Riding at dawn, riding alone
on my ride made of noise and chrome
A random direction, destination unknown
Many miles to ride before I turn home
No radio blaring, the wind all I hear
A finely tuned motor whispering in my ear
The sun kisses the sky as daybreak draws near
A new day is born; the stars disappear
I get inner peace whenever I ride
A chance to escape from my demons inside
No decisions to make, the road is my guide
A man at peace....down the road I glide
Author notes
I didn't read the pertinent poem before writing this; I imagine mine will be a little......different.
First line prompt "Riding at dawn, riding alone"
A contest entry
- Second Index of First Lines by Keith.
525 points, ended April 12, 2008, 16 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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This is an interesting and very modern form of meditation: Peace is where we find it. I like your monorhyme quatrains. Congratulations for HM!
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Good Write
I see you rhyme alot poetry doesn't have to rhyme. But in this poem your rhymes are great. Try to write some poetry using metaphores.Here is a tip on how I write. I write a word downd then some describing words then from there I will find describing words for the words that I described. Form them into thoughts or get an image and meditate on the image then write. Thank you for your comment on Armstrong.
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nice, I used to love to ride, before my back stopped letting me. congrats on the HM
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Oh, for the chance to do just that, ride off into the sunset, no cares, no worries, no restrictions, at peace with the world....I think it's called dreaming!!
Congratulations on the HM, a great poem and good interpretation of the title, if not the poem itself
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Aye, this is a wee bit different from Henry Newbolt. I wouldn't imagine Newbolt had a Harley. But I like your version a lot. A touch of Easy Rider about it (that dates me a bit). Here's the swashbuckling original.
Gillespie.
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie left the town behind;
Before he turned by the Westward road
A horseman crossed him, staggering blind.
"The Devil's abroad in false Vellore,
The Devil that stabs by night," he said,
"Women and children, rank and file,
Dying and dead, dying and dead."
Without a word, without a groan,
Sudden and swift Gillespie turned,
The blood roared in his ears like fire,
Like fire the road beneath him burned.
He thundered back to Arcot gate,
He thundered up through Arcot town,
Before he thought a second thought
In the barrack yard he lighted down.
"Trumpeter, sound for the Light Dragoons,
Sound to saddle and spur," he said;
"He that is ready may ride with me,
And he that can may ride ahead."
Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
Behind him went the troopers grim,
They rode as ride the Light Dragoons
But never a man could ride with him.
Their rowels ripped their horses' sides,
Their hearts were red with a deeper goad,
But ever alone before them all
Gillespie rode, Gillespie rode.
Alone he came to false Vellore,
The walls were lined, the gates were barred;
Alone he walked where the bullets bit,
And called above to the Sergeant's Guard.
"Sergeant, Sergeant, over the gate,
Where are your officers all?" he said;
Heavily came the Sergeant's voice,
"There are two living and forty dead."
"A rope, a rope," Gillespie cried :
They bound their belts to serve his need.
There was not a rebel behind the wall
But laid his barrel and drew his bead.
There was not a rebel among them all
But pulled his trigger and cursed his aim,
For lightly swung and rightly swung
Over the gate Gillespie came.
He dressed the line, he led the charge,
They swept the wall like a stream in spate,
And roaring over the roar they heard
The galloper guns that burst the gate.
Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
The troopers rode the reeking flight:
The very stones remember still
The end of them that stab by night.
They've kept the tale a hundred years,
They'll keep the tale a hundred more:
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie came to false Vellore.
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