The Graceful Rider

I recall the asphalt—a blur
beneath—and my days
at the school of tachometry.
All my dreams had chrome
tailpipes and handlebars.
They shone like a vision.
I leaned into the turns
until the foot pegs scraped.
Hardtop suited me just fine.

I evoke the throttle’s spirit—
the twist and release—
and the engine’s heat.
They moved me, but pavement
takes a toll; ditches are replete.
All those close calls,
falls, and crashes hurt,
but I never refused the road.
I crossed the double line

before I slowed.
Then came the graceful rider.
He rode from days of old
on everlasting tires
because the time had come.
When he spoke I shattered,
but he whispered to each piece;
for every shard he shouted.
His voice was bread and wine.   

Pursuit was his standard
and he tattooed me with fire.
I ducked and dodged
and rolled with bent desire,
but he planned my course.
He pierced and purchased—
broke my bones and mended—
then caught me with a look…
He saw a man born blind.

When my will failed, he gripped.
He healed my road-rash knees,
rebuilt my make and model;
he saw to parts unseen
and my gears made changes.
Rubber on the street
moved me to new places.
Beneath chain and sprocket
I saw narrow roads unwind.               

The Meaning Of Violence and The Desire For Violence

To read the next two segments (four and five) of my series, The Virtue Of Violence CLICK HERE and scroll down to:  4. The Meaning Of Violence.

It is Jesus’ virtuous, violent death on the cross that enables the meaning of my violence to be changed.  The birth, life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ makes it possible for my violence to be used by God for his good and virtuous purposes.

When the brutalized and risen one pursued me, caught me, turned me toward himself and joined me to himself by his Spirit, he began the ongoing process of turning the meaning of violence in my life (among other things).

Motorcycle Memories: One Day A Graceful Rider Caught Me

This poem has been revised many times.  It is getting much closer to what I want it to be.  Yes, I used to ride motorcycles.  I wrecked several times, including a crash where my bike stuck into the side of a Ford Escort and I flew over, landing in the road.  By the time I came back to consciousness, the emergency crew had arrived.  A full-face helmet saved my head (and life).  I had many other close calls.  Clearly, God preserved my life each time as he continued to pursue me by his mercy and grace.  In a very real way, he rode with me.  In an earlier version of this poem I said, “Only he could look me in the eyes at speeds of 80 and above.”  He never backed down or gave up on me.  This poem, one of the first I ever wrote, continues to be an encouraging reminder of my Savior’s faithfulness.  I hope it encourages you as well.  Thanks for reading.

I remember the asphalt…how it let me
live outside the lines on a bike.
I remember a rowdy night-spot
where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget: boots,
a leather jacket, and turns
that made me lean down to the pegs.
The boundary blurred
till hardtop hit like hard times.

I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
made emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but ditches stood
nearby; the pavement took its toll.
Parking lots demanded wheelies.
I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, and crashes…
some could lay it down, but I wrecked.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.

Still, I did not slow the pace.  Then,
one day a 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 each piece he whispered;
for every shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.

He made pursuit his standard.
His hands, like living stone, never tired.
I rolled with bent desires,
but he anticipated every deviation.
He determined my progress;
he broke my bones, then mended.
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
and I approach new signs and places,
as chain and sprocket go humbly—
to make a narrow road unwind.

November Highway

I drive on hard and hallowed roads
until the blue sky stoops,
until my radio receives
these strong November days.

They transmit Dylan’s boot leg
release number eight.
The buzz of amplifiers rises
when he breathes.  Once, he says,

I had a pretty girl, but she did me wrong.
Now I’m marching to the city
and the road ain’t long.
I join the sacred melody;

I join everyone
who moves over these highways.
We drive and sidewalks go beside us.
We sing and signals bend to find us.