The Cyclist’s Creed

 

I love the bike for what it lets me do.
Its parts are plain, yet strong, and ever true.
No needless tricks, no flashing lights that fail,
Just honest wheels that hum along the trail.

The bolts I turn with confidence and care;
Each thread and spoke is known, familiar, fair.
Though new devices crowd the modern trade,
I ride content with standards firmly made.

Yet gears that click in place I will commend—
A simple gift that makes the climb my friend.
Through fields and towns I roam with tent or bed,
And meet strange folk by whom my path is led.

The road brings highs, then lows, as journeys must,
And chains will break, and spokes may turn to rust.
But still I mend, for joy is in the task,
And in the ride, no greater gift I ask.

The Man Who Liked Bikes

 

I like bikes, I like them a lot,
I fix them myself with the tools that I’ve got.
No gadgets, no gizmos, no blinking red lights,
Just pedals and wheels for long, happy rides.

They’re standard! They’re simple! They’re all much the same,
No silly new tech in the marketing game.
(Well… indexed gears? Those I do not despise,
They clickety-shift and they’re nifty and wise!)

I ride with a tent, I ride to a town,
I meet funny people when roads wander down.
Some nights are high, and some nights are low,
But a bike makes it better wherever I go.

And when my poor chain makes a clatter or squeak,
I find on the YouTube the help that I seek!
With fixers and tinkerers, cheerful and bright,
Explaining repairs through the day and the night.

So hand me my helmet, my wrench, and my pack,
I’ll pedal on forward and never look back.
For bikes are my joy, my delight, and my fun—
Two wheels forever, my miles never done!

The Man Who Rode with Spanners

He loved his wheels for what they were,
Not toys of fashion, not dreams of air.
Steel and spokes, a simple creed,
A bike that gave him all he’d need.

He turned the bolts with steady hand,
Each part the same in every land.
Standard threads, no tricks, no lies—
He loathed the gadgets, the needless ties.

Yet gears that clicked with purpose true,
A rare invention he’d not eschew.
For on the road, both tent and inn,
Adventure waits where rides begin.

He met the strangers, odd, profound,
On gravel tracks, where stories sound.
The highs, the lows, the stubborn chain,
The joy of fixing, not in vain.

And when at dusk, with weary eyes,
He sought the glow of YouTube guides,
There helpers spoke through screen and spark,
Their wisdom lit his roadside dark.

So rolled his life on two thin wheels,
A man who valued what endures and feels.
For bikes were more than tools or toys,
They carried his burdens and gave him joys.

From Bairro Alto to Battersea

 

I. Ascensor da Glória (Lisbon, 2025)

At twilight the cable car climbs the steep stone hill,
but the wire betrays — Ai meu Deus! what terror spills.
It rushes downward like a beast unchained,
steel and screams collide, lives forever maimed.

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II. Battersea Park (London, 1972)

A holiday crowd, children laughing in delight,
the Big Dipper halts — then slips in fright.
The train crashes backward, wood and bodies torn,
Que horror! joy turned anguish, a nation mourns.

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III. Ascensor da Glória

A monument of Lisbon, proud and tall,
now etched with grief on the Bairro Alto wall.
Sixteen lives lost, so many wounded cry,
Meu Deus do Céu! flags at half-mast sigh.

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IV. Battersea Park

Five children silenced, their laughter gone,
justice falters — the trial drags on.
Negligence hidden, the guilty walk free,
Que injustiça! shouts history.

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V. Ascensor da Glória

Tourists and locals, strangers united in pain,
Lisbon’s cobbled streets remember the slain.
A day of mourning, Europe bows its head,
Santa Maria! prayers for the dead.

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VI. Battersea Park

The funfair closed, but memory stayed,
a cherry tree planted, a soft tribute laid.
Names whispered gently in the London breeze,
Lembrar é viver — remembrance is peace.

The Meditations of Normandt

Amid the clash of tongues that rend the air,
Where taunts and rumors feed the endless flame,
Where colors pill the weary in despair,
And fleeting passions fight for fleeting claim,

There stands a voice unshaken, calm, and still,
A daily thread that weaves through storm and spite.
While hubbub shakes the forum to its will,
His words descend like dew at fall of night.

For when the rage subsides, as rage must fade,
And silence gathers all its holy breath,
The quiet seed of prayer his hand has laid
Speaks louder than the thunder of their death.

So Normandt posts, unmindful of the din,
A faithful lamp that burns and will not dim.

Beauty and the Beast of the Subway

 

Beneath the city’s iron veins,
Where midnight hums in ghostly chains,
She rode—a beauty, pale and fair,
With raven hair and hollow stare.

The subway wailed, its lanterns dim,
Its tunnels breathed a requiem grim,
And shadows whispered, “Fate is near—
The Beast awakens, he is here.”

Once told in tales of gilded halls,
A beast was tamed by love’s soft thralls;
But this one, chained by hunger’s creed,
Fed not on love, but mortal need.

Her eyes, like moons, in sorrow shone,
She thought to soothe his heart of stone;
But iron claws in silence crept—
And crimson roses where she wept.

The steel of wheels, the bloodied floor,
The carriage swayed, she breathed no more.
And all the while, the tunnels sighed,
As if the city itself had cried.

Now whispers haunt the midnight train,
Of beauty’s loss and endless pain—
For love may soothe, but never bind,
The beast that feasts in mankind’s mind.

Between Beasts and Thieves

Within a tomb of stone, where lions lay,
Young Daniel stood and chose the Lord to stay.
Though jaws were wide and hunger burned like flame,
His faith endured, and angels bound their shame.

So rides the worker on the twilight track,
With shadows crowding close at either back.
A rattling car, the kingdom of the bold,
Where whispers trade in wallets, phones, and gold.

No angel seen with flaming sword in hand,
No miracle to make the wicked stand—
Yet still he rides, though fear may fill his chest,
And clutches tight the cross upon his vest.

For just like Daniel faced the beastly glare,
This man commutes through modern lions' lair.
Each day he dares the dark, the clutch, the den,
And prays for mercy not from beasts—but men.