25 April 2016 – THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART

Leash taut and straining,
draining the energy from
these fatigued legs. I beg
my friend to slow the pace,
but he just wags his tail
and licks my face dragging
me a bit further up the block.

Two young boys discussing
the finer points of the
designated hitter, a bat
over the shoulder of one,
the other astride his bike.
Not a common scene today,
but a refreshing look; a throw back.

A retired gentleman stands
hands clutching yard tools,
ankle deep in mud from
the days of torrential rain.
The storm drains plug
and he’s dug the muck
that has stuck to the grate.

A young pregnant woman sits
on the bench near the bus stop.
A neat hop, skip and twenty minute ride
downtown. Another appointment
for the obstetrician to assess
her condition. She feels a kick,
and sighs wishing she didn’t feel so sick.

Sounds usually presented
as background noise
comes to the fore. Once more
the baseball chatter of boys,
the scrape of spade against metal
mesh annoys. A mother’s sigh. And a happy
dog barks at his best friend in the world.

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #25: “Exercise”

The starters pistol reverberates in the canyon of athletic pursuit, an arena graced with spectators and the enthusiasm of thousands. Staring, he surveys the scene spread out before him, lengths of ovular concentricity stretch, in this pack of sinew and muscle, a lone harrier stands, nervous and anxious, running his own internal race without obstacles or changes in grade. The sound of cleats scraping upon gravel keeps a solitary rhythm, pacing his pulse and breathing, as he pushes from the starter’s blocks, rejoining life’s marathon. He runs this race with the passion his heart provides; the vibrancy of his every thought expressed in words resurrected from his tired psyche. The pistol echoes. A whistle bleats. Striding into the mass of humanity holding his own until the opening gapes, breaking him through to offer the opportunity for the rest to follow this man’s lead. Sprinting for the line needing only to finish to feel accomplished; to feed whole again. These words are true motivation and his power, driven as he strives for poetic placation. Fellow runners, poets all, cheer and encourage this man, willing his “legs” to go through their cycle of stretches and contractions. The starters pistol echoes loudly in the canyon of academic pursuit, the arena of ideas graced with a myriad of muse, and the electric enthusiasm of our eternal souls best expressed.