Cycling and Poetry


Ipso Facto Guano
What difference indifference?
All pleasure units are in a row,
Awaiting the scurry,
With nowhere to go.
Busy oneself,
With endless distraction,
Suppressing true thought,
Quelling fruitful interaction.
To be still and know,
Will slow the tempo of the show.
Ergo the status quo,
Ipso facto guano.
~Micky Dee~

Fleeting Moments
She’s not compelled to love me.
Like God, it is by grace.
And one doesn’t rest on laurels,
In the middle of a chase.
So love has never been?
And love can never be?
Like justice, love is blind,
Fleeting moments are what we see.
Fleeting moments pass us by.
A longer gaze may glaze,
Like candy for the eye.
And set the heart ablaze.
Fleeting moments of clarity,
Frees temporarily.
Solitude is an island,
In a vast chaotic sea.
Vessels pass on the horizon.
The wind blows through my ears.
The eyes become hollow orbs,
From the exile of the years.
Fleeting moments are little comfort.
While writing letters in the sand.
And messages in some bottles,
Never reach the promised land.
Fleeting moments of sincerity,
Like ships passing in the night,
Rarely anchor the soul,
And seldom see the light.
~Micky Dee~


Some People
Some people are like the roses,
With beauty all afire,
Having an aura to lift the spirits,
As they spur and inspire.
Some selfishly take without returns,
Breaking tender hearts,
Some people just aren’t human.
Some people are smelly farts.
~Micky Dee~

Chekhov’s Gun
In act one the fabric of folly,
Is coming undone,
As on another blank wall,
Hangs Chekhov’s gun.
In act two there’s a shrew,
A trap door on the floor.
The only sound,
Is a cacophonous downpour.
In act three there’s a tree,
With the proverbial noose.
The shylock and Sherlock,
Are setting hounds loose.
Sound bites obscure the present,
Blurring the tale’s history,
Rendering the play,
To slight of hand, facades, and mystery.
Damocles’ sword now sways,
And soon must fall,
But Chekhov’s gun,
Still hangs on the wall. 
~Micky Dee~
Not yesterday. Not today.
Not on any other day,
Has this tragedy,
Ever been my play.

Bertha De Blues
I call her Bertha,
Bertha De Blues.
Every chance she gets,
She’s on some booze.
She’s my nostalgia,
Of the women in my past,
Most of whom stayed stewed,
To make a relationship last.
There was Leah Tarde,
Lotta Bolloni, and Lotta Noyes.
They loved their wine,
And younger boys.
I fell for Lacie Shorts,
And Frieda Gogh.
I amused Minnie Miles,
And even  a Hedda Snow.
I tried Jean Poole and Joy Ryder,
And a Mary Chase with Natalie Cladd,
But it only made Miss Deeds,
Lida Lott, and Mona Lott Mad.
I almost forgot the Anitas,
Anita Job and Anita Ficks.
But I’ll stick with Bertha De Blues,
With the pretty smile and no tricks.
~Micky Dee~

Vietnam Veterans Honor Soldiers, friends, and family at the "Wall".
Vietnam Memorial Wall Washington, DC



Assaulting Mount Mitchell from Marion!
April 11, 2015


Riding With Elvis
(Tour de Elvis 2014)
It was a bit of a struggle,
Climbing Hatley Farm,
But all the king’s horses,
Were just getting warm.
The next trial would come,
On Millingport,
But I knew the route,
If I needed to abort.
It was a cordial ride,
A piece of cake,
As we tickled our pedals,
By Badin Lake.
I was hanging on,
Like a long toothed lizard,
When on Stony Gap,
I strained my gizzard.
Norwood came and went.
It was no big deal.
All I had to do,
Was to sit on a wheel.
We were reading news papers,
At the back of the pack,
As that trail from Aquadale,
Set off an attack.
But we held it together,
To Charlie’s store.
There was a city limit sign,
And off they tore.
Just a couple miles left,
But my legs were shot,
And I can’t give,
What I ain’t got.
I was paying my dues,
And singing the blues,
I saw Elvis at the front,
With his blue suede shoes.
He was combing his hair,
Then he was really gone.
I was all shook up,
With a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.
Too many long hard miles,
Had taken their toll,
As I watched Elvis and company,
Shake, rattle, and roll!
~Micky Dee~














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