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.

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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