He's the last biker of his family
riding on a black top highway
a red sun morning that's 
turned clouds in a misty puss

The rain's turn to blood
lit the sun in Georgia colors
in the red haze of the night
It's not as bad as it sounds

The loneliness of the running
iconoclast listening to Neil Young
singing about a beautiful girl
riding a Harley - a legend in her time

Wrinkled lines tell of hard choices
she harvested long ago. When her
cowboy, got on his hog and rode
into the moon's eye to wash away his sins

She returned like an angel to watch
as their son grew on his own  
sailing green grass and high tides
that thrushed southern feelings upon his being

When he gets on his mom's Harley to ride
He visits her in the holo-graveyard
she's been buried in, in his mind
Still he's never been found her again

They say she went to the moon
to see her old man
but the Georgia red skies
only healed the wounds she carried

The young man rides alone
into the Sunday afternoon
a Zen master, laughing
at the maintenance of things

Happy he has friends and hopes
he carries a tradition his family
started long ago when choppers
roared on the southern winds

. Joel L. Young 2003