Running Times

there was a time we ran so fast
my we had such a blast
those moments are so long ago
we were far from being slow

together we ran hills and trails
along side streams and ov'r dales
navigated climbs we never failed
what fun we had with wind on tails

together we ran our personal best
we left behind the best of the rest
surprised we were with our time
we were third across the finish line

my that was many years ago
and now alas you've got to go
and now its time for our last trip
i believe i felt a tear just drip

even though you ran no more
many miles we'd walked galore
old and warn you no longer run
but I shall never forget our fun

i owe you much it's fair to say
i thank and carry you on our way
your next trip's about to begin
as you enter the recycle bin

you mix well with the other shoes
you most certainly will never lose
will you help form football grounds
or a new track to run around

i know that your purpose is plenty
especially that 10km in 47:20
whenever i see a running race 
you are with me in first place

Creative Writing Workshop - A Strange Signature

I often spent a fine hour exploring all the nooks and crannies of my favorite antique shop while chatting with the owner. I had no idea of the age of the couch way in the back, but my dealer friend guessed around early 1900. The couch soon became my latest treasure despite being covered in worn leather and in need of a good clean. I just couldn't resist the character of this vintage piece of furniture or a good bargain. Its disheveled appearance just added to its charm.

My not so new treasure looked grand in the living room and it complemented the hardwood floors.  It was the most comfortable thing I had ever had the pleasure of laying on.  As I laid back into its welcoming leather arms, I wondered what lives the couch had seen and what conversations it had heard... Perhaps it had witnessed fanciful parties of the roaring 20s, or overheard war stories of the Great War as people danced The Charleston...? My hand wondered around the sides of the couch and I dug deep into its dark depths. I felt and dug out an old thruppenny bit with George V and the year 1913 on the back confirming the approximate age of the couch. I recovered a beautiful sapphire ring which I am sure someone must have spent hours looking for and who died wondering what on earth had happened to it. Lastly, my fingers stumbled upon a piece of paper. I spent a good moment grappling with it trying to get a firm grip and eventually pulled it out. The letter was post marked, Oct 3, 1917 from Craiglockhart, Scotland. I took the letter from the opened envelope and noticed a strange signature at the end of the letter. I started to read the letter, but could barely make out the handwritten script. However, the words, "Dulce et Decorum est" jumped out at me. Of course, these words form the title to one of my favorite Great War poems by Wilfred Owen, the author of the strange signature.

Before my mind wondered a million miles, I got a zip lock bag and placed the ring and letter inside... Further research led me to find that this was one of the earliest manuscripts of the poem. This manuscript was older than the oldest known surviving manuscript addressed to his mother. The manuscript I held in my hand was an unknown, but priceless treasure; a treasure that later found itself in the Imperial War Museum in London. I was even more proud of my ownership of the Owen family couch and now knew that I had no intention of ever getting it cleaned...

A Tribute to Madame Bovary

you aspired to all not there
and found love you couldn't declare
lovers jilted you time and again
with no one there to dull your pain

you shielded Charles from all you knew
your true self revealed to only a few
your dreams hid under a veil of smiles
your mind meandered many fanciful miles

starved of sophistication you so admired
you sought what your heart truly desired
boredom encompassed your life external
fashions of Paris shimmered in your journal

but sadly Paris you never did see
alas your story is now history
forbidden love stole your life away
and now you'll not see another day

arsenic was the answer to your life pains
convinced you were you'd never love again
yield you couldn't to mundane contentment
your end was Charles' long death sentence

alas poor Charles he found your letters
leaving him estranged and torn in tatters
his awkwardness you grew to abhor
he hurt 'til his heart could ache no more

now Madame Bovary you'll never know
you were loved and tears for you flowed
but poor Charles just couldn't see
how both your lives were a tragedy

Madame Bovary and the bust of her creator, Gustave Flaubert

Although it seemed impossible...

You wake up. Your gear is set out and organized from the night before. Butterflies flutter inside, and you tell yourself, "You've worked hard for this!"

Although it seemed impossible, you've arrived at the end of your six months of training and achieved your qualifying time. You lace up your shoes; microchip firmly in place, check; bib number, check; safety pins for bib number, check;water, check. Nervously, you check again as your partner impatiently grumbles something about obsessive compulsive disorder... You take it in your stride. It's just all part of the routine of another race day morning.

The 5am morning air is cool and brisk, but still. You feel a slight chill in your sparse clothing of microfiber shirt and shorts, but warm up quickly with a gentle jog towards the start. Music plays in the distance and bright lights break the night. Everyone looks the same, save for a few intimidating tall very lank people standing nearby... The butterflies return. But then someone smiles and nods knowingly. You smile back. The butterflies settle again and you no longer feel alone.

Your wave is called and you approach the start line with finger on the start of your *Garmin. You calm yourself and conscientiously resist the adrenaline rush and being dragged into a prematurely too fast a pace. All your practice,experience of previous races and how to listen to your body come into play. You've worked hard for this fine Boston spring day. Those early morning commitments where you rose before the winter sun have culminated into  achieving your position at the start of the Boston Marathon. It was not easy running an hour before the day began. But here you are, 10 minutes before the end.

Although it seemed impossible six months ago, you've made it -- almost that is-- until the day that an act of violence so violent that it stole your legs away, your moment of glory and your passion literally blown away forever.

Although it seemed impossible, it was a nightmare, come true. Although it seemed impossible, two young men were convinced by their faith that stealing dreams was their duty to put their world right. To say how wrong they were seems too trite...

My Favorite Tree - Writer's workshop...

we came upon the village green
our old chestnut no long'r seen
where is our tree we so adore
our childhood tree we see no more

her branches held us way up high
she kept us safe as we reached the sky
silently she'd watch us play away
until dusk fell at the end of day

sometimes on a hot summer day
we often tired and abandoned play
we'd lay beneath her shimmering leaves
mindless of how we'll one day grieve

she graced us with her autumn colours
her beautiful leaves were like no others
we gathered conkers and climbed w' grace
a vacant patch now marks her place

this fine lady the subject of sonnets
100 years she'd graced our hamlet
there she stood still as time flew by
her death made you want to cry

what happened to our favorite tree
the tree that we no longer see
like all good things they fade and die
but on she lives in our mind's eye

The Door Opens...

Foot steps quietly creep up the stairs
body stiffens wondering who's there
closer and louder i hear the sounds
body paralyzed but the heart pounds

screaming out but no one hears
silent screams just add to my fear
i can't move as much as i try
deafening - louder - am i to die?

stay calm, relax and lay still
i must be sound asleep i feel
i will the deafening steps to cease
only waking will i find peace

peace alas i fail to find
the din reverberates in my mind
attempted moves only fill my head
with closer louder steps instead

my lungs are heavy legs are lead
is this what it feels like to be dead
my eyes search the foreboding night
what is it that's giving me this fright


the door opens and i glare
i feel the omnipresence right there
time stands still as i implore
cease stop please! no more

release me from this fear and pain
i want a world where i can move again
my eyes open and i see the light
the door opens and lets out the night


what is that spectre that visits me
that comes and goes repeatedly
i read about sleep paralysis
that's my "ghost" was  the analysis



The Nightmare - Henry Fuseli
Oil on canvas

Peaceful Moment

I reached the top of the segment where the trail flattened out before me. Specs of blue and yellow danced about a sea of green greeting me as I caught my breath from my first climb.

Yet it was not this breath-taking view of above and beyond that caught my gaze... but a golden gleam of orange illuminated by the warm early spring sun that captured my glance and warmed my thoughts.

My what a splendid sight of this jewel glowing so bright! Her dance gave me a feeling of warmth inside... Shimmering and bobbing up and down with pride, as if in praise of my every stride. I pause for while to admire her show. I exclaim, "Oh California poppy! You raise my spirit so! You are the sign of spring!"  She nodded her head in agreement as the soft warm breeze brushed her petals.

 She softened and embraced me with her beauty and glow. I resumed my own dance along the trail embracing my encounter with a moment of peace.