Playground

White rings, close set,
but we do not hold
and flex, display
our strength.

An endless line suspended,
one revealed at a time.
We reach on instinct,
for the next hand hold

which appears in our grasp
at the flash of this moment,
each with the familiar, smooth
curve of the last.

Yet the scenery at each side
shifts, blooms an alien land.
Strange faces bob, then disappear
mouthing words we half hear.

Wearied of touching
only that which keeps us moving,
we reach for still sameness,
grasp the comfort of earth.
===

My dVerse Poets Pub poem for Open Link Night.

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28 thoughts on “Playground

  1. nice….the first of this is rather surreal…on some levels made me think of mountain climbing or a climbing wall…really like the last stanza as there is some nice depth there…

  2. An interesting metaphor – so appropriate too, with the recent sporting interlude – for the opportunities amd challenges we face one at a time as we go through our lives, and the difficulty we find in making changes. Well wrought.

  3. Finely played metaphor, seriously sharp visuals of physical/emotional gymnastics, with an ending that is extremely satisfying, I think, whether we fall to earth life a spinning leaf, or land on our butts, it is all done gracefully here. Great work, Matt.

  4. i got the image of a surreal planet where distorted shapes cling to the ideal ones..which exists within and at the same time without time..a very original and thought-provoking write that i still have to decipher..thank you for this~

  5. Intriguing….I really like this stanza:

    “An endless line suspended,
    one revealed at a time.
    We reach on instinct,
    for the next hand hold”

  6. The opening—the rings and hands—makes me think of wedding rings. This works with “Apparatus” as a title. What was once a symbol becomes only a thing when “we do not hold and flex” (hold hands, touch, stretch/bend ourselves). Before you know it, the relationship is dissolved and the partners are “reach[ing] on instinct, for the next hand hold.”

    But no matter what you ever have, it begins to fade and blur into strangeness … until you stop listening to yet another:

    “Yet the scenery at each side
    shifts, blooms an alien land.
    Strange faces bob, then disappear
    mouthing words we half hear.”

    “Wearied of touching
    only that which keeps us moving,
    we reach for still sameness” … Always moving, doing, circling, not really accomplishing but rather fading into the eventuality and inevitability of becoming one with the earth. Longing for sameness or compatibility, but really only ever finding it in death.

    This is incredible work; I loved it. It’s so vaguely written that dozens of interpretations are possible. My favorite of the day thus far.

  7. This is lovely. It feels like a dance, with the unity and strength of a troupe. I love the thought of reaching out “on instinct, for the next hand hold”, such a natural comfort.

  8. “Wearied of touching
    only that which keeps us moving,
    we reach for still sameness,
    grasp the comfort of earth.”

    especially love “still sameness”

    really like this poem!

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