"pedaling" poems
On the bicycle trail, a middle-aged
woman in spandex biking gear
had her bike flipped upside down.
I dismounted next to her.
“You need a hand?”
She kept her eyes fixed
on her bike wheel. “Why do I need
your help?” Her voice was filled
with contempt. “It’s only a flat.”
I didn’t respond.
Pedaling along the river,
I made the decision
to keep offering assistance.
Someday I’d need it.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
*Her prized first bike
came out of a breakfast cereal competition.
Then sped her around London
from lecture to final examination.
Twenty years on it was replaced
by gleaming white and black carbon.
Bought, lacking in memories
faster, lighter with a baby seat for Bethan.
Fitness, a priority this year
swimming in the pool, open water and the sea.
Clare selected a running coach
cycling home at an ever higher cadence for tea.
Happy, with her performance
in her very first event as a triathlon novice.
A second, saw Clare pedaling faster
to race past fellow competitors with ease.
In her last competition she was pictured lithe
on posters promoting reactive sports glasses.
Winning a new Felt racing bike, seats in the VIP stand
for the Tour de France finish and her fit lasses-ass*.
My congratulations dear hero...
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
Most of the time you make me feel like I'm a bicycle.
Steep, reckless roads. Dangerous with every twists and turns.
But with no reason I just keep on going; pedaling and pedaling until I reach you.
And when I do, The handle becomes my strength, the pedal becomes my direction, and the wheels become my feet.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Boredom churns broad-in-brain
competing with petty volumes of alcohol
(white Russian, 1, Magic Hat #9, 1)
for dominance of the summer's eve.
Unsure of which would prove the victor,
past-tense, too, filled with unknowing:
thought- and pedaling-process interrupted
by a traitorous bicycle;
a forward-bent-fork;
a fleeing, unbolted forwardwheel.
Fast-pitch forward,
eyes-wide but dead:
quickfall into void.
Then, wide-eyed horror:
awake again
filled with the horrible pain of life again
fueled, amplified tenfold
through the impact of the sidewalk.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
There, high aloft the flaming sky
Ablaze with the sun's intense heat
A boy, calmly, gaily did fly
The world a globe beneath his feet
The sky an eye of molten blue
The fields green blooming in gold
Of wheat and grains, the ploughman drew
Whilst calm ocean waves did unfold
And crashed against the mighty shore
Studded with rocks, and moist and cool
Where sat upon the golden floor
The fisherman near the dull pool
Trying throughout the weary day
Catch any fish, a meal to serve
His cursed stomach which growled fray
And twined in locks each of his nerve
And on that pool, a fearsome ship
With azure flags, a dreary mast
Most quietly, quickly did skip
The tremulous ocean waves, past
Stealing the food the fisherman
Yearned to catch but never did he
And Icarus flew higher than
His father had told him to be
Out of his thrill, his bliss, his joy
He tried to claim the sun, the skies
Only his tries made him the boy
To fall into his dark demise
And as he rose, he rose most high
He lost his wings, like bright the oars
Once pedaling throughout the sky
Melted away, he lost his course
And suddenly his feathers flew
Like pollen in the midst of spring
And down into the profound blue
He went on fast and tumbling
His cries for pleas were never heard
Ne'er spoken from his withered throat
And down just like an injured bird
He tumbled and drowned near the boat
What marvelous a sight as seen
A boy tumbling from out the sky
Ne'er the ploughman plowing the green
Did see him, he was left to die
Tumbling further beneath the brine
As Daedalus flew high around
“O, gods, where is the son of mine,
There is no sign, there is no sound
Of his warm breath, his lively beat
That chimed away in gaiety
Where did he go, did his end meet
O, what have you have done to me!”
And so he flew around, away
Fisher saw nix, the boat passed by
And life continued day by day
As Icarus was left to die
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air.
I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day.
Observing the comings and goings of people all around.
The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air.
The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials,
trying to recruit believers to his cause.
Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys.
They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars.
Strumming the air for all they were worth and
Jamming to the silent music in their heads.
Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns,
was the museum. My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day.
The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine day, Madam!",
as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.
And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door.
Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts.
Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass.
Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.
Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity. And then, again, opening the box
she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.
Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child
and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love
in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
Somehow he pulls along
He breathes
In his little width of life,
He gasps
In making that width
When moves flesh
That far outweighs
What he gets at the ride’s end,
Sweats it out in the sun
Splashes in the rain
A pedaling run
Joyless but gritty
That if can be made
Would fetch him his bread
From the rider in comfort
To the puller who transports
Mountains of loads
Knowing not to pause
Till drawn by fate
For a rest in sunset!
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.
Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.
I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.
Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”
In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.
“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.
“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
our journaling discipline
formed in six steps:
Narration
some warmup words
perhaps drawing or photo
pen now at ready
where we jump in..
Emptying
first we list
what's to be emptied
put it all down
pleasures and pains..
Removing
these are obstacles
label future and past
futilities recognized
we've trimmed our list..
Anchoring
with shorter list
peering behind entries
find lurking there
Light of the moment..
Listening
this is Creation
WE are creating
cleansing the old
Writing new birth..
Reflecting
mind now diffused
a Cycle made clear
a Voice was heard
new Narration appears..
***Now WE step
into our day
riding our Cycle
pedaling our Way...!***
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:05 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
Breezing past the seasons,
Ocean breeze releases.
Pedaling with our knees, us,
And our music blaring, see us,
See our smiles, you can read us.
The air is there to feed us.
He pedals on like she does,
Finding happiness is there to greet us.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 10:35 PM UTC
ashy shins sit above worn nikes
pedaling slowly, back and forth,
back and forth, as she calls out,
"hola," again and again to the
little boy who lives next door
she's waiting, and sitting still
isn't what she's about, so she
pedals, back and forth, back
and forth, back and forth
wide grins reveal missing teeth,
worn out tanktop bares prison
tattoos scratched into sagging
skin, i bet she was beautiful once,
but all that's left is a carcass now
she stops to light a menthol,
and adjust her head scarf, then
she's at it again, back and forth,
back and forth, back and forth
hummer pulls up with the rims
spinning, blasting biggie like
they just got free, front door opens
an inch, rolex hand reaches out
to give our girl the goods
nothing to go back and forth
for now, crack in hand, lips
wet from licking, she rides away
almost as high as she'll be
once she hits that rock
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
bye, bye, pie in the sky
I made a dream
I made you out of nowhere,
Out of the mountain snow and out of the air.
I was spinning your head
On my spinning wheels
Out of warm sunshine and out of cool moon beams.
For months and months,
I was spinning your head.
I was weaving your hair
Out of silky threads
For weeks.
Carefully pedaling my old fashioned,
Singing
Sewing machine,
I spent nights
Stitching adornments on your pockets,
Embroidering your cuffs.
Crochet crazy,
I crocheted laces for your sheer enjoyment
And for your windows,
Hooked on the crocheting hooks
Way up high.
I knitted sweaters
For your sacrificial lambs
Of colourful wools.
You are almost finished,
My just a dream, just a dream,
I'll let you go
With the African hot wind.
I am all done
With you.
Sorry, I couldn't hold on
To my golden
Knitting needles
Any longer.
(1-16-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:38 PM UTC
There's some pain in this. There's some growing up and moving on.
There's letting life go. There's endless cyclical comparison, I want to be like you, I don't want to be like you.
Here at the edge of the future there's fear so thick you can touch it.
There's a life borrowed. A bed borrowed. Friends. A bathroom, a towel, toothpaste.
There's a river and a racecourse and rowers and jealousy biting at the bone. Luck in sprinkles and saturation.
There's meeting the boyfriend, the housemates, the puzzle pieces of the past and the potential.
Somewhere there's regret. Of not being good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough, skinny enough.
There's some missing home and some glad to get away.
A deep breath and a scuba dive into a life that was only an expanse of water in the distance.
There's some letting me in, some sharing of stories, some secrets kept.
There's recollection, backward pedaling, basking in past experience in the invisible, unbearable weight of the years that brought us here.
Names remembered. Nights we'd rather forget. There's a newness brewing, promises of something else beyond this, just around the weeks that hold us back.
This year, plus this year plus these hours equals a key, opening doors, company cars and apartments.
There's a sinking. Right back to sixteen, to sleepovers and sleeplessness.
Look at us. We've wound our way here. There's pride. We made it from there to here, from somewhere to somewhere else.
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 12:48 PM UTC
You learned to play Chess
when I was eight.
I taught you the moves
and never again won.
You taught me so many things;
holding a gun with quiet aim,
pedaling with skinned knee,
to listen for Smoky baying at rabbits.
Your mind was your prize
along with your faith.
Both so strong, determined
I wondered how I could ever match up.
You showed me love
by sleeping while I flew.
Engine roaring, props churning
You showed me trust.
You never mentioned my fear
as we climbed towards the sun
and you cut the engines
turning plane into roller coaster.
Fearless, you drove, you flew
You believed, you focused.
No problem could stand
when your formidable mind took it.
You taught yourself
the language of machines,
writing logical instructions
creating structured beauty from radio signals.
Such a sharp mind
and a gentle soul.
I don't understand.
My sadness turns in my gut.
Your mind was your prize
second only to your faith.
Do the ruins of that once sharp steel
know what is gone, taken from you?
As you sit so quiet
on your narrow assigned bed
I feel a keen sadness,
pondering what you have lost.
I pray to the great
Power in the Universe
that is, was, and will always be
that I feel it more than you do.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
You could change the world.
You should.
Repeat this inauspicious comment to someone;
Age isn't part of the equation.
Even the youth may listen, may remember,
I should change the world.
You did. Some place, at a time unknown.
It's not so obvious as the Butterfly Effect;
Appearing subtly, less noticeable than
Pedaling into a velvet N-E Huron breeze
A walker feels on her wet lips
During a burnt Autumn stroll.
I changed,
And rocked the world
Of my loved ones.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 9:00 AM UTC
without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants still pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
without the humans
pedaling along like
ants following paths
the redwoods still stand
still and mighty and feeling
the faintest breeze and dampest
touch of the birds nestled between
branches
never moving unprovoked or uncaused
they wait for nothing because there is
nothing to a redwood but the earth and the sun and
the rain and the ants pedaling between grooves in her
hardened flesh, no wringer so efficient and wise *******
fallen water and moist air through the tips of toes and out into
the world above the wood ceiling so green and full and bourgeoning
life into the lungs of the moving types unable to stand still and breathe
and watch their god turn miracles by unspoken stories of growth and sheltering
persistence and resolve to manufacture life and color from dirt and water and air so
quietly respired
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Ow lover of roses,
I can't sweep through your phone
Because your phone is full of thorns
Ow lover of roses,
I can't sweep through your phone
Because your phone is full of thorns
I can't look into your screen,
Find eyes that are not mine; next to yours
Not in twine.
I can't look at texts and hearts
When hearts take us back to starts
Of what we had
And what we have
And what we will have
Is nothing but post modern art;
Little bits of writings
And rhymings that don’t rhyme because my heart cant keep a beat
And my beats cant keep up with your schedule.
Ow lover of roses
I can't see the red in your pedals
I just envision me pedaling away;
I can't see the red in your tender touches
I witness the tender touches caressing the redness off of someone else's eyes;
I can't;
See you and me in a room,
Talking about nothing
Yet infesting in void conversations about the nothingness of what we got
I can't;
See the tips of teeth when you smile
I can see the tips of teeth when you're truculent;
Trucks,
Exiting and transiting
Through my arteries
While I'm sitting
And spitting
Lame poetry
As you snap chats with shots of nonchalant lens-like tentacles,
Rapped round around the sound of dust
My heart is echoing
Following a path you've set.
Ow lover of roses
Cried the lonely man
In a so lonesome night,
As he looks at the stars and moon
Realize the missing lines
And the misinterpreted patterns
To pattern Saturn with Venus and Mars down to earth;
Proving pitiful love-like lures
Luring man since birth.
Ow lover of roses,
Roses in the shape of smarties or sandals
Or chocolate cakes with no candles
I cant handle,
The scent you send with roses that bend
To fall in my hand
And end up plucked in the end.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC
I walked in step
with that old guy
beside me.
Watched as he craned
his old neck around
at every
sweet smelling
beauty that passed us
by.
We stay that way for awhile.
Walking ,watching the parade of
hometown and home grown
beauty's walking,driving and pedaling
their way past.
For a few moments
I fell in Love.
And they all lasted
just long enough
to watch the different
versions of her blend into
the streets and vanish.
We approached some boys
sneaking left handed
cigarettes while sitting
on a wall half hidden
from the world beneath a
drooping
eucalyptus.
A tall boy rose his
chin to me as his fist
went into a ball.
I smiled as the Old Man
and I continued on.
I casually tightened my grip
on the pistol in my pocket.
But I had already
decided to let
this stupid young
boy grow into an
idiot of a man.
I caressed the
warm pistol inside
my warm coat pocket.
I felt the idiots eyes
burning into my back.
The brave Bull Fighter
came to mind
and the idiot beast
whose craving for
the flag of
red draws him to his
doom.
Cruel I've been along
my way,
the slaughter is what
stays with you.
All the rest
was just
time spent in
passing.
The old man
who finds me
when I'm unsure and
afraid,troubled and
out of drugs and searching for
reasons to continue on shook his
grey head as I looked his way.
I did what I always do
at the sight of him.
I laughed both to myself
and at myself.
Once that started the Old
man got to laughing which soon
turned into coughing.
Then like we always do,
we took the briefest of
moments and said our good byes
with our eyes.
Two sets of the same eyes
both witnessing it all
together.
One set reminding the
other of how much longer he has to be
here.
I secretly thank
him and he always
reminds me that I'm not
going any where any time
soon.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
I find myself in a coverless Italian summer.
Grass browned. Skin freckled.
I find myself impatient,
no longer willing to entertain
the destinies of the salt and sea.
I edit video of you in a cobbled basement.
There's a knowing look that lasts four seconds.
I split it into six fragments and set it in reverse,
an unknowing, a deletion.
The crook of your neck
and shoulder blade. The red of your hair.
Some nights I hang from the rails. Five minutes.
Ten. And pull myself up.
Tented and mad by August,
stabbing ice with a little
black cocktail straw.
How can I change my
How can I love my
How can I erase my
body?
The rains wet me.
The wind wrings me.
This city we used to walk
under streetlights.
Now I bike through,
pedaling, furious and blind,
toward a place I don't know until
I arrive, and I kiss a young woman
who looks a lot like me. I ask her
to say my name over and over.
I want to fully occupy the moment,
the space, this time. Her lips
remain closed and her
hands linger on my shoulders
and no music plays and
there are voices, loud and
happy, speaking a language
that's completely new.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
please teach me quantum mechanics and the way particles of light move through space
i am begging you to lecture me on your views of hedonism, nihilism, and every kind of-ism you can think of
grab me by the hips and pull me in close,
lean in and let me feel your hot breath, and kiss the tales of all kinds of fiction stories onto words on my neck
i want to be taught every kind of thing i dont already know
and well versed in every type of poetry out there
allow me to digress, if only momentarily, the gravitational pull of the situation at hand
my heart is aching in a different form tonight
my thoughts move from place to place
just like an indecisive snake
the dawning of not achieving expectations
of where i want to be
if only modest ones
have calls to action
not beautiful, where do i go from here?
i have stored up hatred among the jarred feelings i cannot express
i cannot even admit them
to myself
i recognize that i feel a certain way but i do not accept;
this method of expression is my sole form of ventilation
i’m shouting out into the skies,
pedaling on my bicycle
i cant find my feelings anywhere
they arent where they are supposed to be
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
Daily,
Anna Tole
rides by me.
sitting up straight;
pedaling awkwardly.
she looks down:
maybe at the dirt
or a stone,
but it’s most probably
something i cant see
with glass eyes
alone.
she sees things…
like a seed taking root
or a nest where foxes
chew rocks
in constant costly pursuit
of that elusive sharper tooth
clouded. constant. clarity.
she looks closer
to see grains of sand
much darker
than her pre-disposed
pre-dawn
darkness
the kind
that attaches itself
tangled up behind her
she might as well be
tying soda cans
to tap out a
telegraph message
s.o.s…s.o.s…s.o.s…
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC
did you see him,
the stranger,
coming
crotch rocketing
down your tree lined street?
did you see the child
his sandy hair splayed
by his own journey
flying through the dusk
pedaling his bike pell-mell to eternity,
or the end of the block
where his father stood akimbo,
talking soccer, while mother
washed the windows of her SUV
did you recognize the whine
of accelerating RPMs bouncing
off the safe houses,
the cleansed castles
where time’s dust was chased away
by growing mutual funds
and manicured hands
before it had time gather
as dust ultimately must
did you see him
coming
to spoil your story
with a mangled pile
of flesh and Tommy Hilfiger
so far from the desert bombs
your labors paid to build
did you hear the sound
of your own breath when
you ran to see
or did the screams
of all the mothers
of all the stars
awaken you from a dream
did you sleep that night
without the sight of white death
in the fields of suburbia
far from where blood
was written to be spilled
by darker skin under blackened skies
forever invisible to your eyes?
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
I sit on my lawn chair facing the west.
Watching a squirrel tend to her nest.
Bright glowing gold is burning up the sky
Sun so bold it you can’t look at it with your eye.
Dry curling leaves skip across the street
Tapping and tossing they dance around my feet.
A whisper of smoke speaks softly to the air
Telling a story of autumn that is special and rare.
Nature’s paintbrush splashes, streaks and twirls.
Turning pale clouds into bright brilliant pink swirls
A man on his bike just rode swiftly by
Pedaling on quickly, he bids farewell to the orange sky.
This warm November day is just about done.
Soon cold and clouds will slip past the sun.
The darkness eases into the day as shadows grow tall.
A black velvet blanket will soon dim the orange ball.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC