Morning Sonnet: A Moonlit Commute

The sun's not even reddening the east;
It's dark, but there is moonlight, so I can
See what's ahead somewhat, be it small beast
Or bungie cord in my path, or a man
In shadows and dark clothes, walking his pet
(His ipod means he still can't hear my bell,
So he's the greatest hazard) -- though I get
The Greenway to myself, mostly. The smell
Of rotting leaves, the tick of them in wind
That still is warm and gentle, my escort.
Soon I'll be struggling to stay disciplined
Enough to fight it, and the snow, contort
My face into a grimace, pedaling,
But now I just enjoy. It's long 'til spring.

In Which My Day Is Loud And Fragrant

Infested now, my neighborhood, with such

Variety of workmen as I find

Impossible to name them all, has much

In common with disaster zones. I wind

Around its streets and cul-de-sacs aboard

Deep Blue and see some roofers, yes, and by

My "circle's" deepest curve, not just a hoard

Of all-but-shirtless men, but also -- fie! --

A reeking porta-potty twixt a pile

Of sand and some huge trucks. The din's profound.

It's gypsy contract season. With a smile

And promise of low pricing all around,

They've sucked in all my neighbors, it would seem.

How long will their work last, though, do you deem?

In Which I Give A Shout Out To My Favorite Blog, @BikeSnobNYC

There's lots of good stuff on the internet,
Green gadget news, muckraking, stories for
'Most every taste and temperament. Forget
All those, though, there is one with LOLZ galore
With which I cannot pass a dull weekday:
O BikeSnob NYC, you harken to
Jacopo Belbo, who would always say
"Take out the cork" to one who did imbue
Too much importance in his speech or thought.
Bike culture's smugness clouds the clearest sky,
But it's just funny when we all have got
This kind of mockery on tap. This guy
Would mock me, too, I'm sure, to see me ride
Deep Blue to work each morning. I'll abide.

In Which Some Mud Gets The Better Of Me

It rained last night, but that was long ago,

And there was little mud left I could see,

So while a certain wariness, I know

And in which I engage, is needed, the

Small lake within the tunnel did surprise

Me just a bit, but that was nothing to

What waited at its end, just where a rise

Begins, with a sharp curve to pedal through.

A sharp turn means my bike and I must lean

A bit; and just there where I did so, there lay

A mud slick. Ere I knew, my bike slid clean

Out from beneath me, yet, to my dismay

Still landed on me. Glad I broke its fall,

But now I hurt all over, overall.

In Which I Channel My Inner Sangamon Taylor For A Moment

I'm mighty but there's really just so much
A woman on a bicycle can do.
This afternoon was an example such
As we may rarely see. I needed through
A busy surface street -- the Greenway's not
Entirely discrete from auto routes --
And it was one thick stream of cars, a lot
More, driving faster than typically suits
A jaywalker's or cyclist's need to slip
Across. While waiting, sev'ral cranky cars
Lined up behind me, honking. I'd have flipt
A gesture but I saw my chance (not ours),
Stared down a biddy, pulled a Sangamon.
She stopped for me but then roared blithely on.

In Which The Grasshoppers Lie Heavy

There still is something missing as the spring
Morphs into summer. While the days are long
And lovely, and the noisy blackbirds sing,
As do the larks and mourning doves, it's wrong
To call me pleased, who pedals past and through
The grasslands and the marshes, breathing in
The scents of plants and flowers on Deep Blue.
The Greenway still is lonely with no din
Of insects. Barely hatched and tiny, they
Still hide within the earth, can barely crawl
Forth from their refuge; they'd be easy prey
In early instar stages, for 'most all
Those chirping birds. Come out soon, friends, and play,
And jump to herald me along my way.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which Spring Break Affects Even Your Humble Sonneteer

I do believe that spring may come at last.

The bank clocks says it's seventy degrees

Outside. And water drips and spreads as vast

And dirty banks of snow melt (they'll refreeze

Again; it's only March) become the mud

That marks the season. Spring break in the park

With my friend Bonnie, a stir in my blood

Arose as kites flew overhead. A stark

And vivid contrast to how I have spent

Such afternoons of late, huddled and cold,

A bikeskimo in layers of clothes and bent

Close to the handlebars, windswept yet bold.

Now ease and sunlight mean I have to share

The greenway with more folks, but I don't care!

Fitness Nerdery, Or, In Which "Jetson" Joins My Household

I'm choosy 'bout my roommates, but I find,

Approaching an "-ish" age as I now am,

That body needs as much work as does mind

If I, in fact, do really give a damn

About my having any chance to see

The "rapture of the nerds," as we have called

That point in time, the singularity.

Commuting on my bike's a start, but lawd,

It's been so dark and cold! So now I've bought

A treadmill - manual - for those bleak days

When Deep Blue's best left home. And now I've got

A hankering to find one or more ways

To make of it a generator! Yes!

Now if I can, that's anybody's guess!

In Which I Ponder Urban Fossils

Our Greenway is a long path of concrete

That winds all through Cheyenne, though it's not whole

As yet; it's discontinuous. Complete,

It will let bikers and the sorts who stroll

To travel all around, no care for cars

Except at a few crossings. Ere that day

More cement must be poured, must set for hours

And opportunities galore will lay

In wait for leaving traces, casts and tracks

Such as I saw out there this afternoon.

Bike tire trails, paw prints, outlines and cracks

All testify to what landed too soon

In that congealing muck before it cured.

They'll know of us in future; that's assured.

In Which I Have A Tiny Panic Attack At Work

Alone here in a fishbowl, full of folk
Absorbed in work and play, ignoring me,
I suddenly can't shake or call a joke
The feeling that has made me want to flee:
Just weeks ago a jackass in a truck
Hit me on Deep Blue as I crossed a street.
Just days ago another tested luck -
The driver, texting, nearly made me meet
My newly-dead friend sooner than I'd planned:
Was head-on for me and swerved as I did
To miss. It seemed dead-certain that my grand
Time on this Earth was done. Did someone bid
Him look up? It's unknown. But now the sense
That something wants me dead, too, is intense.

In Which The Construction Gods Smile On Me At Last

Returned from Saratoga, lo, I find

That Dell Range Avenue is nearly back

To normal, on my eastern end. My mind

much eased by this, I failed to note that smack

Amidst us all, new traffic lights now hang

At Marble Avenue! So that is what

The mess was for? Illus'ry safety bang

In my own subdivision? That's great, but

I still won't fall for it, not on my bike.

Or in my car, or walking. Red or green,

They're still just symbols. Sure we all would like

To think they are preventive, but the scene

Just down the street at Converse surely proves

That head-in-ass is still how traffic moves.

In Which A Snowy Day Sets Me To Dithering

Contrary impulses have seized me, and

I'm transfixed, by the window, in their grips.

I still am sick, could barely lift a hand

To heave and shovel snow - though it's the hips

And legs that should do that work - yet I would

So dearly like to go play in that fresh, white

Inviting snow. My skis are - to the good -

In Saratoga, so that's out. All right

But just a walk? A bike ride? A quick romp

With Molly in the park? I really ought

To stay home and get well at last. I stomp

An angry foot at this, though. Yes, I've got

A poor track record, being sick and then

Undoing efforts to get well again.

In Which My Thoughts Go Round And Round Like Deep Blue's Wheels

I'm restless. I've had quite an afternoon,

With much occurring and yet naught at all.

The tension's built up too much and so soon

I've got to let it out. My bike doth call.

What did I ever do before Deep Blue

When situations rose that drove me nuts?

I no longer remember, have no clue

Just how I used to pull myself from ruts.

My bicycle and sonnets rule my days.

'Tis discipline, I think, which is all good

But days like this I feel somewhat enslaved

To both, but realize, try as I would

That habits, good, or bad, govern me still

I only think I've something like free will.

In Which I Prepare To Cheat On My Love

Comes now the news: Deep Blue needs a new wheel,
Which won't be here 'till Thursday or perhaps
Wednesday if I am lucky. Do I feel
That way? I don't, not since my crash. Those chaps
At Rock on Wheels at least have found a way
To cheer me some: a loaner bike awaits
At yonder store. I feel that I betray
My love a bit, but man, I've got the shakes.
My bicycle is more than just my friend,
My ride to work, it's, too, my therapist,
Without whom I have gone right 'round the bend
Especially since fine weather does persist
That beckons so, a cyclists' siren song
I can't resist. Please tell me: is it wrong?

In Which Further Rage Is Vented

Construction as you know has quite f'd up

The only way out of my neighborhood

Into the rest of Cheyenne. Now I sup

On still more rage, though I know I'm as good

For blaming as the red and white Ford truck

That just plowed into Deep Blue's back tire when

I dared to cross the street where he was stuck

A-waiting his next chance to join again

The greater stream of traffic. I did think

He'd waved me on across like a good guy

But then he lurched. I stopped just on the brink

Of getting fully hit -- don't want to die

Just when things in my life are looking well

But how I wish that driver were in hell.

In Which A Power Failure Gives Me Pause

A power failure, but in far from black

Do I sit here; the glare from off the snow

Lights up my house so I squint. I could track

The world outside: A hand-cranked radio

Sits here. Instead I peer deep down inside

And let myself feel all that's going on,

What is and what could be. I cannot hide

In shadows on a day like this. I'll don

Soon coat and boots, my new sunglasses, and

Ride on Deep Blue to where my work awaits,

But now my pen and Field Notes guide my hand

To lead me to some stillness. 'Tis the Fates,

Not I, who should be brooding. Let it be.

There's nothing I can do but wait and see.

In Which I Unwittingly Fight A Bungie Cord And The Bungie Wins

On pre-dawn bike trips many hazards loom --
Both real and real imaginary; some
Are naught but shadows; others, in the gloom,
May look like lurking muggers, but just dumb,
Mute signposts stand there when I'm close enough
To make that out. I know this and prepare
Each morn for that frisson. But other stuff
No mental calisthenics can, I swear,
Quite make predictable. Of course, in part
'Tis,too, my fault for moongazing right where
A vicious bungie cord (curse the black heart
Of he who left it; may he wind up there
In trailer park hell where such boobs belong)
Reached up and caught my wheel and all went wrong.

BONUS SONNET: Wet And Grey, A Perfect Day

A grey sky makes me love the landscape more;
The greens and browns of it stand out so well
Against the steely dome above. Before,
A clear sky held me firm under its spell,
My eyes turned up and lost in all that blue,
The lazy drift of clouds holding my gaze.
With that distraction gone, I turn down to
The Earth around me, taking in the plays
Of heightened color. Then, too, there's the scent
Of misty rain, and of the moistened soil
And vegetation. This is what I'm meant
To know today, which nothing now can spoil.
A drizzly morning's bike commute lays down
A tone for my day: bliss in which to drown.

In Which Deep Blue And I Commune With The Greenway

Were I struck blind, still could I make my way

From work to home on Cheyenne's best bike route,

Just by the smells encountered ev'ry day

Along the path. My nose is more acute

After a summer's daily travel there.

Once past the city street and vulcanized

Smell of the tire place that is right where

The Greenway starts for me, as I am prized

From car traffic, the smell of fresh-cut grass,

Late blooming trees and cattails dominate

Until I pass the paddock where, alas,

A lonely horse stands grazing, with no mate.

The wet concrete and dust of tunnels, then

I'm practically already home again.

In Which I Rejoice At Breathing Hard (And Tell You All To Get Your Minds Out Of The Gutter Right Now)

It's spring at last and time to ride my bike,
Deep Blue, to work whene'er I safely may.
The exercise is good but what I like
Is what I smell; a moving sweet bouquet.
It starts with lilacs in my own back yard,
In Cahill Park, and scattered all along
My route. Then others join, but they are hard
For me to name. A cherry? That seems wrong;
This is Wyoming. Dogwood? Maybe so.
The blooms are red and white and have a scent
That makes me glad to huff and puff e'n though
It's extra work to use my nose. Content
I am to pedal on, and deeply to inhale.
And love the Greenway's deeply scented trail.