Archive for the ‘Free verse’ Category

Motorcycle School Prime Minister

August 19, 2012

Motorcycle Training Centers provide novice motorcycle riders a safe place to learn to ride. There is a flat area of asphalt or concrete with obstructions removed, painted pathways to practice the basic skill sets of riding, and training motorcycles just the right size for learners. Here’s to the folks that keep those places running smooth-

Schedules squeeze on hours and days,
Another class of riding frights-
But is there gas to share in tanks?
two more days and sleepless nights

Bikes aren’t new but clean and whole,
Each ridden hard through curves around;
Little engines sprite with soul,
Towards graduation each is bound.

Oil is checked and brakes are fine,
More forms we need to note the good-
Parents bring their youth and sign,
Weather check for rain – it could..

Time to ride and all in place,
With special care pump up each tire.
Anticipation on each face-
Adjust we must the clutching wire.


To Ride or Not to Ride -UNFINISHED-

February 3, 2012

This effort reminds me of the little boy coloring a picture when his mom asked him what he was doing. The little boy said he was making a picture of heaven. His mom protested and said that no one knows what heaven looks like. The little boy said that ‘they will when I’m through’.

As you will see this work is unfinished. It is not my aim to insult the great bard but to salute him. Some guy once wrote that no one really understands the great ‘TO BE OR NOT TO BE’, but as you can see I’m working on it. Updates as they are made.


To ride or not to ride, that is the question!

Whether ’tis nobler the rain to suffer, or
The slings and arrows of raging soccer grandmothers
who both gawk and text simultaneously.
Or to roll your throttle against the tide of traffic,

And by riding stay them, for just another day.
But no, per chance to skip the ride just now,
Too cold or hot or windy, a hundred stresses more-

That flesh is heir to riding as consummation
Pray a prayer to rest from riding never;

But risk a dream; the ride of roadways clear and dry-
For in that dream of rides, what dreams may come!
Far from the shores of democrats and endless taxes.

But, when we discard this v-twin tainted flesh;
And pause at the threshold of eternity’s long ride
What weight urban congestion and frustration will remain?

That makes calamity of a ride so rude and long.
For who could bear the stop and go of surface streets,
Endure the insolence of lessor men on local roads.

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.[1]

Beatnik Winter Motorcycle Poem #2

February 5, 2011

I remember the beatniks back in the early 1960s. So I thought I’d try using their lingo and outlook on life to write a motorcycle related poem. It probably won’t be very good, so just go out and ride your motorcycle down to your local coffee shop and cheer yourself up. And I don’t remember how well beatniks used rhyme so the poem is rather weak there also… think of it as Beatnik Motorcycle Free Verse


Like man -! I couldn’t ride today, dig?

Cold and icy, like the arctic came down into my scene.

Clouds blocked the sun and ruined my fun daddy-oh.

Ride towards the peace and love with goggles on.

My front tire is groovy-

Kuykendahl Volunteer Motorcycle Philosophy Forum

November 25, 2010

Firstly, the administration. In writing this poem, it turned out to be a piece of verse in what I term ‘The New Yorker School of Poetry’ – which is to say that it doesn’t really have consistent rhyme or rhythm. It’s more like free verse with a little rhyme. OK, enough admin. Do you ever need to commiserate with your associates? So do motorcyclists and bikers. I do it near Kuykendahl Road. Oh, and it is all volunteer work.


Not every day will you find us there, but pretty much-

we volunteer to solve the nation’s ills,

while settled back; above twin cylinders we ride;

near Kuykendahl Road to share our thoughts.


Some scars of Vietnam to heal, with grocery prices rising,

tattoos and smokes are often shared but not universally.

Handlebars make camaraderie,

as banter percolates discourse on riding best of breed.


So park your bike in the coffee shop lot,

no need to order, just show your face.

Grab a chair on the leeward side.

Politics and motorcycle talk proliferates apace.


Old heads who ride those Harleys proud,

and college grads with Hondas sneak upon the group in style-

Young guns on Kawasakis fast and true arrive without their reservations,

yet all mix to speak of weather, spouses and current tribulations.


Some days just two hold court to chat,

beside the traffic’s screech and clatter at the light.

A stealthy biker passes by; pipes loud!

which prompts more talk of who rides right.


Conservatives sit confident in their unruffled best,

our group it welcomes liberals and others; its our quest.

We, most of us; depart with sunset due- and carefully.

To ride creations wonder; then philosophize when day is new.

Driller’s Honored Ride

October 11, 2010

The CNBC web site indicated recently that there have been approximately 184 million gallons of crude oil spilled in the Gulf of Mexico. This fact, besides the loss of eleven men is unfortunate on many levels. It is very distressing that their lives and the family members have been lost in the disaster’s translation (sorta speak). I honor those brave souls. And for months beyond others wrestle the belching beast below. We honor them also. –


Eleven souls lost from blast, fire and falls,

Brave men; who drill deep down past sea, through earth-

To make this nation run its daily course and more,

They worked unseen, unsung and paid the fullest measure worth.


Shock and heat dispatched the topside show; yet below,

of monumental challenges left beneath-

a mile or more of reach to stop the flow.

The anger grew as fish nor oyster fit for tables set.


But on we ride; and at the pump reflect upon those men,

who struggle daily to control a beast beneath the waves.

Their brawn and brains applied to wrestle steel in darkest night,

Whilst skimming seas of oily grime and seabirds; washing saves.


Salute to those now lost did make my ride a joy!

Their eyes are dimmed from time; but view eternity through this riders bliss-

Two cylinders that crush the fuel those proud eleven found,

Propel me through creation’s profound majesty.

More than a Whisper

September 9, 2010

Nanci Griffith – that great female vocalist from Austin, TX, sings a song about needing more than a whisper of love. So I used her idea at the end of this free verse. Motorcycles can’t love you back. But they can give more than a whisper; especially when you twist hard on the throttle. Remember, this is free verse so rhyming wasn’t a priority (sorry).


Back-roads grim or sleek uptown lights-

sixth gear ride towards bumper lines harsh.

And thoughts drift back to bright flashes – long dim,

and brittle memories strewn down dusty lanes.


But suddenly, cleared in quick with red hot revs;

around wide curves without regret.

His ride it speaks with steady roar,

straight on – much more than a whisper.

Middle Aged Fatboy Free Verse

December 5, 2009

Some ideas stolen from the Book of Job Ch 39


Idle time for Fatboy proud, just past prime,

Maroon with flames on tank and tins.

Displayed on showroom floor that shines,

Twelve thousand miles as it begins.

Milwaukee gave this steed its strength,

Brains and brawn carved steel and thunder,

Is age a part of its design at length,

No, just majesty on bridge and under.

It pawed in valley deep without regard,

and cruised in power bright concrete hard.

Roaring into clash of road and weather,

it mocks at fear of night or heat,

Neither bows from distance or whatever,

On the byways what providence may greet.

It turns back not from rolling threat,

despite the rattles of journey great.

It devours distance with fiery rage,

internal pressures and the fuel gauge.

But now, it rests on sidestand left,

Awaiting sounds of the trumpet blast.

To start the battle once again with grace,

and face the road and wind and heat, at last.