swings: a pretentious poem

sitting on swings in parks
never fail to get me thinking;
especially on a cloudy night with
some stars and some Moon
forcing their agenda against the dark mantle.

"thinking about what," she asks
from a continental distance.
"about life, love, Holy Week, about
what has died in my life and what i'll like to
resurrect this Easter," i reacted.

only silence's incessant blades could be heard.

on the very same swings
not long before, she on left and i
on right, she inducted me into her
inner circle with sharings;
tonight into the inner inner circle
with confessions, swing confessions
i was in. i was honoured. i am scared.

as st augustine beckons me
to slumber, i do wonder what
lies ahead. sometimes you reflect on your
life like a grand-slam spectator, seeing
the ball toggle back and forth,
really uncertain as to where the
ball will ultimately land.

perhaps i'll just stand at the
baseline, waiting to give my best
reaction. if its a drop-shot, i'll
run like hell to save the point.
if its a rally to baseline, i'll
give my all and hit it as if the championship depended on it;

perhaps that is my best response.


Uncle T