Motorcyclists terrify me
I fear they will fly off the road
Who will stop to help?
Will we all keep whizzing by?
Every motorcyclist is someone’s baby
Someone’s grandchild, someone’s love
On the interstate where no one is careful, I cringe.
Terrified the rider is going to be maimed or killed
I say a prayer when I see a motorcyclist heading my way.
I try never to pass him or her.
Hoping not to see them again
Lying next to the road or worse.
Categories:
motorcyclists, life,
Form: Free verse
Thirty minutes til pickup - leaving home before crack of dawn
A slew of police cars and orange cones blocking the exit
Reading mailboxes with old eyes - not owl eyes
My friend and I exchanging gift bags - her birthday was in August
Thirty more minutes North - I should have let her drive
A sharp curve - caught off guard - followed it to its conclusion
A deer in a dead slump near the road’s edge
Motorcyclists - one popping a wheelie
Country bumpkin roads
Field of future Jack-O’-lanterns
The church steeple as the sun comes up
Categories:
motorcyclists, dark, travel,
Form: List
Chalk-white faces, chapped lips and infected footsoles,
Harmattan, she has come again, announcing her
presence like a proud royalty's entourage.
Mothers clad their infants in thick clothes
like north pole elves,
motorcyclists cruise around town with watery eyes
mourning the chill of the early morning continental
trade wind.
Dry tree leaves dance to the rhythm of the wind,
the dance of death, as they fall to the ground
amid rising dust, dry air and hazy skies,
gathering mist sits atop the mountain like a crown
on a King's head.
The local tea shop owner beams with a toothless
smile envisaging high patronage, and from the
eastern horizon a seemingly shy
thermal source rises slowly
Categories:
motorcyclists, change, earth, environment, weather,
Form: Free verse
The Rain In Spain falls gently on the Plain
In NYC it backs up sewers once again
Creating puddles that take two weeks to drain
Oil slicks abound the terrain
Causing motorcyclists lots of pain
Cursing and Swearing is what sustains
In the Abundance of Late-Running Trains
Categories:
motorcyclists, angst, life, nature,
Form: I do not know?