Long Biker Poems
Long Biker Poems. Below are the most popular long Biker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Biker poems by poem length and keyword.
Thundering roar turns into scream
as it simply can give no more
push it on a little more
as every bit of thrill obtained
in release it drops off
as the scream quickly fades
and the pounding of the blood
to contemplate thought gives way
leather blacken by hard use
through many years once again
quickly moves to the task
presses quickly with eagerness
reset now once again
grows in new the thundering roar
quickly grows into the scream
as the blood pounds once again
wind does tear at tender flesh
streaming eyes and whipping curls
roaring off into the night
the biker goes on their ride
In loving memory the saga goes,
or so they say when feint reminder culls a piercing interlude.
Remnant of an unfinished sentence,
broken shadow haunt awash with grief,
snapshot at the edge of a well.
Parachute of blinding insight on queue or on song,
paper mache angel deep within.
Verses, scrolls, smudges from that pink enamel claw,
whose back fold clip appearance left one reeling,
like some
tree house dweller rattled by a swooping hawk.
Gimlet sipping voyageur
adrift on ice pack yacht,
in need of solace,
yet wishing it to the bottom of his rusty bucket list.
Fragile human being torn apart,
funeral bound,
that once upon a time surreal biker skirting mountains.
A priori stunt man metaphysically divine on rocky ledge,
dare devil prayer when it suits.
Feat performance activist a sleight of hand jester,
yet despite this vapid mask of dumb amnesia,
he wanders blindfold down
an alpine peak while chasing after dim and distant keepsake
Date posted :31st January 2022
Cindy
By Franklin Price
03/04/2022
When I first met you Cindy, you were another person's spouse
You became a friend to Barb and me, were always welcome in our house.
People always stopped and stared, your beauty was in bloom
You were then, a trophy wife, when you walked into the room.
We all became the best of friends, rode Harleys everywhere
Whenever someone saw us, all the rest of us were there
You and Barb became the best of friends, went in business together
Through thick and thin you persevered, through clear and stormy weather
You left the marriage you were in, and you moved on to another
Searching for some satisfaction with a younger biker brother.
I'm thinking that the sex was good. You married him. What for?
Though your looks were of perfection, had love to give and so much more.
Barbara saw that more within you, your intelligence came through.
You were more than just an object, you had more in life to do
You were more than just a play thing, Barb had made you realize,
The work, and love and friendship, had really opened up your eyes.
All our lives were changing, Barb's and mine had turned about.
Billy's and her heads were banging and I had to get her out.
We moved to North Carolina, where it took her several years
To come to grips, and stabilize, and dry up most her tears.
We were saddened by departing, leaving everyone behind
But if we did not do it, she would have lost her freaking mind
You took over all the business, and you really made us proud
You are more than just an object, you're a standout in the crowd.
You've divorced your biker buddy, and took back your maiden name,
Still printing out “Checks on Demand”. You are changing up your game.
Barbara has passed away, all her pain on earth is through
I'm still here and cheering, for some joy and peace for you.
I would love to be a part of that, as we travel on through life
You have lost your best friend Barbara, who was my own best friend and wife.
We both have friends and family who will help us move along
I would like us to be more than that. Does that make my liking wrong?
You make my heart beat faster when I call you on the phone
To hear your voice assures me that I'll never be alone
Her love brings us together. She's so much of who we are.
She's still resides within us, she'll always be our shining star.
Eroding names
on long-faced headstones.
Graves marooned
in a patch of the past
while 2019 blares unseeing
around the forgotten lot.
An old-fangled America
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit
of once horse-drawn bones.
A haze of traffic emissions
half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away, the half seen,
yet,
there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouth-lost echoes
of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners still reeking of
raw mule skins
An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into our future,
slides discreetly sideways 'round
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.
A biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag.
voices sweat into his skin,
he shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a cold soda long defunct.
A cloudy memory follows a teenager,
toward a newly opened store,
but it won’t live long.
Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.
Women Bartender Parties
Their eyes watched
the bartender,
like a tennis ball,
volleying to each side,
bouncing, soft like
from side to side
of the bar, filling drinks
and old men's hearts
with wet dreams,
prompting the men
on gathering closer
to the campfire.
She was hot.
Their necks stretched,
minds made pseudo
claims, and mouths watered
of her effect.
She was young and new,
and too studious.
A librarian by day,
layers of academia,
flowing through her veins-
you could see that
she was smart, yet sassy.
There was no hiding, though,
the biker girl behind
those glasses, hair
in a bun, and brass demeanor.
She made sashay look
pedestrian.
She could compete with
a New York model
with her providence,
long arms and legs,
and a longer neck,
that likely sprung
a gasket in her admirers.
Would she lie?
When she gained wind
of whispering old men,
poking the shortness
of her denim shorts
she tickled their fancies.
"Is my vagina sticking out,"
as she checked her shorts,
innocence oozing from her
and sending old men's
watering hole to rise.
She was a frolicking horse
that put all the other
bar's bartenders to pasture.
She continued pouring
drinks, like how pouring rain-
rescues drought stricken
crops. She had that effect.
When she saddled next
to an old man, lucky one
at that, her gray eyes
boring into his browns,
as they split the night air
into little gifts,
exchanging presents
of knowledge of each other,
you could see his horses
neighing, too, nudging
to get out of the stables.
Did she say she was writing
a book?
He doesn't remember.
He remembers
seeing a moon flower.
She continued serving rain,
while the jukebox played
and the patrons swayed,
exchanging banter with each.
Moments later she did
the unthinkable-no
it wasn't a red scarlet.
Or connotative.
She drank, which is taboo,
matching shots of Royal,
three, with the old man,
while not missing a beat,
holding her liquor well,
and turning back his hands
............. of time.
connie pachecho
4/20/17
You ride through shadows, chasing dawn,
But you never saw the storm you spawned.
I’m not the girl you left behind--
I walk the dark with purpose, spine.
Your wheels may spin on borrowed fate,
But I was born to navigate.
I don't chase ghosts or beg for grace;
I set my fire and claim my place.
The night knows me--I wear its name,
Not weeping soft, but burning flame.
No chains to break, no debt to pay--
I forged my freedom, kept the way.
So ride, lone wolf, your distant mile.
I walk in boots, not in denial.
You had your shot, your smoke, your song.
But I’ve been midnight all along.
Authors Notes: poetic response to Midnight Rider by The Allman Brothers Band
You were my brother, by blood we know
My partner in crime, so to speak
I had your back, you had mine
We had our fights, then we made up
You could pick on me, vice versa
Don't no one dare start trouble with you
If they did, they had me to deal with
I'm a biker today, because of you
That first biker bar, you brought me to
I walked in, then realized who I was
We argued, fussed and fought
Who would have their Harley first
You had a few rice burners it's true
At least you had two wheels to ride
The years came and went
You traveled the coast
Years later you moved in with me
You came in with bad news on life
You said your time had been cut short
I felt as though I got hit with a brick
Although we were not speaking to Mom & Dad
I thought they should know what's come of you
I wrote them a letter, telling them your time was short
Their response was, you were back on drugs
It was hard to understand, they did not believe
I wrote back to tell them, visit him at the VA Hospital
Mom didn't go, Dad did so
He walked right by you, not recognizing
You lost so much weight, he did not know you
They found I wasn't lying
You were put in their care, till your end days
I'm sorry I didn't visit
Not on good terms with mom and dad
You left this world, for a better place
I then got my Harley, in memory of you
I love you my dear brother, with all my heart
I know you ride with me, when I'm in the wind
Forever my brother, forever my friend
I love you always, until we meet again
Form:
It was one of those sunny days, that later on merge in memory, and you can’t tell one from another instantly, but on the second sight they discern, each with its own number of little events. There was good visibility from the second deck of the bus - my memories start when we are standing at a junction on red, we need to cross a major motorway. There are not many cars moving along the motorway, we keep staying, I remember a delivery biker, and a yellow DHL van in front of us, it looks like it is going to attend in the same direction. Finally, the light turns green, and we slowly cross the motorway into a narrow street. The low-rise houses are half-hidden by trees - the spicy smell of linden trees in bloom wafts in through the half-open window on my side. We pass an industrial zone, a string of concrete warehouses standing tightly together, then we descend into a valley, then the road goes up the hill. Soon we stop in front of the barrier - ahead we see the car park, small groups of people here and there - tourists who have come to see the Seven Sisters, and perhaps to swim in the sea. I descend a fairly steep path down to the sea, and finally I'm down on the shore. Although there are people wandering around, I don't notice anyone, and I can't hear what they are saying. I manage to sit down on one of the rocks warmed by the sun, and just stare at the water, at the calm waves. It doesn't matter whether I exist or whether someone else is looking at the sea, as long as I stay in some incomprehensible flat that serves as my home, although my home is something out of the realm of unrealisable fantasies. But there is no law that compels one to have a country, a home, habits, a job, a family. I don’t have a country, its the country that has me, for reasons beyond my comprehension, same is relevant about that bogus home, job, family, habits. I agree to relate to some point to a number of things that are not my own, its not a big trouble. But I don't belong there mentally or spiritually. I take advantage of this oversight of the overseers of order, and slip away to where the waves reflect the light of the sky. Who I am, doesn't matter. Can be anyone, or someone you happen to know.
A Kamikaze peddler
Who follows his nose
fluorescent green Lycra
A middle finger he shows
Slower than a snail
As wide as truck
Forget the highway code
He pushes his luck.
Side by side they pedal
Three or four deep
Then they become violent
If you give them a beep
They own the road
and there’s no mistake
Zip through red lights
No prisoners they take
Danger personified
Full speed ahead
And then they wonder
Why motorists see red.
The bike’s abandoned
He washes his hands
Peels off his Lycra
He’s got urgent plans
Jumps in his car
To go somewhere fast
A slight incline
He just can’t pass
In front is a pedlar
And It’s Karma at last.
David Cox 11/05/25
Eroding names on long-faced headstones,
a small graveyard marooned on a patch of past;
long rooted and confined while beside it
2022 blares unseeing past the forgotten lot.
An old-fangled America right there
forgotten crypts
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit of once horse-drawn bones
amid a modern thoroughfare.
A haze of traffic emissions half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away,
yet, there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouthless echoes of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners wrapped in musty mule skins.
An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into the present, slides sideways into
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.
Voices sweat into the skin of a biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag they wetly whisper.
He shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a lime phosphate soda
long defunct.
A cloudy memory follows a teenager
toward a newly opened store,
but the new won’t thrive long.
Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.