Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Swing Time

Swinging ‘cross a valley
On a little, tiny rope
That it doesn’t snap for me
Is what I truly hope

Rushing wind goes through my hair
It makes a little whistle
If I fell to ground from here
I’d explode like a missile

Pouring sweat, it slicks my hands
and stings into my eyes
Not planning now to lose my grip
I clamp down with my thighs

Finishing my turn I drop
most heavy to the ground
It’s good I finished then, I think
For the rope became unbound

Ken Goree

I hope everyone has had a chance to take a ride on a rope swing.  The one I am remembering for this poem was in the Lake Hills area of Bellevue, at a place we called “The Falls.”  The water flowing out of Phantom Lake had formed a forty-foot deep ravine.  Someone had fastened a rope to a tree that hung out over the cliff.  We were kids, and the fact that it was a forty-foot drop to jagged rocks and twisted stumps didn’t even register as a reason not to use the swing.  

No comments:

Post a Comment