"pedalling" poems
In a museum, or forgotten barn,
A small red twelve inch two wheeler
Hangs on invisible wires,
Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust.
But Tannehill rode it once,
Like something in a dream.
He was too long-framed for it.
He controlled it, rounded the corner,
Pedalling hard down the sidewalk,
Across the street from our new house.
I gawked from the front yard:
He was a boy with his bike,
Like *The ****** on T.V.
It was the first I learned to ride,
And the falls were magnificient,
On grass or asphalt.
Girls' bikes were easy,
One size fits all.
Then I learned to pedal
Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'.
Push the pedals,
Shift the midrift, and be gone.
Always from somewhere
To somewhere else,
Far from the soft front lawn.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
He almost let out a sigh of dismay,
Knowing this stint would be short lived.
The common sense in his head seemed to say,
"No one could be this lucky, don't have yourself deceived".
His wheels wobbled and shook; squeaked and wailed,
Under the collective weight of the two.
Screaming threats from worn bearings that ailed,
He did not want to appear weak so his legs pummelled on through.
The ease of cycling was only temporary
He pedalled harder to gain more speed.
Then the ground began to slope gently
His lungs felt like bursting as he pounded his iron steed.
The journey uphill had been more laborious than he had expected.
All the while, the beauty hadn't uttered a single word.
His mind had drifted off even though he was worn and ragged,
The thought of emerging as a couple seemed less than absurd.
The crest of the hill was a cool, long anticipated welcome.
He could finally ease up on the pedalling.
The view from there was nothing short of handsome,
The downhill would take charge and he could catch up on his breathing.
The wind met his face and whistled itself tuneless.
The bicycle rattled as it rolled down the uneven trail.
He felt a sense of flight, there was an air of calmness,
Almost had forgotten about the quiet guest on his tail.
At the bottom he thought he should check on his passenger,
He looked ahead as he addressed the lady.
When he had expected an almost immediate answer,
No response came, despite his calls for her repeatedly.
He pedalled with little effort as if there wasn't added weight
The bicycle slowed down to a clearing where it was dim.
Fatigue was setting in as the night stretched late
His curiosity won the battle and got the better of him.
He stopped his bicycle and maintained balance with his feet,
He twisted his torso so he could speak to his fare.
The moment he did so, his heart had almost ceased to beat,
To his horror, he found that the lady was no longer there...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
Bike
tryke
unicycle
Pedalling
with both feet
and no hands
-gaudy helmet
for safety-
Still inevitable
the blackness and
scratches of
pavement
Ride or die
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
He motioned for her to take her place on the back.
He braced himself steady as she slid herself onto the rack.
Once she had settled, he handed her his gunny sack,
He told her keep it safe as he tackled the offbeaten track.
The night was quiet, save for the crickets chirping in unison
Hiding behind the clouds, the moon gave out a dim ominous glow.
The tapper finally felt a tiny sliver of trepidation
He wasn't sure of the outcome, that night would eventually show.
The whole time, he was thinking in his busy little head...
He tried to devise ways to thwart this playful, mischievous being.
But those thoughts of his were quickly derailed instead.
For her perfumed presence was very much intoxicating.
Soon they had arrived at the foot of the hill
He hastened his pedalling to meet the uphill slope.
He would have continued slamming on the pedals until...
He felt her hand on his shoulder clench into a tight *****
He tilted his head back towards his beautiful passenger.
In a calm manner he mouthed the words asking, "What's the matter?"
Her voice came right after in a nervous stammer,
"Would you mind slowing down because last night this was where I had fallen over..."
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden
beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother
you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out
their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not
you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked
don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you
wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said
don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails
he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading
don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother
a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back
toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side
in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind
me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said
where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said
climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off
her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted
with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow
at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off
along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane
between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up
her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping
the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life
her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind
in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down
the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed
then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks
she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree
and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge
and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright
and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?
she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world
you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said
holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises
at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you
beside her
no you’re not
you said
nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said
bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are
you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire
out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica
nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed
and opening
and closing
her arms soft
and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion
like wings
her hands flopping
above her head
her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance
and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
In the morning
before the day gets too distracting
your piano’s at its very best.
Say Hello! to it with a scale or two.
Nothing quite like the harmonic minor
(in contrary motion – 3 octaves please)
to get its hammers hammering,
the pedals pedalling, and those
black and white keys
to skip under your fingers.
Bach today or shall it be Brahms?
Gershwin maybe, or just a little Grieg?
No matter what, they’re all your friends.
Nice people composers, no trouble to anyone.
All they do all day is sit in their studios
and dream about music.
Sometimes they write it down,
carefully,
measuring every note and rhythm
for your piano to play
before the day gets too distracting.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
When you have low serotonin levels.
When you have low serotonin levels, exercise has never been more important. Unfortunately, all the shaking from said unknown anxieties doesn’t count. So instead I usually find myself on a bike pedalling furiously away from all my problems. Or I slip on a pair of sneakers and sprint away towards the greener side.
When you have low serotonin levels, sleep has never been more needed. Sadly, this doesn’t seem to come easy for someone like myself. For some unknown reasons, I can’t get my eyes to shut. I can’t turn my brain off and my thoughts run wild.
When you have low serotonin levels, coffee has never sounded any better. Coffee seems to cause my shaking to simmer when for most others it would go out of control. Nothing too sweet, just enough to trickle down my throat. Afterwards, it’s like the fog has been cleared. The best of course is shared with friends on a cobblestoned street in Europe. Watching people pass by with smiles on their faces.
When you have low serotonin levels, music has never been more relaxing. Suddenly, all the thoughts are drowned out by someone else’s worries. Instead of my foot bouncing anxiously up and down from nerves, there’s a beat. If you can give me music to listen to, then you can hear the beat of that rather than the non-rhythmic beat of my anxious feet.
When you have low serotonin levels, friends are the light in a world full of shadows. They allow me to laugh and smile. They are what push me to not be afraid. I talk to them, and suddenly I’m more myself than I have been in months. I’m laughing, I’m smiling. I’m making jokes. When I do cry, I have them to lean on. And I’m forever in their debt.
When you have low serotonin levels, optimism is key. You have to believe you see. Try and wake up and smile. Love yourself and those around you. Laugh until your stomach aches. Cry until a small river has been made.
These are the thoughts from an anxious worrier.
And I don't want to tell you. I don’t have to tell you. Things could be different and I could be somewhere else. But no. Instead I am here.
I don’t want to have to tell you. But maybe you should know.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
Little girl on a rusty bike,
riding through the streets in light,
throwing papers for front doors,
greeting folk glad to the core ...
pedalling in a town in peace,
riding joyful with great ease.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 8:58 AM UTC
Mother Nature is a nihilist sitting with friends
Around a poker table in the dew drop inn
Playing Nasty Canasta and the loser draws a limb
On a voodoo hangman, the cut of her kin
The high-wire committee say she’s way out of line
So they’ve sent in a crack-team of their most earnest faces
To blow 40 shades of blue, red and lime
From the very corridors our Mother paces
She croaks through the smoke “the first sons a novelty
The rest are just relics of muscles unclenched
Too smart for their own good and that doesn’t bother-me
But the reaper is hungry and hustling for rent”
Lackeys line the lawn, flunkies on fleek
To cover the crack of her chunky cheeks
“To stake lives may well seem immoral and bleak
But to play for cash prize seems horribly cheap
For a Lady of her esteem”
But the crowd spoke, she hung up the wardens trunchbull
Left the skeleton key within reach of the cells
“They’ve aired their opinions and I’ve had a cunt-full
Let the hungry ******** impeach themselves
I’m sitting this one out”
“And I’ll hide, while my dead snake wriggle persists,
On Elba with hairy pits, freckled wrists,
Openly practicing romanticists
And other hapless things that can’t exist
In these times”
Every second Sunday, the search resumes-led
By a dawn-chorus of confetti festooned-plebs
She can dance the devils limbo cos she’ll not be presumed-dead
While we’ve Holy Grail Package Holi-vows to renew-said
The green eyed usher on the door
The newsstand screams “Mother Nature was a fascist
Sher natural selection was the **** manifesto”
And they’re pedalling placebo to the shell-shocked masses
While the editor shoehorns a scotch into his amaretto
Yeah the world has been orphaned and the orphans smothered
But go easy on her sordid soul cos that’s our mother, after all
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
We thought of us today as single cells
'Ciliating' across the universe of colour
under the coverslip of time; a microcosm
of pedalling plants or fettuccine of cells.
The hues of darkness are pink and bright,
in beach slippers tracing paths on glass,
and those springing Vorticella are flowers
we created in our fictions of science ...
But all possess a veneer bound
cytoplasm of affection, crawling like
Annelids across the void in a world
bursting in avatars of the invisible
or their transparent real selves
glowing like gemstones in the sky,
or simply opaque as we are, each
to the other under the play of light,
polarized views secreted within some
dark muddied pond, harbouring
the cells of love, shedding cuticles
of sorrow, laying the germ of tomorrow
or funneling delight in little green globes
that make food ... are food. We must be
blessed to be cytoplasm like them or cursed,
I don't know which, but it's all profound.
May 2, 2021
May 2, 2021 at 8:37 PM UTC
I can still see Stan pulling his hair and
off there to the right, Oliver with his,
I can never remember if it was a bowler or a pork pie hat, but I kinda like that, like the haziness of a memory that comforts me, it's a
part of the comedy of growing up.
Once, like I was two or maybe three an eternity ago, on a trike, pedals and a bell, pedalling like hell was on nmy trail,
but
the word constituent, constituant, ringing in my head, must have repeated and said that word for hours and hours.
Mum Said, i had ABC, well that's waht it sounded like to me,
acronyms, CIA, RAC,CBI,
I went to the citizens advice bureau
the CAB, WHICH
if I really had OCD, would be the ABC, BUT YOU SEE the alphabet is what we get in tinswith tomata sauce and Mum OF course had the last
word.
They always do when you're two or maybe three.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:36 AM UTC
five years old.
a wobbling mass of uncertainty
perched haphazardly on a bike.
daddy holds me upright,
his strong hands refuse to let me fall.
pedalling, pedalling, faster and faster
a weight releases
at last, I'm flying.
six years old.
first day of first grade
I clutch onto my mom's hand
so many children, both familiar and stranger
letters, numbers, a line on the wall
a smiling teacher. I let go of her hand
sit in a green desk, grab a crayon
one last glance out the door
but she is gone.
ten years old.
suspended in the cool water
skis strapped awkwardly on my numb feet
a lifejacket rises tight around my neck
my mom behind me, holds me
right side up in a firm embrace
suddenly, a massive force
pulls me up out of her comfortable arms
through the deafening spray of the water
my mother cheers.
I'm gliding, and I've never felt so free.
sixteen years old.
my hands caress the steering wheel
dad's in the passenger seat
cautious, careful, I proceed
the open road ahead of us
we pick up speed, but then
a deer. his hand grabs my shoulder
my foot slams on the brakes.
I'll pay more attention when I'm driving alone.
we take a breath. we're safe.
eighteen years old.
I scan the crowd as I sit in
my crisp blue robe. my strange square hat.
no more unfamiliar faces.
just layers and layers of memories
blended on top of each other.
my name is announced
I stand up, cross the stage,
again, a mass of uncertainty.
again, awkward in my high heeled shoes
my dad holds my mom's shoulder
my mom clutches his hand.
once more, I'm forced to let go
in order to move forward.
a diploma replaces my mother's hand
crushing realization replaces my father's security
again, I'm flying
but things will never be the same.
c.l.c
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
Run a hand along the arc and wooden edge and a splinter
leaves the grain
sharp, is the pain
marked by a drop of blood.
Pedalling fast two feet, two circular wheels
no hands, straight faced delivery,
no guts, no glory, youth and temerity,
gravel bits where rubber meets the road.
Trembling hand, no two, follow softly,
the rolling of the satin surface, accepting,
pressing for more, hands directing hands
where to press in to the curve, yearning
becomes burning, so much to this learning
curves.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
__I:__
The drunk says he can handle bars— but I just
handle handlebars, chasing thoughts downhill,
gripping acceleration on life’s crooked road,
her words tasted like lightning—a storm reigning
in my chest. If the truest lover’s tongue can write
the truth, truth still needs a page— so promise
me this time I won’t crash in the margin.
__She:__
But darling, I gave you shape; I traced
your edges in circles, crossed out the shadows
of your past. You were a box caged in squares,
I bent the lines, bisected all of your fears—
in the middle, we met like intersecting skies.
__I:__
Your kiss felt like a riddle— a puzzle mouthed
in motion, syllables pressed against skin, body
language shelved in cynical libraries. I wanted
to read you without tearing the pages.
__She:__
I am neither saint nor sin, just a storm
pressed close to your skin. Claustrophobic,
yes— but don’t mistake that squeeze for chains.
I’m the thunder that reminds you to breathe,
the silence that steadies the wheel.
__Together:__
Handlebars shiver, storms bend the ride,
but still we grip, still we glide— every fall,
every bruise, a geometry of love rewritten
in motion. Here we are, pedalling into the
pulse of rain. _Handlebars & Hurricanes..._
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 6:10 PM UTC
I wish I were a bird
On the top of the world
Flickering my wings
Funding cushiony twigs
I wish I were a butterfly
On the sweetest petals I lie
******* the nectar
As I freely chatter
I wish I were a fish
Pedalling my fins
With fresh bubbles
And immortal fervour
I wish I were that innocuous kid
Rampageosly messing up barefeet
Denying distinctions via poor and rich
Indicating candid camaraderie
Towards his pals in poverty
Life would be pretty on the upswing...
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
The emergence of the concrete jungle
Epitomises the barrenness of life
Embodied by the disconnect from self
Back pedalling from the core
Whence it all began
A land filled with history beyond measure
Characteristic of the richness espoused by kings and queens
Manifested in the wealth of the gold and diamonds
Sacrificed for our progeny
How we seldom relish in the lushness of the land
Where the spirit dwell in the people
Choosing to toil into bare existence
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC
Pedalling through the park
I pass dog owners,
maybe two or three
Arriving on the main road
with frequent passing cars
the wind gushing through my hair
entering the unsealed areas
of my clothing
and spreading around my skin
sending a cold breeze
Conversations flow from my Dad
As I answer in agreement
I loved how there was no one around
I can be cautious about
Oh how I sometimes wish
It was as simple as a morning cycle
(c.r)
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
Pedalling along singing a jaunty song
I cycled along the grassy way,
The air was crisp, the sun shone fine
And all the world was merry and gay.
The flowers bloomed, the bee danced happy
The poet in me dare says
Alas, i did not notice in the distance
The black bulls steely gaze
His amorous self had been denied
The love of the village cow
He was upset and wanted to vent
At the puny cyclist now!
God does his miracles
But they were not to be
For i did not pay heed
To the Beastly bovine running behind me
The bull made its move, Its horns charging clear
I knew not what hit me,
just lightning struck in the rear
The world went dark, the stars twinkled
I started eating dirt
I swore in holy anger
The poet in me was hurt.
But what chance do you take?
What do you explain, to an irate bull?
His pious wrath now sated
He watched me with an eye so cool
Never again do i take that way,
Nor do i sing the merry song
For an angry bull is worth the pass
For he can do no wrong!
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
The sun sets and rises
From earth's perspective
Drink a cup of water
Wear the left shoe
Then the right sock
Put some lipstick on
Or shave the little prickling hairs
Go to school, to work
Come back
The light dies
Some die too, momentarily
Others try to
Until the void disappears again
Momentum
And the vicious circle has us all
Trapped, caged in between it's knuckles
Was it destined to be?
To go on
Try to change and the world rages against you
In the shape of a flame, with shattered sharpened teeth
Devoured and mourned
Tears are spilled above rusty tombs
Go back to where you came from
Or take another step into oblivion
Enter the darkness again
Or a room splashed by billions of suns
So many
That every little dark patch merges with each beaming corner
The hollows are hard boiled eggs
White
So shiny, so bright
So full of blankness
Blinded by the similarity
That looks like that looks like that
Luminosity rushes throughout the corneas
To the brains, travelling on neurons
Rush of brightness
Concussion
Loss of stability
A smirk, a wink
You die
No more probability
Everything drops to zero
And the sun rises again
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
***Boring
took my bicycle
Pedalling...
on the way.... Girls College
Full of colour
Wow!!!
Human way of colouring..
Pedalled further
a beautiful garden
Full of colours
Wow!!
Nature way of colouring
Pedalled further
a Bird Sanctuary
Full of colours
Wow!!
God way of colouring...***
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC