Tag Archives | 1st October

The bike

The ageing bike rests against the silver birch tree.
Rusting and breaking like an ancient artifact.

       

The wheels sink into the mud,
Shouting for help in rusted squeaks
Waiting to be turned again.

 

The metal and its feel
Are shed like that of a snake’s skin.

 

The pedals dangled and unturned
Swing slowly as if an invisible child
was having the time of his life on them.

 

The ornament all alone
Waits for its owner to feel its stone

 

The bike lock is a winding river
Or a hungry snake patiently waiting for a meal

 

The torn leather saddle waits
To comfort who rides the bike

 

The handle bars protrude out
Like those of an angry bull ready to charge

 

 

 

Decrepit gears slowly whirr
Like the rhythm of a bee

The rusted chain spins steadily
Like that of a factory conveyor belt

 

The mudguard stays
Disappointed in itself                                                                                                                                  Covered in mud

 

The delicate spider web
Sways in the wind
Sparkling with dew

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚔𝚎 – 𝙰𝚟𝚊 𝙹𝚊𝚢 – 𝚂𝚆𝚆

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢,

𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢, 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚔𝚎.

𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚗𝚎,

𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖,

𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚋𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝,

𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍.

𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚔𝚎.

 

The Bike

The rusty bike,

stuck and abandoned by it’s owner.

Infested with creatures and insects,

being torn piece by piece.

Slowly being consumed by the earth’s crust,

sinking next to it’s unpleasant disruptive wooden grave.

Keeping hope and praying,

Asking god to message the owner.

Paralysed on the spot,

switching status within climate change.

Having worryingly sad thoughts,

feeling like it’s being incinerated.

The bike poem

The bike sits,

a well trained dog

against the old oak tree.

Its seat stands out,

being tortured by spiders

like a new world waiting to be discovered.

The wheels are tangled in weeds,

like a lawn mower

waiting to be emptied.

The pedals are sticky,

from being suffocated in cleaver

all the children trying to make it look pretty 

like a wedding gift waiting to be unwrapped. 

 

The bike

The bike rusty,

Like an old vehicle.

The bike webbed,

Like a spider’s home.

The old rusty bike leaning,

Lonely on the big tree.

The bike mossy,

Like fluffy hair,

In the wind.

The handle bars rusty,

Like a rusty old metal stick,

That has been in a junk yard,

For a very long time. 

The crumbling bike

A bike sits,

waiting impatiently 

leant on an ancient elm.

Its handles jutting out like an elephants tusks.

 

Cogs clatter to a strong beat,

a heavy chain clicks into place

chrome falls back like a shimmering snowflake.

Waiting endlessly.

 

The wheels are frozen spider webs,

urging to be moved once again.

The spindles crumbling due to rust,

wishing to be replaced.

Moss covers its rusted frame

like a blanket on a child.

 

The saddle stays,

waiting to be loved again from its owner.

 

The bell chimes

for the last time…

 

The bike starts to crumble,

it starts to splutter and shake!

Its owner returns at the last second

no…a second too late.

A bicycle poem by Anabelle

The bike rests,
Against the old withered oak tree,
Slowly rusting away.

The wheels still,
Praying to move once more,
Like a child,
Waiting for something that will never happen.

The handles jutting out like shark’s fins,
Waiting to be gripped by the warm welcoming hands of its owner,
Knowing that because of your rust people will hesitate to touch you.

The saddle cold and full of holes,
So rusty that it is in danger of falling off,
Knowing that if that happens no one will care,
Not even the owner who has abandoned you leaning against the old withered oak tree.

The flowers on the bike moan in rhythm to the wind,
Pleading to be back in the wild once more,
To be seen as pretty things,
Not seen with this rusty old bike.

The bell waiting to be rung a few times more,
Looking out for its owner to come back and ring with the bell again,
Missing the sight of people running out the way as it makes it’s loud screeching noise…
…if only it had known it was for the last time.

 

The bicycle

The bicycle,

The bike lent sadly waiting impatiently, 

almost lost hope.

Alone wondering waiting,

for its owner to return.

The bottle,

like a vars sitting on a windowsill,

Collecting dust.

Cobwebs to glisten in the sunlight,

covered in rain drops.

The bike sits covered in rust,

from the rain and water.

The wheels are waiting to spin again,

thinking of the days it was ridden through

 the parks smooth roads. 

 

The fat rusted chain, 

 looks fixed in to place. 

 Its handle bars, 

 stick out like a table’s legs.

A Observation Poem

The bicycle rests,

A peaceful machine,

Its handles bars stick out

Like  a canal 

The wheels,

Rushing to escape,

A never-ending cycle.

Spindles skinny as thread,

Twirling,

 an endless loop.

The headset observes,

Like an eagle’s  eye.

 Cogs scatter,

Like Elves rushing to places.

Pedals hanging,

Waiting to set off.

The bell  chimes 

Like a mechanical clock.

The saddle awaits.

As a impatient lion,

Waiting to be mounted.

The bike

The bicycle waiting
to be approved,
for this world.

Wheels spin
like a German Shepard,
sprinting for food.

Handlebars sticking out
like an elephant’s tusks.

The rusty chain
waiting to be cleaned,
and oiled.

The seat waiting
for an old friend.

The body
waiting patiently for,
its turn for someone to clean it.

The bell dinging for.
people to see it.

Spindles as thin as string
getting ready to get dizzy,
one last time.

Pedals hanging.
unable to move,
like frozen in time.