Friday, August 8, 2014

Sometimes, I feel inspired to try my hand at poetry.

For My Friend

Barefoot on his bamboo longboard,
its sandy deck surface easily gripped by his callused feet,
he knows cruising is safe down neighborhood streets, the level boardwalk,
but sometimes,

sometimes hills beckon.

He is ill-equipped for this winding hill with its sensuous curves,
each bend promising a new thrill.
He knows he should play it safe,
go home,
get his heavy gloves with the pucks that turn his hands into brake pads,
even his helmet which turns his silhouette into some phallic caricature of a man,
but the hill is here before him, now...

And so he lets gravity have its sway,
and speed slowly thrills,
and his bare feet grip the board,
and he rolls on, knowing
he has passed the line he should not cross,
critical mass,
terminal velocity,
when braking is no longer an option,
and he must commit though calamity waits around each bend of her sinewy path...

As his descent increases,
the vibration of the road hums in the soles of his feet,
and he remembers the taste of her kiss,
and now it is his soul that rises as he and his board surf down the winding asphalt.

Onlookers with firmly planted feet hear his approach;
they shake their heads at his folly,
knowing what happens when fools lose control and their skin,
but this is not their ride, it is his.

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