6.3.16 (#65):BIKES by Myron Lysenko. A poem inspired by Susan Hawthorne, who was inspired by Efi Hatzimanolis.

We both got new bikes for Christmas. Dad must have won big at the races. We rode them around the back lawn first and then my brother and I hit the road. My bike was a little too big for me but my young brother’s bike was just right.  My brother really wanted to race me but I knew I should win so said no. We pedalled back home in a head wind and rode  in circles around the yard till he jumped off his bike under the hill’s hoist and stayed hanging there by his two arms. His bike came to rest in the rose bush and leaned gleaming in the afternoon sun. He dared me to do it too so I did. I manoeuvred my bike into line. As I did so he pumped the hoist’s handle and lifted it high as he could. I steered my bike under the hills hoist and I yelled out that it was unfair. But I leapt and my hands clasped the hill’s hoist. I tried hard to hang on but I slipped. I hit the hard ground on an angle. When I got up I walked with a limp to my bike which crashed into the wall. The front wheel was buckled and wonky. I carried my bike to the garage, my brother’s laugh adrift in the breeze.  I washed the bike with a red rag and tried to hide it in the dark corner. But the sunlight came in through the window and highlighted the broken front wheel.

Lizz Murphy #1 SUMMER

Lizz Murphy #1 SUMMER

Summer paddocks ski-slope smooth

sheep dark as spat up boulders

Christmas tinsel around the pole

someone killed themselves on

season of sadness merry trinkets

a frown on a baby too young to know 

frowning Daddy please shade his eyes

red hot chilli peppers and the earthquake

I felt face down in the green river she is 

comfortable in her big ass cool as the 

cucumbers she steps lightly around

what you want me to be a loud voice

looping through the crowds a chimp in

a food hall jingle a hum like insects in a

swarm that screeching bird Post-Xmas Sale

wresting every last dollar happy poor year