Commuting - my little poem
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04-02-01, 04:14 PM
here's a poem i wrote. hope ya'll like it
on the road
beside the lake
beside the highway
i search for the beauty
but reality stands in my way
a youth passes on a scoot
puffing out blue smoke
instinctively i give pursuit
spinning hard i start to choke
man against machine
the issue's moot
they may be faster
but i don't pollute
i am silent
i am clean
i pass through landscape barely seen
in their boxes they sit and peer
from a space in which they steer
through a life that seems complete
with air-conditioning and power seats
into their domain
i emerge again
for all their grace
they don't seem sane
it must be the constant strain
they scream and moan and pawl the ground
creating a truly hideous sound
fear pushes me to the side
for to merely brush their hide
would surely be a suicide
04-03-01, 10:08 AM
I bend a knee to you, sir. Excellent verse!
Very cool. Doesnt it have a title though?
04-11-01, 04:49 PM
Thanks for the kind words. as for a title, i've got it filed as "Beside the Road" but I'm open to any suggestions you may have. You may be interested to know that the poem was mostly composed while riding my bike. The Bicycle is such a source of inspiration. later.
11-28-11, 06:54 AM
The Road, Sky and Mountain
You watch as the pedals move
in a never ending circle,
twin wheels beat the pavement
The red bags hanging on the front
flap slowly in the pine scented breeze.
The sky is perfect
few puffy bright clouds
against the morning sun.
A hawk catches the first thermal,
spinning in the sky.
The whistle of a car's wheels behind
is followed by a quick rush of wind,
and the glint of the sun off the window.
The road is straight and narrow
unbending for miles.
Trees, needle thin, point to heaven,
yet the road points to the snow capped peak
never growing or shrinking as you pedal to it.
Submitted by the author, James C. Parsons
Copyright 1987, All Rights Reserved
I wrote this in highschool english. It was entered into the Young Writers Competition put on by the Oregon Arts Commission 1987. It won.
It was my personal dream to ride in Eastern Oregon, on those straight, long roads towards, what I imagine is Mount Hood. I haven't been out in the Bend area since I was a kid. I has yet to happen, and I still have the red bags.
This is similiar to what I was thinking of, but the trees are much thinner in my memory.
11-28-11, 03:42 PM
K: Riding in oregon rocks. Try riding on the Oregon Coast. It is amazing.
FYI: I ordered some of the strips for my wheels today/ Now they come precut. Its a great deal and I talked with the owner, John. Nice guy.
11-28-11, 05:53 PM
Nice work, all around.
As long as we are sharing bike poems, I have a couple from a modern poetry class I took in undergrad.
There’s a bicycle hanging upside-down
on hooks in a two stall suburban garage.
The handlebars show no discolored wear marks,
no years of aging with nimble steering hands.
The tensioned-leather saddle has no dimples,
no measurement of a rider’s sit bones.
The tires have collected no rocks or glass,
no sun-based cracking or beer-bottle scars.
The chain is covered with no road slime,
no slush projected from careless motorists.
The hub bearings spin without friction,
no pitted cones or overly-viscous grease.
The steel frame can glide without creaks,
no stress-fractured lugs from potholed streets.
So, I grinded off the Japanese serial number
and threw it into the plastic artificial lake.
On the road to Ocheyedan, Iowa,
I grew my first pair of wings.
With my grandfather’s
Sears and Roebuck 10-speed bike,
I wobbled down our
coarse gravel lane.
Right past the novelty sign,
“Milton Lane” (my great,
great grandfather’s name),
runs County Road 5.
My tires were soaked in sunlight
as I flew between the trees
that decorate the roadside.
As I raced down the familiar
S-curve that leads south,
I decided to pedal through
to the next prairie hill.
Where Minnesota ends,
The road began to crack
and bubble, as if it were
a great river in spring time.
Each pothole and vibration
weaves a new patch
into my memory.
I wondered who lived here,
down the road where each
house looked less familiar
than the last.
I was soaring now,
high above each acreage,
as an eagle rested atop
each passing telephone pole.
Even now, I can taste
the feathers of June dust,
rising sweetly from the tar.
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