Long Handle bars Poems
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On Cottingham Green
Have you got a light he asked
Breathing whisky fumes in my face
The hand rolled ciggie in his mouth
Miraculously staying in it’s place
As he lifted the bottle
Up to his lips
Then returned it to its carrier bag
After one or two sips.
He said he was owed thousands
From a PPI claim
The money was there somewhere
Waiting in his name.
If they got a move on
And didn’t pay it too late
He was going to buy a caravan
And drink whisky by the crate.
We sat there enjoying
The early spring sun
The he mounted his byke
And was off at a run
The bottle in its bag dangling
From the byke handle bars
As he shot across the street
Narrowly missing two cars.
I watched him ride down the road,
Through a red traffic light,
And then he turned the corner
And was gone from my sight.
I’d been feeling desolate after
Visiting the grave of my wife
But after chatting with him
Felt I was coming back to life
On Cottingham Green.
‘Get the motor running head out on the highway looking for adventure’
Well it is only the council road with potholes but Oliver races his pushbike
Walkman headphones sound ‘Born to be wild’ or Attention Deficit Disorder
But there is no doubt in the bikers’ mind that winter is recycling fast time
Orange banana saddle ape hanger handle bars and Che Guevara bandana
Another day for many revolutions as the wheels keep turning in tandem
He abhors bicycle clips as Oliver needs torn jeans to be one of the gang
No leather jacket so the hand me down brown corduroy one takes its place
Pedals turning downhill at full speed hard breaks and sharp swerve to the left
Another 360 degree circle wonderful skid marks adorn his pride and the road
It was easy today because morning dew and pink purple petals greased the path
For once the corroded chain has not come off after that creaking gear change
Countenance smirks on his face because has done it again and he feels so much
More achievement than if he was doing his homework left pathetically languorous
At home where his goody two shoes brother calculates tangents and radius
Oliver is an action boy full of mettle and metal and his scent is lubricant oil
‘Take the world in a love embrace and explode into space’ and dear emotions
Run high almost octane fuelled while his well-behaved sisters play octaves
From Amadeus on Bechstein or Steinway pined to bored ebony and ivory keys
Oliver hammers down wildly as the way forward beckons driven by freedom
He is oblivious to fragrances blossoms and bloom and the sweet scent of nature
Could not care less about chirping birds and the warm temperature resides only
In his teenage blood and guts as he rides through a pile of litter in which rusty
Debris mingles with pneumatic tyres and a very loose spring punctures the air
16th March 2019
Spring Is In the Air contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
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
First night in his final place
My dad called me weeping
“Please Bobby bring me home.”
His skin like ice cream
Melting on handle bars
Plopped in his wheelchair
Square
In the center cone of an empty room
Plaster cracked
A single nail
Where a clock once hung like a moon
He said, “They won’t tell me what time it is.
I don’t know what time it is.”
I hung his hat on that abandoned fish hook
Bent to his knees
Took off his shoes and massaged his feet
Re-storing the bait of heat to his bones.
“It’s nearly midnight Dad.”
The best time to sit beside a lake
With a fire flirting on the lunar water
And Aristotle fishing with balled up bread.
My Dad, once a boy floating famously on his back
Away on Lake Gogebic
In an afternoon polished by copper miners
To now, a lifetime later of sailing a Butterfly boat
Through two-footers on Torch Lake
His worn hands joined with his boy’s creamy hands
To a rope slipped through a pulley
Tightening the sail against the northern wind
Creating more speed and angling the boat almost to its side
Flattened to the lake
Our bodies standing up
Face to face
To the white sheet pulled and taut
Over the nose and chin of the choppy waves.
Later that night and forever more
My cell phone chimes like a clock
Every quarter hour
Shaking on my nightstand
From Dad’s new land line.
All the Christmases distant past were all so very memorable. Except for one Christmas I truly remember,
especially because it was unforgettable.
My parents and I gathered around the tree Christmas morn.
Many beautiful presents I found,
I was torn, which one to open first.
I looked about the room, there behind the tree
stood a large clumsy wrapped Christmas package.
I asked, “Can I open that one first please?”
Unwrapping the package with quick fingers,
I tore at the string and wrapping.
Then, ecstatic screams of joy with tears and wails
it took my breath away.
There was the Schwinn bike I saw in the store window
that my heart simply craved and yearned.
My parents looked at me with pride and joy and said,
” Merry Christmas!”
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 shine chrome fenders,
and tassel hanging down the ends of the handle bars.
For all day long I rode.
12/15/2016
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
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
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.
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
She came along casually riding a watermelon bike.
I was merely walking down the street on an intended hike.
She yelled “Hey, Pete, or Samuel or Ike!”
You see I am a triplet, and this is what it is like.
I am Suzette, she said, introducing herself in a sweet way.
I wondered how she knew our names in just one day.
They had just moved here this morning from down Chester way.
I noticed that her blue eyes had a tinge of silver and gray.
Want to ride on the handle bars? She asked with a sassy smile.
I did for sure, but flatulence kept me walking on that lonely mile.
Maybe some other day, I told her with a wink and a sigh.
She never asked me again, for she was now dating Cy.
Sometimes in the night I dream of taking a ride on that bike.
I would sit on the handle bars as confident as my brother Ike.
I wake up in a cold sweat, wishing she was my intended wife.
But alas, I am just me in the morning, with a boring dull life.
Written 7-13-2022
Contest: A Watermelon Fantasy Ride to Feed My Imagination
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose