"saddled" poems
With a steaming mug of coffee in hand I watched:
the sun fall, the wind shiver, the leaves stand and land roll,
the birds swing, yellow beams dance,
and people stride in woollen warmers.
She plucked a flower in fool bloom,
then ambled away with a bamboo basket.
The clink of steel whistled through the air,
rousing sleep in the grouchy ones
saddled with books and a play toy in hand
walking in step with a grown man.
I walked there once, trying to keep pace
clasping a finger as large as my fist.
His snores now fall softly, circling the room
while I stand by the window,
wearing his shoes.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
i.
monet's passion written in
whispering tears.
the still lake smoulders
in ripples, all shadows and smoke.
a dragonfly presses the air
into whir, memories in my
pocket saddled to fire.
ii.
the air murmurs with death-shouts.
is this to sink, deep in a dungeon
of opulent blue
or to shimmer, iridescent
like a moon-lamp, empress
of ocean green and river blue
beyond the stilling light.
iii.
this is a bed of decadence
drowned moment of golden fire
in the sipped leaves that trumpet
to the clouds, that this is their day to
die.
iv.
water lily, white light of the pond
following the drowning dark,
flower of drifting quiet,
flower of dream.
v.
root treading past
the stillness of dusk,
utter existence,
daughter of the moon,
daughter of the silence.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
what have they done to you,
dear girl with the rainbow hair?
have they saddled you with their insatiable thirst for perfection,
my sweet girl with the rainbow hair?
have they demonized the ground you dare stand,
fearless girl with the rainbow hair?
have the non-believers tore you piece from piece,
my messed up girl with the rainbow hair?
the world will always tear you down,
tender girl with the rainbow hair.
you were never supposed to use your voice,
my deafening girl with the rainbow hair.
do not let them defeat you,
sweet heartbroken girl with the rainbow hair.
whilst machismo is still alive,
the girls will never be safe.
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 7:16 AM UTC
Long before she was born
The balance, the societal scale,
The ground upon which her wobbly feet
Will learn to stand upright and walk steady
Had been socially disintegrated.
Arms with which her clay mind
Is to be molded and framed
Had been morally fractured.
The ‘responsible majority'
Saddled with the making of serious decisions
Had decided against her-
The minor, with fewer rights
And a body like hers-
Double jeopardy, I will say.
The verdict always the same,
Unanimous more often than not
Guilty!! Is the girl child;
If she grows too fast
Or he touches her inappropriately.
So she learns from her early days
The skill of helplessness
All through the pain and the shame
For it is always her fault
Always has been
Long before she arrived
©Belema .S. Ekine
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
Though in dexterity my physically challenged carpenter father,
Than the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground he enjoyed never!
From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother, why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?
I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?
I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a school,
Where for my provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.
Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.
When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.
Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?
I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.
My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.
I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.
Is Christmas coming this year?
I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.
Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
There's a horse who is primed for battle. She's been broken and saddled, muscles hard and keen, her frame is lean, she's got all the necessary means to carry destruction into the heart of the fray.
But. She's afraid. She dreads the day.
There's a child who is primed in playground. She's been beaten and shoved down, she's been left to bleed, the teachers are too late to intervene. And she waits for the day for them all to pay.
But she's afraid. How couldn't she be?
There's a leader who is primed in sovereignty. She's been brought up high society with a sharpened gleam, smart and mean, quietly she gathers steam. With the tools to rule, she waits for the day to carry the horse to heart of the fray, to make them pay, to make them all pay.
But she knows the game, knows how to wait.
And still the world will twirl in its hate.
Until it needs a leader who's great.
She'll rise like the cream to the top of the pack, and pick up the slack, and possess what they lack.
And finally grasp the ultimate power!
To rule. To instruct. To provide the anchor for the ones who were broken and beaten, afraid.
And she'll heal their wounds, for she knows their pain.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Saddle up
Gurl!
It's time
to hit the trail,
as quietly & gently
I spank the pony-
tail,
&
know,
it's how
I love you, baby..
You'll see me riding like the wind,
spurred on by our time & trials ~ that no-one got to win.
We were always mining Fools Gold & giggle indulging every sin!
Our
Poke(h)er
hands
stayed empty
&
the music's...
long since died.
Your sweet songs done,
gone & left me
(sobs)
tumbleweed rolls by
Once
we prospected forever
in this inky ol' ghost town
marking spots with X's before
a WANTED sign was found
and
One Moonshine
still
ain't big en'f 'f both of us
to get our quills thirst drowned
(hic-
cup)
"Look West,
and to the horizon,
see the stage at the edge of town?"
My last performance, PRIVATE, snigger to all the wide-eyed boys around
Ace-high, on a barebacked filly, play gallerying all my skills
I'll slap my thigh
&
Yee-haw !
riding for them there hills
~Saddled up in the softest leather
Chin up!Deep Breath!Chest out!
Corseted
& brimming,
encased in
perfume scented lace
~Bat my eyelids for the masses~
I'll find another place.
And
then you can
cut a swell down Main Street,
(remember the brothels to your right)
keep your low slung loaded though, for it's no place to start a fight
cos just outside that swing (ing) door,
the coffin maker winks at such a cheerful sight,
stood grimacing in his top hat,
grasping 13 nails
tight.
&
I'm sure
you'll measure up
darling
blowing rubied kisses
as
I bid
mine own
true-love's heart
goodnight.
***HiHO Silver,
away..........!***
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
How to describe that moment when we wake at last?
Tentatively emerging from the comfortable cocoon of that early, endless summer
****** into a cold, vibrant land, full of beauty and pain
Equipped with a newfound vigor but fueled by our disillusionment
Here, in the infancy of our societal influence
Fresh off a restful bout of childhood ignorance
We take aim to preserve that magic, for as long as we can
We dance in the summer rain, so it might not fade away…
But when do we lose focus?
When do we become,
The target of long lost laughter,
relenting to the forces of absurdity?
Perhaps when our world comes crashing down
With the weight of a thousand suns
When purity falls prey to the stalking darkness
That lives in the darkened mire
We’re all lost souls in this garden world
As our sanity stumbles with each passing season
From a fleeting glimpse at beauty in the warmth of the spring
to our frozen heart from winter’s endless pain
What is it we really want then?
As we wake up dreaming of a peaceful life,
of blue skies, and free-flowing thoughts
in the warm embrace of a sun-kissed day
But out of darkness, fear does grow
Those memories seem so far away.
Saddled with willing acts of complacency
We trudge on, immune to our nagging decency
For as we stand on the edge of the abyss
Faced by the power of the absurd
We can’t help but look down
Into the unrelenting grimace of finality
Can we recapture, moments lost, memories fallen
from the hardened heart of our war-torn soul?
For deep inside, perhaps we’ll find
A glimpse at a forgotten past
Might we gather one last breath,
A passing whiff of that summer day
So long ago, when we dreamt of a greater purpose and when magic
Enveloped our reality with the warm embrace of mystery and intrigue
Might we realize then that pain makes beauty?
And as we stand on the edge of the abyss
Trading a summer daydream
For a midnight reverie
We take a step back…
Nov 18, 2022
Nov 18, 2022 at 12:37 PM UTC
Somewhere between a bicycle
and a seat at a daydream...
I had to make money
so I mortgaged
my woods, my sea, my music
Words--
left
Regaled only with rust
my 1938 Columbia
bike
(sold for a crib)
to an antique dealer
Fat-tires, red-faded fenders
Baskets saddled on wheel
for towel and lunch
Key chain dangling
jingling against jar
of cool ginger ale
Look back at the baskets-filled
afternoons at the park
I was a poet
The road
laid itself bare
For my bike
and I
scrolling through leaves
like words that fell
like hair across shoulders
that I sang to no one
the audience--
air
I know that now
I was not really…
nor ready
I once was a poet
___
This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist,
posed proudly by his magnificent work. First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting.
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
if he is not made of them wholly, branches, he will be soon. they are everywhere, and he steps on them, and they are arms from hell. he wears a child’s football jersey, torn at his size and his sorrow. he reaches into it and pulls out his heart, a red balloon given the what for, inside of which he blows his nose. he returns the heart.
a yellow adherent hangs from both nostrils, as two ropes being cut at and then loosed from his brain. the first keeps an arm from heaven; the second he catches and loops twice to put on his neck. one is never out of the woods here, and he knows it, knows here is Baltimore, Ohio. he has watched the people, some of them, leave; their happiness would be better called remission.
he is giddy when he comes upon a man wearing only a barrel and he tips it with joy and makes better his headway home. the rolled over branches shriek and wake the man who nakedly bails. the branches up their shrieking.
his mother he has no dementia of his time in her womb. why for **** the despondent are given captions like ‘blank look’ he can’t say for in his mama naught but canvassing eyes. she’s what he calls ‘at grocery’, shaking a coffee can she’ll buy because a done melon can’t hold pennies. she often at the neck is saddled with two toddlers but in his projection now there is just one making miracle of not kicking the coffee can into another’s back.
any girl that occurs lets him take her with his tongue only as she seems to know he was circumcised and after that much paddled.
he starts thinking on dad and dad’s laughing when mother’d say boys be home before dog because that’s how it sounded from seizures and of course rock candy in the summer. the barrel splinters beneath him to be forgotten and his legs go to bleeding stilts.
his last things by his face are insufficient; rock candy, barrel, and twin. I talk on the barrel, I don’t need it, not anymore.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
Indian summer has now arrived,
riding high on its blue-saddled sky,
of mixed coloured clouds of bold tie-dye,
bright, ripe days and crispy-clear nights,
reaching the ****** of the season's delight.
September soon will enter the room,
leaves will tremble at their impending doom,
lovers shall stroll down lanes two-by-two,
sharing softly whispers of "I love you."
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
No tribal scarring marks your face
no cinder walk or thorn-pierced tongue
to prove you are no longer young
but fit to take your rightful place
Your generation never fought
And you have wished that you could see
the selfless, brave camaraderie
of which you were so often taught
Alas for you to fetch ashore
when we had lost our appetite
for making children go and fight
and briefly grieved, and said "No more!"
Condemning you, unreconciled,
to shed no blood, as real men should;
to feel that life is mostly good
Oh foolish knave! Oh hopeless child!
And saddled with this gross mistake
your quiet kindness gently spread
and harmless fascinations fed
and left no corpses in their wake
To think we looked to one unmanned
as children, hungry for a clue
of what it's right for men to do,
led, blind, by your unbloodied hand
Sought thoughts from one who could not brag
of marching forth to suicide
for waxed moustaches' sense of pride
Nor bleeding dry beneath a flag
But you had naught to tell us, save
that life is hopeful and sublime
and we should use this precious time
And I'll be grateful to the grave.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC
The Equestrian
When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right
Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise
Xin
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
I am sick and ******* tired of screaming so loud and having no one hear me, so if this is the first and last time I get this out there then so be it.
We're living in a world that is rampant with hatred towards others who deserve nothing but love and devotion. And we find ourselves on our knees worshiping those who warrant disgust and shame. We exist in a system that is so ******* corrupt that I fail to see any solution that we may have for correcting this.
Everyone's talking about killing people and ******* the corpses and those criminals are still out there roaming the streets without a care in the world because someone else is serving THEIR time. If you don't get caught that means you've succeeded right? Their breathe reeks like the skeletons in their closet, and still we refuse to open the ******* door to expose the truth.
There's sexism in the courts; a chick can say you looked at her the wrong way and she can get your *** sent to jail. One word about a threat, and someone's in handcuffs. A man steps away from a law man to gain some time to defend himself against heinous accusations and gets saddled with resisting arrest. Criminals with permission.
We shouldn't have to ******* worry about whether someone will be here one day and be locked up the next. Live and let live has turned into search and destroy everything you once held dear to yourself.
I have the right to remain silent and even if I don't say anything, they will use it against me... just like my past significant other used his weight of over 300+ pounds to own me however he saw fit.
While you're up there taking an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth so help you God, your right hand extended to some supposedly glorious being and lying through your ugly ******* teeth, I'll be over here solemnly swearing I am up to no good, conniving to set things back on track.
Call it Karma or call it anarchy, call it whatever the **** you like, but things need to ******* change. It's time.
I have the right to remain silent, but it sure as hell doesn't mean I'm going to.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
A script for birth - an new revival,
libelled breaks, swollen structure,
a cupboard full of accidentals,
daubs this paragon with stucco:
Glowsticks prance on leveled stair,
canvas origami pads Negeb:
Counterculture's been declared!
'Metropolis' left in riverbed.
A crypt where all is fairly loose;
—deepened, glottal, breathened, size—
Saddled with this torment, you!
—ugly glamour pangyrized—
There's a lot more to fashion,
and a lot more, to forge;
Nothing keeps me in *******
that would be too awkward.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
Out in the West Texas town of El Paso I fell in love with a Mexican girl. Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina Music would play and Felina would whirl.
Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina Wicked and evil while casting a spell. My love was deep for this Mexican maiden I was in love but in vain, I could tell.
One night a wild young cowboy came in Wild as the West Texas wind. Dashing and daring A drink he was sharing with wicked Felina The girl that I loved.
So in anger I Challenged his right for the love of this maiden down went his hand for the gun that he wore. My challenge was answered in less than a heart-beat, the handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.
Just for a moment I stood there in silence, shocked by the foul evil deed I had done. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there I had but one chance and that was to run.
Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran Out where the horses were tied. I caught a good one It looked like it could run Up on its back And away I did ride just as fast as I Could from the West Texas town of El Paso Out to the bad-lands of New Mexico.
Back in El Paso my life would be worthless Everything's gone in life, nothing is left. It's been so long since I've seen the young maiden My love is stronger than my fear of death.
I saddled up and away I did go Riding alone in the dark. Maybe tomorrow A bullet may find me Tonight nothing's worse than this Pain in my heart. And at last here I Am on the hill overlooking El Paso I can see Rosa's cantina below My love is strong and it pushes me onward Down off the hill to Felina I go.
Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys, off to my left ride a dozen or more. Shouting and shooting I can't let them catch me, I have to make it to Rosa's back door.
Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel A deep burning pain in my side. Though I am trying To stay in the saddle I'm getting weary Unable to ride
But my love for Felina is strong and I rise where I've fallen Though I am weary I can't stop to rest I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle I feel the bullet go deep in my chest
From out of nowhere Felina has found me Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side Cradled by two loving arms that I'll die for One little kiss and Felina, good-bye
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
I want to be the one
Left behind without my kind
I want to be the one
That weathers the storm
The one with the umbrella
Raining above and raining under
I want to be the one
In black upon the hill
I want to be the one
Laying flowers
I want to be the one
Saddled with that burden
I can handle grief
But causing those to grieve
That I cannot handle
I want to be the last to go
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 7:27 PM UTC
i would compromise
--i compromise. i appear to i mean,
with peace-demeanor customized for show
paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense
in a confidence of meek to render compliments
crowding infancies of all
for the sake of art
i bend my frame about cliche
to have a human dragon claim
"the real persists unknown"
and gather at a sacred dolmen
fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun--
you said there was a butterfly
tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too..
its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz
within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight.
a blanket iris cries warmth
in clusters hung ripe, filming over all
a native ceremonial, falsepolitik
i pluck at them atop a fence
obscure for comforts masking truth
discarded, found, fashioned
into furniture for candled houses
built with children's sons
where families try to see
a clearing in the warping
mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends
. wooden beams help it rise and dim,
the sunny lie, genuinely fake,
authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true
-- growing young, stemming back
to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely
patient basements full of heirlooms,
sheik dining areas all
nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at
in apple layers
symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly,
serving existential voids--
grace, fall, stumble catch
acquired tones of oak or berry--
other fruits would do, or none,
as i still feel
praised by your rejections --
when indifference gains a sweetness
like a novel vengeance won
i am indulging villainy
workshopping staling norms,
garden dark as cultivated loam.
where i am words
mooding intellect to torment,
faun complexity awry
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
The festival was bustling
With sights and scents
When I caught yours
It just seemed to all make sense
You walked over and said hi
I just smiled as awkward as I could
But just before you could wave goodbye
I picked up the rifle and asked you if I should
You nodded and told me to try
So I gave the man a dollar
Asked myself "How could this be? And why?"
I looked to you and down the sight
I prayed for that prize, closed one eye
Saddled up and pulled the trigger with all my might
The tin can hit the floor and you clasped your hands
Together in time, I've never felt so up in my life
I asked you what you wanted
You said your favorite team
And you got it
But you walked away
You said "I'll see you later"
When I expected you to stay
I guess I was just selfish
I guess it was just a stupid wish
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated**
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
**Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower**
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. *Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge,
past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal
through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under
great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....*
**Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:37 AM UTC
IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald, and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house, and fly out from the inside of my car, screaming, "Don't do it! I'm here, Uncle Brandon! I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot, and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country, and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride, and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn, curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink, adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write, and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night. You looked awful and I knew something was wrong, but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.
You loved life, why did you leave?
You had love, why did you look?
We were your family, why did you leave?
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow, and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you. I would have grabbed that gun, and hugged you for the longest time, and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find, and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.
Uncle Brandons last poem
Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
my motor
isn't running too good
these days
there is something
not quite right
with my spark plugs
they don't seem to fire
as they once did
there is a definite sluggishness
in the motor head
reaching top gear
is a thing of the past
vroom vroom vroom
vroom vroom vroom
where has my engine power
gone to
vroom vroom vroom
vroom vroom vroom
how I'd like to
have a new motor installed
a Lamborghini
engine
would give me
some velocity and vim
but I'm saddled
with an old 4 cylinder Hillman
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge, past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....
Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 12:54 AM UTC