Racing to another world
One afternoon in Bedfordview, Johannesburg
we were leaving to go to a restaurant
and were in the parking lot at work,
when a black man on a bicycle
came down the hill
in Kirkby avenue,
pedalling as if possessed
and racing to another world.
He passed the motorbike
of a Links Pharmacy delivery man
and went as fast
as a racing bicycle could go
and at the t-junction
with oxford street
took a forty five degree turn
at great speed.
The man had a blazer on
and was still pedalling
as he took the turn
and the jacket opened
on his sides like wings,
before he hit the
stone edge of the road
and went straight
into a sign warning
about a stop street up ahead.
With arms spread out
like a human scarecrow,
or a shop mannequin,
he hanged with the jacket
on the sign,
as if dead
while the bicycle somersaulted
before landing against
some white stemmed blue gum trees.
Kids playing in the park were astounded
and and the people with me
and I laughed,
while he stayed motionless
hanging in the air
and other people gathered there.
l’Envoi
Within minutes an ambulance stopped
and I started feeling guilty about laughing
while they laid him down,
tried to help him in vain,
pulled a grey blanket over his body and head
and took the bicycle along
on the ride to the morgue.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
My White Bicycle
My white bicycle, my white bicycle
Riding all around the street
Four oclock and theyre all asleep
Im not tired and its so late
Moving fast everything looks great.
My white bicycle, my white bicycle
See that man, hes all alone
Looks so happy but hes far from home
Ring my bell, smile at him
Better kick over his garbage bin
My white bicycle, my white bicycle
The rain comes down but I dont care
The wind is blowing in my hair
Seagulls flying in the air
My white bicycle
Lead:
Policeman shouts but I dont see him
Theyre one thing I dont believe in
Find some judge, but its not leavin
Lift both hands, his head in disgrace
Shines no light upon my face
Through the darkness, we still speed
My white bicycle and me
My white bicycle, my white bicycle
(burgess/west)
Getaway music
Copyright 1975 nazareth (dunfermline) ltd
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bicycle Poem
do not worry how the bicycle looks
ride it.
do not think how the wheel and its
spokes work
do not attempt to understand its structure
ride it.
do not think how the other people looks at
you with your bicycle
just ride it.
when you are riding it already
just feel the joy of the air that meets your face
the speed by which it takes you
to another destination
just ride it, disembark when you get there
you do not even have to own it and keep it for the rest of your life
when you get old
remember that bicycle that once gave you all the joys of riding
before you die
give it to the young
they shall have their own joys too
riding it
and perhaps they will write a poem about you
or if not
about the bicycle at least
who knows?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What That Little Boy Was Praying For
Evening
Sun is almost set
Its weak beams still
Making road side sand grains glitter
I was on a walk to a temple nearby
A scratching brake of a bicycle
Made me look up
A boy of not even ten years the bicycle rider
Stopped his bicycle
In front of the temple entrance
Not getting down form it
Closed his eyes, clasped his palms
Started a prayer
He was in that posture
For much longer than
What a passerby normally does
Turning curious I continued to watch him
Forgetting for a while my purpose of this walk
Since the boy was in the middle
Of that narrow lane
A car stopped behind him
A bike passed by him
Sounding a shrill horn
A street dog barked at the bike
Car also gave a horn
Nothing left in the boy any sign of disturbance
It would have been a full minute
Before the boy woke up to realities
And started his ride
Without even glancing those
Who were watching him
I left the scene and entered the temple
What that little boy was praying for
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Red BMX Bicycle
There was a small boy
In the countryside
Who had a small red BMX bicycle
Kept in the store besides the herbicides
Every evening like a cycle
He would ride down the dusty road
The sun a yellow ball
on the west side
Glittering under the sun`s rays
Was that small
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
Who had nothing…
Totally nothing
He was a friend to the small boy
Every evening like a cycle
He would wait by the dusty road
To have a chance
On the small red BMX bicycle
His face would be all smiles
Even after falling off that
RED BMX BICYCLE
One day at dusk
The smaller boy
Stood next to the small boy
And asked
“When you grow up, would you give me this bike? ”
The small boy without thinking
Said YES..
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
One night
He had a bad stomach ache
His mum wiping the tiny streams of tears
That fell from his small face
That was pale…
Due to dust from the dusty road
As he played with his the small boy
And rode on that
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a small boy
In the countryside…
Now HE is all grown
And in the university
Far away in the city
That RED BMX BICYCLE
Now long gone
Given to some relative, I guess
If I could go back
To those days…
Those days with beautiful sunsets
Back in the countryside
Waiting for my chance
On my red BMX bicycle
Watching that smaller boy fall off
I would give him…
I would hand him that bicycle
And never expect it back
And watch him ride
Towards the beautiful sunset
On my red BMX bicycle
But if I can go back
All will be in vain
Because on that night…in the dark
He struggled with pain
His small heart couldn`t keep on
Outside there was rain
The gods possibly wanted to cleanse
All the evil that night
That took him away
Now I reminisce
As I keep moving on
About that smaller boy
And our small
RED BMX BICYCLE…
poem by Paul Oguda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life is like riding a bicycle; you don't fall off unless you stop pedalling.
The journey of life is like a man riding a bicycle. We know he got on the bicycle and started to move. We know that at some point he will stop and get off. We know that if he stops moving and does not get off he will fall off.
quote by William Golding
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Out Of The Noise
Glued to the kerbstone, staring.
Frozen at the stop-sign too.
See that crazy suicide mongrel.
Hes going to try to cross that avenue.
Old dog of experience,
Ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
Dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
Hes got his mind on someone elses dinner --
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.
Lives down in some cool, cool basement --
Sharing with a family of bouncy, ratty little guys
Works to a discipline of ritual undertakings --
Sleep, eat, and gentle exercise
Old dog of experience,
Ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
Dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
Hes got his mind on someone elses dinner --
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.
Some towns I know, he could end up in a restaurant --
Wrong side of a table for two.
Its enough to send him running, running for cover.
Back into traffic, whats a poor dog to do?
Old mutt of experience,
Ripping through the black and yellow cabs,
Dodging rickshaws and the bicycle boys.
Hes got his mind on someone elses dinner --
Over the road, round the corner, out of the noise.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tonys Theme
This is a song about a superhero named tony
Its called tonys theme
Hes got the oil on his chain, for a ride in the rain
No baloney
Ride around on my bicycle like a pony
Im waving hi, hi, hi, hi, hi
Gu-gu-gu-gimme a scream
Give me, give me the theme
Of tony
To-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny
I am tony, super bicycle tony, Im racing
Spitfire turn and pop a wheelie, burn and evil chasing
Im waving bye, bye, bye, bye, bye
I got a card in my spokes
Im practicing my joke, Im learning
To-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny
This is a song about a superhero named tony
Its called tonys theme
I can look at the sun if you give me some bad sun glasses
Im back on the road, I cut my grass like Im told
After classes!
To-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny
To-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny, to-ny
To-ny
song performed by by Pixies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Teenager On His Bicycle
Wearing brown shorts and a blue football jersey and with sneakers on his feet
The teenager on his bicycle he goes whistling down the street
The evening is warm and breezy the wind tosses his long brown hair
As he pedals near the sidewalk he doesn't have a care.
The teenager on the bicycle he quickly glanced my way
And he broke off from his whistling just for to say 'good day'
And again he commenced whistling as he quickly pedalled on
And I fancy I still can hear him though from my sight he's long gone
Off to his football training of greatness he does dream
Of being a renowned footballer in a champion football team
The youth need a dream to follow his dream he will pursue
Lets hope life will stay good for him and his dream for him will come true.
The teenager on his bicylcle as he goes pedalling by
He breaks off from his whistling for to say a friendly hi
With his football boots strung across his handlebars he cycles to the park
For to train with his young team mates till twilight fades to dark.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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democracy in the Philippine islands
there is this little boy
who is practicing to ride a big bike
his feet are short
and so are his hands
and always
in this predicament
does he fall and tumble
the years passed
and it is the same boy again
practicing to ride his
big bicycle
sometimes i am just curious
what is this boy
eating and drinking
since his feet are still short
and his hands are still small
he never had the guts
riding his bicycle to the full
it is the same situation all over again
he falls and bleeds
and cries that the bicycle is always too big for his
short feet and small hands
he falls and he tumbles
he bleeds and he fails
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Money Plays with Us
When we are without money, we eat vegetables at home;
When we have money, we eat vegetables in a fine restaurant.
When we are without money, we ride bicycle to work;
When we have money, we ride bicycle to exercise.
When we are without money, we walks to eat food;
When we have money, we walks to burn food.
When we are without money, we wish to get married;
When we have money, we wish to get divorced.
When we are without money, we acts like a rich;
When we have money, we acts like a pauper.
We say share market is bad but we keep on speculating;
We say money is evil but we keep on craving for it.
We say high positions are risky but we keep on struggling for it;
We say gambling & drinking is bad but we keeps on indulging on it.
O People!
Be content with whatever you have
And thank God for whatever you have
poem by Imran Khan
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The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be the vehicle of novelists and poets.
quote by Christopher Morley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A five miles turn
It was after a while
You had a new bicycle
Ocean blue with tri-colors stripes
Six speeds and a gear pipe
Your 14th birthday gift
Another miles adrift
Bridging our distance
Is a five miles turn
Ocean blue bicycle
You come with a smile
Spends time in my cubicle
With your usual style
Smooth talking
We study
We kiss
Another day would be promising
Orgy
What bliss
A five miles turn
And awaiting kiss
Would churn
The tender hearts
poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
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Boxing Day Blues
My dad got on his bicycle to ride to Spondon village,
to say Happy Christmas to his dear old mum.
He rode across the fields and by the River Derwent,
it was a frosty morning, but bright in the sun.
He left the riverside and climbed up by the bridge
onto the carriageway and along the cycle path.
At the railway crossing he cut off down the lane,
by the scrap dealers and an old tin bath.
Across the level crossing by the side of the station
over the canal bridge and pass the Moon Hotel.
Onward towards Lodge Lane and his next turn right
where he hit the pavement and very nearly fell.
Number two Willowcroft Road was his destination,
he wasn’t expected, so his mum would be surprised.
Catching his breath for a second at the open back door,
his mother said, “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Happy Christmas mum, ” he said as he kissed her cheek.
“Happy Christmas George, I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.”
As they sat chatting, his brothers came through the door,
“Happy Christmas George, ” said Frank, Jim and Alfie.
“George, have you got time to come for a drink?
We’re going for a bevy down the Moon.
We’ll also have a laugh and a few hands of cards,
and generally enjoy the afternoon.”
He said he had and kissed his mum goodbye,
and off they walked down to the Moon.
They were pleased and happy to be together again
and arrived at the pub exactly at noon.
Now my dad was by no means a drinking man
and one Milk Stout was all he would drink,
but when The Moon closed that afternoon,
he had more than one too many I think.
Happily, he said goodbye to his brothers,
as he mounted his bicycle to ride home.
His balance was decidedly questionable
and more so when he rode over a stone.
As he cycled his stomach began churning
and his head began to spin inside.
By the riverside he fell off his bicycle
and vomited on the grass where he lied.
He managed to straighten the seat and handlebars,
and remounted his bicycle once again,
but twice more he fell off his two wheeled steed
before his front wheel got stuck in a drain.
For safety sake he pushed his bicycle along Taylor Street
and down the entry by the side of the house.
With the utmost care he placed his bicycle in the shed
whilst trying to be as quiet as a mouse.
But this mouse was unusually incredibly noisy,
as mum opened and looked out of the door.
“George, have you been drinking with your brothers? ”
“Yes dear, but I’m not going to any more.”
He then said that he didn’t want his dinner,
and fell asleep whilst watching TV.
When he awoke from his snoring slumber
he realised he hadn’t got his false teeth.
He asked my mum if she had seen them,
and she told him that she had not.
Maybe he had put them in his pocket,
or put them somewhere he’d forgot.
A horrible sense of panic came over him,
maybe they came out when he was sick?
He decided to check, so mounted his bicycle
after giving it a hefty kick.
When he arrived where he had vomited,
the sick has soaked into the ground,
and there lying on the grass were his teeth
smiling, as though glad to be found.
poem by Orlando Belo
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If I can bicycle, I bicycle.
quote by David Attenborough
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Six o’clock on a Friday morning
It’s six o’clock on a Friday morning
and I wait for my bus
and across the street,
the lights are burning cheerful and yellow
in the square and dome shaped windows
of the state library
and I wonder what documents are kept there
Street hawkers sell newspapers and sweets
in front of the Pretoria News,
while passengers are already
catching busses in rows.
There’s an icy chill
that hangs in the morning dawn light
and there’s a skew pointed obelisk
that is in front of the high court chambers
and a newspaper heading
talks about the recession
that is blowing hot and cold,
but it’s freezing
and the cold even eats
right through my leader jacket.
On the east side of Vermeulen Street
the sky becomes a light yellow,
while the blue of the heaven
folds open all over the rest
and streetlights stand in a long row
up the street past traffic lights.
Schoolgirls dressed in blue
are watching school boys with red jerseys
and young women
stand and shake
from the cold and I wonder,
how the old red delivery bicycle
behind the pillar
are not getting stolen
where it stands every morning on its place.
There’s a street sign that points to the Pierneef museum
into the L te Groen Eureka factory building,
but it’s still too early
to go and look at paintings
and I wonder how
the Pierneef paintings inside looks.
On the side of a building
I am amazed at the Tswane sign,
but this big city
will always stay Pretoria for me
and I wonder how people
can build buildings so pressed into each other
and look at old and new buildings
standing rowed in onto each other
and the bus stays away,
while others come and go
and I wait
a while longer in the cold.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Wandsbek
Written credentials,
Letters of recommendation,
Here i am today with the muse of my love!
For, life is not like a bicycle.
Renewed,
Original from me;
But adequate enough to think like Wandsbek your lover!
And, being transformed because of love;
For, life is not like a bicycle.
The same image,
The same love,
The same care,
The same romance,
The same passion;
And like the light of this message,
But, this world is led by Satan!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Some call it accidents, but I call it torments
Some call it accidents,
but I call it torments
which usually occurred
when the boys didn’t listen
or acted on their own initiative
and the two boys
while growing up
knew how to do
it to themselves
and then to me
and their shocked mother in turn.
Driving slam into a house wall
at full speed on a bicycle
without braking
almost cracked the skull
of one of them
and I had to rush
him to the hospital,
where he got it cleaned,
some injections and stitches.
Ramping a bicycle
into the swimming pool
and almost breaking a neck
while bumping a head
against the side of the pool
had me patching a head wound.
Against instructions going to the river
and walking on pipes,
falling in
and almost drowning
while breaking a leg
had me rush him to the nearest doctor.
Petting a squirrel
which looked tame as a house cat
while visiting the Kruger national park
almost gave him rabies,
nearly severed his finger
and luckily there was a clinic nearby
where they helped
while dosing out a big scolding
to both the child and us.
Removing the fall mats
around the trampoline
at a resort
and landing
on the concrete next to it,
gashed the boy’s head
with a deep cut
which happened on a Sunday
and when I found
the house of the only doctor there
I had to drive to the local airport
and ask the tower
to call him down
where his was flying
his own plane
and he stopped the bleeding,
administered injections,
applied stitches,
prescribed some pain killers
and gave one hell
of a big bill.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In fifth Avenue
In the mornings I see Jane passing
and how she walks away,
in the street
and gets smaller and smaller in the distance
The lingering afternoon hours
slowly past
and the postman
draws the barking dogs,
before he rides leisurely
away with his bicycle.
When the sun gets low in the late afternoon
and I park behind the house,
I hear a gate opening
and she greets while she walks by.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A real april the fool
I cried and cried
When they told me that u died
I tried and tried
Not to believe them and think they lied
I ride and ride
And when I take a look
You were not on my side
I thought I was lost
With out a guide
Don’t wanna go back home
And find no dog on the gate
It is meant that u be mine
It is your fate
But suddenly, men crossing the road
Laughing loud like a clown band
Waved and wished me, “Happy April fools! ”
I laughed even more than theirs
And turn my bicycle
Headed home
just to find
A sad April the fool
Became so very real
June 8,2005
poem by K4me Enahreb
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