Here are a couple of other poems I wrote in the poetry group I joined. On a roll here!
Victory
I have made it to the top
I know you didn’t think I could
but I always knew
with open arms I waited for this moment
and now with a tickle
of cloud-licked wind
I have arrived
to put it all behind me would
be to forget why I came
to abandon the snow that
stung my toes as I kicked in steps
to let loose the hazardous
boulders that I had to scramble over
no, that would be betrayal
to my soul
who has waited for this moment
longer than the rest of me
so I will remember the cramped stomach,
the aching calves,
the harsh, alpine wind
that not for one moment would allow me sleep
and the longing that
carried my heels up this mountain
because without the pain
of memory,
I would never truly be able to live,
to breathe,
and from within to thrive
in this glorious moment of victory.
Bikes and Apples
or, First Loves
It is a cold ride
but an exhilarating one
while the book plays in my ear
I stop momentarily
to listen to my three-year-old
who calls to me from
the trailer
where she is tightly wrapped,
double-hooded,
and playing with her new Barbie
She never complains
and is the only one who still
basks in the glory of the ride
We pedal across town
over wooden bridges
down curvy hills
splashing in puddles
and zipping past the slow pokes
because, as Bruce says,
I ride my bike just like I drive
I try to argue that
it’s the only way to burn enough calories
that I have to beat my last time
but really, it’s the thrill
of speeding past Mr. Spandex
and hearing Riona
squeal, “Wheeeee”
all the way down the hill
And then we are surrounded by
my old neighborhood
filled with brick ranches
and tiny yards
and trees as gigantic as back east
I stop the bike and
the others meet us there
carrying fresh-baked scones
that the girls crumble and munch
as we meander amongst the white-tented stalls
and even though I am still shivering,
the sun is coming out,
I can no longer feel the wind,
and they have the
pungently sweet Swiss gourmet apples
that traveled from the western slope
and whose crisp taste
has lingered in my mouth all morning.
I buy a bag from the vender
who tells me she rode her bike here too,
knowing that soon
there will be warm pie in my oven
and three girls fighting
over who gets the last piece,
and I think, my legs
aching and hot now,
it doesn’t get any better than this.
