[R. S. Gwynn]

The Wind Rides a Harley


The Wind once rode a big black, bad-ass Hawg,
a twisted blue bandanna on his head:
tattooed and sleeveless; lean, mean junkyard dog.

Now every flaming-asshole-walking-dead
executive has got hisself a bike:
middle-aged accountants dress alike
in stiff new leather gear, with HARLEY splashed
across their backs. The Wind stays home. Unwed,
alone, he surfs the net for porn instead
of cruising roads; eats Sugar Corn Pops stashed
beneath the bed; or sits and smokes his dope.

He thinks to buy some sneakers, join a group
that walks most mornings at the mall. He'll cope,
he says, and opens up a can of soup.

I like this one for its contemporary subject, a satical one that I've observed a number of times here in Beaumont, where there's a huge new Harley dealership with meeting rooms and most likely an espresso bar.

This sonnet employs an usual rhyme scheme, with its couplet coming early--a risky scheme since this might bring the poem to a halt too early. The skillful enjambment keeps it going.

I think I'd prefer "knotted" to "twisted" in line two, and I stumbled a bit on the headless line six.

"Unwed" seems a little forced because there's no surprise. Who would expect the wind to be wed?

"of cruising roads; eats Sugar Corn Pops stashed"

This seems a little metrically rough to me, maybe because I'm old enough to remember the jingle:

Kel-log's Sugar Corn Pops! ("Sugar Corn"'s a dactyl here)
These Pops are tops!

And I can't see any logical reason for "stashed / beneath the bed" except for the rhyme with "splashed."

The poem could stand a little revision. It's close to being a winner.

[grasshopper]

This is great fun. I loved the central image, though I wish The Wind around here would stay indoors surfing, as I was nearly blown away a couple of days ago.
I would have preferred 'he means to buy some sneakers' but that may be a difference in homeland vernacular.
Very fresh and vivid, I thought.
Regards, Maz

[Janet Kenny]

Aha!
I know who wrote this one. Hello Michael
I posted a Les Murray poem that it reminded me of.
I loved this when I read it first and I still do.
Janet

The Wind Rides a Harley


The Wind once rode a big black, bad-ass Hawg,
a twisted blue bandanna on his head:
tattooed and sleeveless; lean, mean junkyard dog.

Now every flaming-asshole-walking-dead
executive has got hisself a bike:
middle-aged accountants dress alike
in stiff new leather gear, with HARLEY splashed
across their backs. The Wind stays home. Unwed,
alone, he surfs the net for porn instead
of cruising roads; eats Sugar Corn Pops stashed
beneath the bed; or sits and smokes his dope.

He thinks to buy some sneakers, join a group
that walks most mornings at the mall. He'll cope,
he says, and opens up a can of soup.