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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required STROKIN’ – A QUARTET ABOUT AGING GRACEFULLY(?) Strokin’: Hauling ass and working at it! STROKIN’: PART ONE THE SPRINTER The aging Olympian ran a swift anchor leg burning the first turn, striding the backstretch like a big cat on the chase, the natural embodiment of power, speed and grace Once a man “without rhythm” in his own neighborhood, he laid down a 400 that was syncopated soul through the demanding white lines on a black cinder track on a Saturday afternoon And on the graveyard turn he burst into the lead roaring out of that pack like the dark rolling thunder of a sudden summer storm ripping hard through the skies with the reckless velocity of a hot natural light And sustaining his sprint as if driven by the drums and the palpable passion of some tribal ensemble, he crossed the finish line having anchored his team with the rhythmic exuberance of delivering God’s word in an African Mass, his obsidian body the sculpture of motion by the art of desire, the smile on his face like the fire of the sun, like the purest of joys for a race that’s been won! The cognoscenti in the stands said the old dude had been strokin’! STROKIN’: PART TWO THE OARSMAN He was better than most, had 30 years on the river, rowed with his mind, got the body to follow, pulled his oars through the water like a big balding barbarian building a bad reputation for a winter of boasting, adding one last feat to a legend in place The sinuous geology of the post-glacial valley and the thick working muscles of the tall, aging oarsman were parallel motifs in a riverscape poem for an autumn afternoon full of low-angle sunlight and multi-colored leaves that painted the wide river with diamonds that sparkled in a reflected blue sky, the surface of the water like liquid stained glass Beyond the stone bridge, he left the young men behind, found an internal power that surged like the rapids in the rugged upland gorges of the river that he rowed and the photo at the finish was a big strapping guy in a sleek racing shell pulling hard against the years on the shifting mosaics of a big-city river flowing south toward the sea! The aficionados on the banks said the old man had been strokin’!
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