This is a poem I made, after a little help on the edit, on the theme of the word ‘runs’ for our poets group at The Library Of Birmingham, Poets Place. I have only been once and I am new to writing poetry really. I tried structuring this poem with ten syllables per line to give it some form then added the odd word here and there to finish it off. Speech Over. Read!
I thought life would be like watching a dance
I thought life would be full of romancing
And that the time spent resting would be
When the universe would re-arrange things for me
Ready in position for the restart.
Instead, I find it like a twisted meet
Where runs, upon runs go before the high jump with blistered feet.
Did I tell you that on running I think
a pointless activity except for
the thrill of gliding on limbs lithe and young
or old for that matter. But get out the
stop-clock and you won’t see me for the dust.
Speaking of which we are all made. Space Dust.
Anyway I have been on more runs this
past week, metaphorically speaking
and each run that was ended came with the
knowledge that things are pretty much the same, crap.
Don’t kill the metaphor is a rule I
have made to aid visualisation.
Seems appropriate to say then that for
me reading this poem is like going for a run.
Like all runs, it involved some preparation
pressing keys and what have you to make words
on which a poem runs. not to mention
line breaks, stanzas, grammar and a thousand
tricks that to me lie buried like jewels under the sea.
Each run gets me a little closer to
one or another jewel unearthed
as it were from somewhere in the groundswell
or from the sky in serendipity.
So is there a glittering prize for me
in running these runs you see. Make the grade
and the jewels will be revealed to me!
It’s a strange lie, a currency in runs.