Day's reign bows once more to dusk.
Within it's submission,
a subtle wind caresses, comforts my solitude,
as an old friend.
Whispering echoes of memories.
The horizon claims the last flicker of day.
A stillness, not unknown,
greets me this eve.
This is the night of the riderless horse.
Unbridled defiance afoot.
It's cry, harmonious amidst the wind.
Thunder be it's mane.
The wind laments it's long, lonely wail,
as if to bid farewell.
To one whose chased it's endless breath.
To one it knew quite well.
To the Heavens I raise my head and pray,
may, this wind fill the wings of your soul.
Whispering echoes of memories,
'til, for me, it blows.
© 2000 Laurence P. Scerri
(The Ironhorse Writer)
(All rights reserved)
8/00
THE OLD BIKER
When it comes to bikes
and barroom fights,
Well I guess I've seen me a few
I've straddled the Hogs
and run after the broads
And swilled down an ocean of brew
It took me some years
to dry behind the ears
and learn to keep my mouth shut.
To not lose my cool
and not act like a fool
Over some drunken, barfly slut.
Now, I got a few bumps
and I took my lumps
When some bozo was knockin' me down
But more often then not
I came out on top,
And I thought I was the baddest in town.
I packed a piece in my boot
when I rode on my scoot,
And my belt held yet another.
And if I got any lip
somebody'd get hit-
I was one no shit, badass fucker
It was Friday night
at the ol'Blue Light,
My favorite scooter tramp bar
Yeah, I was struttin' my stuff
and actin' real tough,
Playin' biker superstar
With a gal on my lap
I was into my rap,
Full of coke, tequila, and beer
"I can ride any putt
or kick any butt
Better than any damn biker here!"
I sat there and glared
while the jukebox blared
Some silly ass cowboy song
And I howled out the tune
and kept time with a spoon,
While the gal massaged my ole dong.
I laughed and I joked
and was taking a toke
When an old dude bumped into my stool.
With a glance at the crowd,
I barked out real loud,
"Hey, you crazy old fool!"
"Are you touched in the head,
or just stupid instead?
Are you spastic, you damn clumsy ox?
Get outta here fast,
or I'll beat your old ass
And they'll send you back home in a box!'
There wasn't a sound
as the old dude turned round
And heaved one long and tired sigh.
A crusty galoot,
he looked tough as a boot,
And he fixed me with his one good eye.
"Now look, son" he said
with a shake of his head,
"I'm a biker not looking for strife.
Don't be fooled by gray hair
or this eye patch I wear-
Ive been on two wheels all my life"
"I'm weathered and gnarly,
but I still ride a Harley,
And I ain't never backed down yet.
But I'll buy ya a beer
and we'll skip this beef here,
If you'll show as old man some respect."
You think I care
about your fucking gray hair?"
I shouted and slugged down my beer,
"You can bet your gray stubble
there's gonna be trouble,
You half-assed, old, dip shit queer!"
I could hear my own breath
and the room smelled like death
And the old cat just stared at the floor.
Then he lifted his head and the words that he said
I'll remember when I'm a hundred and four.
"Well, I gave you an out,
you damned kid lout,
But I guess you're as dumb as you look
You just ain't been told
'bout respect for the old."
And with that he threw a left hook.
At the end of his wrist
was a cast iron fist
That damn near knocked out my brain.
And when the fog cleared
my vision was blurred,
And I couldn't remember my name.
The old coots voice hissed
"Now don't get me pissed.
Mind your manners and just be polite.
Let's make our mends
and all go home friends
And forget this stupid ass fight."
I got to my knees
and let out a sneeze
That spewed blood all over the floor.
I should a stayed down
but like a jerk off clown
I stood up in the puddle of gore.
I said "Your really a sucker
you gray bearded fucker,
You half dead, old, bag of guts.
Kiss your scoot goodbye
cause you're fixing to die
Then he kicked me square in the nuts.
The crowd made for the door
as I thrashed on the floor
In a pain like I never had felt.
But through all raw hurt
in the blood and the dirt
I went for the gun in my belt.
But I just made things worse
the old guy was first
And his boot came down on my hand
With a sickening crunch
the bones popped in a bunch
And I tried but failed to stand
Well I guess he got mad
'cause the rest was real bad
As my rudeness he attempted to cure
There were steel toed kicks
and roundhouse licks
You get the idea I'm sure.
With my ribs all mushed
and my fingers crushed
I was just this side of dead
My bones were broke
and I though I'd croak
But I heard the words that he said
"I may be gray
but I got this way
By out toughin' shit heads like you
Real bikers ain't old
till they re dead and cold
And I've got some more livin' to do."
Then he walked out of the bar
and i heard from afar
As his bikes big engine caught.
And as the blood dried
I lay there and tried
To figure out Just what I'd been taught.
WayneHARVEY(MAKES SENSE)
And the moral seemed clear
through the blood and the beer
Though it hurt too much to stir
With an old biker dude don't ever be rude
Just smile and always say ......SIR
Outlaw (If you don't know one...Look in da mirror)
He's of a breed, cut from a cloth
That shall never be denied
Often prone
To stand alone
Finding solace within his ride
Babies and dogs are a weakness
Ladies are ever a vice
Loyal to his brothers
Does not play well with others
Refuses to 'make nice'
Into the night rides the outlaw
Shadows, long past, astride
Knowing not to where
Nor does he care
Only, that he must abide
The dawn awakes to find him
Peering deep within it's soul
Being near it
Calms his spirit
As all too soon, he must roll
Atop a steed of lightening
Commanding it's thunderous wake
The law at his heels
The freedom he feels
A way of life at stake
Into the night rides the outlaw
Shadows, long past, astride
Knowing not to where
Nor does he care
Only, that he must abide
©Copyright2000/2007
LaurenceP.Scerri(IronhorseWriter)
AllRightsReserved
By Wayne Haskell
Some think bikers are mean,
Some dressed in leathers and others in jeans.
You don't like our patches or the clothes that we wear,
You hate our bandannas and you hate our long hair.
You don't like our scooters and our loud noisy pipes,
You think we're not loyal to the Stars and Stripes.
You don't like our patches that are worn on our vests,
You think we're so different from all the rest.
But the truth is, Mister, we're kind of alike,
You drive a car and I ride a bike.
You have no tattoos painted on your arm,
But we fought side by side in Viet Nam.
So the next time your children are running around,
Enjoy their freedom, and the fun that they've found.
Remember us bikers and all that we do,
We feed our lost veterans, we're red white and blue!
We bring toys for tots and toys for a smile,
By riding our bikes for miles and miles.
You see, us bikers have never forgot,
Our homeless veterans and our homeless tots.
We are loyal to our clubs and true to our bro's,
We will always wear black from our heads to our toes.
Society once said that long hair was for fags,
But you'll never see a biker burning a flag.
Now the tattoos and leather you don't understand,
Stands for free independence that us bikers demand.
Our long hair and patches and bikes with loud pipes,
Is a tribute to our freedom, the Stars and the Stripes.
So before you make up your mind on just what I might be,
Take a look in the mirror and what do you see?
The man that you see that is staring right back,
Is not too much different from that biker in black!!
Ride Safe Ride Free!