Best Handle Bars Poems
Cohabitating with your floral penance,
I slow grind
With
Memories
All metaphorical bets,
Off
Jumping head first
Another solemn wish
Unto you
To caress my smile
Another didactic breath
For your silky, titanium retinas
To share this potent sway
Against time
I, grip
Rusty handle bars to ride
Upon your caramel sunsets
Sweetened with diabetic urges,
Feening
Feening
Inject me towards unbridled upbringings,
Chrysanthemum sentences
Etched upon your neck
Of Egyptian cotton awakenings
…
I do not want to be your tomorrow,
Because that could never be promised
Yet, all we have is today.
Because all we have is today.
All we have is today…
©Drake J. Eszes
Bike Riding
Once, I was able to navigate my sleek black Fuji racer, sitting arrow straight, pushing hard, and hands at my side. It’s amazing to think I was able to maintain my balance, down hills, around
unyielding corners, no plastic garbage pail stuck on my head to protect what little brains I had in the first place. Ah, those were the days.
I was dashing and daring back then, hawk-like eyes focused, clear and bright. There was no need to squint until my head ached. I rode with a pack of wolves, flying maniacs all part of my tribe, hurling down streets littered with the remains of Detroit’s monsters. There was no sissy water bottle stuck on the frame, no reflective side mirrors to steer me away from danger. No, just a basic stripped down machine was all I needed as if I was a test pilot screaming past mach one, the rush of pure adrenaline.
Now, when I bike ride, I feel weighed down with the expectation of a crash landing about to happen. Flung backwards by the slightest breathe of wind, I choke the handle bars with white knuckled kid gloves with eyes glued to the road, I expect the worse is always about to happen, watching the odometer to gauge how far I have gone, and how much time I have left.
I rode my little bicycle
Down the little street,
I pushed the little pedals
With my little feet,
When my little bicycle
Hit a great big bump,
I flew over the handle-bars
And landed with a thump.
I pushed my little bicycle
Home to see my mum,
She put some little band-aids on
Where I needed some.
Now I'm all patched up
But my little handle-bars are bent,
I'm sure my dad can fix them
After my little accident.
Once I had a bicycle,
A loving present from my grandfather;
Since I was his favorite granddaughter,
He granted my wish at a snap of my finger .
Since he was so old,
A new bicycle he could hardly afford;
He took his bike when he was young,
Which I found it once at the back of our barn.
As far as I remember,
It was really so old and rugged;
But my grandpa was like Mr. Mac-Gyber,
Amazingly fixing all things all-over.
My granda was a well-known painter,
I thought he will repaint and use sandpapers;
When I surreptitiously sneaked into his hut,
He was there recycling all my milk cans.
When everything was done,
He gladly gave it to me with a big hug;
I hurriedly drove it at once,
Down the street and field with so much fun.
“My bike was real a unique one!” I thought.
So different from others in our neighborhood,
Its wailing siren was made up of a cow’s horn,
Tubes were made of dried bamboos and corn.
Other parts were still the same,
Like forks, hubs and chainwheel set,
The rest were made up of my milk cans,
They were pedal, brake and seatgear stem.
Handle bars were what I liked most,
Converted from the handle of his old plow;
So sturdy and so strong all I knew,
And I can drive it so long in full control.
However, when I travelled quite afar,
Parts were falling one at a time;
Until everything suddenly split apart,
Eventually it dropped and rolled me down.
©2012Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
Date: Aug. 3, 2012
4th Place Winner (My Very First Winning Poem)
Contest: Any Poem of the Week Contest
Contest Judged: 8/4/12
Poet Sponsor: Secret
Boring summer
Idle time and
Empty streets
Endless days
Watching cars
And spinning dreams.
Sitting
Feet on the ground
Looking down
For something to see
Music drifting
Through open windows
Words from a song
"It hurts to be in love"
Made me feel
Lost
Somewhere between fourteen and twenty.
A shadow
Tall and straight
Broad shoulders
Athletic gait
No mistake
My uncle
Stanley.
Iron man
Strong hands gripped my shoulders
He asked if I could ride my bike
Over the Bridge
From Queens
To Brooklyn
Four miles from where we stood
What for? I asked
No reason he said.
At two miles the Bridge blocked the sky
A major hurdle
Of old gray steel
Built like a giant erector set
Narrow and short
If I fell
No one could help
Just a wall
Between me
And an empty road to heaven.
In the heat I rode
He followed in his
Proud chariot
White Olds 88
Sweat pouring down my back
Fatigued and cramped
White knuckles gripping handle bars
I kept pedaling
Wheels turning round and round
Blurry motion
In double time
Distracted by all
I didn't hear
Until his words slowly sunk in
"You can do it."
Bridge heavy
With trucks and cars
Dirt and grime
Dull browns and grays
Shadows of color
Up the Bridge and over
Coasting down to
Greenpoint
Narrow streets
Houses row on row
Crowded apartments
Chicken coops in summer
Iceboxes in winter and
A bar on every corner.
I crossed the Bridge
For me the day was over
Catching my breathe
I turned to catch
A grin on uncle's face
Was he surprised that I finished?
No, not at all
The devil in his eyes
Said he expected it.
Days pass into months
Months into years
Memories are forgotten
Like so many pages
Torn from an old calendar
Life goes round in a circle
Starting where it stopped
But through it all
I'll always remember that summer's day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You are logged
When I think of you
When I think of you, I think of the needlessness
of such thoughts too. Because it is as simple as
who but you that’s saved in my mind’s memory bytes.
When I think , I think of the cliff by the ocean
flat and vast at the top and wonder why the shrine
sitting at its foot didn’t choose its crest as its spot.
And I also think of the super duper timer
in the sleeping passenger’s brain that never fail
to wake him when it is time to get off the rail.
And the stupidity of the same brain that makes
him race and jump on to the first bus he sights
that has just started to move and move too fast
leaving him dangling from its handle bars as feet
failed to touch footboard so close but so out of sync…
01/OCT/2012
my first set of wheels
fringed out handle bars with horn
little red bicycle
My first tricycle should have been built for two
My baby sister jumped on the back
Down through the woods we zoomed
Running into a tree, I scraped my knee
Across the handle bars she flew
My beautiful tricycle could not be fixed
The cuts and scrapes were only small knicks
We never rode a tricycle again
But me and my sister
Are forever best friends
Miss Auchterlonie was my teacher
In the sixth grade and I was happy
I loved her figure and features
And she even dressed real snappy!
My love for her would not be denied
I'd impress her with my model cars
It would be cool if she would ride
On my bicycle handle bars!
But mine and more hearts were broken
When the bad news she gave us came
We were crushed by her words spoken,
"Mrs. Spencer is now my name!"
Just need that feeling
That same old feeling
At 10 years old
Riding my yellow
Banana seat bicycle
That sweaty afternoon
I jumped on not sure
Where I'd end up
Just needing that urge
To steer and go
Anywhere I wanted
Grabbing those handle bars
I jerked them left
Then jerked them right
Making sure it was me driving
The streamers hanging
From the rubber hand grips
Blew loud in the wind
The wind I was making
As I pedaled
And so I did pedal
Independence filling my chest
Years have passed
And I lost that feeling
The one my heart needs
To beat out my own path
That giddy stomach feeling
Of me deciding
Where I want to go
Anonymous Rose
As a mid-teenager innocently experimenting and soaked from a bottle
My best mate and I were drunk as two skunks he a bit less than I
We had not managed the golden mean of balance as proposed by Aristotle
Swerving and falling he got me home though after straight Vodka oversupply
He left my bicycle chained to the bench we had used attempting to get sober
The bike with banana saddle and Harley type handle bars resting on wood
Stood tall for a night while I had grazed knees and a massive hangover
I promised myself on recovery I’d never touch drink again for my own good
When vomit and headache receded I went to rescue my two wheeling friend
Fearful someone might have taken advantage of my delirious nonsense
Maybe stolen or vandalized to the point that it also was not quite on the mend
Me still smelling of booze there was a red rose on the saddle fragrant intense
This is true was no post alcohol poisoned hallucination no whim of my eyes
The flower sported scratchy thorns of poignant meaning and a beautiful shine
But from whence had it come who was it who gave me that poignant surprise
A mysterious donor an angel some prophet or a secret admirer of mine
Fourty years later I still do not know who gave me that meaningful gift
Never actually tried to find out felt embarrassed could thank no one in person
And sometimes still wonder had I found out had my life taken a different drift
Than decades to appreciate sober living rather than in liquor’s immersion
Written for the contest 'Anonymous Angel' 04th April 2018
Curlews crake against white limestone walls
Their echo shrill in the early mist
Wake those who danced the night before
As bog sighs from heat release and black water buzzes
The insects a top scoot in siderwinder display
Heather hangs over and down to the slime in purple and yellow brown
A bicycle grounded on a nettled floor and endless sting
Dance long over and handle bars long relieved
Of scent of a young lady's dress up lifted by seam.
Corn mountain awakes and crows upon the light but corncrake was there first
Mountain clicks and breathes with new sunshine and old scenes the hay the turf
The window curtain a saucer hidden with red meat a treat unseen
Oh why does father not approve
Up, out, blue pooch curtain breaks open and feet to hessian mat
Get up quick the fox was down was in and took the best Rhode Island red
Never to lay never to feed nor mend the mesh but dance dance dance
Kneading and current buttermilk bray and toss and knead away
The heat remains and cooks and pots the bread upon the air
Sweet smell and egg and Rhode Island's best.
Hush boy a sound clean collar for him upon this summer working day
Hangs on Father McHugh's nail it hangs of starch and awaits it's wrap
Before the pipe alights and hears do tell her name do tell
Is the lady of good stock and family fair or cold and just of the night and the air
Forget the bird explain no more as the pipe will choke and bang the floor
Tell me again as Sunday lasts to Mass now and pray for those who passed
I was pretty cranky when my spanky new bike was janky.
The frame was too short for my body, too tall and lanky.
The tires too fat, too hard to push up boggy maintain trails.
The deal I got clearly a lemon janky, all wrapped in hanky-panky.
The bike looked so nice out of the box, its chrome frame so glint and shiny.
The first sign of trouble was rust on the chain, which made me angry.
Squirts of oil needed on chain and axles, to make pedaling smooth.
Front and rear nuts needed tightening, else wheel retention was dicey.
I set off for ride, bike all fixed up and ship-shaped I hoped,
but the brakes did not work when handle grips I groped,
Disaster averted, just in nick of time, by dragging my feet on ground.
The handle bars were loose, the seat too nippy on bum, but some how I coped.
Back home from first ride, mad as hell, I swore I would return the heap of junk,
I found the guarantee and read the fine print, but my hopes were sunk
when I read that the bike could only be returned to get full refund,if never ridden!
So I’m stuck with my Jekyll janky skunk of a bike, deal a flunk, ego shrunk.
Every joyful Christmases of distant past
were all very special and memorable.
Except for one unique Christmas unsurpassed.
I recall it was an unforgettable
day, with presents under the lit Christmas tree.
My parents and I gathered at Christmas morn,
I dropped to my knees. I found, I was torn, gee!
So many gifts which to open first. I was torn.
I looked about the room, there against the wall
stood a very large clumsy wrapped Christmas gift.
I asked, "Can I open that one first of all?"
I pushed all the other gifts out of my way
to get to the one large clumsy wrapped ultimate gift.
I unwrapped with quick fingers, the welcoming gift.
I tore at the string and wrapping. Then, ecstatic
screams of joy, tears, and wails it took my breath away.
There was the Schwinn bike I saw in “The Attic”
store window that my heart simply craved and yearned.
My parents looked at me with pride and joy and said,
“Merry Christmas!" My heart gleefully turned.
My eyes were fixed upon the bike with a smile;
it was the most magical moment of any Christmas.
It was a bright red, with shiny chrome fenders,
and tassel hanging down the ends of the handle bars.
I rode all day.
They were all special and memorable memories,
except for one unique Christmas.
11/29/2017
Oh those candies behind the counter
They look so good
Just out of my reach
I imagine
My mouth waters
You say maybe tomorrow
Oh that bike
High handle bars
Banana seat
Just like my friends bike
So very different from my own
My tomorrow never comes
Oh those boots
The smell and feel of the leather
Check out the stitching
Those pointed toes
If only I could wear them tomorrow
Oh all the things I want
All just out of my reach
Left for you to decide
Your desires satisfied
Mine set aside
You say maybe tomorrow
Oh I can hardly wait
One day I will grow up
The world will be my oyster
I will decide
I will have my tomorrow
Oh he is so cute
This gorgeous son of mine
I want the best for him
I can wait for me
I'll give my best today
I can wait till tomorrow