Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Autumn Twilight Plinking

October 16, 2015

In the early part of Desert Storm, the U. S. Air Force was using the formidable F-111F to -plink- (squish) Sadam’s tanks. Plinking was accomplished using LASER guided smart bombs dropped from the F-111s. Last night, I was using my headlight to guide bugs to -plink-; ouch! And there really are bugs we call Love-Bugs here in Texas…


Sol’s autumn beams cast shadows long, he sets quite gently in the west;

my V-twin steed loafs anxiously awaiting throttle’s harsh requests.

Rain in spring and summer heat are parents to a plague replete-

with tiny aviators wings; hit my face and goggles, -plink-.

Air is crisp as engine torques, propels me through a dimming view;

light retreats along my way, sky dilutes to muted satin hues.

Rejoice! to ride in twilight clear, stars proclaim their ancient truth above-

Annoying thuds against my cheeks; gnats, flies and bugs called ‘Love’.

How is it then that I deserve, to taste majestic rolling bliss;

upon a rail quite finely tuned, Mazzaroth bestows her ancient kiss.

Committed to the path at hand, each twist and turn of road I think,

of hard forged steel with God’s Good Grace;

and flying bugs enduring each annoying -plink-.


Traffic Symphony #2

October 9, 2015

Traffic is getting worse all the time. My motorcycle feels it.


Yield signs, crosswalks, right turn only lanes;
chronic victims texting without looking through their panes-
Stop and go methodically, my V-twin’s heating up,
Turning into coffee shops, abruptly for to sup-

Brake pads wearing rapidly, down to sliver size-
Harsh acceleration thins synthetic oils’ prize.
Highway backups spill into the side-streets evermore…
Politicians promise funding fixes; vaporize galore.

Right wrist sore from flexing lever constantly, to slow-
Glaring green defeated by a towers’ data flow.
“Love thy neighbor always friend”, the Lord has spoken thus…
Otherwise we’d find them neatly tucked below some bus-

The Quantum Motorcycle Mechanic

July 9, 2014

Quantum physics is a very strange set of equations that predict the existence of sub-atomic particles and their corresponding force vectors. But that isn’t the way it started out. The physicists who began the work were actually Harley riders and they were searching for a single equation; using their odometer as a baseline- to predict when they should change their engine, primary and transmission lubricants. The resultant work yielded strange outcomes like ‘anti-chrome plated’ oil filters. The rest is motorcycle history…


Accelerate to speeds beyond the known-
As time dilates to squeeze a bottom clone.
Anti-spin collisions, get a quark,
Transmission oil is looking awful dark…

Ride through a vector field with charm-
Another round odometer won’t harm.
The engine oil must drain at winter’s face;
Electrons twice, two places once embrace.

Equations theory filters with a nut,
Much easier to twist; then fully shut-
But will the Higgs trace out a blatant path-
Scraped knuckles are the only epitaph.

Synthetic color mystifies the mind,
Inspection plate removal at the chime.
Femto seconds age at pico-scale,
Cruise boldly through old Sol’s neutrino gale!

Carrot Street Rider

March 28, 2014

Locke Ness Monster, Bessie, Kipsy and Champ may be mythical water monsters, but they don’t affect motorcycling in the traditional sense. However, there is a monster threat to riders in southern Texas- The Carrot Street Possum. I’ve seen it myself; and it’s something I wish I could ‘un-remember’!


Shortcut avenue, minus signal light-
Saves anguish from the traffic blight.
But monsters lurk; quickly blossom,
Giant, fierce; the Carrot Street Possum!

Cool spring day on side street cruise,
Attention span you hold- don’t lose.
In third gear now and breeze is fine.
V-twin revs, keep right of line.

But suddenly from ditches dim-
Lumbers toothy little rhino grim.
Eyesight poor, caution blind-
Scamper on but pass behind.

Into abyss on other side-
Racing heart is hard to hide.
I slow to catch my breath, then ride.
Doubters cast aspersions; lied,
On Carrot Street the legend possum eyed.

Rain on Chrome

August 23, 2013

When you visit this blog, you MUST read more than one of my postings. It’s part of Obamacare now – and the IRS is tracking your participation. But it’s OK because the NSA knows your reading habits anyway. This poetry post is about weather and the abundance of motorcyclist chrome love. BTW, I was unsure how to spell scintillate; but I figured you didn’t know either so here goes….


Shine, glisten and scintillate;
radiant chemistry ingratiates.
Mist forebodes in chromosomes-
warning hints of rain on chrome!

Majestically bright billows build;
before their condensate, I’m stilled.
Instinctively I ride towards home,
Interdict that rain on chrome!

Circumspect makes rides go right,
sidestep showers; radar sight.
Deceptively the humid roams;
then left am I with rain on chrome…

Rose Colored Goggles

August 9, 2013

This is another one of my plagiarized poems. What a surprise huh? I’m using John Conlee’s idea for this poem. He sings a song about looking through ‘Rose Colored Glasses’. His significant other isn’t really that interested in him, but he presses on with his unrequited attentions. It’s got a good tune if you’ve never heard it… So, if you are a regular motorcycle rider in our modern society – you probably own at least one pair of Rose Colored Goggles-


Scalding breeze at fifty five,
freezing rain in puddles dive-
sunshine blinds the morning dawn;
wooded ride; beware the fawn.

but these rose colored goggles,
that I’m looking through-
mask threats environmental;
power past creations’ truth.

Yellow lights, traffic crawling-
A-D-D electric scrawling…
angry rage, excessive speed;
avoiding impacts is my creed.

but these rose colored goggles,
clear highways I see;
oil spills and potholes deep-
occasionally around I creep.

Loose chains, brake pads real thin;
a second job for dollars win.
Adjust the clutch, buy more chrome-
new battery before I roam.

But these rose colored goggles,
elastic band all stretched-
show only the beauty,
of good rides, fully fetched.

Motorcycle Math

May 7, 2013

First, don’t just read this poem. Browse a few of my older postings. Some of these compositions took me almost 10 minutes to write…

When you ride a motorcycle you are constantly using mathematics to, well, let’s just say ‘figure stuff’. Always remember 7 out of 5 bikers are good at math.


Price tag says ten thousand dollars,
Harley shares, use put-call collars.
Forty eight of months is due-
Two ‘oh eight plus interest slew.

Three fifty eight a gallon now,
One eighty miles this bike will plough.
Insurance rates to drain my stash-
The wife demands her weekly cash.

Numbers take me for a cruise;
Of torque my wheels for spin, do use;
At fifty five the m-p-g,
Makes bureaucrats exhaust with glee!

Maintenance expenses climb;
Constraints prioritize shop time.
Dizzying formulas do compose-
A ride; no fractals can enclose.

Price This Motorcycle

March 5, 2013

FIRST: are you just reading my latest posting? You had better be browsing some of my previous posts also. Unless you are an unrepentant communist-

Today’s Posting: Motorcycles are like all other vehicles, they get traded and resold. But how does one find a good deal on a used ride. Make, model, year, mileage and condition are the five fundamental dimensions of your bid. But are there more subtile aspects that reveal hidden value? Maybe…


Make and model sets the tone,
Style of ride, and rides alone-
Power plant opposed or twin,
Street, off road or cruiser skin.
Price my ride a sale to win
Model Year will calculate,
Fuel inject or carborate;
Mileage drives you to look hard-
Tranny, clutch and service card.
Price my ride a sale; not hard
Serious and dark is black,
Balanced bright with chrome attack.
Red or blue with white and green,
The spectrum full and sometimes clean.
Price my ride, big dollars keen!
Economics up or down,
Unemployment makes its rounds,
Moody buyers squeeze their gold-
Cheaper now is what we’re told,
Price my ride; hold firm, be bold.

Ethanol Torque

January 9, 2013

This piece is still in work… Years ago the rock group Air Supply released a song called ‘Making Love out of Nothing at All’ . That fact, upon closer inspection has absolutely nothing to do with major fuel companies putting ethanol into our retail pumps. Corn should be eaten, not burned! But “Making torque out of corn ethanol” stuck in my head. So another one of my plagiarized poems has emerged… BTW, if you don’t know, torque is rotational force ( like making my motorcycle’s rear wheel spin ). Torque makes motorcycles fun!


The owners guide declares it clear-

While you ride both far and near;

Petroleum for freedom’s call-

My torque explodes from drillers’ awl.


Engineered for petrol flow,

Octane ninety three; must show-

A blend appears, is good for all!

My torque evolves; corn ethanol.


Particulates in winter’s clog,

The ‘EPA’ declares “It’s smog”.

The cure it seems is green and tall-

My torque comes clean; corn ethanol.


Hungry is starvation’s child,

Nutritious corn is sweet and mild-

V-twins win the money brawl!

My torque derives; corn ethanol.

The Sign Ignored

December 2, 2012

I’m sorry for publishing so many poems in a short time span. It must be Alzheimer’s.

There is a sign. It conveys a message. Sometimes the message is not well received. It’s often ignored. Will you heed its call? Maybe when gas prices hit $6… ?


Forlorn sign hangs strictly laced;

Eyeholes brass,  in fence well placed.

Words in red are seen at night-

but only when the lightning’s bright.


The message understood; but few will heed,

Juxtaposed to traffic’s irritated speed-

Quietly proclaims commitment’s call;

The message on blind eyes of masses falls.


It does not shy from sun or wind or dust;

There is some stain from brownish fencing rust.

A message bold for some, a bit of fear-

The letters beckon all both far and near,

on white fabric; ‘Motorcycle Classes Here’.