took.

holocene compounded, brain aneurism expounded.
he knew the city suffered, city slumbered, never, not ever.

your number? he asked her.
or about some kind of snake wrapped around the heart.

war chest, drum the chest, bone or breast.
twas rhythm, not explosion.
rhythm/blast.

city/socks/electronics.

the humdrum conundrum of ***, thumbs and time.
we are surrounded yet alone.
stone’d yet liquid.
remember the lung?

city/shoes/blood.

he thought she was funny.
stoop, stop to think about a text…
send.
Daniel Feb 5
Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields

Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs

Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come

And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend

Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet

The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds

And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip
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Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
it is sixty degrees
the sun on your skin

you have nowhere to be
and everywhere to go

not a cloud in the sky,
not a bump in the road

just this moment
just this sliver of heaven

just your feet on the pedals
your eyes on the horizon

unspoken joy, an effortless smile
wheels turning forward motion
Grace Haak Oct 2019
My dad and I would spend sunny afternoons
riding our bicycles
through my suburban neighborhood.
We would ride down my street
until we reached the sidewalk that diverged into two paths
and neither of them were less traveled by
as we always ended up taking both.
The right path leads to the small waterfalls
just past the basketball court
where my brothers and their friends
would play pick-up games.
Riding across the tiny bridges is a moment of brief bliss
as the sounds of the water rushing reaches your ears
and drowns out everything else.
We’d maneuver to the giant lake
filled with brightly colored kois
and serene storks standing out on the rocks.
Following the curve of the water
we would end up in a private neighborhood
where the blacktop is so shiny and smooth
that your wheels glide across the entire street.
And you can go fast
since it’s silent
and no cars come barreling down the road.
Somehow, we’d end up at that beginning sidewalk
and now it’s time to go to the left.
Over here, there’s a small playground
where my dad would chase my siblings and me
and I would hide in the tube of the slide.
We could spend hours there
on our spaceship
trying to outsmart Darth Vader and the dark side.
Just past the park, we’d reach the stretches of green belts
lacing their way through the streets
and the bushes I flew into
when first learning how to ride my bicycle.
We'd take a left after the dip in the sidewalk
ending up back on our street
and deciding that it’s getting late
once the sky turns pink and orange.
We’d end up back at the cookie-cutter house
that I don’t live in anymore
but part of it is still mine.
I wonder if the kitchen is still red
and if the guest bathroom still smells like lemons.
I contemplate knocking
only to remember that there’s a new family living there
making memories in our pool
and playing in the basement.
I smile, hoping that maybe
they will ride the same sidewalks I grew up on.
I paste these memories into a poem
but there is really no need
because remembering the twists and turns
of my old neighborhood
is just like riding a bike.
Bhill Aug 2019
As we go on our journey
We      Crawl
              Walk
                Run
                 Race
                  Swim
                   Hike
                    Bike
Through what we call life
There are things we must do
There are things we must avoid
There are things we must finish
When we arrive here we have no clue
As we get there we will learn
We will
               Make Mistakes
                Fall in love
                 Get a job
                  Lose a job
                   Find a mate
                    Learn what it takes
                     Get older
And then it's over....
Have some fun while doing all of this

Brian Hill - 2019 # 192
Are you having fun yet?
Nigdaw Jul 2019
I saw him that day

Not when he woke, like
Any other morning, next to
The warm naked body of his girlfriend
Still muzzy with sleep, half open eyes
Searching to see his face, unbeknown
To her for the very last time,

That sweet smile,

Not as he kissed her on the doorstep
She, wearing his T shirt baggy on her small
Frame, hiding slim undulating form,
After a breakfast of toast and Marmite
Which he loved, but she had always hated  
The taste could still be detected

On his moist lips,

Not when his bike exploded to life
Fireblade thunder, exhausts spitting
Wrath and fury, the voice of an engine
Wanting to go, go, go, like wind
As though the Devil gave chase
To his helmeted head, full faced

Soon hiding death mask grimace,

Not then, but later,
From a motorway bridge, wondering
Why all the traffic had stopped
Checking for my return journey,
He and the bike lay across the lanes
A little way apart, neither going home,

Next week she’ll move back with her mum.
I saw the aftermath of a bike accident and it made me wonder why such an ordinary morning had ended like this for someone.
Aravind Jun 2019
I'm the Toy that never got sold,
Oh God!! I'm the one you had cold ******.

I'm the Bike stranded at the signal,
Oh God! I'm the one figuring out how to be rhetorical


I'm Still riding on an empty pillion,
Oh God! Why am I the one u chose to ***** in the billion?

All I ask from you,
Is some Luck and Cue
As Oh God! I'm the (only) one who forgave you :)


I promise I won't blame you
Again for my blues;
Because My dear God! I'm the one who needs you.


I'm the land that has been for long barren,
Oh God! Do remember even I'm one of your Children
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