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.

Poets lift their muse
to enlighten or amuse
with the words they’ll choose


© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

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


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