Motorcycle Memories: One Day The Graceful Rider Caught Me

I remember the asphalt: how it felt when
I colored outside the lines on a bike.
I remember the rowdy night-spot
Where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget
A full-leather form, the turns,
The quick and careless course, or the
Fateful blur on the periphery.
The hardtop hit like hard luck times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
Made sudden emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but the ditch stood
Close by; the pavement took a toll.
I think of parking lots that demanded
Wheelies: I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, spills and crashes—
Some lay it down, but mine were wrecks.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I wouldn’t slow the pace. Then
One day the graceful rider caught me.
How he chased! How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors, and
When I looked, I shattered. But
To every piece he whispered;
For each shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

His hands, like living stone, never tired.
He made pursuit his standard.
I rolled with bent desires, but
He anticipated every deviation. He
Broke my bones, then mended.
He determined my route. I fled
Until he pierced and purchased, until
He caught me with the look of love—
A look that saw a man born blind.

He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees. Now,
I listen as gears make changes,
As rubber on roadway moves me,
As I approach new signs and places,
As chain and sprocket go humbly
Beneath me, and narrow roads unwind.

If Home Is Where You Go

If home is where you go; if
It is here you strike accords
Between the sometimes
Angry parties at the table;
If you are able to heed
The bell’s harmonic as
Another round begins,
You stand on solid ground.

If your facades and pulp
Fictions hit the trash bin
By the gate before you
Stump over the step
And through the door;
If home is where you log
The daily lore, your
Feet are on the floor.

If this is where you laugh,
Cry, get surprised, listen,
Touch, desire someone’s eyes,
Believe that they believe
That you are wise, then
You are wise. If you
Think of home as light,
As sanctuary, as air, or as

A beacon in the night that
If, by doom, went out would
Make your knees buckle
And your bones break—
If you would ache, like
A tooth full of decay or
A back after a long day—then
You are a sage and a seer;

You are a lovely footed
Messenger in flight.

Faith, Hope, Love

Faith, awaking from a dream,
Calms the wind and stills our screams. It
Stands, rebuking raging waves and
Speaks that we may be freed slaves.

We stay here in crumbling haunts and
Crumple ‘neath desire’s taunts. We’re
Offered playground swings on chains, but
From the window watch the rains.

Hope, a hungry fire starts.
Sparks fly up and burn our hearts. We
Long for heritage and glory; to be
Great heroes in the story.

Our pallid lips quaff bitter brews. We
Search the dregs for any clues. The
Vestige of our stumbling path
Reveals a way that leads to wrath.

Wearing bold and wild colors,
Setting blazing wild fires,
Love, though we may never say it,
Bests our fine and whited harlot.

Yet we, our remedy, resist. We
Turn away our lover’s kiss. We
Hesitate before the altar,
Scorning freedom’s final offer.

Answered Prayer

“Answered prayer,” she said, “You are an
answer.” Billiard balls dance behind plate glass.
Cue sticks aim, wave, conduct our conversation.
Like oversized batons they signal us to begin.

Friendly strangers, we lay out the makings for a
tapestry—words, expressions. We weave
answers and questions. A weft thread
beneath the warp rises to the pattern.

With longing each one eyes the other standing
there. Each looks for a close weave, for a
familiar image to appear amidst the intricacies,
beneath the lighted Corner Pocket sign.

Our eager, wanton prayers fly quickly, brightly like
a tight rack of balls at the break. Like many
lavish threads, they emerge from below,
pressing against each other to form a whole.