I was an urban maverick
And bicycles met many needs.
More than the Pope is Catholic
I cleaved to my old one--speed steeds.
Over goatheads, glass, even nails
My bike took me every day.
Up ev'ry street and over trails
Holding a wheelie, like ballet.
My bike was my way and my wind,
My great escape to adventures.
Upright or wipeouts, elbows skinned,
Faceplants that could have meant dentures.
I rode and I rode ev'ry road.
I raced and O'r dropoffs I went.
So many bikes, had to be towed
As frames and forks I broke or bent.
I followed guys like Bob Hannah
Motocross heros in leathers
Who started out in bandanas
And flew as if they had feathers.
Oh those were my days of glory
When I rode so wild and free.
My bikes and I told the story
Of me and my one-speed steeds.
.
Now days they say we were free range,
we children of the seventies,
but really we were simply free
to wheelie and to ride.
We were groovy,
as groovy as our bikes ~
banana seats and decks of cards
made sure of that!
We rode and roamed until street lights came on
and all mama did when we got home was say
I see you’re still in one piece,
and that was that!
Bikes gave way to fast cars
and fast parties out in the woods,
with a little weed and lots of booze
because one of us had an older brother.
I finally had to go work for a living,
the fast car traded for a family sedan~
gave up smoking, gave up booze
and bought the house with a picket fence
The only thing I truly miss
is that groovy bike with banana seat
and playing cards clipped to the spokes
making noise going ‘round and around.
Observe the garden ninja
on the attack
a leaf blower
strapped to their back
and a lawn mower
but no sack
to collect the clippings
let alone picking up and putting in
the garden waste wheelie bin
merely making noise
severely reducing weeds
and flowers alike
'til they're nought but seeds
and when they strike
producing fumes
from badly-burned
fossil fuel ill-consumed
on the wind to be returned
from whence they once were
all flora is sadly doomed
cars sound the alarm
autumn delivers it's storm
night time is shattered
window faces watch
our world of broken branches
wheelie-bins gone rogue
when tomorrow comes
boys will collect their conkers
grown men their shovels
no helmet
it could be the end
of his wheelie
Your bones are scattered in a boggy field -
it happens all the time.
Time is your pocket handkerchief,
your shattered wristwatch,
your best evening pants,
all reduced to insect dust.
Hundreds of years later
they discover,
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw,
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Bit by bit your skull is discovered.
Eventually they have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness
of your skull.
Your life is so distantly buried into the past,
that the new beings have to speculate...
some assume you died,
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
others that you succumbed to a
primitive tooth condition.
None ever guess,
that you flew off your girlfriends Honda,
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road
in darkest Derbyshire.
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
A strong wind blew and the whole town knew
This storm intended trouble
A crashing sound upon the ground
My chimney stack was rubble
The daffs by the highways were all growing sideways
And I heard my gardener cry
Because he had never and neither had I
Seen a greenhouse fly
And then there were screams, the vicar it seems
Thought he was Mary Poppins
His brolly went down - so did he with a frown
Preceded by his droppings
I, by golly, clung to my brolly
And I soared like an eagle
And then I saw the vicar bounce
Off Westminster Cathedral
Fences were flattened all over the town
And many trees were down
A wheelie bin rolled up the street
And past the rose and crown
And then the wind dropped
My brolly flight stopped
And I had to face a new truth
My landing had led
Straight into my bed
It seemed I would need a new roof
It's the resolution graveyard
for those good intentions, cursed,
opening hours from New year's day
to February first.
Here's a pile of treadmills,
dumbbells stacked up near the gate,
abandoned by the desperate
who promised to lose weight.
The hungover who'd had enough,
repenting for their sins
have left wine bottles by the ton
in bright blue wheelie bins.
The smell of chocolate, biscuits, cake
they permeate the air,
left by those stood on bathroom scales
who said life wasn't fair.
Invisible unless up close,
hidden by a yellow fug,
the cigarettes thrown in the bin
from smokers, feeling smug.
The gravedigger, like Santa,
only toils here once a year,
and tirelessly he works his spade
until all have disappeared.
His shovel cleaned, oiled, put away
and ready for next time
when the graveyard gates squeak open wide
upon the New year chimes.
No mourners toss handfuls of dirt,
no eyes are wiped in sorrow,
since all of us are well aware
the diet starts tomorrow.
I screwed it on and it went right up the bank.
Hey! Said Crankden Cramden, was that mink named Hank?
The one who lost his head and needed a new one? I asked.
I think so said Bogland Bagomire, as he baited and basked.
I am irritated when strangers get in on my conversation of course.
So I gave him the bug eye, and got back up on my horse.
That is cheap cheese you are using for bait, Betty Beatercheese said.
I gave her the fisherman eye that said clearly “you’re dead”.
As if by magic Shabolina Pilford suddenly appeared in Rockah.
She said “tighten up the chain and wheelie for a block’ah!”
The self appointed experts began giving Shabolina weird advice.
You can’t ram the car son! A voice yelled, and not very nice.
I’ll jerk the keys! The son yelled at his father, Crankden Cramden.
That’s when I smelled the odiferous cat box, put there by Jamden.
Fonkland O’giglocard yelled “I thought you were going home to me.
I decided to stay a bit longer and watch this crazy nightmare comedy.
Doors slam, windows crack, letter flap inhales a fatal
wind.
Breastplate rusty dragon bearing scars.
House keys, credit cards, raybans close to hand.
Faux fur on the rack for noble bounty,
footnotes to a chapter without end.
Wistfully I crane my neck in peril,
finger marks on carbon black hand rail,
sprightly dash o’er slippy granite steps.
Odour eaters clog my leather shoes beyond endurance.
Butterflies somersault in tummy.
Elm tree barnet‘s awkward wooden stump.
Wheelie bin begging for collection at short notice.
Bin tag compass grazed.
Crack of dawn ghost ship’s uncanny horn blast.
Metaphor or tip off for deaf ears.
Egg shell clouds that dance on distant peaks
quaintly beckon.
Despite my better judgement I press on.
20 lines
Date posted : 17 th December 2021
This is an ode to the beautiful friendship.
which has been through all my hardship,
From my childhood till the kingship
we've have run this crazy relationship
He had eaten my all lunchboxes
we never laid for the other any fake hoaxes,
Together we crushed skulk of foxes,
we both never mentioned coaxes,
Our bromance is even older than silver jubilee,
Having memories both meaningful and pretty silly,
Went together to the highest peak, thunderous and chilly,
We both together are like a cart's wheelie.
Hope this bonding stays till very end,
our next generation has same blend,
Let our friendship be considered as a mold,
An example , in others' heart to behold.
White shade’s drawn, we know Dad is tinkering.
Wheelie on tip toes, his kids’ curious.
Surprises are in store, coming our way.
My brother and I see shadows blinkering.
Wondering! Our excitement furious —
F U N day.
Eleven months apart, our surprise gifts
Dad wheels out Irish twin bikes for birthdays.
His leopard. Basket on mine. H A P P Y us!
Nevermind trainer wheels, our progress’ swift.
H U R R A Y!
11/2/2020
The Speaker Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
*Irish Twins meaning - we were born within twelve months of one another
Well you know me
I’ve never been one to nosey
But I just happen to be stood by the window
Behind the net curtains
With a pair of binoculars in my hand
I heard a lot of noise from number 42
Across the road
They are unloading a furniture van
.
It looks like John and Ethel
Did a moonlight flit
But they were getting on a bit
.
Oh the furniture that’s going in
Is so tacky
I wouldn’t even put it
In my wheelie bin
Hmmm orange curtains and plastic flowers
A plastic pig no wheels on bricks
And look at the state of the carpet
Could do with some Shake and vac
And cleaned up a bit
.
There’s twenty kids stood outside
And now they have gone in
They all look the same
Lanky and thin
.
Their playing loud music
You could hear it in Kimberworth park
From South Anston
It’s only half past three
And not even dark
.
Hold on!
What’s this?
Somebody has climbed a tree
And is watching me
Through a pair of binoculars
Well!, The nosey thing!!!
.
Peter Dome©2020.
Silverado truck and F-one fifty Ford
Went on a date but both got extremely bored
Chevy made a wheelie and Ford promptly booked
Date didn’t last as long as the dinner we cooked.
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