#bicycle
there she rode
down the road
staying inside the line
tonight she decided to be free
to let down her hair
and ride between the yellow
eyes cold and wind in face
her wingspan at capacity
and I just watch
until she becomes half
then a dot
until the horizon consumes her
here I sit still
many seasons later
waiting for her to circle the block
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
Am I really a good person?
I have a moral voice, but is it mine?
Was it forced upon me or given as a gift?
Am I just Objectively good and emotionally bad?
Or the other way around?
Was it simply the song I grew up hearing in my head and never forgot?
Was I simply brain washed into being moral?
Am I really that moral or have I just been around it my whole life?
Or - was no one around me truly moral and I was the opposite?
Is that why I've never understood their morals?
What if I'm so good at lying to myself that I don't even know it?
What if I die, and my soul is the bad part of me?
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 5:51 PM UTC
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
Jun 20, 2023
Jun 20, 2023 at 3:36 PM UTC
The front wheel drags, grr,
short of breath I cycle on --
panting like a dog.
Feb 25, 2023
Feb 25, 2023 at 2:29 AM UTC
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
Sep 25, 2022
Sep 25, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
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.
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 2:04 PM UTC
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
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 2:17 PM UTC
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.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 3:33 AM UTC
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
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 10:27 AM UTC
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.
Jul 2, 2021
Jul 2, 2021 at 1:55 AM UTC
"Get out,"
I was told.
"Leave my sight"
I packed a bag.
"Just leave"
I rode off.
"Come back"
I was chased.
"I love you"
My bike was taken.
"You can't leave"
I'm crying.
Your arms hold no comfort for me.
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 7:26 PM UTC
Cycling, without haste,
Along narrow country roads.
On the edge, undisturbed waste.
Riding, alongside ancient springs
That hatch dry stones and tires.
In his nest of tear strips a blackbird sings.
Eventually, I get to the point of no return.
Where past and future merge.
And no more does the sun burn.
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 10:36 PM UTC
I've fought myself
with my every thought
now there's no doubt
I killed the thing that I fought
I studied the maps
my lies that I bought
I set a lot of traps
it was only me that I caught
swallowed my pride
I was doing as I taught
I looked deep inside
I found the monster that I sought
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 8:51 AM UTC
I've seen a many things
like the pain a tortured spirit brings
a man standing in the rain
when seeking shelter is in vain
I've felt so many pains
like beating of a heart abstains
such a cold feeling stings
when the clock's pendulum swings
I've seen a many things
like a life that barely clings
there is no reason to remain
when seeking shelter is in vain
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 3:41 PM UTC
It stayed with her forever,
The faded **** in her skin.
A permanent reminder
Of courageous origin.
Welsh suburbia,
The week’s paper nestled at doorsteps
And cars lining driveways.
The sloped street dared
Every child to climb
Onto their bike and conquer.
She avoided it when shaving
As though an accidental cut
Would pollute
Childhood's lustre.
No stabilisers. Wicked.
The street’s children envied her.
A goddess of danger.
They all lined up on the day,
To see their idol
Dominate the asphalt slope.
Imagination made it prickle
In board meetings and cafes.
Time marched on
And the sensation with it.
Parents peered
Out their front doors.
Grandad stood vigilant
Fighting a smile.
The silence before calamity…
…and the forward push.
The scar sat beneath her shin,
Short from a distance but
Taller the closer
You came.
Whoosh. Down she went
Gulping the air and
Smiling like a belle.
Children blurred as she passed,
Everything became a haze
And she hollered.
It prickled
At Grandad’s funeral last year.
That made her fight a smile,
And she eventually succumbed.
Euphoria blinded her
To the oncoming curb.
The bike lurched, and
Heaved her off.
Pain echoed through naïve bones
Radiating beneath her shin.
Her husband asked about it.
'I fell off my bike as a girl.'
Her children asked about it.
'I fought a dragon.'
Grandad appeared instantly,
Deft hands wrapping
Gauze around a cut.
With an affectionate ruffle,
He pulled her up onto his shoulder
And carried her back.
When she cried in pain,
He pulled her closer.
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC
When I cycle without holding the handlebars on my bike,
I wonder if I look arrogant,
Like a bit of a *****
But
In winter I don't care
because as I let go
and straighten my back and lift my arms and open my mouth and breathe in the sea
I feel like a butterfly or a comorant or a bumble bee lifting and gliding and riding winter up and up and up,
I feel like a tiny yellow light has been lit like a candle at the base of my spine and the soft warmth from it is thawing my body from my ribs to fingers.
Winter wants to hurt me,
At least it feels that way,
Put a bag over my head and expect me to smile,
My scarf is making my neck sweaty and itchy and I'm sick of it,
The ice is creeping deep and deeper into my head,
Whispering words I thought I'd buried.
In books set against snowy backdrops with whisky in pubs and cable knit jumpers and hands to mouths,
Winter is warm and bubbling with atmosphere,
And though I've seen glimpses and sipped on spicy *** and given myself red wine teeth and sore fingers from sitting outside and laughed until my belly ached,
Today it just feels cold
Colder than cold,
Cold and hollow,
Unless I'm riding my bike with no handlebars and looking at the sea.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
I had a broken bicycle that was in red,
found a new way to contain my sorrow instead,
salvaging the tire got me ahead,
rolling it with a wooden stick I had painted in red.
Famous I became known as the tireless one,
I saved it in my shed to play every day save none,
friends told me wish they had my cheeky grin,
although I wished I was older to buy a shiny new one.
Every spoke of the wheel spoke to me,
I knew exactly the missing ones and there were three,
I haven’t loved anything to this degree,
a new one was in the shed not knowing I was an ardent devotee.
My red wooden stick would stay with me,
telling my dad he can ride the bike like it was a plea,
becoming that creature of comfort as far as I can see,
for I wasn’t ready to hang my tire yet on the summertree.
Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC
Like I hope one day, eventually your name will be erased out of my mind.
Ur name wouldn't bring back bittersweet memories like before.
Cause then, when I am fully healed, I would be able to love someone without the unwanted toxins in it.
Anything would just be enough, eventually in time.
So I'm guessing that right now, it's just a temporary goodbye.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 5:04 AM UTC
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
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
Burned out matches,
old bicycle patches.
I keep these with me to remind me of my journey.
To remind me of the people I've offered a light.
To remind me of a few who took my light,
and rode alongside me awhile.
To remind me of the mistakes I've made along the way.
I can change who I offer a cigarette to,
a warm comfort along the cold trail.
The repairs are only temporary,
but I can never change the way I ride my bike.
Eventually it will crumble.
Eventually my broken bike will send me off a cliff.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
If I was a bicycle, I would freely ride Through the earth's green hills
I would journey with great pride
Endeavouring all of life's thrills
I would ride, I would ride
Through the earth's great mountains and great hills
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC
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.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC