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The Un-sickle-ized World

I rode ’til late again last night,
Through canyons cut through pine;
My headlamp sliced a tunnel of light
Along the dotted line.

I backed the throttle down a notch,
Which slowed the evening breeze;
I gave the grips a gentle tug
And pulled in through the trees.

I found a clearing large enough
For bike and boy and bag;
I took my boot to rock and root
And cleared each subtle snag.

I laid me down beneath the stars
Too numerous to count;
And thought back to the frontier days
As I lay beside my mount.

And I felt some “cowboy-kinship”,
While within my bedroll curled;
With a half-sad grin I pitied them,
Those of the unsickle-ized world.

Dawn’s first light reveals the sight
The night had masked in black;
The rolling hills and whippoorwills
Call me from my sack.

The saddlebags provide the fare
That passes for a meal;
The taste is bland and mixed with sand,
But, just the same, it’s real.

The ground dew-damp, I break my camp
And double-check my load;
The lines are cinched, the bolts are wrenched,
And ready for the road.

With just one kick my motorsick
Awakens from it’s sleep;
Willing to go, it lets me know
With a voice that’s soft but deep.

The stand swings up, the gearbox clunks,
The clutch is now released;
“Would be such fun this road to run
If it weren’t so darned policed!”

I idle through a country town
As the morning paper is hurled;
I follow a whim that’s missed by them,
Those of the unsickle-ized world.

The challenge of the mountain roads;
The pavement at my knees!
The world just leans and tilts the scenes
To forty-five degrees!

The countryside through which I ride
Is more than winding roads;
The senses all are called upon
To sample God’s abode.

I feel inversion layers;
Temperatures fall and rise!
The moisture from the marshes,
The sunlight from the skies!

I smell the flowered meadows
And the ponderosa pine;
And now and then a barnyard,
And I really don’t much mind!

I hear the whistle blowing
From the distant diesel train;
And the banging of the boxcars
As it rises toward the plain.

I see the land like no man can
While in a car so snug;
I taste the joys of nature,
And now and then a bug!

I watch the sun retire low
To settle ’round the bend;
And as I roll that throttle back
I reel that sunset in.

I’ll ride ’til late again tonight,
Through canyons cut through pine;
My headlamp slicing a tunnel of light
Along the dotted line.

I’ll pause to rest beneath the moon
That floats so silver-pearled;
And give my thanks I’ve left the ranks
Of those of the unsickle-ized world.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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