Long Handlebars Poems
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They stole my brand-new bike from where
I’d left it in the yard.
Since I was only eight years old,
I really took it hard.
I’d only had it for a week
But it fit all my needs –
The brakes were on the handlebars
And wow! It had three speeds!
It was metallic blue and oh,
The other kids would stare;
But one day when I came outside,
It simply wasn’t there.
We searched in vain on every street
Within the neighborhood.
We really thought it would show up,
But it was gone for good.
My parents didn’t have the funds
To purchase a replacement.
Instead, they found a clunker
Rusting in somebody’s basement.
My second bike was old and slow
And really not much fun.
The tires were fat, the rims were scuffed,
The count of speeds was one!
I’ve never owned another bike
But cars I’ve had a few;
And one thing I can tell you is
Each one was spanking new!
she knew all the moves
Queen's Gambit
Sicilian Defense
Bura's Desperado Sacrifice
with her arms wrapping me
we barreled the freeway
racing headlong into the wind
balanced on two wheels below
as free as mustangs in the mountains
abandoned in the moment with the herd
where the only destination
was in the hooves desires
when emotions move beyond
any resemblance of logic and reason
my arms began to leave
their grip upon the handlebars
wings were birthed, expanding in flight
soaring in a vision of Magnificent Frigates
liberty in the thermals, gracing the air
ecstatic and free of gravity
casting fate into another paradise
look, mom, no hands
when came the scream
the slap to my back
what are you doing command
as my hands returned
slowly to the handlebars
i returned the conversation
the universe was out of balance
i put it back, time to think quick
not every move is in a book
of chess
later over lunch, there was the lecture
where bad boys are brought to heel
those stern warnings
you will never do that again
there could be a rock in the path
there could be
there could be
one of those times
they will never know why
or will you really, the stars align
the anger in her face
telling you in large measure
how much she loves you
not in any chess book
it is secret men keep, silence is golden
because sometimes a woman's anger
is her most adorable moment
when you fall in love yet more
where every upbraid becomes a rose
reminding you how precious she is
one of those ways fruition luckily forms
and you get attention, a bonehead move
pays in dividends
like pulling ponytails
not in any chess book
but what is, a most arduous trial
never mentioned in the books
of chess defenses
when the king takes the queen
OKC 7/22
There are better ways to travel in town
Past crusty breads, savory cheese, desserts
Two legs move slowly unless pumping down
Move out of the way at expert exerts
On busy European streets, renowned
diving, left, right, recentering, on walk
Here come the bicyclists; they’re all around
You might have to trace my figure with chalk
A slow stroll on quiet streets, disturbed
Darting into cute little shops, askance
Handlebars swerving, our sweet snack is curbed
Waiting for signal that we might advance
On busy European streets, renowned
diving, left, right, recentering, on walk
Here come the bicyclists; they’re all around
You might have to trace my figure with chalk
Children holding on tight; they’re used to this
Going to school, not by foot or by bus
Whilst straddling bike, mama blows a kiss
They weave through traffic; we try not to cuss
On busy European streets, renowned
diving, left, right, recentering, on walk
Here come the bicyclists; they’re all around
You might have to trace my figure with chalk
A bicycle is freedom
It's not just wheels and gears
It's more than bottom brackets
It's more than front and rear
It's freewheeling down steep hills
No pedals, feet up high
It's becoming young all over again
With hedges zooming by
It's finding winding tracks and lanes
It's getting muddy, wet
It's getting caught out in the rain
A love you dont forget
misjudging potholes in the road
And landing on the side
It's grazing knees and bruises
An exhilarating ride
It's falling in the Bracken
It's walking flat tyres home
It's fresh air and a peace
It's together or alone
Im back to being 12 yrs old
Exploring places yet unseen
It's going out for hours
To where I have not been
So look beyond the handlebars
The sprockets and the chains
This is perfect freedom
Will make you smile again
So free the bike now from the shed
Clean rust from off the frame
Set it free from cobwebs
You'll never be the same
It was late August the "summer of ’69."
Mike and I were "going on sixteen, "
"daydream believers."
chasing "Puff the Magic Dragon"
and "ice cream castles in the air."
We tied our transistor radios
to our bicycle handlebars.
The little speaker crackling
between bursts of static,
pulling melodies from unseen places.
Mike rode beside me,
his laughter keeping time
with the clicking spokes;
our pedals did "turn, turn, turn"
through our idyllic hometown,
our very own "land of Honah Lee."
We were living on "cloud nine" that "summer of '69."
At night, we kissed beneath
"moons and Junes and Ferris wheels,
feather canyons everywhere."
October arrived, and
"we frolicked in the autumn mist
in the land we called Honah Lee."
December came, "the leaves are brown
and the sky is a hazy shade of winter."
But in March, "here comes the sun;"
"April, come she will"
with her "new moon bright above and
cherry pink and apple blossoms white. "
It's the "time of the season
when love run high."
May afternoons stretched forever;
with our transistor radios,
we pedaled beneath elm trees,
certain every road curved
toward something wonderful.
The radio knew every shortcut
through the kingdom of sixteen
and the "land of Honah Lee."
"Monday, Monday" drifted from the speaker,
followed by "Do You Believe in Magic,"
and then "Daydream Believer,"
as if the air itself
had memorized the charts.
At sixteen, we never questioned the future.
Why would we?
"All you need is love"
seemed reasonable enough.
With very passing hour we wore
our "Groovy Kind of Love"
like a lucky charm.
We rode past porches,
baseball diamonds, and
fresh-cut lawns,
while somewhere beyond the water tower
there were always "Good Vibrations,"
The radio traveled everywhere with us~
through long twilights,
through summer thunderstorms,
through first kisses
and our almost goodbyes.
Songs spilled from that little box
like bright confetti:
"Bus Stop," "Mrs. Robinson,"
"Build Me Up Buttercup,"
while "The Sound of Silence"
arrived as the evening sky turned lavender above the rooftops.
We didn't know enough to recognize nostalgia
while we lived inside it.
We only knew the thrill
of hearing a favorite song
float from that little box,
as dependable as summer.
Seems like not so long ago when we were kids
Walking through the woods behind the park
Playing cowboys and Indians, six guns on our hips
Never coming home till after dark
Morning would find us teaming up again
One behind the plate, one on the mound
Let the glove dangle from the handlebars
And ride our bikes all over town
Dutch Masters and a White Owl trying our first cigars
Playing grown up was pretty slick
Never thinking how we’d react
Laughing but so damn sick
Caterpillars in the trees come spring
Checking a robin’s egg waiting for it to hatch
Hiking behind Snake Hill on a hot day
Itching like hell from falling in a nettles patch
Saving pennies to buy a pack of Luckies
Never dreamed of growing old
A couple of quarts behind the Dutch Hill Dump
A little too brash, a little too bold
Time is the enemy of every child
Doing all that we ever could
So many gone and we were growing old
But I never thought I would
Verse 1
My second set of wheels was sunshine yellow,
Folded in the middle like a secret I could hold,
Scratches on the frame told stories of the miles,
Of a kid chasing freedom on suburban roads.
Verse 2
We'd ride to that hotel when the heat got mean,
Sneaking ice from a humming silver machine,
Cold cubes in our hands, laughing like thieves,
Cooling down our dreams in July’s thick breeze.
Verse 3
When the ice ran out and the machine was dry,
We didn't care, we never asked why,
Turned that garden hose till the water ran free,
Warm as the day but sweet as could be.
Laughing in the sunlight, dirt on our feet,
Simple little moments made life feel complete.
Chorus
We rode like we owned every cracked back street,
Kings and queens on two-wheel seats,
No license, no fear, just dust and sky,
Pedal down hard, let the summer fly.
Those handlebars carried who we'd be,
Long before life caught up with me,
On that yellow bike I learned to be free.
Verse 4
Parents working late, we were on our own,
Sidewalks and streetlights were the world we roamed,
Racing for glory at the end of the block,
Talking big dreams around a four-way stop.
Verse 5
Chrome and cards in spokes sounding loud and proud,
Every bike was built to stand out in the crowd,
We measured our worth by how fast we could go,
And who had the most badass ride on the road.
Bridge
Funny how time rides faster than a kid can see,
One day you're racing, next day it's memories,
But somewhere inside that younger me still rides,
On a yellow bike that time can't hide.
Final Chorus
We rode like we owned every broken lane,
Through joy and scraped up knees and pain,
Life was simple in that summer heat,
Freedom was two tires under my feet.
If I could go back that's where I'd be,
Just a Gen-X kid with a wild heart free,
On that yellow bike still riding in me.
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
. Each year as Christmas rolls around, as I buckle under the pressure and stress of
shopping for gifts for people that already have everything, I find myself remembering that
Christmas of 1954.
Dad had joined the army that year and we moved from the East Coast of Canada
to Ontario, leaving behind our extended family and the only home I had ever know in a small
fishing village along the Bay of Fundy.
Now we stood gazing in horror at the rows of ugly buildings sitting on barren land
in the middle of nowhere. This was the housing provided by the army and was a major part
of the wage agreement.
My mother was inconsolable until dad rented us a small apartment over a Chinese
restaurant in downtown Barrie. There was no remuneration by the army for forfeiting the
housing, so it left dad with a very small pay-check
Pay day was once a month and we usually ran out of money in the last week, so,
off we would go to the pawn shop with dad’s prized possession; his short-wave radio, won for
superior marksmanship.
Being kids, we finally adjusted to our new world as we watched the Santa Claus
Parade march below our living room window amid the honking horns, blaring bands and
throngs of people lined along the streets as far as the eye could see as we laughed with glee.
~~~
We had seen them on our way to school in the window of the bicycle shop;
gleaming with chrome spokes and handlebars and hand grips adorned with multi-colored
streamers. There I would stand until my feet grew numb from the cold, daydreaming of
riding back to the East Coast. I could actually see the sun glistening on the waves as I raced
along the ocean on the way to grandma’s house. More than once I had to stay after school
for being late.
My brother thought maybe if we were really good, Santa would bring those
bicycles to us. I being the older and therefore the wiser, knew the state of the real Santa’s
affairs and promptly convinced my brother I had heard from a reliable source Santa had a
shortage of bicycles this year and we would just have to earn the money and buy them
ourselves.
Continued in part 2....
I knew he’d forget
All I wanted this year was a bike, I even wrote Santa three letters so he wouldn’t
forget. I ran to my sister’s room and woke her up, “Come on, let’s go see if he came.”
“I hope Santa brought me my dolly.” She said as we saw wrapped gifts every where
but nothing that looked like a bike. “I knew he’d forget.” I murmured.
Mom and dad were already up. We opened our gifts and she got her doll. Santa
remembered to bring her that stupid doll, but forgot the bike I wanted. I got socks,
pajamas, a board game and a sweater from my aunt Edna, but no bike. I just knew
he would forget. Dad collected the discarded paper in a plastic trash bag.
“Did everyone have a nice Christmas?” My sister shouted, “Yes, Santa brought me
my dolly.” “What about you Chris?” He asked. “Yeah it was fine.” “Why the long face son,
did Santa not bring what you wanted?” “No, he didn’t bring the bike, I knew he’d forget.”
“Santa has a lot going on this time of year, I’m sure it just slipped his mind.”
“I’m sorry son but here, take this trash out to the garage and I’ll start the pancakes,
sound good? He said as he winked at mom. “Yeah, real good,” I answered as I
grabbed the bag grumbling, “I don’t want to take the stupid trash out to the stupid
garage or eat any stupid pancakes. I can’t believe he forgot, I just knew he’d forget.”
I opened the door and saw it, a big red bow sitting on top of…the bike and there was
a note attached to the handlebars with a ribbon, it read, Chris, I’m sorry but it wouldn’t
fit under the tree, so I put it out here. I hope that’s okay? It was signed, Santa.
“Yes! It’s okay Santa!” I screamed happily. “I knew you wouldn’t forget.”
Written for the Christmas Day poetry contest
Sponsored by: Alexis Y