"cycled" poems
I’m thinking now of my childhood
Of Dinky toys and a bright shiny trike
I travelled for miles going nowhere
On that beautiful three-wheeled bike.
It even had a boot on the back
Like a bread bin between the wheels
That I used to fill with books and toys
Only opened to best friend’s appeals.
The bike was bright red and I loved it
I raced round on it every day
Until that time when I was just too big
And the bike was taken away.
I missed that old red tricycle
It had been my companion for a while
But the two-wheeled cycle that Dad got
Soon turned my lips up in a smile.
It was a second-hand bike and quite grown-up
Hand-painted the darkest maroon
And I rode it for miles, this time with my dad
But it’s fun-giving days went too soon.
My next bike was blue, and a racer
Derailleur gears numbered ten
I wanted to ride out again with my dad
But he’d cycled his last before then.
My dad rode a bike for the whole of his life
Yet he never reached fifty-three
When I’m on a bike now, cycling along
I think of him riding with me.
©Joe Wilson – Riding a bike with my dad…2015
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
After I thought it through
the stigma felt abused
I cycled through the minds of others
exposing their consensus to my senses
for better or worse, I don't discriminate
I do, however, hate
without a second thought
suddenly, void of reason
in passing or in wait I would
indifferently abuse the scarred stature
what remained was waste
letting me think is a sin
there is no god who can forgive my mind
not that I condone the plundering of others
it's just that my father will never know.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
The new day still saw the man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan,
He was the plantation's tapper.
The evening sun had long set
Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness.
Relying on what little light the moon would let.
He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress.
His sack slung over one shoulder,
He found his way to his trusty ride.
Nightly routine he would execute over and over
Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide.
All day long, he had been thinking of the night before.
He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick.
As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more...
He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick!
As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track.
His eyes caught something that came within sight.
Standing by the side against a background of black.
There she was again...all garbed in white...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
His bicycle let out a little yelp as he slowed to a stop,
The lady was dressed the same as the night before.
He could have cycled on but he had intentions he would not drop,
For he had heard stories of such beings from old wives' lore.
It was important for him to address this spectre.
Motivated by the advice he had received from his dad.
To never succumb to fear if a spirit he should ever encounter,
For the fear would consume and eventually drive him mad.
He was brimming with confidence as he spoke,
"Hello there again, I see that you are still in a fix".
He was determined not to be made again the joke
He had sworn to not be taken in by the imp's mischief and tricks.
A sweet fragrance lingered in the air,
Teasingly inviting him to greedily inhale it all in.
A gentle gust blew, caught and played with the strands of her hair...
Enamoured by her visage, he secretly gasped as if the air grew thin.
Her face was still partially obscured by her black flowing hair.
She turned to him before she gave her reply,
*"Would you please give me a lift, dear sir...kind and rare...
I do not wish to be stranded alone, unsheltered under the moonlit sky"*.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
At infinite dust of possibilities,
Light rose and set like a knight,
With its shining armor, the screens were up,
A mere glance of her,
Jumping energy levels,
Leaving traces of her radiant shell.
Ages turned to eons,
Memory of millions of years,
Still crashes to her thought,
The free spirit of every soul,
We were the heart of this universe,
With all the time in this space,
All we wished was to be one,
Collide with the greatest force,
Be one if it meant for one moment's time,
But with all we tried, we were the slaves of laws,
The irresistible lust to touch her once,
Over ages has faded to dust,
As we cycled the shallow mass,
As we raced with the light,
All desires seems clumsy,
When you cling by this lone heart.
They say we can't be together,
Their shallow concepts don't hold us,
For we are lost in this higher law,
For we are the savages reigned by fate.
This crash may never happen,
This tale may end in sorrow,
For this charge run through our veins,
For we won't live with chances,
So we ran with out might,
The stars of our own fate,
With all the speed we grew dim,
Till the dark gulfed us through.
Like a sudden flame, we crashed,
Our love flew through our bodies,
The time could have stopped,
But it was jealous of our sound glow,
Like an neutron star we faced the end,
Incapacitated and burnt,
We fade in this beautiful silence.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
forward forward forward
going somewhere moving forward
whether progressing or regressing
growing or unlearning
coming or going
living, dying
everyone believes they are moving towards something
and as everything happens all at once
each perceptive reality is entirely different than any other
and each consciousness travels, and does, and is.
each consciousness believes it has a purpose or a path.
the purpose is not to see into nor plan the future.
from the civilian to the hero tv shows and movies
have consistently glorified the ability to see visions of the future
generally this is followed by someone trying to prevent
the happenings in said vision from becoming reality
and distinctly failing because they "saw into" the future
that their own energy influenced
but the true super power is to be able to look into the past.
to prevent the omitting of details and data
to avoid a rewrite of our conscious interaction with this planet
not to white out the chapters that bear the truth in the textbooks
to recall history so it does not repeat itself
my question is then
do people disguise the wrongdoings of those hidden by the passing of time?
because they are ashamed of the mistakes of their ancestors pasts?
because they are ashamed of their participation in past consciousness's?
because they are ashamed of the atrocities humans have inflicted upon each other and themselves as well as their home planet since the beginning of recorded time here?
or do those who have the power to omit and hide history
purposely rewrite it?
do they mask the pains of the past so the rest of us will forget?
so that even they can forget?
so their next consciousness can unknowingly, while predestined,
have hand in crimes against the world all the same as committed in the lost past?
how many times has someone written these words
or a similar combination
only to delete the post?
burn the pages?
backspace the message?
stop themselves from speaking them aloud?
cover the symbols?
pass out of conscious living mid sentence?
lose them to a past lifetime?
how many times has this cycled through the same way?
how many times have I been me?
how many times have you been me?
how many times have I been anyone?
how many times have I been?
is there a rhythm or is it all as scattered and random
as the thoughts that bring you
to this kind of an understanding of the habit of misunderstanding?
the kind of thoughts that bring you back to the birds nest because you were too early for even the worm?
they will all catch up eventually
after all they all think theyre moving forward
and they don't even know where they've been.
they don't even know that they've been.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
The Cut-up cut out and cut down The Middle man then cut in while he and his date were dancing
He tried to strike up a conversation but struck out when she struck down upon him blows of reigning rejection
Now The Psychopath and The Sociopath are at odds
The Psychopath thinks The Sociopath is sloppy and his ideas have no longevity
The Sociopath thinks the Psychopath is just having growing pains and need to learn to live a little
The Psychopath was born into this, but the Sociopath was born onto it
The onset of calculated impulses
Contain yourself
Control yourself
Looking at it from an ethnocentric point of view
Entertain the idea that you may be the antisocial one
Humor me on this one
Would a smart person waste hard earned money on an "I'm with Stupid" t-shirt?
Postulate the theory that their are six degrees of separation
That you are a few hellos to someone who is a friend of a friend every way you turn
And that person may or may not rupture the cycled path you've been treading
Told to be prompt
To have good posture
To do regular pruning to our appearances and keep them up
But price and participation always vary
Is it a tad underwhelming or did I speak too soon?
Was it lost in translation?
It's called acorn theory
Not what you came with
Not where you came to
Or even where you come from
But what you came as
And will continue on to be
The hustle and bustle
Packing heat
Flexing muscle
In the big bad city
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.
Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’
She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?
Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.
‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’
She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.
The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...
© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Shall I march into the sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper asks.
The light is lit; the wind is wound;
I have no other tasks.
The rains have cycled fifty times
Since they last turned on me;
Shall I bar the windows shut tonight,
or march into the sea?
Who will find me lost at sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper thinks,
When shepherds turn their flock indoors,
And the barkeep turns to drink.
I am the lighthouse-keeper, but
I do not have to be;
They'll find another keeper when
They find me lost at sea.
And if the sea won't take me, love,
The lighthouse-keeper sighs,
No candle on my windowsill
Is watched by no-one's eyes —
No shadow's crossed my threshold's bounds
Since I was thirty-three —
With stones inside my pockets
Let me march into the sea.
Give me no pauper's funeral,
The lighthouse-keeper sings,
Though scant be the inheritance
You'll cobble from my things.
If my debtors come a-calling,
Tell them, forfeit every fee —
Or, if they are truly greedy,
Let them find me lost at sea.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:54 AM UTC
Warby’s brother died.
While he cycled like a madman
and fell down Smiths hill.
He lay dead on the cold tar,
as the light of the day
faded over his head.
Jen said the man from the car
cried,
and,
shouted at the same time,
(while dusty blood ran around his shoes.)
No ambulance came, no need.
The evening knew.
And so,
at that moment,
frost began and so did snow.
Remember:
The wrinkled cheeks of your
neighbours big head,
stuck in our window.
As she told us all, in silence,
bad news like a song.
Life was hard.
we were all untouched
and continued eating, checking phones,
not thinking much,
Harry warby, 18, now boxed.
He washed the blood and bones
From the floor of the butcher’s shop
gave us cigarettes in the black night
While we shivered in gangs around the streets
We never knew the name of the Man
The Man in the car, so silent in the church.
His shaking hands out of reach of the bible
We were not there we stood outside in the chill
Everyone knew a child had died.
Cars waited, mothers stopped, and
The sky looked like it wanted to snow.
I remember.
Kicking our way over dog **** grass
And broken glass and the rotten
Litter of poverty we wait in silence
For our time to live and escape the estate.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
I will never be able to eat a grapefruit again without thinking of you.
I remember when I used to hate that sour flesh
It made the sides of my mouth turn down
on their own,
biting into that bitterness and tasting its wicked juice.
I liked sweet things, the sweeter the better,
piled five packets of refined sugar into my coffee,
(they're tiny, right?)
sprinkled sugar onto my vegetables to make them go down better,
skipped dinner for dessert.
But you couldn't handle the sweet,
you protested every time
I tried to feed you a treat.
It made your stomach turn and your teeth hurt.
I couldn't understand it.
but the meals cycled on
like everything else we shared,
and slowly our tastes circled in from
opposite ends of the spectrum.
Nowadays,
I'll eat my grapefruit with a bit of sugar,
and you'll take your smoothies with a bit of lime,
And everything we share together will be sweet and sour
all at once,
The most beautiful flavor I've ever had.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Vicious black rage enveloped his eyes
Electric hate cycled through him
Naturally he resorted to the action he knew best
Graphically and meticulously he planned his revenge
Enhancing his weaknesses into strengths
Forward he went, ready for bloodshed
Undoubtedly he went for is first five on the list
Letting his cold vexation take over
-EC
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
He had been robbed of all character and individuality.
Once eyes had shone outwards, now white dwarf orbs shimmering from porcelain remained.
There was no excess whatsoever, nothing frivolous; his sinewy frame carried not an
ounce of surplus fat, nor did his attire serve any social function other than to cover his hijacked carcass.
He walked the streets anonymously, blending in like an instinctive chameleon, single mindedly rehearsing
the acts of the play that cycled through him.
Score. Cook. Nod. Kick. Relapse.
That was when I promised myself I'd never chase again.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Wow, I am such a loner
I am such a loner, wow
Internally, I’m a loner
Physically, I’m a loner when I choose to be
Which is often I suppose
Because you see, I enjoy the company
Of my own awkward silence
Our bones are composed of empty spaces
That are meant to be filled up by each-others words
You need to tell me whether you love me or do not love me
That is the only way to keep me from breaking in three’s
My ribs they are so fragile
My tiny body atop the sheets of your bed, so very fragile
Oh, but I don’t want to be whole
Shut up shut up shut up
Succumb to the glories of drunken cinema with me instead
In your mind
Come, touch my thoughts with your thoughts
Whisper somber poetry into my ******* with your soft chapped lips
I cannot forget the temperature of your body
Your hand in mine is a fever I refuse to sweat out
Medicine, medicine, artificial cure of wounds
I like the way bruises add sass to my skin
Wow, I am so pathetic
I am so pathetic, wow
I will never grow out of it
You will never grow fond of me
What a cycled misery
Baby, baby just walk away
Another rainy evening in the city
6 2 4 P M
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
It's happened again
cupid has cycled his laughing cast
Without discretion, displayed in viscous currents
One man finds a mate
through an easy game of chase the scar,
Lazy frowning and statued emotion
Her eyes sparkled in such a kindred flame
Artificially, just as the sad boy does
rebounding desperation on both parts
He as the hermit,with a minimal compassion
She played the role for all affection
Drove her half mad, cutting lonely
A last chance to see him to the dance
pupils strayed off, eating the smoke
For a couple months, I think, maybe more
Distance was death for the loving seperation
Caring is old, the premature pleasure maker
Chakra cats and Vampire disease
Chased with blood, drunk on a rhapsody
The girl dumped the filthy ****** baggage
Humbly fornicating with a more fitting fellow
Similar in grace and taste
Aspirations and dependence on denser levels
Red to black or black and blue
With a new foundation built
Companion demolition, scheduled for certain
Love sued the suit and Brothers close at heart
It's happened again
Cupid has cycled his laughing cast
Without discretion, displayed in viscous currents
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Dreaming seems to be a cycled reality,
dueling matters of vague interpretation
almost holding on to a fugue
state of delieverance,
that returns to dreaming.
A wakefulness that pardons our stressors,
exploring how sureness of changing tides
have arrived to wash the shore’s footprints;
turning salutations to a once cumbersom
slumber to keeping these eyes closed.
The mind never rests,
it continues to timely act.
Despite the character of one’s gait
submissive to extrinsic. We dream the same.
A neutrality in recognition,
the deepest desire,
the social matter,
and the human acceptance.
We rise to sleep
to deeply wake
the harden reality we failed,
to accept throughout our day,
removing our knighly armor and face
our dragons which have their own vices,
yet our devices hinder. Our true dreams,
blur between eyes closed
changing to dreaming with eyes open.
Realizing all true negatives are true
positives differing only from accepting
that I can vertically add difference;
we can all equate to change
if you keep dreaming in mind.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
If it is sunny in Europe
The Dutch caws of misunderstood will hallow my pestle and mortar skull to round tinnitus into song;
The French Fries will come with mayonnaise in a Bruges cafe,
Light lines tracing dust in cycled prose.
Light lines tracing medieval footsteps on a Roman road.
Bonjour, old world.
Mon nom est Kyran.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Blankly, fish-eyed
staring down the weighing scale
again the weight of her own
body pulled her under
to the cycled drug abuse
but since the pills begin to choke
gagging where once slipped through
melting her esophagus
**** and filled
****** scars scratched
live upon her bare bone arms
scorching the past upon her limbs
so far from what she wished was truth
Words, no longer will define her
for she has none she will ever call her own
only allowed to listen she endures
those flatulent and birding calls
fat is what she felt
anorexic is what she was
lips, chapped and dripping blood
from the biting need to learn to speak
with the human carnage she's begun to carve
in an attempt to shed the excess poundage
mirrored with each slice growing thicker
aroma's filled of steamed internal fluids
hacking away until her mouth is the only piece left
Has she begun to be thin enough yet?
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
'Good evening', as I come through the door
shutting out the noise and dirt that now gathers at my welcome mat
where I wipe my shoes and leave my feet.
Hanging my head on the hat stand I am home,
today's news is getting older in the paper under my arm,
print leaves it's imprint on my white starched
office shirt.
In the kitchen there are dead animals in the oven,
cooking amongst things from the ground,
bubbling and boiling,
mother natures bounty bought from sterile supermarkets.
Fresh air is packaged in re-usable cans
re-cycled, made into planes that fly over great oceans
and mountain ranges, deserts,
where Bedouin tents blow in the breeze.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
A RE-CYCLED boyfriend, with love like new
a re-cycled superhero fell from
re-cycled bedtime stories and re-cycled songs.
(I once sat next to an ex-lover on the train.)
On re-cycled cab seats and
second-hand dreams, to second-rate alibis
using re-cycled, bated, breathing breath,
the smell of re-cycled furniture
the musk, the dust
the re-cycled mother,
some second-hand toys for orphans of re-cycled mothers,
their re-cycled apartments touched by
re-cycled hands that hold
orphans and the world that is full of these things,
these unwanted things.
(No matter where you sit, it’ll always be next to an ex-lover.)
So we re-cycle, and then we’re like new again.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
In so doing exposes ribs, vulnerable to fracture, leaky marrow drains, what remains?
*Not the flesh, no not the flesh, only the towering white towers that will eventually turn to dust and be cycled through a cylinder smooth unisex creature that changes everything into dirt. Later on providing the food for the hand which will eventually get bitten.*
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
I died for you one time
But never again
You had saved me from
My life of sin
You had pulled me from the ground
Just to push me back down
I check my windows
Seemingly, it's safe and sound
But my night horrors check up on me from time to time
Speaking words that always seem to rhyme
Sharing creations from a poet that had a knack for gore
I wanted to stop but all I could think about meant more
I pondered how my suffering wasn't as bad
Then when we danced in the rain
And cycled past the sinking horizon
So I let the towers fall
And the chandeliers drop
I've lost my skills in building
Because, I have lost my muse.
I sit in sheets and start to fumble
I don't know what I am searching for.
But maybe,
Just maybe,
My head is awake at night
Remembering the space between you and I.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
Writing is a narcissistic practice.
What do we aim to accomplish
when we touch ink to paper?
Mark something down in eternity,
plaster our thoughts upon and into
being so that they may be recognized,
acknowledged.
Sort through them as we would
a scattered mess of notes.
There is nothing inherently wrong with narcissism,
no matter what people may have you believe.
I've once thought so,
cycled around to the present,
and, perhaps, will go full circle multiple times.
It is in our nature.
We think so much about ourselves.
The only constant is our thoughts
is their inconsistency
so we seek to immortalize them while we can.
We are not our thoughts;
we are the sum of everything within us
when our thoughts have settled and left and
we are empty.
Think your thoughts,
write them if you must,
then set them on fire.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 7:49 PM UTC
Cycled home after Mr Edward’s class
His stern face still vivid in my memory
Placed the end of term report card
On the dining table
Lost my appetite I hid in my room
Miserable....
mom and dad would be so angry
Dad called “ Christopher” my name as expected
He frowned he wasn’t looking so glad
Mom looked worried as she sat
Across the table...
Upset ...
“My intelligent boy,”
she said as she hugged me
What do you really want to be?
Extremely mad , dad told me to improve
And gave me a serious threat
“No more camping in the Summer for you”
My heart sanked, I shrugged and left
My angry dad, a manager of a shoe factory
Not at all an inspring job for me
I asked myself so repeatedly,
Am I meaningful to this world?
wish I could make my parents happy,
but it seems to be beyond me
school is a bore and classes are dull...
In Aylesworth Forest.....
Let me solve the puzzle....
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 6:28 AM UTC
A PAINTING NAMED ‘AN OLD BICYCLE’*
She cycled with me and we chatted so merrily
I was eighteen and she was sixteen
Down the hill and across the meadow so freely
The flowers waved to us--life was beautiful and pristine.
'I'll love you forever ' she did say
The words echoed through the air
But too soon after to a foreign land she sailed away
I wrote sadly in my diary--' Love is so cruel and unfair'.
Time opens up a misty past
Like a river life silently glided along
How many first-loves did ever last
Despite love’s first ecstatic song?
This painting touches my heart so deeply
But no tears fill my weary eyes
Old age is but compassion and sympathy
When the heart is sure and youthful passion dies.
* prompted by a painting posted in Linkedin
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC