Almost a Biker

I once had a motorbike,
Painted in the colours I like.
Bright paintwork in yellow and black,
Better for road than for track.
A custom bike with plenty of chrome,
Visions I had of going to roam.
Out on the open road once more,
A beautiful thing with a throaty roar!
I got all the kit and dressed in the leather,
Protected from every kind of weather.
Wearing all of the outfit he loves,
Jacket, Boots, Helmet and Gloves.
Blood racing through me thudding my chest,
Excitement builds I’ll be joining the rest.
On Saturday mornings, coffee en-route
Someone you know, give them a toot.
Bike training then was even a pleasure,
Into the country, moments to treasure.
Taking in the air as you go by,
Feeling as though being able to fly.
Out on the road from my worries I’d hide,
Forget them all as you begin to ride
For a time so easy to be,
Someone else who’s so carefree.
Once I’d got my ticket you know,
I sat on the bike ready to go.
I started up and the throttle jammed,
Into a wall on the bike I slammed.
I’d hurt myself and damaged by back.
And from the experience I would lack.
Suddenly my dreams as a biker no more,
As I was pinned upon the floor.
Couldn’t get from under the bike you see,
Was trapped just too darn heavy for me.
Rescued by a helpful friend,
For the bike and I, the end.
6 months of pain and physio,
Off to the doctor I had to go.
The bike was stored, then fixed and sent,
For someone new it was now meant.
My injuries healed, they did not last,
But having a bike’s all in my past.

Looking Back, A struggle to write.

Looking back through some of my old papers, I often find things I’ve written in the past. Sometimes, I feel as though they should stay there.  But as time goes on, they give a better picture of who I am today and how I arrived here. I wrote this many years ago around 1995 I think.  I had written poetry before, some of it will appear here later, but I regularly struggled with writers block.  At the time I painted it onto a bottle after I had drunk the contents. I found the bottle a while ago and transferred it to paper. A picture will follow if I can find it again…

It seems I cannot write things
Till I’m down or even depressed
As when I try to do this
They make sense even less.
It seems I have to be hurting
Very deep down inside.
Unable to tell him things,
When so many times I’ve tried.
So when I try to write things down
My true feelings come out right.
Sometimes you know I wear a frown
And sit up alone at night
I sit here with pen and paper
Cramming words down on the page
It’s been like that for years now
And I thought it’s just my age
Other people will rant and rave
Or bottle things up for years
But how I feel is what I write
Mixed up with a few tears.