Best Pedaling Poems
chances of me leaving home
chances of me donning blues
chances of me wearing a flight suit
chances of me being chosen
to carry the sports flag
chances of me staying
what chance do I have to find love
chances of living a life apart
from what I had known
chances of being whistled at by ships
chances of the greatest adventure of my life
chances of boogie boarding the Pacific
chances of kittens
yes, kittens…mom wasn’t a fan
chances of tempura and teriyaki
chances of children in muumuus and leis
chances of sunshine and rainy season days
chances motor pedaling a bit far away
what we won’t do when we are pinch-cheek young
chances of wading, submerging, merging
with (parrot- butterfly- trigger- trumpet- ) fish; and tangs
chances of Hanauma reef and frozen peas
chances of being half a world away
chances of my son finding love in Guam
chances of my daughters marrying Southerners
chances of happiness
chances of me leaving home
Categories:
pedaling, life,
Form:
Verse
On a bicycle, freedom's flight
Pedaling 'cross the horizon
Reflections of blue in my sight
With dreams of lassoing the sun
A girl's spinning wheels leave the ground
On a bicycle, freedom's flight
O'er the treetops without a sound
Veils of darkness fall out of sight
Wishing in the morning star's light
Bright tomorrows, I wait to greet
On a bicycle, freedom's flight
My pink beauty with flowered seat
Dark days return and tides do rise
Still, memories soothe in the night
Two wheels like wings of butterflies
On a bicycle, freedom's flight
Categories:
pedaling, childhood, fantasy,
Form:
Quatern
The humid Hawaiian heat hobbles my head and heart too,
Hitting as the Humvee high-tails past on the highway,
Sweat seeps steadily south from scalp to shoes
Convection current cooking, keep pedaling, pores crying.
Howling Haleakala Headwinds hammer hard,
Freezing face, fingers, and forehead.
Wistfully watching the warm water Westward;
Blasting breeze’s blows batter my body backward.
Soft saline sea spray spritzes the sunbathers
As the surges' steady smashing against the shore
Rhythmically rocks the run-down revelers
to a sweet, sun-kissed, seaside sleep once more.
For Elements Part 2—Wind Contest (First Place)
Sponsored by Brian Davey
Judged 3/29/16
Categories:
pedaling, beach, mountains, nature, ocean,
Form:
Rhyme
Sleigh bells jingle as o'er the crystal snow they glide,
To the little country church this Christmas Eventide.
Folks anticipate the fellowship that awaits them there,
As they celebrate His birth with carols, love and prayer!
Steeds were eased to hitching posts with a gentle "Whoa"!
Faithful and patient horses snort and paw the drifting snow.
Folks greet others with a special glow upon their faces,
With a "Merry Christmas to you" and unabashed embraces!
The old pastor had arrived about half-past five o'clock,
To stoke the potbellied stove to warm his faithful flock.
The organist who'd served nigh on fifty years in that capacity,
Was at her post pedaling the organ with strident tenancity!
The pastor with a short Christmas homily had his say,
Followed by the Sunday School's annual Nativity play.
A warming glow flooded the church with candlelight,
As the service closed with the singing of "Silent Night".
Though on this Holy Eve ,from cathedrals oratories occurred,
And ancient cantatas sung by thunderous choirs were heard,
The souls of this faithful, God-fearing congregation,
Were just as blessed by their simple Christmas celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
pedaling, holiday, christmas, christmas,
Form:
Rhyme
Banana tin yellow
a little dented in on the side
but still perfect for pedaling
Standing against the wind
eight figs in a basket
sticky white at the ends, been picked
Hair in salt strings
and jeans with two holes
with enough wear left for the summer
Two best friends
flying down Heartbreak Hill
at cactus speed, big eyes, no hands...
Categories:
pedaling, adventure, childhood, friendship, happiness,
Form:
Blank verse
Immodest mouse (though sheepishly I drive):
Cheese-poof ambition traps shred Plexiglas;
Life’s tint is circus; freaks pedaling thrive;
My spinner’s stopped, feline-stripped out of gas.
Cradled in moon’s ambitious pseudo-shine,
Not that I could, see I’ve nowhere to go;
Clawed dizzy by stars she hangs as a shrine,
Marathons end; unfinished lines won’t glow.
Out of fuel. Out of road. Locked out of car,
Stained trips on oil-leaks cadaverous spilt;
Climbing the gallows I’ll soon be a star,
Thumb-tacked eternal; pierce sharp lunar guilt.
As I ascend, I wink once at the moon
Just to remind her - she’ll come down real soon.
Categories:
pedaling, divorce,
Form:
Sonnet
We wrapped a long length of red holy cloth around
his body, slung him between two green bamboo poles,
and carried him to the edge of the Bagmati river.
We covered his cold nostrils with soft cotton balls and
placed six sacred beads of Rudraksha in his palm for moksha.
We lit a bunch of sandalwood incense and stuck their points
near his head. We threw a tong of rice on his chest and started
chanting mantras for the peace of his soul. I walked around
the pyre with a burning piece of wood and lit a handful of kindling
at his feet. The dry logs whooshed and the pieces of flesh
sizzled and spluttered. The flakes of ashes flew off and fell on our heads.
Later, as the sun turned red on the horizon, we left the burning
pyre to go home. The black oil lantern was hanging down from the wall
its faint orange light barely filled the balcony of my house.
Nearby, my small brother kept on expecting for Grandfather home soon
from the farm, with a bottle of baby pots, pedaling his rusty axon bicycle.
Categories:
pedaling, grandfather,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Bat, ball, and glove, a sacred rite of spring
Timeless afternoons of joy shared by all
Everyone gets a chance to give a swing
To meet the challenge: putting bat on ball.
Stretch, windup, and pitch, a flaming fastball
Hitter gives it flight with resounding crack
Outfielder’s eyes wide, then pedaling back
Jubilant bat toss, he breaks into run
Pitcher’s shoulders droop, his jaw going slack
Outfielder against fence, it’s a home run!
4/10/16
Categories:
pedaling, baseball, sports, spring,
Form:
Dizain
Sleigh bells jingle as o'er the snow they glide,
To the little country church this Christmas Eventide.
Folks anticipate the fellowship that awaits them there,
As they celebrate His Birth with carols, love and prayer.
Steeds were eased to the hitching posts with a gentle "Whoa!"
Faithful and patient horses snort and paw the drifting snow.
Folks greet others with a special glow upon their faces,
With a hearty "Merry Christmas" and unabashed embraces!
The old pastor had arrived about half-past five o'clock
To stoke the potbellied stove to warm his faithful flock.
The organist who'd served nigh on fifty years in that capacity,
Was at her post pedaling the organ with strident tenacity!
The pastor with a short Christmas homily had his say,
Followed by the Sunday School's annual Nativity play.
A warming glow flooded the old church with candlelight,
As the service closed with the singing of "Silent Night!"
Tho' on this Holy Night from cathedrals, great oratories occurred,
And ancient cantatas sung by thunderous choirs were heard,
The souls of this faithful, God-fearing congregation,
Were just as blessed by their simple Yuletide celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
pedaling, christmas, old,
Form:
Rhyme
Pedaling along river drive
empty plastic grocery bags
fluttered and flapped from tree branches
like lost battle surrender flags
that line the drought-stricken river.
Their interspersed clings reminded
me of inundated levels
this now anemic river reached;
where once the floodwaters surged south
along its journey to the sea
its now imperceptive flow
struggles, its intimate's exposed:
river-bottom, water-worn rocks
sit like petrified bowler hats.
Categories:
pedaling, natural disasters, nature, river,
Form:
Verse
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.
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Categories:
pedaling, lifeme, old, me, old,
Form:
Narrative
~My Bicycle~
Everybody had one - everyone but me...
Pedaling everywhere, laughing hysterically.
My brother had an idea; to the tip let us go,
You never know we may find some bits, and them we will show.
Digging in the tip, looking here and looking there,
First he found a frame and wheel, but of more bits we did despair.
Carrying our finds, a mouse-eaten seat, and one wheeled bike frame
We carried them triumphantly down the leafy wooded lane.
Where oh where to find a wheel, to build this marvelous machine?
It kept us pondering all day, as we scrubbed and made it clean.
The next day my prayers of the night, were answered and very soon
The old man who lived on the end knocked, and nearly made me swoon.
Standing there, a wheel in his hand, and mudguard over his shoulder
Declared he had seen us walk on by, and because he was that bit older.
He saw we wanted to build a bike, and of these parts we were short
He was the first gentleman I kissed, and thanked him as I was taught.
My dad had a tin of black paint, we found another of white;
We put the pieces together, it looked a bit of a fright.
One wheel was bigger than the other, the mud guard hung lopsided,
But we managed to make it look good, with love we had been guided.
I took my bike, my pride and joy, and sat on the mouse-eaten seat.
I then realised I couldn't ride it, when I lifted up my feet.
Through thick and thin and many a bruise, determined I was to learn
When oh joy, of joys, I won, but alas landed headfirst in the fern.
As I lay dazed a lump on my head, I saw a very strange sight,
Two legs standing over me, and a head blocking out the light.
The local bobby had seen my fall and come to rescue me;
"I really don't think it's safe to ride, on this black and white monstrosity."
My black and white bike of uneven wheels, lay there looking quite ill,
But I would not give up on it, and pushed it back up the hill.
Whooshing down, the wind in my hair, I felt exhilarated.
I passed the spot I last fell off, shut my eyes and kept my breath bated.
To try the brakes seemed a good idea, as round the corner I flew,
It was then I found that I had no brakes, so I had to use my shoe...
Categories:
pedaling, childhood, funny,
Form:
Couplet
Headed for the tower
Watch the legs supply the power
Using a simple two-wheel device
Spirited competitive ride healthy and nice
This athletic mechanical dance
Traveling the scenic villages throughout France
Checking the rural roads
Letting everyone know
‘How is it holding up after the mountainous winter snows?’
Twenty-one stages to do all this
An international spectacle not to be missed
Late June and into mid-July
Townspeople applaud as the colorful circus goes bye
Bringing neighbors together
Sometimes enjoying beautiful weather
But when it rains
No one complains
About this strategic cyclist game
Yellow, green, polka dot
Shirts note which riders are winning and are hot
Tour de France is arriving at its destination
City of Lights gearing up for the championship presentation
Under the arch
They glide not march
Thirsty and parched
Knowing soon the accomplishment will be real
Proclaiming well done to the peaceful pedaling deal
Gargoyles stamping the approved entertainment seal
Hitting the end line
Everything finished and fine
Ready to pour the victory wine
While success dines
On time
Using the sponsor's dime
And listening to the Notre Dame bell’s chime
With nothing to fear
Until next year
When they come back here
For the Tour de France cheer
Categories:
pedaling, adventure, french, international, light,
Form:
Rhyme
My bike was transportation; Mom didn’t drive
But sometimes I sped off on an adventure
To Telegraph Hill the miles were only five
Big sis and I made the ride a joint venture
What she didn’t know was the trek was uphill
Although one could coast nearly all the way back
The journey before us sis tried to fulfill
Red faced, she screamed, “I’m having a heart attack!”
“Keep pedaling,” I said, “we’ve two miles to go.”
It was then we made the ice cream sundae bet
The last one home would have to shell out the dough
By determination my sis was beset
At the top of the hill I took a brief rest
I looked down the long road; sis was not in sight
I was just eleven and filled with such zest
The exhilarating ride gave me delight
Far down the road, sis was attempting to ride
Her pace was slow; on her face was a scowl
I called to her, “Hey, just put the bet aside!”
She was closer now; I thought I heard her growl
Eleven years older, she’d something to prove
Heading back I soared past her down the steep hill
When my sis reached the top, she could barely move
More than a ride, this was a test of her will
About an hour after I arrived at home
I washed up and changed for my big ice cream treat
She came into view; in her mouth I saw foam
Sis was walking her bike, her trip incomplete
At age twenty-two, she collapsed in the yard
Mumbling something about sibling rivalry
She’d never dreamed a ten-mile trip would be hard
Mom tried to take her to the infirmary
The sundae? It was yummy, but sweeter still
Was beating my over-confident sister
My big sis had failed in this arduous drill
Her aches told me this ride would not reoccur
*Entry for Gwen’s “My Bicycle” contest. (True Story)
Categories:
pedaling, sister, sports, me,
Form:
Narrative
I remember,
in the early 60s,
our thirty mile drive
from our historic family farm,
in all White rural Michigan,
not counting the Mexican migrant workers
which adults made a point of discounting,
on the first of several shopping trips to Thrifty Acres,
through vibrantly young all Black urban streets
of nearby Lansing.
Making Stevie Wonder and I,
him singing in all Black city churches
and me in all White rural and small village churches,
harmonic neighbors in my privately humming heart
yet never possible to publicly meet and greet
as this nation and this world were meant to sing
and dance our regenerations not apart.
I didn't know apartheid by default yet
but I do remember
seeing nearly black as ink skin for the very first time
on a smiling brown-eyed boy
on a chipped white painted bicycle without rims,
and longing to talk and listen with him
and laugh with him about the fresh green smell of freedom from training wheels,
freedom to create our own fast pedaling breeze
across our summer-hot black and white faces and arms,
and knowing that I would touch his dark warm skin
with loving wonder
about what it could be like to become with him,
to grow together,
to smell and feel and fly our satisfying diverse integrity
on a tandem red in-your-face bike,
bright shining all the way back
from Black-streets Lansing
through little White Woodland,
spreading across all Black with White Capital Cities
on out to woodland farmers,
to peddle fly while singing our glad hosanna wonders.
As I reweave
this first drive by encounter with racial diversity
and humane ecstatic curiosity,
I imagine asking Mom to stop,
pull our metallic gold Ford over
so I could ask his thick black-framed glasses name,
which would be Stevie,
and take his hand
to walk his bike back to his home and family
where we would live together
happily and most prosperously ever after.
This was my moment,
too quickly passed,
to know passion's love at first sight,
these sublime sounds and dark satin skin smells
of Stevie's Wonder.
Categories:
pedaling, culture, humanity, love, music,
Form:
Political Verse