Thread: Bicycle Ride

A wheel turns, where someone asks for a ride,

I had something to call my own,

to ride a bicycle to start a ride,

was to begin an adventure not my own,

the day I crashed I did not feel sorry,

the metals wheels were like Apollo’s chariot turning,

never did they stop,

but never did I call my god's forces to help,

to be a child in a bicycle was something else,

my childhood smelled like cake in the oven,

there was nothing missing

when I got use to beatings,

when I fell off the bicycle.

A crooked smile was something undiscovered,

to set foot in a new land was something,

to set sail like pirates at the sea,

To Poseidon I never begged for mercy.

To be a bicycle rider was never to beg for mercy,

but it was to beg for time mom had,

for the times my leg never healed

they would bake a cake to learn to ride

the small things we did our time,

when time was golden in a hour glass or in a jail cell,

when I knew I was home late and lost at the neighbors house

never did I break a bone anymore,

it was too much

to be on a bicycle was for a moment to feel immortal

like a stunt devil in the turnpike.

Thank you for appreciating it.

It's been a while since I wrote poetry. I will experiment with prompts if I can write good poems based on them. I like to write on war and issues, but maybe there is some hidden knowledge to write better these poems. This poem was inspired from when I was a child.

The reference of the cake has to do with the fact that my mother would bake a cake for me to ride a bicycle ride. The first attempts ended in failures.

the metals wheels were like Apollo’s chariot turning,

my childhood smelled like cake in the oven,

to be on a bicycle was for a moment to feel immortal

like a stunt devil in the turnpike.

These lines spoke to me of the wonderful imagination of a child on their bike. They captured the essence well.