Drama Coach

This poem will make little sense if you don't know some drama and some football terms.  (I hope it makes more sense if you do.)

                       Drama Coach

                                           (if directors could yell during a play like football coaches during a game)

            “Hit that line. Hit that line!

            That’s it. That’s it.

            Now follow the blocking.

            Follow it. Then get open.

            Stay open. Get open.

            Stay open. Counter-cross.

            Counter-cross.  No! No! No!

            Too many men in motion.

             Now you’re unbalanced

             right. We need some

            role players now!

            Know your position!

            Play your position!

            No movie stars here.

            And whatever you do

            stick to the play, damn it.

            stick to the play!”

Training to a Video of the Col de Peyresourde

Here's another biking poem. I think I've written before about using a video computer trainer. Hope this one is different enough to warrant a separate poem.

        Training to a Video of the Col de Peyresourde

          

            It’s just pretend and not the Pyrenees.

            The spectators are waving at the camera crew

            ten years ago and not my unseen present self.

            I know the smiling girls are mostly married now –

            and the old men may be dead,

            but I still feel encouraged, accompanied

            as I pedal past their greetings toward whatever

            awaits me, prerecorded or unplanned,

            beyond some near or distant peak. 

Paceline

This may be more a manifesto or a letter to friends than a poem. Last week, while participating in the Sea Gull Century with a group of cycling buddies, two of them fell and injured themselves pretty badly. This is a reaction to that incident as well all consider the risks and rewards of biking.

             Paceline

We cyclists speed in single file,

taking turns leading the way,

working hard for a chance to rest.

The first shall be last until

he glides to the front again.

There’s safety in numbers –

and danger, too.   The closer

we cluster, the quicker we go

and the faster we fall, like a line

of brightly colored dominoes.

Wheel touches wheel,

stick finds spoke, or

gravel gives way and

bikes collide,

face finds asphalt, and bones

more than meet their match.

What helped cause the crash

helps the healing, too: friends

and strangers tending

to the injured, calling for help,

staying with fallen bike or

fallen brother till the sirens

sound and finally fade.

That which does not kill us,

makes us stronger,

and that which makes us

strong may kill us yet.

But we refuse to live

at half speed

in a granny gear

when we know we can

go farther and faster

together than we’d

ever go alone. 

Through the Looking Glass

A poem of self-reflection.

     Through the Looking Glass

Each morning I face my second self

and watch him brush his teeth, as if they

would not come clean without my witnessing.

And when I floss, I flick flecks of food

into his unflinching face just before

I lather up and see if that other-handed

man will make a move that makes me

bleed –  or leaves me with those other

wounds the world will never see.