A New poem by D-day Dean

A Dying Soul

I’m dying, I’m dying –

My soul is slowly dying.

You sit in the garage and beckon to me

“Can you come out and play?”

“I cannot,” I say “She has other plans for me today.”

I yearn to ride, to live and be free

But today that is not to be.

I hear your friends roar by – free in the wind

That’s how we were meant to be.

I can’t explain how I feel

She just doesn’t understand.

Together forever, one with the road

Exploring our great land.

For now, I live for the time that we steal

Exploring the country roads together.

The soul of a biker should never be caged

Running wild with my machine forever.

I’m dying, I’m dying –

My soul is slowly…..

-Written by Dean “D-Day”

Visit D-Day’s blog, Musings of a Contemplative Biker

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Poem by William Karnowski

Leaning
when riding a harley
you are in fact no freer
than a walking man
it just feels that it is true

there is no room
for kitchen sinks and libraries
of other peoples knowledge
and their guesses of knowledge
nor their pretenses of knowledge

one is left with motion
and wind and wandering
with no agenda for a day

there remains only friendship
flights of fancy
hedonistic joy
all in all
the physical expression of poetry

the instinctive leaning of a turn
and putting a foot down to stop
and with a dab of the toe
a flick of a wrist
to disappear into ones own sunset

William J. Karnowski
author of: Pushing the Chain, Painting the Train, Catching the Rain, Hardtails and Highways, and The Hills of Laclede.

Living in the Ride

Living in the Ride

Riding in the world,
I hear the meadowlark’s song
I taste the dust coming off
The wheat field harvested
As I pass by

The sound of the wind
The sound of the wheels
The rumble of the engine
With these sounds,
Every moment I ride

In the distance a thunderstorm
Watch it grow, see the lightning.
Soon to feel the sting of drops
Cooling skin too long burned
By the high plains sun.
Long days in the wind

The fresh smell of falling rain
The sweet smell of freshly cut hay
The smells of asphalt, fuel, exhaust
Mingle with the odor of yesterday’s roadkill
The living and the dead,
All with me as I ride

I pass a car
In the back a small face
nose to glass, a wave
a smile, perhaps a dream.

I’m in the moment,
Living in the ride.

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

Sensual Bathing

Sensual Bathing

Cool spray soaks us both,
I run the sponge softly along
sensuous, graceful curves and hard,
straight, lines, water beading on
smooth skin. The droplets
burst beneath my fingers and
the white soapy suds overflow,
gently rolling to the floor
as I massage softly, first the front,
then move to the rear and down.
Later, a soft, clean towel rubs us
both dry.

I love washing my bike.

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

Yo-mama-ha Rider

The Yo-mama-ha Rider

I saw him pull in where we stopped to rest,
A dude on some rice-burner ride
He had on leather chaps, a black biker vest
And tattoos all over his hide.

He wanted to ride with us today
Our road captain nodded yes
He fell in line as we pulled away
Then I saw what it said on his vest.

The back of his vest read “Big Dog Bikes”
But that wasn’t a Big Dog I saw
Big Dog may have made the ride that he likes
But he was up on an old Yamaha

That this guy was going to wear thin,
At our first stop we quickly would learn
Every time we would stop and pull in
This dude had bullshit to burn.

Of his biker exploits we heard all the tales
He was better, tougher, faster than all
His bikes were more powerful than ours without fail
I didn’t know they stacked it that tall.

No respect for other people had he
All bluster and bad attitude
No inner strengths that I could see
To many, he seemed just plain rude.

I guess he thought this made him a biker
He was caught up, playing his role
But tat’s and two wheels don’t make a biker
Just another poseur lacking the soul

At one time he might have been what he said
Before beginning to play this role
He let way too much myth go straight to his head
Now he’s just a Yo-mama-ha riding asshole

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

Uglicoyote’s Roadkill Red

Uglicoyote’s Roadkill Red

It was a cool September afternoon ride
when we pulled off to camp by the road
We set up our tents by the fireside
and built a blaze to ward off the cold.

I dug deep in my bag for peppers and tools.
“You know, I’m ready,” old Rocko said,
“for something hot to help us refuel.
How about a pot of your good Roadkill Red?”

So into the pot I placed onions and stuff,
Some chorizo, and Cuban black beans,
Chili powder, cilantro, cumin just enough,
Then an ingredient the boys hadn’t seen.

Scotch Bonnet peppers went into that pot
Habaneros just to give things a kick
The boys always say that they like their food hot
We’ll find out the truth with this trick.

The pot simmered a while until the flavor was full
Then I tasted and proclaimed it done
They stepped up smiled as I filled up each bowl
They sat down to eat one by one.

Rocko’s face twisted, smoke came out of his nose
Bones tried , but could not hide his pain.
Mike gasped for breath, screamed as he rose,
mouth skyward as if waiting for rain.

And me, I just sat there my bowl in my hand.
I spooned out a second helping of chili
I said, “came out a little “spicier” than I had planned,
With that idea from ole Biker Billy.”

Copyright Bill “uglicoyote” Davis 2007

If you don’t know who Biker Billy is, you should.

Biker Billy Cooks With Fire

Ridin’ the Blues

Ridin‘ the Blues

Blue sky above me I ride
the map’s blue highways,
the blue back roads and byways

that lead me to small towns along
meandering blue rivers,
like the Mississippi which has always
been brown , not blue,

but has inspired the blues,
played a part in the blues,
the Mississippi Delta blues,
played by black men with blue guitars,
singing and playing heartfelt rhythms,

like the song of the v-twin motor
of my blue motorcycle that I ride
down the blue highways,
blue back roads and byways
beneath a blue sky.

copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

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