"handlebars" poems
The heat,
The way it ripples from the steel handlebars
And burns my hands,
The way the clunking of the chain feels
As each pedal propels me forward
Beneath the sun.
The sky is blue,
The air is crisp and leaves pinpricks
On my skin,
Soothed by the tenderness
Of sun rays that fall like curtains
Upon the concrete.
It smells of rubber,
A lingering scent of nostalgia
That fills my lungs like tar
And fills my heart with youthful
Thoughts.
As the wrinkles emerge,
And the delicate cracks begin to show,
I realize that my bike
Is the last memento that
Resonates through my aging ways.
Let's take a final spin down the boulevard,
Before the sun goes down
And my bones ache once more.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Mine was carbon fiber
with Campagnolo gears
it had ramhorn handlebars
and I rode beyond all fear
Until I hit loose gravel
just around a bend
downhill at full travel
and I went end over end
Now I ride a cruiser
with a basket and a bell
it's got a loose cupholder
and riding uphill is hell
But it gets me where I'm going
and it's healthy for my scars
it makes me feel like I am soaring
when she is on the handlebars
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
This probably isn't what they are called,
And I can't think of the elusive word,
But...I really like bike bells.
You know the ones!
The little diddlydoos on the handlebars of a ten-year-old's bike.
The ones that go
*bbbBBBB
RRRRRrrrrr
iiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIII
NNNNnnnnnn
ggggggGGGGGG!*
God, they're my favorite.
Because, you see...here's the thing:
When you were a ten-year-old,
Riding a bike to some friend's house your mom didn't approve of,
Did you ever bbBBrrIInnGG the bike bell on your bike when you were upset?
Of course not!
Bike bells are a child's way of telling the world,
"Guys! GUYS! I had a really good day!"
And it makes me happy to know some little kid is so joyful they can't help but bbBBrrRRiiIInnNNggGG all the way down the street.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
I like being underwater because it reminds me
of a different world.
Like the rim of the atmosphere, or the inside of a womb
where everything is slippery, even the past, and all
I can remember is the air in my lungs.
I like being underwater because it reminds me
of when you held me above the water as a child
that time we walked too far past the ******* and could no longer touch.
You hoisted me up on the hips that birthed me and
beatering your legs you struggled, your hairline trimming the surface
so I could breathe. And when we finally swam back onto the ridge you panted to the rhythm of the waves. Looked down at me and smiled,
“That was fun, wasn’t it?”
Fingers interlocked on the way home down the beach, where
bare feet walk on wet handlebars in the morning and footprints are flooded at night by the moon. The ability to erase but mostly
I like being underwater because I am made of water. And so are you.
And the ocean surrounds me with the salt of your last breath
felt stroking my cheek with weak, small hands waving goodbye.
You were so small and
the water is so big, yet when I’m under,
all I feel is you.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
I know we all
love perfect geometry
so there I laid
making sense of the scene
staring at the machine
resting incomplete
and knowing- it needs me;
I am the missing piece
But then I wondered
which part would I be
resting above the bicycle seat?
crunching the cogs-
and hogging all the good teeth
but no-
instead disguised in the frame-
-in the open triangle-
-under the icon-
-under the handlebars-
-a part I don't know the name-
but the one trying to make ends meet.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck's seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.
The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots
The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.
That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.
Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don't mind.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Generous coasting of the west coast
leaves me tangled in roots from roads
intersecting with waves surfed by
long blond-haired beach bums and
babes who pant at a muscular man
that pushups on the boardwalk
next to towels drying on the
handlebars of my bicycle.
I ride and ride and ride
through weather thought to be
unrideable by most cyclists
even if million-dollar-prize
tempted them at the finish line
and a set-for-life sponsorship
was promised to any and all
who could fight through the storms
of what I stoically battle.
No gear or goggles,
just legs of toned steel from
nights spent heating them over
a log-lit fireplace on spit
while keeping intense conversation
with lover across my gaze
until she escapes unexpectedly
into dreams, unaccompanied by me.
My legs are on fire,
no rain can extinguish them
and no slick roads
will stop my going.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
Initial day at uni.
Took a little stumble.
As down the road I rumbled.
World of study.
Well thought out.
Off my bike I tumbled.
Over the handlebars.
In front of the cars.
A not amusing somersault.
It really wasn’t funny.
My humerus, got broke
Not at all amusing,
Certainly no joke.
Not a funny bone to break.
University was no ball.
Off to uni.
Arm in cast.
In front of the others.
What a giggle.
Trainee nurse in pyjamas.
Battle of the one armed fly.
Impossibly undone!
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Greased wheels, I knew you once.
I loved to balance like a child.
Roaming the paved streets; riding is like flying.
I knew you when the store held you back.
I chose you from behind handlebars with purple streamers.
Your tires silently carried me to classes,
each brake stop signaled that we were close to our arrival.
I sat on your worn black seat like I was on a throne of sorts.
Even though that seat is tattered with one rip on the side,
all I saw in you was my own **** pride.
Spokes, I knew you once.
I played your tune each journey that we went on.
No hill was ever tall enough, no road was ever too bumpy.
Gears, I knew you once.
Click, Lock, Click
sometimes you were tight and never let me ride
sometimes you were loose and my feet went flying ‘round too fast for me to catch
what you were doing.
I knew you once, when time was young.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
And god sent forth his most beautiful angel
in order to help me clear my head.
But I ripped her halo off and ***** her instead.
And the devil sent forth his most cunning succubus
in order to make me drop dead.
But I held her horns like handlebars when I took her to bed.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
the little white basket
with the pink and yellow daisy
bobbles along,
as the streamers on the handlebars
flutter in the wind.
"wheeeeeee!" she cries,
and i am ashamed because i forgot -
it's supposed to be fun.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
Balanced at the gravel margin
of the road, veiled in grey and blue,
his hands are ****** loose around
the bicycle’s white handlebars
in equipoise below his beard’s
feathered fringe. His threadbare jeans
ride up and down at the knees
with the turning of the pedals,
effortless as air. He shows the world
a look of grave surprise, it seems to me -
presents it to a land that never was his own,
but one that he is only passing through.
Roadside cottonwoods and maples
shield him from the skimming sun,
and overhead a skein of Canadian geese
call and call.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
A smooth head tilt toward the sidewalk,
he gently gestures for us to cross
When ignored, he snaps a bent leg into place
as naturally as he's attracted to men
soft, intelligent eyes glinting through his rainbow helmet
His cycle stutters like he did when asking Jason out,
breathing out life like he breathed out "I love you",
a mustang anxious to rear up and gallop
He soothes the handlebars with steady palms,
then unleashes his bike's power
as soon as we're safe
on the other side,
off to meet up at a romantic café
with a man named Peter Ryde.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
the story of the mechanic's hands that only knew how to break things
starts small and quiet
a feverish night in june
reaching out for the first time
in balled up fists
then palms opened to the world
in demand
then, pressing into linoleum
then, gripping the handlebars of a bicycle
then, wrapped around yellow number 2 pencils illuminated by fluorescent light bouncing off white brick walls
then, for many years, nothing but the cold metal of a rusty wrench
i said, i like your filth
teach me how to be grimey
you're only allowed to touch me with dirt underneath your fingernails
i said, i'm young but i know what it's like to be covered in black grease
these hands have touched many
held onto some
left none clean and pure, or easy on the eyes
in their calloused glory, lifting the pleated skirts
two parts of a whole that's only purpose was to destroy
i wonder in the time i have spent
hands under sink
body in bubble baths
fingers down my throat
purging a gasoline stained, black grease, mangled-with-wrenches childhood
were the mechanic's hands pressed together in prayer
did they ever get scrubbed clean?
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
*On horseback, they chase you,
But you are light and you are gaining distance. On horseback, they chase you, and you laugh along with the hoof beats.
Your smile catches sun, and you have never been scared of bullets.*
I wanted to remember your smell
Even after we stopped having
Anything to talk about
I wanted to remember how your
Skin shivered, warm and desperate
Even deep into my dreams
There was a day when you rode on my
Handlebars and we moved like
Water through canyons
There was a day when we traced
Each other's shadows as big as
Gallows in the dust
I keep having this dream of the spring of 1887: I go out to bring the cattle in, but they are all dead. Frozen to death. And floating down thawing rivers. I keep having this dream of Bolivia: we are cornered after robbing a payroll and I am glad you are not with us.
The last thing I remember is your smile catching sun
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.
I took my camera and checked up the lighting,
as I wanted the picture to look 'natural' and 'candid'.
A cameraman rushes to her to click a picture
as he is a magazine photographer searching for stories real.
I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.
I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.
I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.
I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.
I swiped from filter to filter
selecting an 'aesthetic' one.
She drinks the pitch-black liquid,
they tell her is water,
without even demanding for 'cleaner' one.
I finally edited and made a perfect picture,
with my wide grin sealed with a gloss,
And the cameraman too asks for her to smile for once.
She with her deserted lips forms a curve that makes the cameraman frown.
He deletes the picture from his camera
as it would be disliked by all,
It got 1.9k likes,
The picture I posted on the internet today.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 1:10 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
If they have them on Handlebars and steering wheels,,WHY aren't they always there when YOU need them Most?? {grips ,you know, those things you hold on to}... If Grandma Elizabeth was always telling me to say "Stand behind Me-satan",,,How come I'm always turning around and looking for him?? I'm sure glad Water was made just the Right thickness and AIR just Light enough ,to **** it in,,Aren't YOU?? Hunger, it sure has a way of "just-Keep-on-showin-up",, It sort of Nags at you,Tugs at You. Urges You on, Leads you to seek it's satisfaction...Is there anything else in Life that Behaves in Just about the same manner?? Why does it seem that all the things That are Bright and new Right now,,can"t be seen as what they really are,,10 years from now?? Should we buy only 10 year old things,,or even 19, just to be safe,and Paint Past pictures of them on the walls of our mind?? Funny Thing about Clouds,,some are Wispy and Signal WIND AHEAD,,,some are Full and DARK to signal the oncoming storm,,Some are Fluffy and light, moving ever so slowly, announcing the Gentleness of the Day.. Have you tried catching one Lately and feeling it's very existence?? Who WILL JOIN me in cloud flying,,a GIFT from THE "ONE IN CHARGE"....
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 4:55 AM UTC
My dad’s unwilting enthusiasm
does little to reduce my anxiety
actually quite augments it
as I try not to hit the pavement
I am only 7 but feel very responsible
not only for the things I do,
like cutting the roses from the garden
and having my mum get mad
but also for the things I cannot do
like grabbing the handlebars assuredly
and keeping the bike under me
trying to perform some kind of conjuring act
Lowering the seat does help, feet now firmly on the ground
with loose elbows and a light grip on the handlebars
I close my eyes and, lo and behold, now I am a ballerina
swirling around like in a satin-lined jewelry box
My reverie is soon interrupted by my dad’s gentle voice
I tell him I did the splits, even touched my toes
“Seems like you don’ t wanna ride,” he says
with eyes of blue, a hint of a smile
I can still hear his voice in my ears
“Don’t try to do things you don’t like
just because anyone can do them”
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
I sit at my dimly lit desk
Gazing at an aged and dusty photograph.
My father leans gently on the seat of his favorite bike
Loosely gripping the handlebars with his thickly gloved hands alike
He wears a big, warm jacket
Patches of melting snow spot the ground
And a shiny Cadillac sets the nineteen sixties scene around
Life seems so simple here
No anger fills his russet colored eyes
Creases of middle aged worry and sadness vanished without a trace
Nothing but a young and bright smile upon his face
Father, how I wish we could be friends
For into this photo, I stare
And recognize the youthful face that I now compare
The same smirk
The same face
The same obstinate and hard-working person
So if we’re this alike, why does our relationship only worsen?
Time is quickly withering away like the petals of a fragile red rose
And now it’s time that we open our eyes and see
We aren’t so different, you and me
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
Ritual is not specific to any race, ethnicity, culture, way of life or person.
Tradition, if not engrained and present, is despair.
I remember moments in youth:
pungent, exultant,
bike riding sand castle building,
good old fashioned fun.
I remember some moments of ten to fifteen years ago, I remember moments from 6 to 7 months ago.
I've forgotten some.
I opened, read, and placed the money aside
from graduation cards. I was surprised when I opened a card
received from campus ministry leader with no money, only a sweet note.
I counted the money happily, twenty dollar bills, fifty dollar bills, seventy-five dollar checks.
I checked my text messages, every seventy-five seconds
and heart skipped, slipped a beat when my mother calls and says
she's driving to Canada, she's got to get a way.
Really she's locked herself up at the Econo Lodge behind Big Boy's
only, approximately, eight minutes away.
And we drive up, and she presses her face to the motel window, door locked secure, and I press my hand up to the window.
But she won't let me in.
She consumes, she consumed.
But she wouldn't let me in.
When I come home from my first year of school
I will tell her
I am an actress, too.
I know some folks.
They sink down.
Sinking dirt into the ground,
landslide and erosion.
Buildings, structures depressed and falling in.
Make yourself bigger, I advise.
Open your eyes, blink quickly between the palms of your hands,
face a window, if it helps.
See the light.
Did you see the light? I did.
Repression,
hold.
Hold.
Keep holding,
hold on tight to your bike handlebars.
Hold on to the straps of your book-bag until
your elbows cramp up stiff.
Hold on to your blankie,
rub it all over your body.
Inhale,
do not suffocate.
Exhale,
and feel good and bright.
You've done something good for yourself.
Feel good about that.
You've just brightened up your whole house.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC