My day with an Old Grey Beard…
Two by two, rolling along…
A sunny day scoot, through Kemah
toward the bay, and the sea…
A blast, a hoot.
Freedom unsurpassed.
A club heading for a Galveston pub.
13 flags upon leather covered backs, staggered.
Heads covered with colored rags.
Three pledges tag; each suspect.
Some with lasses, some mismatched.
I, unattached, riding stag.
However, I am a catch, just ask I’ll tell ya …
Not a gang, not a sect.
Just men, just brothers. Colored.
Lead by an old grey beard,
aged by life and forgotten by time.
A soulful, scar covered sage…
A reader of all my simple rhymes.
My friend…
A glider upon a sled of chrome and steel,
now too old for rigid frames;
still hardcore. A Biker real.
To Caesar an outsider.
For his wife and girl, a provider, and revered.
For us a rider, elected, respected,
and a mother at times…
Yes, feared, and cheered,
as well as just plain weird.
30 years upon the road of his own choosing…
A pioneer of ink and body rings.
Leadership he commanded, and then was selected.
For his dollars, he plays and sings tunes,
Hank lives yet….
He, called by us, “Baboon;” by me “Banshee”…
Our ways dying,
being replaced by shallow minds on speeding rockets;
and yuppies confused to the Freedom’s inner light.
Is he lost in what was?
Is he right?
Is he the last of the Soul Riders?
The last of the True Bikers?
My God, what the cost…?
In the haze of the smoke filled bar room
he watches me write,
through dark eyes that do not match.
Smoking grass.
Sure of himself, sure of me.
Full of strength and Biker Class….
Shots shared. Jim Beam neat.
To me, his Soul, he sometimes will bare.
His lady, “Marquis” a seer, very gifted,
talks about the trip to the wall.
Tells about the names that made him cry.
For you see, he was a draftee,
by government decree, back in ’68.
Released in ’73.
Dogtags still around his neck,
for that day he expires….
And, this dreadful day he does foresee…
My laughter booms! I laugh, as I watch
the nominees watch CNN on Tv.
Each a devotee to Midas and his Gold,
it seems. Yet, each too weak to earn; to stand on his own.
Each believing that someone, somewheres owes them something;
fucking weakness…
Each believing that power and respect comes from a cotton patch on your back,
rather than from within…
What a loss. What a sin.
Now, he laughs at me…!
“Today” he says, “Today, is the time for SUVs and not pussy and LSD.”
“Too True” says I, today,
here by Old Galveston Bay.
Dressed all in black, so hot for the Texas sun.
He stood, called “Time to Ride”.
As, I watched him walk, limping through the doorway
into the Texas ebon night,
just a silhouette. I prayed.
I prayed for him, thee and me…
Perched now on ponies of polished steel and,
paint of deepest black. Buttons pushed, a song roars,
exhaust fills the air, that smell… Free.
With his woman on the back,
me alee, he pulled out into the night.
We ride, rode, to the sea.
Along the sand dunes
under the June moon.
Cops pass, us miscast. No harm done.
As I-45 rolled up,
Good bye had to be said.
Time with my boys my first call.
He and I did agree, on a time to meet
upon the marrow and too on the rule of three.
His clutch was then touched, released,
leaving me alone,
they rode to a different place.
and, I rode home to Houston.
Watching him roll, realized did I,
I loved him much.
That old grey beard…
Now rolling along, riding alone,
listening to the wind,
words clambering within my head.
Evil thoughts of the day no brothers existed.
Sadness and shame…
So, in parting dear friends for the day,
I ask say you a little prayer for the riders of the dark,
will you pray for the last of the knights;
will you say a thing or too to God
for the last Biker be…?
June, 2001 | 
