Posted tagged ‘Roadside poem’

On My Bike

July 24, 2015


On my bike

The wind held my face
in its hands
in the way a grandmother might smooth
the face of a girl, telling her
she is beautiful–

And though I knew that the wind
had no such hands, and I
have no such face, and that there might not
even be many
such grandmothers,
this much I also knew–that the wind
touched me, the notion of beauty
in its grasp,
and that, when I looked back
into its face,
such face as the wind has,
it whispered, with assurance, you too.  


A little found poem, linked nowhere!  Old pic, sorry, though same bike!  This has been edited repeatedly since first posting. 

Process Note – (for any interested) ==I first wrote the poem with the “held” and “clasped” in the first stanza–then switched it to “stroked” (“with”) and “smoothed,” which was first posted version (MZ saw).  I went back to this version as it seemed less redundant to me and also, somehow, the words more unusual in this context.  But certainly any thoughts are welcome.  (I don’t think I’ll change it–for a few minutes anyway–ha–as need to just let it sit a bit.)  

PPS And finally–thanks to Hedgewitch’s comments–I’ve moved to a third version!  k. 


Trying Hard Though/ Roadside

August 28, 2014



Trying Hard Though

I’d like to be–
a breath of fresh air,
drink of cool water,
fireflight encirling warmth, nights.

I’m more likely–
a breath of cold water,
drink of end air,
night flight, circling–

Meaning, if you would find me, seek,
the sodden, panting, extremely late,
still warm–


The above is a poem about what makes me weird for Mama Zen’s prompt on With Real Toads.  MZ, the mistress of the verbally distilled, limits the poem at 46 words.  Writing this poem led me to the longer one below–sorry to try your patience, but if you are interested, it seemed to me the better poem–  Unfortunately, the pictures I tried to get of what I describe below did not work out–they needed to be videos taken from a moving bicycle–something that is well beyond my pay grade!



What I like about myself–
that I bow to the shadows of crickets flickering on the tar,
when the sun shines at just the right angle,
the whir of my bike stilling
by the lithe field.

What I don’t like about myself–
that I see shadows everywhere.

What I like about myself–
that I think about that dance of grays
for days afterwards, that I think too of the field–
how the grass rippled like a stream,
light sparking in the dry darts
of thoraces.

What I don’t like about myself:
that my brain feels
like crickets scampering.

What I don’t like about myself:
as many things as there are crickets
in the field.

What I like: that, for a short while, while the sun shone
at just the right angle,
my mind wheeled in sync
with singing legs.



ps–I will be without Internet for the next few days so will not be able to return comments. Will respond when I return.