Petes Poetry
Harley and Rose.
Riding a Harley on a rose petal.
Gunna put the pedal to the metal.
Forged steel, organic matter.
Who cares?, it all ends up decayed and battered.
But what happens in-between,
a seed, an idea,
for one is not a machine,
and one does not live here.
Nor machine or beast.
Nor in anyway deceased.
Nor a rose in full burst and bloom.
Nor a v-twin engine in full roar and boom.
Yet a love of past and present.
Yet a rose only afforded by a peasent.
Yet a passion, stripped and chopped.
Touch my ride, and you'll be popped.
Protected by Thor.
Protected by thorns.
A tool of love and war.
A corsage to be worn.
Pluck to court.
And servicing is a must.
life is short.
Machines slowly rust.
Memory's tattooed of that rose I gave.
As I jumped on my Harley and rode away.
Peter Riddoch.
Gunna put the pedal to the metal.
Forged steel, organic matter.
Who cares?, it all ends up decayed and battered.
But what happens in-between,
a seed, an idea,
for one is not a machine,
and one does not live here.
Nor machine or beast.
Nor in anyway deceased.
Nor a rose in full burst and bloom.
Nor a v-twin engine in full roar and boom.
Yet a love of past and present.
Yet a rose only afforded by a peasent.
Yet a passion, stripped and chopped.
Touch my ride, and you'll be popped.
Protected by Thor.
Protected by thorns.
A tool of love and war.
A corsage to be worn.
Pluck to court.
And servicing is a must.
life is short.
Machines slowly rust.
Memory's tattooed of that rose I gave.
As I jumped on my Harley and rode away.
Peter Riddoch.