"bicyclist" poems
The effortless leaf fluttered in the wind, its premature disconnection being the cause of sadness for the caterpillar.
The shadow of the old cottonwood had lengthened, and its roots tunneled ceaselessly in the obscured grass.
A bird summoned forth the air, and filtered her back out, having her carry the daily song.
The dog’s ear lifted slightly as the whir of a bike chain became audible for a short time.
Sleep rediscovered him swiftly.
The field slowly absorbed the flooded acequia water.
Ducks discovered a temporary haven.
She sat in the shade, the dog panting by her side. The soft light caressed her exposed skin in the loose summer dress. She squinted up at the blur of a bicyclist, smiling.
The earth swiveled slightly. The leaf had found the ground. The caterpillar had long been pecked by a cheery, singing bird. The shadow of the tree, now extending in the acequia grove, faded with the dying light. The dog now slept inside the old house, abandoning his domain at the fence corner. The ducks found new water, as the field sighed with relief. She walked her dog back to her yard, wishing the bicycle had not been moving quite so fast.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 10:13 PM UTC
Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not starring Adam
Sandler,
great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini, Children of
Paradise, Ikiru, Open City.
This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing people
thinking,
the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots, sadness and
silliness,
silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one logical
lucid progression. Deep art.
I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something with
hydroxyapatite
that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of sweetness,
an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or fallen angel
any form from which death might abstain or forego appetite.
Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my practice.
Looking for solutions to the equations. Learning the changes then
forgetting them.
The expressions emanating from mortal minds are broken stamens,
sticky stigmas.
Striving for immortality,
some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don Quixote)
says he understands and it's alright.
I will read what he wrote and probably agree
but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts.
True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts. Unchanging
and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass them on as heirlooms.
To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and unsharing
electrons, disrobing
and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle twice. Did Wim
give each thought its own voice or use the same voice for all thoughts,
every whim.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Two Bicyclists
At Mullan and Reserve in Missoula, Montana
a bike leaned crumpled on a cop’s waxed hood
As two miles up the road an 18-wheeler
Shuddered with its engine’s throbs
Hitching in the driver’s chest, his head
in his hands, “The rider is dead.”
*
Driving by in rapid succession these scenes added up to an awful conclusion
Do you remember, Alexis? The way we gasped, the moment of realization,
the awful knowledge that this bicyclist had slipped beneath those rear tires
swinging out wide, his chest crushed and heart fluttering a bird’s goodbye
too late at night to be out of bed beneath those wheels, perhaps the same
Rider I’d found five years before, blind-drunk and head over handlebars
Crashed with his legs wound like bone shoelaces in the pedal and frame
the widening puddle of ***** the blood seeping from his face, his hollow
cheeks his refusal to wake, his fear of an ambulance and my slow waking
to the fact he didn’t want police because he was higher than God.
Screamed in his ear time and again, as if even if he’d died I could bring him back
through my sheer desperation; as if I could stave off inevitability with will; as if
any one of us could hope to battle God, the end, the fragile frames of bone and
bicycle ****** beneath this parade of wheels. No. No. No. But yes, he did wake
slurring “No” to the ambulance, “No” to the whole scene, as if
His denial could act as time machine, he could fight against the present just
by wishing for the past, wishing hard enough. And I know the feeling, I know
it well, every hangover day praying to the Santa Claus god “I’ll do better,
I swear.” This wishing gets us nowhere, but it’s easy to philosophize when
it’s someone else’s ribs cracking. Oh, wasted bird, fly away home.
Ross Robbins
September 2011
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 11:50 PM UTC
At dawn
thunder rises and lightning falls
A black spot in middle of a road
Closer and closer – a wobbling black spot
A bicyclist unaware of the gods
Slow-pedaling through a nowhere of despair
A corpse, fragments of skin still on its bones
It turns and grins, a crewman on that ship
And in its veins that rotting albatross
At dawn
grimacing through rotting-teeth breath
A wereling wobbling in existential death
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
1) One grain of salt and one grain of sugar
To be taken daily with the dose of the day
And I was impressed by what was said,
Sitting on the curb, I turned to face him as he explained
A little bit of brine and a little bit of sweetness
To make the bittersweet passing of time unchained
2) Sit, matter, stay for a while
But it does not and it passes askance
The universe on the next block over
Pajama shorts, your mom's hat on
Says with tongue in cheek
"This too shall pass"
While pointing at a passing bicyclist
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
An anonymous passerby,
someone on their way to work,
perhaps some bicyclist,
took the time to remove the cat,
hit by a car in the night, from the roadway,
place it in the ditch among wild violets
before more tires, feasting crows
and other agents of decay
could begin their work on the carcass;
a small kindness, this,
to foster a measure of dignity
during these times of anonymous death,
unmarked graves.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC
You write in emergency
But you cause yourself your own problems
Stop saying heavy words to just backpedal on it days later
Quit practicing backpedaling when you're not even a bicyclist.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
Looking off the same ledge
Making the pledge
That I won’t one day be
One of the people who see
That view
As their last view
Jumping/ falling before they see the light
A million years ago on a dark warm night
I walked across the ledge and exhaled
Remember me, when our relationship’s Hell was unveiled
When we were in love
With the push and shove
This place could be
To me
The little girl
She dances and sings
A bicyclist
His bell it rings
A man
He smokes
A classmate
She jokes
I see graffiti
Take a look,
Sweetie.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
I see that plane in the sky
Like a big, mechanical bird
It makes its way onward
Where's it going?
Where's it headed for?
In my car
Waiting for the train
To finish crossing the tracks
Where's it going?
Where's it headed for?
That bicyclist
Looks like he's on a mission
Two-wheeled, manpowered movement
Where's he going?
Where's he headed for?
Their destinations are unknown to me
But I'm often a traveler in my imagination
Good ones, mostly, I embark upon
Where am I going?
Where am I headed for
I've seen a fair amount
Of different, actual places
New faces, abundant
I'm still gonna go somewhere
Still heading for yet another destination
Alive, and breathing
Dreaming hasn't stopped
And destinations still beckon
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
Go forward
Skip down the path
Take a wrong turn
Dance in the rain
Hit a speed bump
Stop for directions
Use your indicators
Keep straight
Knock over a bicyclist
But never look back
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
There is a cough and a bark
& then a roar, and suddenly
the green night is singing.
A light rain hangs like a history,
the silver toad bus squirms stop to stop,
the street racers flick rubber kisses.
In the opposite building, a woman
undresses before watching a movie:
the rain begins to flop and hook.
A bicyclist shines and streaks down
the sleekish funnel. The moon is forgetful.
A love story is playing out on the sidewalk.
The green night cascades smokes
with sharking clouds that drift north
into Maryland with their lethal line.
The cat sleeps on my great-aunt's rug:
I am alone in this quiet. Something is dying.
I watch the rain dry on the summer road.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 2:19 PM UTC
How many ways can I **** a man
A woman
Could I **** a child
How far would I need to be pushed
Do I even need a shovel
That's a nice truck for sale
Maybe I could run them over
Bicyclist hitch hiker
Maybe he could be my first
Gasoline need gas
Maybe I'll burn him at the stake
Maybe I'm a mistake
******* hate the commute to work
Not ever enough ****
Builders here
Put on smile
Get to work
Eat a sandwich
Go home to my ole lady
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC