"schwinn" poems
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
my tongue is a tap dancer
clicking its heels on your milk dud areolas
up
down
side
to
side
you jump on me
like a black friday bargain
my hands squeeze your backside like oranges
I feel your juices
and enter the slip ‘n slide
with no swim trunks
we tango with lace intact
there’s a reason
why lingerie contains “linger”
it resonates
the liminal space between
conservative and risqué
is appeeling/stemulating
the trailer’s tease
often surpasses
the film itself
funny
how baby oil is used in adult situations
losing my grip
on your hips
but
there is something else
connecting us
even when
this something slides out
still
there is something else
connecting us
i spill dairy creamer
on your cappuccino complexion
splash
we don’t say anything
at first
just exhales
but we’re thinking
“awwwww yeaaaaaaa”
we fall back on a cloud
naked
like the truth riding a schwinn through the castro
your ear is to my chest now
you bust a freestyle over my heartbeat
with halfway-incoherent post-sex talk
i’ve never told you this
but this
is my favorite moment
when we are free from everything
and free from nothing
for a brief period of time
the adam and eve
of our own world
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Riding to the post office
On my red Schwinn
My shoes, they have holes
Because they are my favorite
And I won't stop wearing them
Until I get new ones
I'm in weather heaven
And I park my bike &
Hook it up to the bar
That I keep getting yelled at
For hooking it up to
Walk in, wait in line
And there is a baby boy
In a lady's arms, with
Bright blue eyes and
Fiery red hair, as he looks at me
With wide wide eyes
He soaks in everything that I am
His baby brain over sensitive
Firing neurons that make
Him **** in every detail
Overwhelming his little head
And he grins a tiny,
Toothless smile at me
I grin & look away
I wish I could have kids...
I buy my stamps & send a package
To my uncle
Then I go unhook my bike
Ride this weather like
A bird & try not to think
About that fiery red haired child
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
I grew up here...
Then moved to Sin City that sophomore year
afterwards a whole new world
Navy at 19 returning to the pier...
fresh meat they use to say
graduate of the great lakes boot heels
that's history - here now a days new to me -
reacquaint with youth and city
~~~~~~~
Beach city by the cool sea
not so easy city
not too busy, too ****** or greasy city,
to take your shirt off
to feel the breezy - city (i am)
curiously lost
exciteably exploring you
engorged
hard city
different from my boyhood
memory
not so scary-big - city
with beaches
a great place to grow-up
kind of city
open bike rides on my schwinn
safely happy
suburb city
she's maturity now successfully
downtown
sophisticated city
evolved from understanding
rainbow
city of girls who can be
as manly and boys are as
pretty, gritty
city
of individuality
(like a quirky
cousin, ***** brotha, neice
with Cali.-valley speak! - city)
there's so much i want to see,
learn and believe in
this city,
i am a long lost twin city
just a baby,
friendly city, ******* your full *****
city
care for me daily
wish me luck a lotto city
even in my muck and ****** bitties
unconditionally cradling me with love
this city...
californicating sea world and zoos
old town wanderlust
You're in my blood and Carmen
cool city
this city by the beach
This city
that I love...
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
Fifty years ago today
A half century. Yes--seems like a long time when we say it that way, sublimely forgetting time is a dimension we chop cheaply for convenience. In earth time, in galaxy time, the vast blue stretch since the cosmos’ first coding coughing of carbon, that five decades has been but a clipped comma in a thousand page tome, with a single stout capital letter being the history of a country, and a verbose sentence or two being the tale of our two legged species. For me, the 50 years since that day has been most of my book--nearly all that has been written since the dawn of light.
I was on the Kanto plains of Japan, so it was already Christmas--though I guess my world has always spun faster than most. During the night, my father had assembled my new black three speed 26 inch Raleigh English racer, a serious upgrade from my red 24 inch Schwinn, my first bike, long lost to spinning memory, and likely the property of some dump in the heartland.
The new bike stood beside the table in our large combination kitchen/dining room of our temporary officer quarters. I can’t recall if it was too cold to ride that day, but I probably ventured out, either in the real rays of the sun or in the land of imagination, the two being of equal measure in the realm of memory.
A month before, my father woke me with the news of Kennedy’s assassination. Like others who were old enough to remember, the events of that November day have much crisper edges than any other, including the Raleigh racer Christmas or any Christmas I can recollect.
Tomorrow is another Christmas. I won’t look at that day too much when I am walking in the park this afternoon, for tomorrow is not waiting for me at all. It will be there even if I am again dancing with stardust. More likely, I will be here, on the same rolling rock, eating the flesh of a fallen gobbler and making new memories I will recall only hazily in fifty hours. And if I were promised another fifty marching years, I might lament their passing before they arrived, knowing full well they too would be filled with forgetting.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
I was inside but for a moment, and this time
Never thought to lock the chain,
No sign of my battered, blue Schwinn with the squeaky rear brake,
You must have pedaled like the devil on the North wind,
Vile, wretched, rat-faced incubus,
I know your kind too well, you see,
Too bad your baggy jeans didn’t
Get caught in the whir of spokes,
It would have been worth a bent frame
To see your ****** faceplant asphalt painting,
I demand satisfaction in teeth and nails
Plucked from living flesh, Oh Karma,
One pulled for each bus ride I’m forced into,
One for each mile trekked that should have been yours,
You, after all, should be used to walking until,
Like youth’s dreams in old age,
Your shoes have come apart at the seams.
Didn’t your dad buy you a bike?
Or did his hands give you nothing but boxed ears,
When he was there, maybe he wasn’t so often?
Does my loss smooth the rock in your gut?
Do you bear greater burdens than this petty guilt?
For the theft of one battered old bicycle,
Do you deserve the full heft of my considerable ire,
Heaped on like firewood, too big to burn at once?
I know not what desperation
Could lead one to take such a homely contraption.
How pampered my sensibilities compared with yours,
Perhaps here is character I need to build,
And you need it more than I. Forgive me.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
I loved to ride my Schwinn bicycle
I guess I was only nine
I ride it down to the pond
where I spent a lot of my time
I also loved a girl back then
She had a dog named Polar Bear .
Of course it was white
Until it was run over
by a school bus whose driver didn't care
I loved living in Florida
The salt air from
the ocean there
When I left the Sunshine State
I left a huge chunk
of me back there
Now I am a hand in my pocket
Always reaching for something not there
Home is where you hang
your hat
But I found no pegs to hang it
Inside of your lair .
If only we could put poems
in a bucket
Then throw onto a raging
fire
Would the flames die out
Or leap even higher .
But it seems words cost us nothing
More plentiful than the grass on the ground
Our lives have become instrumentals
Where there are no words to be found
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
There once was a season
for each vintage treasure
spread out on the flea market tables -
items once useful and perhaps a mite cherished.
each with a story to tell.
An Erector set unwrapped in a flurry
on the floor by the Christmas tree -
a bridal quilt for a favored niece
and a hutch from the castle of their dreams.
A clarinet with tarnished keys
rests in a velvet case
whose weekly treks to the music studio
ceased how many decades ago?
A row of antique watches that
used to mark the fleeting hours of
anonymous men and women
sits neatly arranged in a glass top case.
Time advances without mercy
for all that we've left behind
and the flea market speaks eulogies
for our fallen artifacts:
too dated to keep - too dear for the dumpster.
All are for sale now -
(everything is negotiable).
I stroll slowly from aisle to aisle
where shades of my childhood
awaken to merge with the present:
The new Schwinn bicycle
I rode that bright Christmas morning
when the church bells rang
throughout the falling snow.
and there's our wind up victrola
that spun out Sinatra tunes
from the laced covered table in the parlor.
Any of this can be yours for a price
(everything is negotiable)
except for the turning of the wheel.
July, 2015
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Ton visage, it remained a mystery for nearly 2 years,
until our paths crossed one night on the dance floor.
That was the first chance I had to tell you...
Pour la seconde fois, our paths crossed on a beautiful day.
As I rode by on my old Schwinn,
you waltzed by with your pretty grin.
A day I will never forget,
and will forever regret,
for…
That was my second, and until now, my final chance to tell you…
The question today is, will I ever have a third chance?
The distance between us is great,
but the chances are not.
Which is why I wrote you this poem.
This poem is my third chance to tell you
what I was too weak to tell you before…
…que je t’aime avec tout mon coeur.
copyright © 2009 by T.L. Dalid
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 12:26 AM UTC
Slipping and sliding, that's how she flies
Dodging the taxis, avoiding semis
Expert in the clinch, a move of her hip
Death so defied, a professional trip
Delivery assured, she's never been late
Vouchers and packets, she makes no mistakes
Gliding the white line, a perfect traverse
No greater her time, in this universe
She prefers her Schwinn, it's light and it's fast
Weaving a path, all traffic to pass
Don't try to catch her, she's over the moon
She ducks as she hums, singing her tune
No records to break, nothing to prove
Doing the freak, shooting the groove
Flying off to the left, a **** sensual move
She does as she wants, all silky and smooth
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
I tell myself that it is worse being in his car than it is being in his bedroom. His bedroom walls are yellow like sick ****** face. His car is green as childhood woods (I remember a man in those woods, all old and covered in beard. He was cradling me like hard ******* candy).
This boy is a boy with a body like a mountain of beady snakes. This boy is a boy I am telling myself is touching me (cradling me like hard ******* candy). In his bed I am hiding in between his sheets and they are white and I am trying to turn into a saint, trying to forget that his face is somewhere between my legs, his face like a cruel song. It takes me two months to realize that he is never going to call me saintly, never going to view me as a god. I am just shot deer, all leftover entrails, all spillage; somewhere in a suburban town, past some quick trees, on a quick paved grey road, I am being run over by a black Schwinn bicycle the way this boy runs over my body on nights when his face is feeling soft and pudgy and vulnerable and drunk, full of aging beer.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
white pink skechers follow brown-leather feet
padding down the stairs, nothing but fall leaves and
a generation between us
the older man glides the purple beauty into our front yard and
onto the sidewalk
gramps is a dedicated biker and will be years from now
polished aluminum gives way to the sun and
his eyes gleam along with it
he guides me down the pavement, conserving my speed with a trembling palm
on the handlebar
holds me tight and shows me how not to ride,
when to push through an upcoming hill and
when to brake
--
c
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
to my longings yore
for a bicycle under the Christmas Tree,
I wandered into the den
and caught mama with him,
a long white beard on his
surprised face, red suit on the chair,
mama's knickers on the floor,
and with much chagrin,
Santa the next day delivered
a new shiny Schwinn! To me!
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
There are those days
Where I would rather be
Anywhere else, or
Doing anything else, or
Talking to anyone else.
I'd rather ride the
ancient yellow Schwinn in the shed
To the cemetery
Pay my respects to Baby Lanny
And
think.
I'd rather drive to Chicago
Stay by the Pier for a while,
Drinking warm cocoa eating a hot dog.
I'd rather stay in my room,
curled up under a blanket
Reading and staring out the window.
That's not how life works, unfortunately.
So I have to take my responsibilities
And wield them with a
heavy
heart
Waiting until a time
Where I can drive to Chicago.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Memories Toy Chest
Something most hold in common is the joy from a child's first toy
Marking time with bounces of a ball or combing a dolls hair, simple samples when life was still fair
Teddy bear on a tricycle towing a red wagon became a daily highlight for freckled faced boy
Sand box unifies the block, Tonka trucks take over, shovel & pail never fail, forming fundamental liaisons, fresh friends unknown to despair
Christmas tree bearing notions, free fodder for the toddler, tiny top fascinating for a tot older sibling needs a little more to not be a bore, each gift reveals internal joy
Crayons and coloring books fill a nook, many images and glimpses of our past, memories now memoirs, all of life's offerings nothing can compare
Focused on fledgling fiascos too more amorous teen things, flash before a crash, skateboard or Schwinn California cruiser either a bruiser when seeking search and destroy
Army men cheap to begin before g.i. Joe or barbies, cap gun for fun, noise for playing on the run, never standing still long enough to stare
Grandmas egg money the best for a stash of cash, bought candy or unknown present I would never resent, she was a kid at heart acting old merely her decoy
Glimpse through a child eyes, thought or flashback of childhood and early life, fishing pole or frisbee a cheap fee for a lifetime memory, simple sample of how we care
Lifes diary often leaves out those trifles that came for free, when we never feared a future unknown, nothing lost when not seen, a minds toy chest held close to the vest the items enclosed permanent parts of our history R.C.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 7:11 AM UTC
There is no question of her cycling up the hill;
She has no upscale concoction
Of carbon-fiber frame and painstakingly engineered gear-ratios.
Her bike is a single-speed Schwinn
Of as uncertain vintage
As the woman herself,
And she walks it,
An occasional spoke missing,
The paint chipped here and there,
Up where she once climbed
In a ’54 Chrysler convertible
Next to the man
She later visited at the TB sanitorium
Which once sat at the top of the street,
Two sons giggling and bickering
In the back seat
(The boys long since gone,
Having fled the snow and the downsizing
For other climes)
But now she peddles her bike
Around Massey and State Streets for a bit
Before she coasts back downhill,
And sometimes drivers glare
At her (she is, to be fair
Something of an impediment to traffic)
And carfuls of kids or soldiers in convoys
Headed up to Fort Drum
Will heckle her--*Hey, lady!
The Tour De France was last month*!
She no longer has any interest in
The stares or commentary;
She is focused on the bottom of the hill.
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC