Another Relocation?

Yes, I’ve relocated Songs of the Open Road again. Click on it to go there and then change your bookmarks please.

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A Holiday Greeting from Chopper Kate

The Road to Home
Her tired gaze fell out the window
and ran with her thoughts
down the one way street.
This season of homecoming,
memories cascade down
from her eyes, down her face.
So envious of the families
she saw, doing Christmas things
together, laughing.
Imagining it was her family,
with smiling bright eyed grandchildren
who begged and cajoled
to open just one gift…pleeeeeeeeease???
Long ago, last parting words
his and hers, bitter and haste
stood like the Great Wall of China
between his life now
and the old homeplace,
where she and a stubborn pride
with a tired wet gaze
that falls from the window outside
and down the one way street.
Across the miles
he stands gazing out a window
down a one way street
and where it just might lead
his heart says it’s her he wants to go again to meet.
Pride and doubthad jumbled his reason
into excuses why he shouldn’t
make the first move to reconcile.
Too far and too long..it had been such a long while.
What was said? Who was wrong?
Somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Across the miles from “home”
he walks to open the door
leading to that one way street.
One more cold Christmas dawns
too early she wakes up,
and it will be the longest of days,
as alone she sips her cup.
Through the window her sad gaze
leads out to the snow covered street.
Tire tracks run along it’s way
Who had ever comes out here?
That hadn’t been there yesterday…
Turning into her drive
right up to her door.
Shouts of Merry Christmas,is anyone here?”
“Hey Mom I’m home”
and
“How I missed you dear! Can you ever forgive..me?”
A house became a home once more
when doubts and pride stayed at the door.
A one way street goes both directions
The most precious of gifts are the love and affections
from family and friends that we cherish
and give unconditionally in return.
Merry Christmas 2007 from Chopper Kate and family!

A new poem from Chopper Kate

I feel so much regret when I travel I-40, that I was never able to travel it’s predecessor..the old Route 66…I try to imagine what a road, what a trip that might have been. She was narrow and winding, but full of magic it seems to me. If I could take a step or two back in time, I would take that trip…get my “kicks” on Route 66.
Anyway…I wrote this in my head on the way back..because I was feeling like I never wanted to end that ride, just turn around and go back, taking my time and exploring all those places that we never seem to have time to.
Channeling Route 66
Mother Road,
spinner of wheels and dreams,
bearing us forth into this land of wonders,
bursting at the seams,
“Freedom!” her gift and lullaby song
beckoning us still further along
than we’ve ever been before.
Can you take me there,
back in time, when and where
you were more than just a memory?

Ghostly echoes in the wind,
Peter Pan voices from backseats begin.
Highway games and singalong songs,
rib jabs and pigtail pulls,
“Don’t make me stop this car!”
“Are we there yet? How far?”
Long before Ipods and DVDs;
brothers and sisters talked and teased.

Look to the left, look to the right!
Enticing as a siren’s song,
Rainbow rows of advertisements
vied for our attention and sight.
Begging us to stay and linger,
To search for treasure and marvel
at those amazing sights with each new point of a finger.
“Hey, did you see that?”

Oddities and anomalies the old highway
wears as easy as fringe on old buckskin.
Moving and shaking, tantalizing, she draws us in.
We wrote our names with black lava rocks
on pale desert sand. A legacy to all who pass,
“I was here and still I am!”

Old route towns lay cracked and emptied
like countless eggshells from forgotten diners.
Falling all too thoughtless from our hands.
Feel the hunger pains, for all that’s past.
Longing for that feeling, like a first kiss
and we wished again that you would last…
forever.

Latest from Sorez The Scribe

Just Another Biker
~by Sorez The Scribe


More than just a way of life
This life I live this bike I ride
More than tats upon my skin
They tell the tale of where I’ve been
More than just the words I Scribe
Down to earth the poems I write
More than just a broken heart
When my ol’ lady died in my arms
More Than just the Patch I wear
Above my heart upon my vest
There is so much more to my life
Than just being labeled another biker

Another Day, Another Ride

Another Day, Another Ride

A late October Afternoon,
I point the Road King out of town
It’s only 55 degrees
I have my stocking cap pulled down

I head for the curves of Portneuf road
Rolling south at a leisurely pace
The chill in the air intensifies
The wind tingling on my face

I turn onto Marsh Creek Road
And give the throttle a twist
No traffic, I ride past farms and kids
All riding should be like this.

At McAmmon I pull in at the truck-stop
Two bikers from Logan are there
We talk of our rides, of rides to come
Of the clean and crisp fall air

They take off and I go inside
Come back out with a cup of joe
I sit there soaking up afternoon sun
Beneath mountains now dusted with snow

Two more motorcycles rumble in
A sport bike and a new black Fat Boy
The new owner grinning from ear to ear
Just a hundred miles on his brand new toy

We chat for a while then I take off,
Turning back on old US 91
Three more bikes are on my tail
Soon we’re rolling four as one

At Inkom the riders pull up alongside
An old boy on an Ultra glide
Grins as we sit at the stop sign,
“Hell of a fine day for a ride.”

I turn left and they turn right
We wave; we’re all heading for home
Another good ride, another good day
For me, another road poem.

Winter will come, it’s in the air
Snow and Ice may keep us inside
But know that there will always be
Another day, another great ride

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

Bikers

I suppose this poem might piss some people off. se la vie


Bikers

People ask “what makes a biker?”

I hear that question a lot

I’m not sure there is an exact answer

but I’m pretty sure what they’re not

They’re probably not those hardtail hardheads

who park their rides in front of the bar,

whose asses are parked on a barstool inside

but whose bikes never travel too far.

They’re not those fat-cat wannabes,

trailers hauling their custom bikes

from rally to rally all year long

they don’t know what real riding is like.

Tattoos sure don’t make you a biker,

although some have tats, some do not.

Expensive black leather isn’t enough

It’s something that just can’t be bought.

Do all biker’s have to ride Harleys?

I love my Harley, but that’s just not true

I’ve ridden with guys on all kinds of bikes

who were “bikers” through and through.

Are all one per-centers bikers?

I know that many of them ride free

But some of them are just assholes,

just another kind of wannabe.

To me real bikers are riders

out there with their wheels on the highway

putting on the miles, living in the ride,

on every back-road and byway.

Instead of hiding under the overpass,

right on through that storm they glide.

They know that trailers are made for boats,

that it doesn’t have to be sunny to ride.

A biker will stop to help you out

if you’re down along the way

The brand you ride doesn’t matter a damn

They might need your help some day.

To me it’s all about the ride,

about living out there on the highway,

about rolling with a few good friends,

but you don’t have to do it my way.

If you think its all about the tats,

about the chrome, the leather, the bars,

you can go ahead and live that life,

but you might as well drive a car.

You don’t need a nice motorcycle

to get all rowdy and drunk,

to dress up like a pirate and

fight with some dumb punk.

Me, I’ll be out there on that highway,

making that Road King roll.

I bought it to ride, and I feel deep inside

I’m a biker, right down to my soul.

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

Bruce Arnold

Bruce Arnold, the editor/owner of LDRLongDistanceRider.com has written one of my favorite poems, I Ride Mine. He also has some related merchandise on sale here, including a nice wall plaque of this poem. Bruce along with fellow biker Ray Henke, the editor of Motorcyclists Against Dumb Drivers, team up on Bruce-n-Ray’s Biker Forum where Bruce occasionally commits random acts of poetry. Poetry like this:

A Biker Funeral (dedicated to “Trip”)

Sunday morning early comes
This sweltering summer’s day;
Chrome and coffee polished off
As bike and rider wake,

And rumble off to clubhouse for
A changing of the brew;
Black vests in formation–fast
and tight–a loud tribute.

Iron horses, hundreds strong,
Come thund’ring through the gate;
Sleeping souls on notice, fallen
Biker nears his fate.

A mile of gleaming metal lines
The circle and the park;
Out of saddles, boots hit brick
And make for chapel’s heart.

Members of the Club stand post,
Proud brothers in the wind;
Shaded eyes the tears disguise,
And loss they feel within.

Friends and family pay respects
To biker and his mate;
Praises made and prayers raised,
Blues legends resonate.

Final words and kisses, then
The pipes’ Amazing Grace;
Souls of bike and rider seek
Eternal resting place.

Sunday morning early comes
This sweltering summer’s day;
One more rider, Heaven bound,
Roars through the Pearly Gates.

Written by Bruce Arnold, 2004

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