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.
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.
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