a commuting poem
tramotane
Posts: 46
it's about my dear old going to work bike (twab To Work And Back)
Twab's Day
The patchy chippings please my heavy humming tyres
Nightly for many years we have rode 'our' road
His legs pulse my tubular steel frame and I compliantly spring
Going home is what matters most to me, a sudden hesitancy. Then I feel my chain bite, snicking gears and half forgotten joys come as big ring howls: crank bait.
A metallic beating mass is rising, sinews tighten, cables shift and sprockets growl.
The brute force is now measured and my instruction is clear;
Hammer Anvil hard, white sweat in red mist we fly
toward a rolling block of ego's on black carbon beasts: splashed in jersyes that wail "He is not this"
Tuesdays chaingang and we're on, an exhausted lull, but that heart still booms hammer hard through my every joint.
he grabs the scruff of my bars and we go...he daren't look around as the road is ours again.
He hears clicking and cursing fall back and my chain bites harder on now black oiled sprockets.
The hill before we turn is no hill: it is to become a monument over their silent embarrassment.
We turn and deliver a final silent message 'our' road.
One short voice "Do you race?"
"Yes, on our road"
Twab's Day
The patchy chippings please my heavy humming tyres
Nightly for many years we have rode 'our' road
His legs pulse my tubular steel frame and I compliantly spring
Going home is what matters most to me, a sudden hesitancy. Then I feel my chain bite, snicking gears and half forgotten joys come as big ring howls: crank bait.
A metallic beating mass is rising, sinews tighten, cables shift and sprockets growl.
The brute force is now measured and my instruction is clear;
Hammer Anvil hard, white sweat in red mist we fly
toward a rolling block of ego's on black carbon beasts: splashed in jersyes that wail "He is not this"
Tuesdays chaingang and we're on, an exhausted lull, but that heart still booms hammer hard through my every joint.
he grabs the scruff of my bars and we go...he daren't look around as the road is ours again.
He hears clicking and cursing fall back and my chain bites harder on now black oiled sprockets.
The hill before we turn is no hill: it is to become a monument over their silent embarrassment.
We turn and deliver a final silent message 'our' road.
One short voice "Do you race?"
"Yes, on our road"
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Comments
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*clap* *clap* *clap*
I'm not one for poetry, but I enjoyed reading that. God DAMN I wish I could write.Today is a good day to ride0 -
thanks for the feedback good or bad
Twab will be delighted when i tell him.I'm working on a small anthology of bike poems
from touring to testing and all between.
its much easier to write about riding subjects rather than bankers in the credit crunch0
