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
Saturday, September 22, 2007
A New poem by D-day Dean
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Poem by William Karnowski
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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 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”
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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
Friday, July 13, 2007
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
Monday, July 9, 2007
My Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate nomination letter
Re: Nomination for Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate of the Western Frontier 2007
RoadHouse Press, Inc. (roadhousepress.com) would like to officially nominate Bill "Uglicoyote" Davis for Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate of the Western Frontier 2007. Davis's commitment to ePublishing and supporting Bikerpoetry through his blogs and webpages is second only to his own bikerpoetry and riding history.
Bikerpoetry is coming of age! The efforts of Bikerpoets such as Peddlar, Colorado T. Sky, Wild Bill (The Alaskan Poet), Mountain Man in Canada, Gypsypashn, Bear, JoeGo, Panhead Josh and countless others to keep bikerpoetry on the forefront of history as it comes of age are commendable. Publishers such as Jodi Lipson, Don Clady, Leo Castell are but a few of the known publishers that provide the ePage or the hard copy to bikerpoets, and I am sure there are many more out there nationally or internationally that are jumping on the bikerpoetry bus to spearhead the movement. A special mention for Bill Macmillan at Worcester's Best Poetry Venue: The Java Hut, because the stage and the mic lends the lime-light to Bikerpoetry and gives us the opportunity to showcase the genre in community. But, where would it all go without the bikerpoet who pours his/her heart and soul into carving their hard-ridden spirit onto the stage, the written page or ePage so we can all witness this genre exploding?
Through such bikerpoets as ChopprKate, Tom Quinn, Ironhorse Writer, we have seen the reason that bikerpoetry has sprung from the road to the page, because they represent hundreds of brothers/sisters who ride by bringing the thunder of their words to life. Bikerpoetry is rolling down history road so fast that it's becoming hard to keep up with the names of all who join the Bikerpoetry movement for the ride through The Biker Poetry Hall of Fame. The best way to do this is hop on one of the websites that host venues for Bikerpoetry and follow our band of BikerBards around the country as they post other bikerpoets works or put on live shows and venues throughout Biker Nation and the community at large. Check out motorcyclegoodies.com under press releases (information) and in the northeast you can find listings on supersundayonline forums, laconiabikeweek.net, roadpoet.com, roadpoet-ny.com, gypsypashn.com, VTwinbiker.com, The Motorcyclists Post, and in CT Cruise News Newspaper (Publisher, Editor Don Clady).
RoadHouse Press, Inc. apologizes if we have left anyone out of this press release for so many, many generous community venues and bikerpoets have contributed to the coming of age of Bikerpoetry in 2007, too many to list, but they are not forgotten. Without the hard work of so many the Bikerpoetry movement would be still crawling, but thanks to so many, we are off to a great run!
The Bikerpoet Laureate is a key figure in the bringing this genre to light in the literary world. Through poetry venues, websites, publishings and public relations the Bikerpoet Laureate fosters respect between the academic community, the literary community and the biker nation as this genre steps to light and takes a bow.
Two of my favorite memories in the toddler stages of Bikerpoetry, as the editor/founder of RoadHouse Press, Inc. are sitting at Charlies' Tap in Cambridge, Massachusetts when the roar of Peddlar's bikerpoetry brought the house into thunderous applause one week and then the next week walking into a poetry workshop in Cape Cod to find Colorado T.Sky. Between the two, Sky and Peddlar, sat the poetry community. It was like bringing a couple of choppers with iron clad bikers attached into a sewing circle. The electricity zapped when Peddlar tossed verses back and forth with Sky. And this was just the early days --- today this happens week to week to week.. whenever a Biker Brother or Sister brings their work to the table, stage or the Page.
Best of luck to Uglicoyote with this nomination. I am sure he will serve the poetry community with dedication if he is appointed. Take a look at his eZine and you will see why RoadHouse Press, Inc has made this nomination: http://songsopenroad.blogspot.com/
MarySusan Williams-Migneault
Founder/Editor RoadHouse Press, Inc.
roadhousepress.com
rdhousepress@aol.com
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Fast Freddy
Fast Freddy's Flying Road King
He was a Harley Rider
Road King Custom, FLHRS
And when he sat astride her
Fast Freddy felt his best.
He loved her smooth clean fenders
He loved her shiny chrome
He polished and treated her tender
Garaged her when they were home.
She was born a twin-cam eighty-eight
In the year 2004
Although she never made him late
Fast Freddy wanted more
So her took her to his Harley guy,
Freddy had money to burn
He said, "Lets make this Road King fly.
Lets make these tires burn.
A few thousand dollars down road
Eighty-eight became one twenty-one
New cams, pipes, all part of the load
She was something when she was done.
But what really made Fast Freddy's day
Wasn't the sound or the shine
It was hearing his Harley guy say
She just dyno-ed at one thirty-nine
So Fast Freddy put his money down
Smoked out of the parking lot
You could hear him thunder out of town
But wait! There's one thing I forgot.
You see Freddy couldn't ride very well.
He was a lawyer, a legal eagle.
This little detail I forgot to tell.
No endorsement. Fred rode illegal.
He was coming down a six percent grade
When a deer stepped into his headlamp
At high speed a mistake was made
Fast Freddy took the runaway truck ramp.
Up the ramp that Bright Harley did go
At an unbelievable pace
Exactly how fast, nobody knows
But that Road King was launched into space.
Freddy eventually fell off of his ride
And survived, as most idiots do.
Where'd his bike go? No one can decide
If it crashed somewhere or just flew.
But special NASA instruments have found,
And I have this on an insider's say-so,
From space each day comes a strange sound,
Sounds like "potato-potato-potato."
Copyright 2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
August is Biker Poetry Month
Roadpoet EMagazine,
Press Release ...
by Gray Hunter ...
Roadpoet Staff ...
August 2007:
Put your rubber to the road and your pen to the paper and tell the world you are a biker and a poet. This August is the third annual Bikerpoetry Month and all riders and writers are urged to take part in as many Bikerpoetry events as possible.
Yes, April is National Poetry Month, but in the Spring of 2005, the staff of RoadPoet eMagazine decided that Bikerpoets and Writers needed their own Poetry Month. Let's face it, April is cold and Bikers get their inspiration to write through their riding. Throughout the country, August is a good month for riding, so August was chosen for this honor.
So the question is, who can be part of Biker Poetry Month? Anyone who does the following:
- Publishes Biker Poetry
- Broadcasts Biker Poetry
- Gives a Biker Poetry lecture
- Hosts a Biker Poetry Workshop or a show
- How about a Bikerpoetry Month Cookout?
For more information or to add an event to the Bikerpoetry Month Events list, please contact RoadPoet eMagazine i/e roadpoet.com at roadpoetmagazine@webtv.net
Below is a partial list of Bikerpoetry Month events:
First Thursday, August 2nd, (Arrive: Between 6:30 - 6:45/Sign Up:
Between 6:30 - 7:00)Andy's Place, Lowell, MA Welcomes BikerPoets
to Lowell's First Poetry Open Mic and Slam.
Saturday, August 11, 2pm ... All invited ... Hopefully it's a ride!
Open Mic Village Book Store Bellows Vermont
Monday, August 13, 7pm ... Conway Library, Conway NH, A RoadHouse
Press Reading, All invited. Open Mic following feature.
Thursday, August 16, starts around 6 or 6:30pm, Gypsypashn's
Traveling Poetry Caravan Reading .. Downtown Medford and/or
3rd Annual Bikerpoetry Cookout to follow Reading at her home.
Monday, August 20, 8pm. Stone Soup Cambridge, Featuring
Colorado T. Sky and the Highway Poets
Tuesday, August 21,7:30PM at North Star Portland Maine,
Featuring J Barrett Wolf AKA Bear and the Roadpoet eMagazine
Staff and Friends
Saturday, August 25, 3rd Annual Second Hand Reeds Bookstore in
Saco Maine ... Colorado T. Sky
Sunday, August 26 Java Hut,Worcester, MA - Colorado T Sky
and the Highway Poets
Also during the month of August, several BikerPoets will be nominated as Bikerpoet Laureates. The present Bikerpoet and Motorcycle Poet Laureates are:
K. Peddlar Bridges aka The Peddlar,
Super Sunday (R) Expo, Poet Laureate.
Betsy Lister aka Gypsypashn,
Roadpoet eMagazine's, Massachusetts' Motorcycle Poet Laureate.
and Roadpoet eMagazine's New Hampshire Motorcycle poet Laureate.
Bill Rogers aka Wild Bill, The Alaskan Poet,
Roadpoet eMagazine's, Poet Laureate of the Northern Frontier.
And The Biker Poets and Writers' Association's,
National Bikerpoet Laureate, Colorado T.Sky.
Below is the criteria for 2007 Bikerpoet Laureateship:
The Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate will display an outstanding commitment to the Motorcycling and Poetry communities, as well as a serious commitment to riding and Poetry itself. The obligations and duties of the Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate are as follows, but are not limited to:
To be published in ink and light on a regular basis
To promote Roadpoet eMagazine and support Roadpoet eMagazine
poetry events.
To show a serious commitment to Motorcycling, Poetry and the Event
i/e the regional area the Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate represents.
To promote Motorcycling and Poetry on a regular basis.
To attend and perform at BikerPoetry readings and Motorcycling events
as to represent The Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureateship at these events
on a regular basis.
To find a hard copy forum to represent the Motorcycle/Biker Poet
Laureateship, Motorcycling and the Motorcycle Poetry Community, always
striving to publish and promote other Biker Poets whenever possible.
If for any reason the set Motorcycle/Biker Poet Laureate can not fulfill these requirements as Motorcycle Poet Laureate by choice or circumstances, the Editor/Publisher of Roadpoet eMagazine i/e K. Peddlar Bridges will stand in place for The Motorcycle Poet Laureate for the remaining time or choose another Motorcycle Poet to do so.
The Poet Laureateship has a long standing in Literary and World History, dating from Virgil, Homer, Chaucer, through 18th century Britain, up until today, with such names as Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, and Suffolk County New York's Poet laureate, George Wallace. The mission of the Poet Laureate is to express -- The News, the Emotions, and the Excitement -- of the events for the group they represent. They are to be a collective voice, be it mirth or sorrow.
If you know someone you believe who fits this list? Please let us know.
So when the dust settles on the pavement and the parchment this September First, let's all look back on this year's Bikerpoetry Month, as a huge success!
*****
Two notes:
First,please notice that most of the events listed take place in the East. Are there any events like it in the West?
Second. I'm pleased and proud to tell you that I am one of the Bikerpoet Laureate nominees.
Keep on keepin' on
Thursday, June 21, 2007
New Baiku
Three Baiku
1.
Sunset on Mink Creek
Rumbling on by
Watch out! Cows on road
2.
a high rate of speed
concentrates, centers your mind
motorcycle zen
3.
mountain shimmers gold
bikes rumble up
our fall color ride
copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote”
A poem by Chopper Kate Johnson
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
and...
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
and...
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!
and...
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.
and...
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
vanish,
so all I feel
is the comfort that awaits
just over the next hill
and...
I've got just 5 miles left
to home.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
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.
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."
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.
“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.
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.
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”
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
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.
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
A Tale of Bad Habits
A Tale of Bad Habits (Ike's Tale)
I used to smoke a little weed,
I could roll a joint nice and tight,
I occasionally did some other deeds
To help me make it through the night.
I gave that stuff up a long time ago,
Haven't touched it for many a year.
I'm certainly not a teetotaler though,
I still like to knock back a few beers.
My beer, I like served with a strong shot back
I'm of the dark beer and micro-brew school.
And nothing washes down a shot of Black Jack
Like a pint of Montana Moose Drool.
I know my limits, and when I'm on my bike,
I know when to put it to bed,
'Cause riding my Harley is what I like,
And that's hard to do when you're dead.
Or worse, you could end up alive, sort of
but not able to ride your bike
Let me tell you the tale of a "bro" that I love
Let me tell the sad story of Ike.
Now Ike had a fine old chopped panhead
On which he'd done all the work,
He had a sweet wife, two rowdy kids,
But his brother-in-law was a jerk.
One night that jerk pushed Ike to far,
He stormed out and jumped on his sled,
He rolled on down to a good biker bar.
started tossing back J.W. Red.
He finally quit,and he went for the door
But before he staggered outside,
I said, " Old friend, you know the score.
Why don't you let me call you a ride?"
He ignored me of course, roared off on his sled
And he soon put that pan in a slide.
When they reached him at first, they thought he was dead
But Ike is tough, tough enough to survive.
But he'll never ride again, they say,
Ike's been in a wheelchair all Summer.
His bike, his sweet wife just gave it away
to the brother-in- law, ain't that a bummer.
copyright 2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Pastor Bob and the C.M.A.
Pastor Bob and the C.M.A.*
On a sunny Sunday morning ride
I stopped to adjust my load
A group of bikers passed me by
and roared on down the road.
At the next town, a rest stop
they were there when I pulled in
One of the riders walked up to me
I recognized that grin.
"I'm Pastor Bob, " he told me.
"I ride with the C.M.A.
I smiled and slid back on my bike,
but he wouldn't let me get away.
"Have you found Jesus," he asked me?
"I can help you find him again."
I replied, "Sorry that you lost him.
Guess I'll just have to live in sin."
Bob wasn't sure how to take that,
but he kept up his holy spiel.
So I held up my hand and said, "Bob stop!
Let me tell you just how I feel."
"I know you think you're being kind,
and "saving souls" is your call.
but insulting me and what I believe,
that ain't being kind at all."
"When you shove your religion into my face
you assault what I hold dear.
You've no right to do that, Pastor Bob,
so before I roll out of here,
I'll tell you, I believe in freedom,
in truth and the open road,
in honesty, and integrity,
in shouldering my share of the load."
"I believe that people have a right
to believe whatever they may.
I believe that if you don't respect my right,
Then Bob you can K.M.A."
So I started my bike that Sunday,
but before leaving him in a lurch,
I asked "Bob if you're such a Christian,
Why the hell ain't you in church?"
2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
* C. M. A. = Christian Motorcyclist Association
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Uglicoyote
I'll make the first post here by posting some of my own work. Enjoy. Feel free to comment on the poems.
I love feedback on my work.
Villanelle for a Road King
We all have many reasons we love to hear that thunder roll
The old lady bitches, the boss pays less, the kids demand their say
Remember, four wheels may move the body, but two wheels move the soul
The daily grind of making a living forces all to pay its toll
Blood pressure rises, pleasures seem few; of course there are bills to pay
So we all have many reasons we love to hear the thunder roll
Release is just a ride away, and sweet sanity our goal
We swing our leg across the seat, the engine fires, we ride away
Yes, four wheels may move the body, but two wheels move the soul.
We turn to that favorite back road, the one all curves and knolls
Into the first turn, accelerate,the next curve comes fast, but we know the way
These are among the many reasons why we love it when the thunder rolls
The fresh wind washes away our pain, as down the straight we roll
The pulse of power, the sounds of the road, all cares and worries wiped away
Truly, four wheels may move the body, but two wheels move the soul.
We thunder on into the night, your cares have gone; you’ve met your goal.
Tomorrow will bring another load, more cares, concerns; another day
We all have many reasons why we love to hear that thunder roll.
We know that four wheels may move our body but two wheels will move our soul.
2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
What the hell is a villanelle?
Leather, Chrome, and Steel
In Blackfoot, Idaho one night
He walked, lonely, out of a bar
A woman sat there on the curb
Strumming her big guitar
Is that your bike? she asked him,
I love leather, chrome and steel.”
Hop on, he said as he settled in.
I know just how you feel.
She swung that guitar across her back
And hopped onto his sled.
Where ya going? he asked as she got on board
Outta here, was all she said.
She wrapped her arms around him
They headed south to the Utah line.
He rode hard into the desert night
The big twin singing fine.
The finally pulled down off the road
He took out his old bedroll
And there beneath the desert stars
She did things that moved his soul.
The next morning when she shot him
And he lay bleeding in the sand
She looked into his fading eyes
She reached out and held his hand
I don’t like men, she told him
But I like leather, chrome and steel
My first old man was a biker
A no good, cheatin’ heel.
So I’ll take your bike, if you don’t mind.
But I’ll write for you a song.
About your love of ridin' in the wind
And all the women who done you wrong.
He closed his eyes and she rode off,
Left his body behind that hill.
She rode on south towards Mexico
I’ll bet she’s out there still
So. if some night you leave a bar
And lonely is how you feel,
Beware a woman with big guitar
Who loves leather, chrome, and steel
2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis
Hear the Thunder
As we prepared to mount our bikes,
He asked, "Tell me why you ride.
There's nothing that you few can do
For these soldiers who have died."
"You're wrong" I answered back to him,
" Yes, they all have paid the toll,
But we can help people remember
When they hear the Thunder Roll."
"These men and women served their country,
their deaths were not by choice.
They fulfilled their solemn duty
And now we are their voice."
"Some returned in shrouded coffins.
They served and gave their all.
Some went to serve in foreign lands,
And never returned at all."
"So we ride to offer honor to
All those who paid this toll.
We ride so you'll remember them,
When you hear the thunder roll."
2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
USN 1967-1971
The Road
The road goes on forever
and the party never ends. Robert Earl Keen
Miles and miles of
Miles and miles
Big sweeping curves,
Tight hairpins and mountain switchbacks
Long straight-aways
Miles of corn, wheat, soybeans and sunflowers
Miles of pine, spruce, redwoods and cedars
Miles of prairie grass, sagebrush, mesquite
Narrow canyons open to wide vistas
Spectacular sunsets
Soft, ghostly coastal fog
Rolling into the rising sun
Idaho wind,
Nebraska heat,
Iowa rain,
Cold at 10,000 feet-- July in Wyoming's Snowy Range
Oceans, lakes,
Ponds, streams, and those rivers-
Those rivers.
Crossing the Snake, Madison, Salmon
The Platte, the Missouri
The Big Muddy
The rivers of concrete, asphalt, gravel
U.S. 101, 20, 30, 66, 26, The Lincoln Highway,
America's Roads,
State roads, County roads
Roads which appear only
On the map of the mind.
Blue Highways,
Highway blues
Riding the soul of America,
Riding my soul
Riding those miles and miles of
Miles and miles.
Bill "uglicoyote" Davis 2007
A Ride to Nirvana
I met Jesus and Mohammed
In Montana
On the Highway to the Sun
Jesus on a old panhead chopper
Mohammed astride an Ultra Glide
Both wore Diablo colors
And they shared their tequila
and smiled their bad boy smiles
Then we fired up and were off
they to Heaven in Sturgis
The Buddha astride his Road King
to Nirvanna and home
It was a hell of a ride
copyright 2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
Three Motorcycle Haiku (Baiku?)
1.
Those good vibrations
Rolling through the Portneuf Gap
Into summer sun
2.
swinging to saddle
erases life distractions
road and man are one
3.
her hands grip my chest
orgasmic pulsings subside
power out of curve
2007 Bill "uglicoyote" Davis
Haiku are Japanese form poems that adhere to a seventeen syllable count, five in the first and third lines and seven syllables in the second. Traditional haiku usually deal with nature and the seasons. I write about bikes and riding so I call mine "Baiku". These I've done for fun. If you want to read more Motorcycle Haiku go here here.
