Friday, July 24, 2009


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 blares.
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.

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