"cyclist" poems
repetition
is never
more
than one
poem.
there’s no future
in this pill.
my mother’s head
is full of heads.
I haven’t a volleyball
in a pond
to **** on.
in the words of my son
a sailor is lost at me.
I go on correcting oddities
in the brain and in the muscle
of a jack
in the box
as a cyclist
champions
hunting mourners
to keep their numbers down.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 8:19 PM UTC
I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *********
with a heart made of silver.
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:00 PM UTC
The cyclist on his bike, fueled by sweat of curiosity,
Wondered
Wondered why it was that he could not fly
He thought therefore he became and on that bike of gold
He soared, the heavens a freeway for the blind
Finally seeing :
Earth is merely an elephant graveyard for the angels
The knowledge was a toxic pinball, corroding his insides as dust
He felt despair creeping like smog
(knowledge spoils)
Without thought or command his flesh imploded
Snapping like a boomerang at the end, the beginning
Of the universe.
And then he was a fiery star,
His bike of human mold cast down
(and sweetens)
Without restrictive ears he could comprehend
The slow mellotones of his fellow Fliers, Travellers, Stars
They hummed a warning to the man who was not
Of the hazards of thought
And the universe was silent again.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
How will one's feet dance to the rhythms if the gongs have ceased to pump the veins?
Are the hues of the palette enough for a leonardeschi art to transcend?
When your mezzo-soprano fails to hit, will your story still get heard?
Will a cyclist still pedal to savor the orange horizons without his friends?
Who will listen when the wrinkled fingers lay on the dusty piano?
Do these words still tell of a poet who once penned in flames?
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
And the cyclist said to the seafaring man that it was the best **** poison he had ever drank.
The seafaring man was uneasy, wishing that the cyclist would put the bottle down.
He had cautioned his friend in the past--
"Poison will **** you, you know. That's the very purpose of the stuff."
-- And the cyclist's reply had always been the same:
"Well, I've had two swigs, and it hasn't killed me yet."
Then three swigs, four, five....
"Yes," the seafaring man would press,
"But it makes you horribly sick every time. You've told me so."
The cyclist would give a peculiar look and say in a peculiar voice,
"I know what I'm getting in to. And it hasn't killed me yet."
Months later, the seafaring man left the cyclist's funeral either sad or disappointed.
He wondered if the death went down as an accident or a suicide.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
This morning gray skies prevailed,
an icy wind bit my face,
cold tears streamed down
as I pedaled along the deserted streets.
The few drivers who did pass
had no faces.
Perhaps they
were chilled,
crying,
felt a bit empty too.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Down fickle street
they ride jalopy's just for fun.
Hoot at the cyclist , gerrymander the Vue.
I spy grief hurtling down,
plume grey from the exhaust.
We're no wiser, no leaner
ingesting your worn speed pedals
bravo.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Deep blue spring night in my lungs
filling my chest with blossoms of content
Despite being down to poo-change
& back to shining headlights on my life again
Tonight seems right in every detail
the cyclist cruising by on tiny friendly lights
this huge gum stirring above me
a white haired couple with tobacco coloured skin
who have grown alike over more years than i've experienced
Tonight makes me want to walk with and towards good company
to nowhere in particular
And I am on my way
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
each bird has its own branch and i am alone now
in mid-february midnight desolation
under a web of stars white as salt and just as plentiful
waiting on the celestial cyclist to bring the dawn across
my face and scorch the cool wet grass
tonight the clouds are arranged like a chessboard
a cosmic design in darkness and light
and i am a crippled pawn meditating with
with my pants off and my naked feet
in the sand of a north florida crossroads
trying to lose my own gravity and merge
with the stars cloaked in maniac faith
and american sweat
i'm waiting to be found by a bush doctor
with my head filled and floating like a nitrous balloon
under a canopy of hi-frequency bats
and the infinite disco ball hoping
this mighty poem might expand
time and fill space
i am no longer a jail cell poet starving
and pacing like a goldfish in an orange jumpsuit
the miraculous sunbreak has touched my deepest cells
hypnotized my life and caught
the tears on the right side of my face
i am a bee trembling in sunlight
salute me
i hope there is a mild breeze today
to dance sensually with my drifter's spirit
and swirl blond hair and pure cotton against
the sky at the top of this abandoned railroad bridge
covered in rust
all the sudden i am singing radically
about overcoming cosmic humiliation
bruise-purple tongue unhitched and lilting
long throat curled up toward the sun
as the birds and deer stand dumbfounded in the clearing
the sound resonates in my gut as my big white
teeth slam together
in this devout moment among
my share of god's abundance
i am only approximately human
one with the smell of living trees
dancing on the salad hillside
big eyes birthed inside sunset colors
soaked in warm honey with toes
twitching above the imagined
fire at my feet
when the singing stops and
the sun goes down i melt
back into my own temporal lobe
caressed by a butterfly finally
able to sleep
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
Deep fried asphalt crawls beneath my wheels as I pedal on, pursued by buzzing flies
and salty drops of sunscreen sweat sting my squinting eyes.
Caffeine coursing through my corporal chassis fuels my weary legs
and mutes the screaming mind that wants the same respite for which my human vessel begs.
Be the road before me treacherous, the hills before me steep,
God heals my aching body every night with fitful sleep.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
I remember at the party
as blurry as it all was
when you kissed me through my tears
and startled me
I was angry
angry because I took the blame
for the tickets we all received
and you kissed me
I was too blinded by *** to see how romantic
and how sweet your gesture of sympathy
really was, objectively;
internally I was not ready, for reasons
unclear even to myself
(to sum,
I was young and dumb
and frightened of affection)
but even now, a year or two later
I think about your eyes, sparkling
and wired, intimidating and intriguing;
I think about your posture, your wit,
your cyclist thighs,
and wonder why I didn’t think
you were a catch of a guy
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
a cyclist avoids a dog
but takes out
a table
of garage sale
figurines
as a drought
pamphleteer
reprimands
a child
for *******
on a hose.
I haunt my faith.
according to my father
my father
isn’t alive my father
eavesdrops.
except for talking
he’s been silent
until
in pictures of her
as a young woman
his mother
is dead.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
"Good evening", said the cyclist,
It echoed in the evening mist,
I was baffled I never knew him,
The dark stranger tall and slim!
Before I could acknowledge
He was gone in the haze,
The unknown messenger of good wills
A roaming angel on two wheels!
"Good evening", I said on my way,
The passerby was baffled had no word to say,
In the silent evening of misty haze
I was happy to turn a new page!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
A cyclist in a purple turban and salwar pants
whizzed past us as we trudged up the steep hills
of Arlington, Virginia
His gaze caught mine
just a starry
flash in the bucket
wordless soul communion
that said so much
Do you know what religion he is?
queried my hubby, David
"Sikh...I think" still reflecting
on our brief exchange
David and I were in town for our niece's wedding
and also on vacation
enjoying the sights and plethora
of attractions that flourish in the capitol
city, Washington, DC
As I surveyed the beautiful capitol
abounding with lush gardens, parks,
magnificent magnolia trees and
fragrant pink and white crepe myrtle
I couldn't help observing the rich diversity
of people and cultures working and living
here
"Where are you from?" I asked our taxi driver
"I'm originally from Ethiopia,"
a waiter in a restaurant told us
he was from Morocco...another person from Egypt...
India...China and so on…
USA has a diverse topography
heavenly mountain ranges, verdant forests,
fruitful farmlands
span outward to luminous blue shores
The racial, political, cultural diversity of our
great nation is what makes us so
unique and special
It's in our DNA, and literally in mine,
a real melting ***
All Americans have one thing in common:
our thirst for liberty and freedom
These words from the Memorial of Abraham Lincoln
are brilliant with truth and timeless with love:
"I leave you, hoping that the lamp of liberty
will burn in your bosoms until there shall
no longer be a doubt that all men are
created free and equal." ~Lincoln
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
Have you ever heard in your mind
the sounds that silence makes
the silence that spreads like music
as in splendor a dewy morning breaks
silence that clings to a Florentine fog
as lone cyclist a cobble street snakes
the silence that hangs heavy
after a heavy down pour finally ends
or await with it for the moment
when heaven its pearly reward sends
they sound so different and surreal
like life’s ethereal myriad bends
the silence that weighty dwells
in wisps, rises from vacant eyes
the silence that fills to the brim
dole, of a beggar’s ripping sighs
silence that hangs like a sword
on fears of unsaid distant byes
silence o endless tormenting silence
you play on a piano’s dusty keys
from a chair that rocks in howling wind
on a lifeless verandah, distant sees
from a score of such like mends
wherefrom one has drunk to ones lees
it speaks no man’s earthly breath
yet heard in shattering numbness
in ache and blight so steeped
in rustle of a long gone worn dress
in raucous merry gay proceeds
or the mirth of a child’s bless
in the time of a frisky bloomy day
or gnaw of a long starry night
the lullaby of distant streaking trains
or the gondola’s reflective sight
the cavort of journeys done together
Echoes the hush of a soundless blight
original
saadat tahir
22nd July, 2k13
Islamabad.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
The winds of change blow the sands of time
In such a violent manner
They erode and smooth the scars
Left by careless pasts
Then cut deeper in new ways
New areas to be scarred
Like the 3-D mural of the
Grand Canyon, tattooed on my good friend's
Arm, which continually spat
The Colorado River as the tattooed member
Rested against the cold tile, draping over the
Side of the tub
The place my good friend gave up material want
For the spiritual punishment which she so believed in
And the winds of change blew the sands of time
Like a pumice stone scraping away
So-called offensive skin
As if an apology for being human
Acting as a cyclist backpedalling
To deny the cemented fact of what was done
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
The glimmer in his hair, those kaleidoscope eyes,
Isn’t he lovely?
With lustre and humid afternoons
We jumped on plastic sheeting
Till our cyclist’s thighs and drummer’s fringe
Ached for the next day’s meeting.
Yen for one such as you,
Sidled up in the overtaking lane.
A flashing red passed me by, mouthing
‘Mother and child reunion is just a song.’
And with that I wished for you,
Non-existent, imaginary you.
But for now, marmalade sticks together
A household of three companions
As we wait for our January highs
And commiserate November rains.
I’m the one of them who wishes
That she could sing Wonder’s song aloud
To you. Imaginary, non-existent you.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
Sid's Valentine Goodbye.
Valentine's Day - Sid woke up as
he had done for odd eighty years.
Hidden in a closet were her roses
and cheap card.
His thin ex-tuberculous wife was
already up, she had made tea,
laid the paper and opened the
windows for the stuffiness to exit.
Joe Loss was playing Moonlight on the
new thingy C.D and outside one
of the warders was moving about.
Sid kissed her on the cheek, lightly
but with feeling, presented his roses,
felicitations handed her the card,
she loved it.This was their sixty fourth
Valentine,
As usual Joan shed a little symbolic tear,
nothing too un-British and came to underline
her love for big Sid with another little kiss.
Speed cyclist, dispatch rider, Radar Sid
was on lazy boy with The Mail and char.
Paper open, tea untouched she gave him.
her usual restrained peck and realized.
He was still warm.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
For some, certain places
hold a rather mythic oeuvre
in our veins; they are seen as places of magic.
Maybe a cyclist couple
have spent most of their money
on traveling the world for their blog,
their last stop is New York City
so that they may get pictures of themselves
at places like The Brooklyn Bridge, Lady Liberty
& that megalithic skyline reaching the clouds.
Or maybe a foodie from Wisconsin
just wants to try Famous Ben's Pizza on the West Side
because its New York fuckin' New York pizza.
Maybe a doe-eyed screenwriter skips
his flat square suburban town
to sell his words and soul to the sprawling sunny L.A
where dreams are made in pixels.
Maybe some New Age beaded wrist to ankle lady
spent her life savings to jump over the ocean
to visit the ancient pyramids built for a purpose
yet fully known.
Maybe a bearded dude
visits Easter Island to try and understand
the complexities of his ancestors while
soaking in the rich vastness of nature around.
Maybe I used to see places this way. Probably...
But in these places people live!
It's not mythology to them.
Maybe every night a homeless man prays
& begs for food on the late night A-train in NYC.
Maybe a middle-aged fading blonde couple
spend their time in L.A at a health food store
to recoup the savings they lost joining a cult way back when.
Maybe a Swedish teen traverses the trash
and littered-burned streets of Giza everyday
on her way to work
hoping funny looks aren't shot her way
for the way she dresses
or shouted at by bearded Salafi men.
Maybe a rare species of bug is unknowingly stepped on
in Easter Island.
Today, i see magic in getting lost on the NYC subway.
I found magic mythology on the beaches of Dahab,
80 miles away from Cairo.
I see magic in the mythologies,
while others live it,
the daily grind.
It's all around if you know where to look.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Six a.m. and the morning leans
To kiss the night;
The streets are full of stars
And sleepwalking business suits
The citrus woman
With peroxide blonde hair
And peroxide blonde fingers
If she spoke I imagine it would sound
Like lemon trees and smoke
Her cigarette burns holes in the sky
But when she passes me by
She smells like the Boots Cosmetics Isle
She paints the yellowed-ivory
Of her finger-claws
With crystallised orange
To cover the nicotine stains
And maybe I think I recognise
My lemonade shampoo
And tangerine hand wash
Like a setting sun over Sicily
The beer can boy
With stuffed up hair
And a stuffed up liver
He’s grey like a November playground
Once all the children have grown
And he’s hole-punched right through
I might think he was heart-broken
And trying to see how many other lost souls
The bottoms of bottles hold
If he wasn’t here every morning
Lolling down the pavement
Like a spring stretched too far
Asking for a paper
That I’m not allowed to give
And trying to drown himself
In the pooled rain under the streetlights
The coat-and-cardie bundle
With wind-swept hair
And wind-swept grimace
Like a tornado tore up
The geography of her personality
And left it with just a bike and a death wish
And those features heaped together
Between chimney-tops and table tops
For consolation
Her feet on the pedals while her hair throttles
Because she’s unlit
Unseen, unprotected
And she rides like this morning is the last
As if she knows that skulls
Crack like eggshells sometimes
And handlebars are sometimes not in front of you.
If my Dad was here he’d see
A smoker
A drunk
A dangerous cyclist
But I see lemon zest and love hearts and black liquorish
After all I’m at home
Among these mistakes
That the morning hours make
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
I am ready to get on the cycle and ride
Feeling the highway breeze coming from the air in provide
Being tough with no disturb
But there are road laws including the curb
Cars, Buses and trucks, take notice
Observe cyclist style
Yes, watch me move on the highway while
I have a date with my own destiny
My arrival will be eventually
I am moving with grace
One would think I am in a race
The sleek motorcycle chassis
So this trucker wants to be sassy
I will show this trucker who this Motorcycle rider can do
The trucker deserves my highway skill test
If he fails, I could care less
My maneuver being savvy
Let’s see if this trucker has a load he can carry
The techniques I can do
The trucker simply can’t follow through
So I am dashing off into the afternoon sun
Being destination bound and looking to have fun
Sunset, my day will be done
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 8:59 AM UTC
I am never up at this hour on an ordinary day. Is this to be an extra-ordinary day? Pulling up I see 4 beers cans perched on the lower cement pillars by the water’s edge, remnants of an interrupted night before. The cans are still full.
It is almost perfectly calm but not quite. You seldom get a completely calm day in this windy prairie city. Slight ripples reflect the emerging light and make the lake dance and twinkle, a happy moment of day’s awakening. As the eastern sky lightens natural silhouettes take form. Birds floating in the distance, the far off shoreline, tree tops and buildings share the horizon. Water beetles break the surface with the larger ones exposing themselves with a flip, then down they go again. Lights on Albert Street Bridge and the Promenade make for a pretty picture on this late summer’s morn’. I click but will have to wait until later to see if they actually turn out good enough.
The birds begin to move around. Seagulls flying above catching slow to nest night bugs, other water birds start off on their daily trek around the lake, back and forth. A cyclist rides by and a man passes out for his morning walk. Both say good morning, happy to share this beautiful hour of the day with a kindred spirit.
It is a less than spectacular sunrise but that is okay. My camera batteries are dead now anyway. I will have to rise in the wee hours of another 24 to capture a good one and share it with you. Good thing tomorrow is another day.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
There is always the waiting
you hit the panic button
but should be used to it
by now,
biting your nails as if that
makes anything quicker
pacing the corridor wishing
there was more
than waiting.
I waited a long time for longer
and wrong of me
I see that now,
my bones setting as
hard as my face
getting
old,
but we learn by mistakes or
we mostly do,
a costly do nevertheless.
it's whether the planets align
some say with that penetrating
look
it's a sign
I'm still waiting for the proof.
So
and so is a good thing
it gives me time to blink
to think
of a rhyme
sometimes I wonder if that's
not a sign, but there's
always time to wait
and see.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
The light laughs and dances on his tongue.
A taste of summers gone and summers not prompt enough.
Beery boys in lunchtime queues, lightly roasted by an illusive sun.
The office boy, the lunch ladies, the cyclist zipped, bursting from his mac.
Here a moment, gone the next.
The schoolgirl in her dolly shoes, the old man in pause,
Mesmerized Labradors weave in and out of trees and anything.
“You’ve drop a pound, miss”, but the tunes of now, hum in her head.
A seagull glides, watching, unnoticed, unknowing.
The postman catches his reflection in the glass door, sighs.
On it’s axis, turning, the door spins and motivates, turning.
Tall crowds of too many, leaning ignorant over the homeless man.
“He just leaves in his own time” says the reception.
A bell, a call, then nothing.
All as empty as church, now that churches are empty.
While inside as drunk and ferocious as hammered church mice.
Sweaty, squeezed thighs melt into soft seats then, nothing.
Saturdays of singing, later shouting, “bread of heaven”,
Swearing to our god that London can hear us.
The same arguments, point after point, pint after pint.
Warm beer and the same conversation, it doesn’t get better.
But it doesn’t get worse.
JWS
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
1
Roses are asleep
under a calm autumn sky
night breezes drift by
2
Under the ocean
a hidden world of its own
beauty beyond words
3
Under the lamp-post
a woman anxiously waits
it is past midnight
4
Cyclist in the night
riding across a steep hill
no one is in sight
5
City bars are closed
the waiters are rushing home
it is two a.m
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC