V-Twin Biker

Q-Ball over at VTwinBiker.com has published two poems of mine. There is getting to be quite a collection of Biker/Motorcycle poetry over there so check it out.


Two Poems from Wild Bill, The Alaskan Biker Poet

Left or Right
By Wild Bill © 2005 all rights reserved.

Simple sounds this day of spring
Cold steel turning warm
Rhythm sets my mind to roam
Direction starts to form

With not a thought my foot descends
A click and kick is felt
Hand relaxed, gears engage
Power takes the belt

Motion starts in a roll
Butterflies descend
Colors bright, shoulders tight
Feeling starts to blend

Left or right is on the mind
Decision is defaulted
A cage is rushing up on me
All the motion halted

Familiar turns are easy
Follow an older trail
Dare I take another track
Where shadows are not stale

Left or right is in the air
Heads or tails the gamble
Fate then takes its proper place
And down the road I amble.

A Motorcycle Seat
By Wild Bill
Copyright © 1996 All rights reserved

Many stories have been told
Of bikers and their bikes
By poets, writers, prosecutors,
Liars and the likes.

But it’s doubtful that you’ve heard
This story I repeat
With a Bar, Bikers, Beer
And a motorcycle seat.

A local road dog
Called Larry by his buds
Was at the Carousel
Sippin’ on some suds.

When a fellow rider
Re-entered from the street
Shouting out profanity
To candid to repeat!

Seems his battery
Had plumb run out of juice.
“Your bike will need a jump.”
Larry managed to deduce.

So with his own DieHard
Concealed beneath his seat
He jumped the brother’s bike
And the fellow hit the street.

Now Larry was a biker
With a heart like Denali
But if his kindness was a mountain
His memory was a valley.

He placed his seat atop his bike,
Ordered up a brew,
And proceeded to forget
The saddle mounting screw.

The rest of this story
I’m sure that you can guess.
But I simply must complete it,
A poet can’t do less!

Later in the evening
When he finished his last bottle,
Larry lit that big V-Twin’
And grabbed a little throttle!

Then just like a rocket
From Cape Canaveral launches,
The bike took off down the street…
Leaving Larry on his haunches.

He sat there on the road
With his seat beneath his flack,
Then remembered with concern
That he’d just filled up the tank.

Wild Bill’s Culture Corner

Wild Bill Rogers is also the Editor and Publisher of Midnight Sun Rider, Alaska’s Motorcycle Magazine.

New Baiku

Three Baiku


Sunset on Mink Creek

Rumbling on by Scout Mountain

Watch out! Cows on road


a high rate of speed

concentrates, centers your mind

motorcycle zen


mountain shimmers gold

bikes rumble up Teton Pass

our fall color ride

copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

A poem by Chopper Kate Johnson

Last Leg

The last leg on this long limbed trip
feeling dusty,kinda crusty and saddle weary
my hands black
from the constant grip.
Red, road hard eyes,
grit and burn.
These lines are getting bleary.
I’m leaning hard into the turn
I’ve got a 100 miles left to home

A mind’s highway rolls
a thousand thoughts and dreams
reflections paying tolls
of regrets and mighta beens
appear, then drift away
like a wind that ebbs and blows
I’ve got another 50 miles left to home

Wearing the dust
of all those rides
in the lines of my face
wind etched, it never hides
or masks what I am.
What you see is, what you get!
I’ve got 25 miles left to home

Two bad knees, and an aching shoulder
my bitch riding, constant companion.
The cost of the pounding we take,
we pay as we get older.
I’ve still got 10 miles left to home

When I think I can’t go on,
can’t take riding any longer,
something takes over,
from somewhere inside
a deep seeded want
that just grows stronger,
and the longer goes the ride,
self doubts and dreads
so all I feel
is the comfort that awaits
just over the next hill
I’ve got just 5 miles left
to home.

copyright 2007/chopperkatejohnson

The Story of Bobby and Jen

The Story of Bobby and Jen

Bobby Good had dropped out of high School
He washed dishes at The Rotisserie
He kept his eyes on that girl
With red hair all in curls,
A waitress named Jenny duPree.

Bobby rode an old chopper Harley
The only memory left him from his dad.
His dad taught him to ride,
Then committed suicide
That bike was all Bobby Good really had.

He would roar on that chop through the town
People turned and just shook their heads
“Bobby’s trouble,” They’d say
“His dad made him that way.”
He’ll end up in prison or dead.”

Jen duPree didn’t care what folks thought
She loved Bobby despite what they said
She loved his leather and boots
She loved to ride on that scoot
Jen thought, maybe someday they’d wed.

One day he said “Jen we must leave,
“We’ve got to get the hell outta here.
Everyone in this town
just keeps putting us down.
They’ll never leave us alone, I fear.”

She said, “Lover I’ll go where you ride.
But we’re broke, we need money to run.”
“Jen, I’ll get us the dough
You get ready to go.”
From his pocket Bobby pulled out a gun.

Together they rode back down town.
And they held up the hardware store
Shots were fired that day.
When that bike roared away,
They left two innocents dead on the floor.

They headed south toward Old Mexico
There was hot pursuit on the road.
On a sharp mountain curve
The chopper started to swerve
Bobby Good died right there I’m told.

As the ambulance raced back into town,
Jen Dupree raised her head and cried,
“Is my brave Bobby dead?
I loved him” she said.
Then Jenny took one last breath and died.

They were young, they were beautiful, now they’re dead.
When they rode, they thought life couldn’t end.
But mourn not at their side,
Two innocent people died
That’s the real story of Bobby and Jen.

copyright 2007 Bill”uglicoyote”Davis

Roadkill Dave

The Legend of Roadkill Dave

If you’ve done any riding out west
Up near that great Divide
You may well know
How that snow can blow
and ruin a biker’s ride.

There was a legendary old rider,
Who lived up there in a cave
On his bike he would go,
come rain, wind, or snow
They called him Roadkill Dave.

He lived up on the Red Desert
Up near the great divide.
He would sometimes ride out
to Rock Springs and about,
He always wore a gun at his side.

He rode a 52′ Harley
Leather saddle bags, skinned from a bear,
His leathers wore stains
from blood and hard rains,
And most of his clothes were threadbare

They say he served in Korea,
Just showed up and moved into his cave.
On his old bike he rode
Down old trails and dirt roads.
Cold and snow didn’t stop old Dave.

In the Winter out there on I-80
Oh God, how that wind can blow.
In ’74, when a Spring blizzard hit
I was alone, out driving in that shit
My cage slid off the road in the snow.

You couldn’t see for, love or money
The whole world outside had turned white
I had packed no warm clothes
And when my carburetor froze
I thought I’d freeze to death that night.

I was dozing off when old Dave found me
and hauled me off on his bike,
How that Harley could go
Through the ice, wind and snow.
I’ve never again seen the like.

In his cave Dave warmed and fed me.
He said, “eat up,” so I had my fill.
It was a fine stew, a real treat.
I asked, “What’s that tasty meat?”
He laughed, “Why do you think they call me “Roadkill?”

The next day the when blizzard died down,
Roadkill Dave hauled me back to my car
As I watched old Dave go
On his bike through the snow
I longed for the warmth of a bar.

That’s the last time I saw old Dave
Though I heard stories of him now and then
How he made that bike go
Through rain, wind and snow.
He was one hell of a man.

They found old Dave dead one day
In the Red Desert alongside a trail
as he rode in the rain
He had felt a chest pain.
and his old heart decided to fail.

They sealed him up alongside his Harley
In his home right on that stone floor.
Carved on the seal of that cave
“Here Lies Roadkill Dave.
They don’t make men like him anymore.”

copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

When Bikers Come to Town

They turned right onto Main Street

On that hot and dusty day.

Thirty bikes with Thirty riders,

Why’d they come here? Would they stay?

“You’d better run and tell your mom

lock the doors and shutter down.

I’ve heard bad things can happen

When bikers come to town.”


I watched as they rumbled down the street,

 Chrome and steel, all dressed in black.

The reached the end, where three roads meet,

Then turned around by the tracks.

The paused and spoke  and seemed to decide

Then they slowly rolled  back  down.

At Annie’s Place they pulled aside

The Bikers put their kickstands down.


Most of them were dressed in black,

But when they took their leather away,

I was, I must say,  somewhat taken aback,

Many of those heads were gray.

And everyone was smiling  bright,

I never saw a  glare or a frown

I thought perhaps I’m just not right

About these Bikers who came to town.


I decided then to check them out.

So I walked  over to Annie’s Place

I saw  the two waitresses scurrying about

And Annie  had a smile on her face.

The I saw that patch upon a vest

It read HOG, Portneuf Valley Chapter,

I put my previous worries to rest.

It wasn’t my daughters they were after.


It was for Annie’s food they had made this run,

It’s a long  ride, many beautiful miles.

To them, the ride is always most of the fun,

But Annie’ s famous pie made  them smile.

So  I got on the phone and I called my wife,

I said,”Honey, just come on down.

Bring the kids, no need to fear for your life,

The Bikers have come to town.


Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis