Archive for the ‘New Yorker Style’ Category

Cruising the Bagel

March 20, 2012

If you are an occasional visitor to this humble blog, you know that The New Yorker magazine has so far refused to publish any of my artifacts. So this effort will be in what I call my ‘New Yorker’ style. Not much rhyming and rather like a fruit bat describing the engineering principles of airflow through an axial jet engine. Now about the title. I was watching The Science Channel and a show about the shape of the universe. You had to choose from the following; bubble, soccer ball, golf course or a bagel. I chose the bagel.

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Can one ride forever towards the edge?
Where time and space dissolve;
A place so strange that even Democrats,
Cannot subsidize a firm resolve.

Do stars and galaxies race away,
Quicker than my V-twin’s throttle max?
Will my headlight’s beam reflect from shimmers,
Off limits formed from pentagons not lax.

Or do I cruise within an elegant design,
Subtle curves which gently fold around-
So that I ride through limitless confines,
The bagel of creation yet astounds!

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Deep Future Riders

January 26, 2012

If you are a REAL motorcycle rider, you know of several esoteric riding issues that future generations need to know about. For instance, our riding prodigy living say, in the year 50000 AD need to know that once you exceed a width of 280mm on your back tire, your maneuverability goes down hill fast! Things like that… Old re-runs of Kudlow on CNBC won’t do the trick! So here’s a message to our far distant riding kin. Hope it gets passed along; except by The New Yorker poetry editor. I’m sure he/she will turn up their nose at this masterpiece

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Yes we had bugs, back in the day of acid rain;

Fat and juicy – hit your face with frightening pain.

Fix we did but quickly, this menace great!

Before our eyes a screen of plastic plate.

—–

Quiet creepers cruising down our roads,

Sneaking up upon – distracted texting traffic foes!

Install those pipes of shiny chrome and wrap;

Announce arrivals before an impact flap.

—–

V-twin motors burn the carbon hot!

AlGore’s global warming – is our lot.

Last winter was a cold one; don’t you know…

High test fill-up once again; then go-

Accelerate past Starbucks just for show.

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.

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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.

The New Yorker Magazine Motorcycle Poem

August 14, 2010

Most of you probably don’t ever read The New Yorker magazine; either the print or on-line version. Neither do I – except for the cartoons and just a few of their poetry selections. Why do I mention this? I don’t know really – except New Yorker Magazine poems don’t ever seem to have a rhythm or consistent rhyme about them. They seem to be just a record of some detached, new age beatnik recording his thoughts about some hip activity like sailing around Maine looking at old lighthouses. So here is my attempt at writing a New Yorker style motorcycle poem. And since it is a New Yorker Magazine type poem – it is understood that you are far too unsophisticated for me to care about your opinion.

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Dreary days near the Hudson river as street vendors peer down into their stoves.

The horns and honks of insecurity tap out of tune of sheer drudgery;

And yet he seeks to find that sublime state of two-wheeled transportation.

—–

Escaping from liberal talk shows on the radio – he dashes to a dealer’s corner flat,

where clean new bikes with engines strong await some cool, aloof mind to demand hard speed;

and race the rider to a rocky shore up north [ or at least further away from New Jersey ].

In Maine let’s say where lighthouses pine for faux-caring riders.

—–

His tank is almost empty and the tolls have drained his stash-

But onward he goes towards the expected destination and conversations to save lighthouses.

Totally sublime and carbon neutral.