Sunday, December 6, 2015

Fly Zone

The old asphalt world recedes
beneath me: rooted being
learning to rise above,
and kick the dirt from my feet.
Hand over hand straining,
up and up and up
I keep climbing, clinging only
to thick silken cloth enriched
by sweat of failure and triumph,
green and scarlet and strong
like an unbroken gaze of
quietly urgent meaning.

My feet clutch and relax
in time to the rhythm
of this newest installment
of my life-long struggle
against crass laws of gravity,
and my head keeps my eyes
focused above at the ceiling,
beating heart pumping blood
so loudly I hear little else
but this steady influx of life,
and my voice
is bouncing back to me;
words issued by tongue
are only scarcely my own.

Once there at the top,
I look down and see -
and laugh in hopeful elation -
because the world found a way
to become new again;
reborn while I looked up, up,
cleanly forgetting
how scarred
the old world used to look
when I still lived down there,
planted at ground level
not so long distant ago
as it now seems to me.



Anonymous said...

They become more and more beautiful... thank you for sharing these victorious moments of your journey...


eric1313 said...

Thanks. Got a little depressed this weekend, but I wrote this this morning and I'm about to work out for the second time today, and next week will be a better week.

Each poem one is an opportunity to improve upon the last one. One at a time, one workout at a time, one day at a time, one week, one year, one life lived.