"bikers" poems
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!
(my sullen heart)....
still stays
I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass
Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all
Pulling poetry out my ***
___
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Redneck bikers munching sliders.
Looking mass unfettered riders.
Stars & Stripes and girls in Stetsons.
Cows in buns and boys in Westerns.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
It's half past four and the Red Rose
is Doppler dashing across
bullying slow fourth class hikers bikers
who dare to share the bridge walkway.
Puffing pumping its steam sweat smoke
straining through the shielding lattice
smogging choking foot folk
who snort its sulphur scented smuts.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
there was a little badger a biker dood was he
wore a leather jacket and rode a big harley
he just love to tour around the countryside
each and every city tour nationwide
he to took a little trip for his biker fix
to the USA to ride the 66
a favorite route for bikers
where they get there kicks
he mounted on his harley and began his ride
riding down the highway he was full of pride
he rode to the end. his dream it had come true
down the 66 like all the bikers do.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
One of the famous "Barry Hodges Memories" sequence
People think that Waterloo is a fascinating battlefield,
Relatively near to Brussels (where the sprouts come from
and, which are, as you know, a great cause of **** fart-gas).
But believe me there is more to it than that:
As I was wandering around checking out the graves
And generally having quite a nice time when...
A load of drug-crazed German bikers appeared
Sky-high on excess intake of moules avec pommes frites
And several gallons of extra-strong Belgian beer.
And they leaped on us and bashed the living ****
Out of my poor 99 year old mother-in-law, Deidre,
And left her lying there spasticated on the battlefield.
And for what, a few lousy packets of French cigarettes;
And I needed a metal scoop to rescue her remains to take home;
Dear God, I shall skip any more 19th century champs de guerre.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
there was a little badger a biker dood was he
wore a leather jacket and rode a big harley
he just love to tour around the countryside
each and every city tour nationwide
he to took a little trip for his biker fix
to the USA to ride the 66
a favorite route for bikers
where they get there kicks
he mounted on his harley and began his ride
riding down the highway he was full of pride
he rode to the end. his dream it had come true
down the 66 like all the bikers do.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes
Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a hallowed glow
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed loosely into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving
Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back ballz
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it all up
in Rockwell fame
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
There's nothing like the Feel
Of two wheels and the power
Between your Legs, The Pounding
Of two Cylinders, as the engine Revs.
Wheeling through snaking roads
Surrounded by Sunlight and trees
The intense smell of fallen leaves
On a cool nights ride. Feeling free
Blasting down a two lane road.
Rolling into a small town,you
Hear the Bikes Rumble, as you
Shift down, and throttle off the gas
The roar of your bikes sound, as
It bounces off the passing buildings.
You're out of town past the Last street light
As the Stars unfold in the stark black night
The feel of the wind's a sweet taste of freedom
Content for the silence and the Bike motors hum.
As an old Biker the ride is Past, but the feel of
The wind Flowing past my face, and the pound
Of the Motors sound, still be mine, Till my Day is Done
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
I'm attracted to men who do things
the hippie health nut rock climbers
the con-going, larping nerds
the artsy poetry writing, painters
I'm attracted to results,
to getting up off the couch and going
to hikers, and bikers, to MMA fighters
these are the men that I want
The men who get up in the morning
with a purpose
the men who know where they're going
and why they're doing what they do
The men with mettle, with strength, with power
I want a man who takes control
Who's not afraid to spend an evening
away from me
If we have differing interests
He won't give up what he loves
for any woman
I'm turned on by men
with steel in their bones
With iron in their hearts
who don't take their hits lying down
To men with hobbies with talent
with ideas and dreams
that they're making happen
not just pondering
I hate talk
The muscles built for sight's sake
aren't worth a **** thing to me
I need skills, a brain with the bulk
I want a man who rarely rests
who never stagnates
who can take me out to do something new
I'm attracted to men who do things
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
I want to write
And I want to write far
Farther than distance and
Farther than a mile feels when you're
Expected
To run in gym class.
I want to
Inspire.
And the word seems
Thick
Like elephant skin
Or those
Cracked leather jackets that bikers wear.
It seems 'out there'
Like a planet
Somewhere that we
Haven't sent probes to.
In the middle of swallowed up
Space.
But I want to
Inspire
Like
J.K. Rowling
Or
E.B. White
Or
J.R.R. Tolkein
And all of those other
Blocked up
Official sounding
Initials.
I could have initials.
Be E.M. Tyler or just
E. Tyler.
And people would
Wonder what the E. stood for
And one day I would
Sign an autograph
"Emily"
And they would call
The New York Times
And the search would be over
And ambitious fans
Would exclaim in exhuberance.
And they wouldn't have even read my book yet.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
i took into a motel
on my way somewhere, to do something
the place was occupied by pedophiles, prostitutes and drunks
it had a "rent by the hour" option
outlaws, bikers and the occasional wannabe poet
on the run
on the hunt
we were all comfortable with America
half-heartedly chasing the Dream
i wanted to write a poem about jerking off
and getting *** all over myself
and having nothing to wipe it off with
so i decided (in the poem) to wait till it dried out
but then it never dried, so i laid there for days
until i got dizzy with hunger,
and had to get up (in the poem)
with the *** dripping down my body
leaving awful wet stains all over the room
on the drapes and sheets and remote control
"by god, it's everywhere!" i cried (in the poem)
but then i remembered that my mom reads my poems
so instead i wrote about these cows i saw
cows grazing on a pasture outside San Antonio
cows looking up at the sky
secretly dreaming of going to the moon
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:48 PM UTC
I was once in a rough & gruff biker gang
figthing with tough as nails bikers, dang
and I knew all of the sick biker slang,
but then I woke up when my cell phone rang
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
down the main drag of our town
the thundering sound of motor bikes did resound
folks in our town rushed out doors
to see what was making such an almighty roar
the bikers were on their monthly charity rally
they stopped at the local pub owned by John O'Malley
they partook of a ration of ale
whilst filling their donation pails
after an interlude in our small township
they straddled their chrome plated Harley ships
to ride along the country byways
on this most magnificent autumn day
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
we went to Little Blue
that summer in a bum'd car.
riding in extravagance
we couldn't afford.
camping in the Oklahoma ozarks,
we brought liquor. the two of us
drank a half-litre honey whiskey
and twenty-eight of thirty Pabsts.
your chick only nab'd two.
we were sunk from that point on.
i vomit'd behind the car, and
there were left retched handprints.
left were a phantom's handprints,
having been drown'd by their hedonism.
the bikers partied along
with us apart from us.
they ask'd to use our hatchet,
that's the way we met.
men share tools, and that was
the only instance of civility
for two days. we ran feral.
rip'd shirt to ribbons,
wrap'd them 'round a stick,
soak'd citronella,
commenced adventure.
returning,
two hours time gone;
returning,
scratch'd and bleeding;
returning,
we lit their paths with
torch burning a primal fire;
sleep,
pass'd out by fire in lounge chair.
been in this spot before,
knew to bring a quilt
and mine was the only one.
startled awake,
fire nothing more than nightlight embers.
raccoon, sitting upright,
stared from his high perch of a picnic table.
apple in paws, nibbling,
he mock'd and monitor'd.
i swiped at it with a stick,
missed. said **** it.
slept in the car that night.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Look at them,
Old Bikers.
They can hardly stand up straight.
They are old bikers.
At home their wives still wait.
Candy *****
But in leather they look great!
Slick back hair
Of silver, white, and grey.
Watch them now.....
As they slowly limp away.
Yet, they simply live.....
To ride another day.
JMA
5/18/10
.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
I'm gonna motivate my love tractor
From the east coast to the west
Feel it's horsepower beneath my ***
The scorching heat from the exhausts
Blistering my legs
Throwing back rock and gravel
Scattering anything in my way
I want to see the ocean before I die
I want to stop at the Grand Canyon on the way
And a dozen greasy spoons
And a dozen more biker bars
It all leads my ***** *** to the beach
Might as well be the Ganges
Baptise me in that great body of water
I love huge bodies of water
Lakes, rivers, seas...but never seen the ocean
I could make it on a Harley
Overcome my fear
Do it by myself
Biker clubs are insane
They're where I need to be
I've been listening to Steppenwolf
All my life
Get that hog out on the road
The highway and the hog is all that exists
It's another of those "becoming One" situations
I can handle it
Stay on the state highways
Avoid interstates
Maybe I should start getting high again every day
Smoking **** at least 3 times a day
Why don't I think that would still make me happy?
But it's cut into my short term memory
It's been cruel and even driven me to my knees
I have a healthy fear of what it's capable of
But if I could ride a Harley cross country
Surely I could handle doing it high as a kite
Biker girls, sorry to break your hearts
I got a respectable old lady who won't sit on the seat of a Harley
We have discussed parameters
But the sum total is you won't be getting what you want
That doesn't mean you might not get something and something valuable and life-changing at that
It's all at my discretion
Because biker girls sweep me off my feet
And the "look but you better not touch" rule is a little too strict
Especially when we make it to the ocean
Our naked bodies like a school of shark in shallow Pacific liquid
Just a **** or two before jumping in the water
Feel in good, like singing with John Kaye
******* the pusher man
My Harley-Davidson's caked with mud and sea salt, dripping gooey red dirt
Watch over 'em for me
Cuz we gonna be here for awhile
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
Your memories visit me seldom
these days
but they're just as dear
(when they do)
warm and removed
like these still May mornings on the coast that are gorgeous, innocent
and new
... do you remember the absolutely absurd things we used to laugh at?
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
I once got a job writing gay ****
but the editor said I was too *****
somehow I thought ultraviolent
gay necrophilia would make it in
the mainstream & be the next big
thing; AIDS infected zombies
sodomizing unsuspecting bikers,
cops & sailors w/ the occasional
cowboy; I should have made the
cowboy a two-gun zombie-fighter;
I just thought of that; I wonder if
HONCHO is still around...
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Homeward headed, I was driving my way
Down I-95 past the Old Mill Way in a yawn,
Turning the radio on and looking to play
Something to keep my consciousness on.
Few cars out at 1:00; it had been a long day;
I'd stopped off at Charlie's to sit with a friend
To blow out the kinks and let myself say
What a **** the company minion had been.
Four hours burned off like the late morning haze;
When I'd sobered back steady, was able to drive,
I paid off my tab, left my friends in a daze,
Headed the Jeep to the feed ramp for old 95.
At one in the morning, the traffic was thin;
When I heard Harleys roaring behind,
I scoped the mirror for the lanes they were in,
Double-blinked then to see if I was road-blind.
No bikers behind, no bikers beside, but sound
Like a squadron blared loud, and I felt a cold chill,
Thought better of having the last couple rounds,
Wished I'd stayed an hour before I'd settled my bill.
I glanced to the side, though the sound was all 'round,
Saw a glimmer of green glowing chrome in the dark,
And fire ethereal from pipes blooming sound,
From a Shovelhead, barely visible, flat black and stark.
But the rider's appearance emptied my chest:
Dark goggles, full beard and a gray flowing mane,
Black leather with signs on his tattery vest
And a number embroidered below the man's name:
"Rider 88" glowed red through the gloom,
A ******** burned on the withering arm:
"We rise again!" I heard a voice of doom,
"We're meeting at the old red barn!"
He wasn't alone, though I couldn't see
The posse he rode with, the pack he was in;
I felt a squadron of hellions run through me,
Concussive, incessant, their rattling din.
And then, except pavement beneath the Jeep's tires,
The howling of wind and crackling "Cotton-eyed Joe,"
Nothing but the road after midnight, no sirens or fires,
And me, shaking hands on the wheel, alone.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
As the sun is rising, every pastry and sandwich deli is opening its windows and doors.
Every time there is the slightest breeze, there's an undeniable sweet smell that takes over all of your senses.
Private cars, taxis, fashionable bikers, and speedy pedestrians.
Every one of them with a purpose they are on their way to.
Mornings are actually one of the brightest times of the day here.
The roads are cobblestone and crowded.
The parks are filled with sweet cafés and bitter cigarette smoke.
The young and old are scattered on the lawns.
The sky is the limit for young, adventurous souls.
The city is large enough for boredom to be scarce.
The city is small enough to walk through in a day.
As the sun is setting, shop keepers are drawing their blinds and closing the doors.
Wind starts blowing only the sweetest of hazelnut scents in every direction.
Carousals are all lit up and spinning nonstop.
Private cars, taxis, fashionable bikers, and coupled pedestrians.
Street and strung up lights take place of the mornings shrouded sunlight.
Evenings are of the most romantic times here.
The music will ****** your heart.
The sweets will indulge your stomach.
The books in the stores are dusted with curious fingers flipping through their fragile pages.
The bridges are waiting to be weighted with new and old love.
The city is charming enough for all friends.
The city is romantic enough for lovers.
Breathing is not a chore here,
Because it's the city of lights,
And it holds my heart.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
She wore her bandana
like the bikers do
& walked with the aire
of a tiger
& when I looked
down,
I saw
the cutest toes
painted
the deepest rose.
She just looked at me
with a twinkle
& a wry smile
& she sauntered away,
the fragrance of honeysuckle
trailing behind her.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
-
we used to play a game, you and i:
we'd take the passing faces of pedestrians,
and bicyclists, businessmen and bikers,
hell, even that one elderly lady with fewer teeth
than stripes earned in strife, who stopped
only to inquire after where to buy a pack of smokes,
up the street, you told her, up past city hall, at bonanza,
and then a boy struck me silent
with the light off the studs on his jacket
we'd take their faces and give them
the most fantastic back-stories, ones we wished
someday we could tell our grandchildren,
or children, or even settle for a stranger on the street
to bear as some sort of unofficial witness to our lives
we've finally found definition, the illusion anyways,
we have evolved; we still like pokemon,
but we dress nicely now
needless to say,
we don't play that game anymore.
-
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
They gather on porches, in backyards filled
with the scent of lighter fluid and blood burning
on hot coals, smoke rises above swimming pools
and six-foot high fences, screams of innocence
ring through the streets, and blue grass wails
among old men's jokes and old wives' tales.
They gather for God and country in sailor suits,
dressed-blues and army-greens, the symbol
of freedom bellows from a Dogwood tree;
while bikers wear Old Glory on leather jackets
or tattooed across their shoulders, and beer
flows from cooler to hand to fist.
And they say this is what it's all about:
to live and die for the right to swear and drink,
be merry and dance in the streets, to praise
America and Democracy, while on the next block
a ****** is ***** a merchant is shot and a ******
jumps from a bridge in an attempt to fly.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 4:58 AM UTC