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Beckie Davies Oct 2020
I was raised by a pack of male wolves

Who taught me their version of womanhood

They called me Little Red Riding Hood
Handed me a cape
They told me to run through the woods
So I did.

When I got to the house of safety
And found a wolf hiding there
I thought he was my family
So I was not scared
When his paws were on my body and I dissolved into nothingness

I was raised by a pack of wolves
Who never bothered to tell me
I was one myself
my version of the tale
Guntang Aug 2020
the ******, the strains
the sway and the bob
oh poor saddle
the bouncing, the grinding
the rider's frantic behind!
the thumping gallop
the giddy rhythm
the pull and the jut
the pounding pounding
the rider's menacing ****!
the razor breeze and the mud
the richest green grass
oh God, the rider's boney ***!
no more I beg
please let this pass
oh lord oh god
that boney ***!
E Jul 2020
Nuns riding the Segway
What are they doing today?
gabby Jun 2020
we're riding bikes
in the midnight,
facing the wind
i close my eyes
and i hope we don't
fall and die
now i ve understood
that life should be
a fearless ride.
George Apr 2020
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.

TS Ray Nov 2019
If he was with the Queen,
he would be her majestic Cleveland Bay.
But he was with me and
just as regal.

Knowing where to go,
speeding through the meadows in a flow,
judging when to stop with a whoa,
appearing to satisfy my ego,
jumping around the ponds and puddles to forego,
there was no turning or needing to go slow.

I didn’t have to tell him,
he didn’t have to ask me,
I wasn’t heavy for him,
He had a lightness around him.

He wandered,
pondered and
He just did.

Riding for a lifetime,
bonding for a good time,
just know it’s not summertime,
Cos my whitehorse
will be here in no time.

Come, run with me!
Salmabanu Hatim Apr 2019
Winter can be fun too,
For me and you.
Goodbye  to heat waves,
And iced chilled drinks you crave.
Adieus to flies bugs and bees,
Hay fever, poison ivy and also allergies.
Appetites increase,
Cooking and baking never cease,
Not to forget mending and sewing,
And over a cup of hot tea gossiping.
Fire-places aglow,
Whilst landscape is carpeted with snow,
Children enjoy indoor games in the basement below.
Sled riding, ice skating,
tobagonning, and making snowman can be fun,
With the promise of a glowing sun.
In the mornings dad's car can be stubborn,
But a little wooing and engine warm up it can be won.
Winter too is happy time,
More time for poetry, with rhythm and rhyme.
Kenna Apr 2019
Gentle muzzle
velvet soft
lipping at my palm
searching for the treats,
sugar and molasses
a rich combination
only a good horse

Supple leather
worn smooth
over years of dedication
and application
that comes from
this sport.
already promised ahead of time,
three months earlier,
hauling to deserted fairgrounds
a dusky sky setting the tone
for lead ropes
through stock trailer slats
cow dogs
up down sideways
trailing owners between horses legs and rusty pickups.

Tacking up
underneath floodlights
set to the soundtrack
of jangling spurs
and soft nickers.
Younger kids
hanging on the arena rails
drinking syrupy sweet
a tradition
root beers before your run
good luck
in our community.

Foot in the stirrup
old braided reins in hand
broken into submission,
under years
of use.

Slapping hands
with other riders
who already went
slick with sweat
foaming at the mouth
ready to go again
with rippling muscles
still taunt in the sticky summer night,
aching for one last run.
three turns
and a gallop home,
don't care about the money
unless you beat your last time-
your only competitor

Hard packed dirt
pounded down by hooves,
tails swishing at flies
as you wait
for your turn.
Adrenaline and happiness,
an addictive cocktail,
these are the nights
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