The games have begun in the city.
The fight for the medals ain´t pretty.
We heard there were spies
With government ties
Who helped win the gold – it’s a pity.
The humans hold games in the city.
We´re watching the races with pity.
We run faster than most.
Yet, we don’t even boast.
We cheetahs are humble and pretty.
The swimmers look slow and amusing.
They think they are flying and cruising.
Without flippers or tail,
Not a chance they’ll prevail.
To dolphins and whales they’d be losing.
We chimps don’t throw javelins ever,
But we are amazingly clever,
For a spear we can throw
With the ease of a pro –
A gold-winning, special endeavor.
It’s hard to watch men when they’re leaping.
Compared to us champions, they’re creeping.
Competition is steep
When we bush babies leap.
If matched against us, they’d be weeping.
We’re watching the games in the city.
The marketing race isn’t pretty.
It’s a fight, we are told,
For the market share gold,
Controlled by the planning committee.
As humans play games in the city,
We watch them with ever more pity,
As their national pride
Makes their champions collide.
Signed,
Animal Expert Committee.
© Vala Hafstad
Vala lives in Minnesota. She enjoys writing humorous poems.
Animal Olympians: Nature's track and field stars
Long Before London Games, James Bond Tactics
Saturday, 4 August 2012
Friday, 3 August 2012
“Just draw the sun on the wall”
jeered the prison guard, after our inmate
strike of twenty-two days for more sunlight.
Released after twelve, eighteen, twenty, thirty
years we stayed up all night to see sunrise,
and colors – red shirts, skirts, flowers, green hills,
trees, the beach, and blue sky, bicycles, sea.
Touch had changed. Smooth faces were wrinkled,
a child left at two had his own of five,
and we could turn a handle, touch a door,
open it, shake hands with friends, a stranger,
feel grass or sand under our feet. But
if your touch woke us up we’d surely scream.
News had changed. We became human beings.
But we felt like strangers at home, with friends –
except from prison. We were not heroes.
TVs had remotes, shops self-moving doors.
We had to learn to choose shoes, our own clothes,
how to spend money, and fight the bad dreams.
There were no masks in prison, though we find
them outside. We could not lie to roommates
so we shared thoughts – we read books, learned to think,
learned to read faces, words. And to see
liars in many of the world leaders.
So we still resist now that we’ve been freed.
© Lavinia Kumar
Beyond the Walls
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, in the US and UK. She writes a blog for her brother’s seniorsmagazine.org, based in Portsmouth, NH.
strike of twenty-two days for more sunlight.
Released after twelve, eighteen, twenty, thirty
years we stayed up all night to see sunrise,
and colors – red shirts, skirts, flowers, green hills,
trees, the beach, and blue sky, bicycles, sea.
Touch had changed. Smooth faces were wrinkled,
a child left at two had his own of five,
and we could turn a handle, touch a door,
open it, shake hands with friends, a stranger,
feel grass or sand under our feet. But
if your touch woke us up we’d surely scream.
News had changed. We became human beings.
But we felt like strangers at home, with friends –
except from prison. We were not heroes.
TVs had remotes, shops self-moving doors.
We had to learn to choose shoes, our own clothes,
how to spend money, and fight the bad dreams.
There were no masks in prison, though we find
them outside. We could not lie to roommates
so we shared thoughts – we read books, learned to think,
learned to read faces, words. And to see
liars in many of the world leaders.
So we still resist now that we’ve been freed.
© Lavinia Kumar
Beyond the Walls
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, in the US and UK. She writes a blog for her brother’s seniorsmagazine.org, based in Portsmouth, NH.
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