Best Runners Poems
Tying my shoes ($$) for my morning run,
I think about quitting, I wish it were done.
Perhaps if I run at least a mile each way,
I won’t have to cry at what the scales say.
My breath comes in gasps, I look a freight,
The people I pass must laugh at my plight.
I would love to feel the wind in my face,
To do that though, I’d have to pick up the pace.
A few strides taken, my back starts to ache,
My joints are stiff, damn, give me a break.
Where is the euphoria I’m supposed to feel?
The “runners high” they say is part of the deal.
It never gets easier, a form of torture each time…
But hearing “way to go grandma!” is really sublime.
Friends , while reading the History of the Incas , I came across the wonderous story of their
mail runners , the 'chasquis' ! Kindly read their story !
THE MAIL RUNNERS - ON THE INCA TRAIL !
(COURIER SERVICE)
The Inca Empire during their hey-days, *
Controlled a large Empire of an elongated
shape!
On the western coast of Latin America, -
All the way from parts of Ecuador and Colombia!
With parts of Brazil in the east;
Including Chile and Bolivia in the south and
south-east;
While the Pacific Ocean washed their long western
beach!
Where the great Andes range like a raised spine, -
appeared out of reach!
Yet on the central verge of this Andes’ range,
Was located their capital Cuzco with its grand
defence !
The Incas had no horses or wheels to facilitate
communication,
But had an efficient courier service within their
nation!
They relied entirely on their ‘chasquis’, - those
valiant mail runners,
For sending messages within the Inca Empire!
These runners ran on that historic ‘Inca Trail’,
Crossing gorges(pogos) and mountain tracks, -
before night fell!
And rested at ‘tambos’** during their segmented
race!
Those Incas had no written scripts those days,
And used knots in ropes as coded messages!
These ‘quipus’ at relay stations changed hands,
While their runners took them to the remotes corners
of Inca land!
Their suspension bridges with ropes indigenously
made,
Formed their roadways as their Empire spread!
And those bridges were maintained every year,
By villagers rendering public service to the Inca
Empire!
Those valiant runners could run in a day, -
A distance of 250 miles , as experts say !
And could put to shame the Marathon runners
of our day!
I salute those sturdy Incas for their unique stone
architectures,
Who honored their Gods and their ancestors!
Their ‘chasquis’, those valiant mail runners and
their nimble feet;
Without horses and wheels the Incas ruled a mighty
Empire complete !
-Raj Nandy
Notes :-
* During the fifteenth century Incas were at height of
their power!
**Tambos’= relay stations , for the Mail Runner (chasqui)
to rest and handover the ‘quipu’ containing coded
messages to the next runner - to follow the Inca Trail!
Thanks for reading ! - Raj Nandy
We don’t run the way we used to
ten kilometers pounding
hard through switchback trails
to beat the twilight
Twenty-odd years ago
you wanted marriage
kids and a life
any life
away from your parents
but nothing of marriage, held
my imagination
like Big Apple freaks
casually smoking
creatively shaping
thoughts of a future self
And then you went and
lived your life - exactly as planned
while I stayed and
got lost in the idea of it
And now when we run
I can always see
shadows falling
away from ourselves
moving toward
the finish
Legs pumping, muscles screaming
Eyes transfixed, seeing but not seeing,
Mind wandering sometimes dreaming
Heart thumping, loudly beating.
Body glistening, pace increasing,
No thought other than just breathing,
Inner voice gently pleading,
It's against me that you're competing.
Hardened gaze, resolve seeking
Any thought of slowing down but fleeting,
End in sight, goal achieving,
In determination solely now believing.
Then it’s done, smile seeping
Hands on thighs, tension fast releasing,
Time to rest, morning breeze fast cooling,
A sense of private purpose sweeping.
This day’s success a moment surely fleeting,
Yet little tops this burst of joyful feeling.
Mist creeps upward from the valley below,
As morning chill in the air settles down
New River rages ‘neath a dense foggy flow.
First rafts set off the launch, a “heave ho!”
Tourists watching, some frightened, frown
Mist creeps upward from the valley below.
Younger, experienced rafters love the show
River rapid’s tour guides put on the clown
New River rages ‘neath a dense foggy flow.
The first stretch of the run is rather shallow,
Little chance of the canoe running aground
Mist creeps upward from the valley below.
Soon spying the Class Three rapids, a bellow
But squealing first-timers drown out sound,
New River rages ‘neath a dense foggy flow.
Hours later elated runners will tip the fellow
Reaching the shore and their land legs found
Mist creeps upward from the valley below
New River rages ‘neath a dense foggy flow.
Written June 15, 2022
The Rum Runners
Dry was the USA a hundred years ago.
Prohibition just begun, and spirits running low.
Then, to the rescue, fishermen, fresh from the Georges Bank,
Weighed down their boats with “demon rum” instead of fishing tanks.
For Woodrow Wilson listened to religious devotees,
Who thought that Prohibition would clean up society.
But crime increased and organized. Racketeers like Al Capone
And “Lucky” Luciano brought “bathtub gin” back home.
They filled their secret “juice joints” with lines of dancing girls,
And men would come from near and far to study every twirl.
Meanwhile, in New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia too,
“Ghosts in the night” transported all kinds of homemade brew.
Smuggling “booze” was dangerous. “Bootleggers” risked their lives
To set “suds” on a table in dark and dingy dives.
If not hijacking hoodlums, or U.S. Coast Guard boats,
RCMP were on the prowl for anything afloat.
But skippers knew the coastline, every single section.
They’d disappear in coves and bays to avoid detection.
Sometimes they’d be forced to hide their load in shoreline caves,
An ally’s barn or cellar, or cemetery grave.
They had to make a living when Atlantic cod were few.
They had a wife and children. They needed revenue.
They knew that they’d end up in jail if ever they were caught.
They’d lose their boat and family, or maybe even shot.
Peddling outlawed liquor held no special guarantee,
But every bit as dangerous, twas harvesting the sea.
***
We’re the chariots of fire that feeds the human spirit
We’ve made the open road our number one sport
We thirst for the eye stinging, soaking buckets of sweat
And find the bitter pain of our aching muscles sweet
We defy gravity with each effortless stride
And set new personal best(s) with glory and pride
We have the beating of our chronological age
We remain true to our roots, our human heritage
We’re Runners
(circa 2011)
Tip toe, tip toe.
Going nowhere fast-
Rave for your lives, before it all burns and crash.
Divide your feelings amongst the ones that you
believe should matter.
Don't mind the shrugs, the pointless chatter. Tip toe.
must go. run, into the fear.
its the only way to get there. faster faster.
taking things slow, is to saying no
to the possibilities beyond the trees. Before it disappears below the pavement. tip toe is the fear.
Three mischief makers,
Larry, Lester and Lew,
slipped some wriggly white mice,
inside of their mothers' shoes.
Three screaming mothers,
threw up their hands and ran.
"We're in trouble," screamed Lester,
"Does anyone have a plan?"
"Stick out your lips," shouted Larry,
running as fast as he could go.
"Stretch, stretch, stretch your lips,
and they will start to grow."
Lips, lips, lips,
now the running boys could see,
their lower lips were stretching,
far below their knees!
Down the street the mothers ran,
chasing Larry, Lester and Lew.
But as every kid on the block now knows,
three lips are faster than two!
A LOS ANGELES MARATHON RUNNERS GOAL
AS IT GOES INTO OUR HEAD
WE BEGIN TO BELIEVE.
WE PUT IN ON RECORD
SO WE CAN RETRIEVE.
SEEING IS BELIEVING
AS WE'RE RETRIEVING
A MESSAGE FROM OUR HEAD
IS WHAT WE'RE RECEIVING.
CONCEIVING A THOUGHT
GOES BEYOND WHAT WE'RE TAUGHT.
IF WE BELIEVE
IT IS WHAT WE BOUGHT.
IMAGINATION, HAS IT'S OWN WAY.
JUST IMAGINE A BEAUTIFUL DAY.
THEN REALIZE THE VISION
AND GO OUT AND PLAY.
A MARATHON HAS 26 MILES
ALONG THE WAY
THERE ARE PLENTY OF SMILES
FOR SOME OF US IT'S LAST A WHILE.
LEGACY RUNNERS ARE REAL AND LEGIT
WE STRUGGLE, WE FINISH,
WE REFUSE TO QUIT.
ALL BECAUSE THE FUSE WAS LIT.
BUT AS THE YEARS FLY BYE
BEFORE OUR EYES
WE STOP AND ASK THE QUESTION WHY.
THIS CREATES A MOMENT TO SMILE.
OUR IMAGINATION
WAS RUNNING WILD.
RUNNING FREE IS OUR STYLE.
ACCOLADES BECAME A PILE
OF MEMORIES THAT LAST AWHILE.
WHAT ONCE WAS A THOUGHT
THAT WE CONCEIVED
HAS TURNED INTO SOMETHING
THAT'S HARD TO BELIEVE.
ANOTHER MARATHON
A FEW MORE MILES
ANOTHER FINISH
A FEW MORE SMILES
50 YEARS WILL SOON ARRIVE.
I PRAY TO GOD WE'RE STILL ALIVE.
AS WE MOVE FORWARD AND
CONTINUE TO STRIVE.
I THANK THE LORD FOR BEING ALIVE.
Michael E. Harris
07132022
A group of dreamers
Running through the maze of life
Chased by minotaurs,
Though most will fail, they rejoice
Knowing some will make it home
the runners cursive
upon new fallen winter
rake leans against rails
11/5/2019
A late Fall or Early Winter Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Tania Kitchin
runners - either of the longitudinal pieces on which a sled or sleigh slides
All my life,
I’ve ran from what is,
Out of fear, but hope too,
For my minutes with you are short.
I run for
You, I run towards you, afraid that all
Of us are broken, the
Clock does not mend lives,
It just breaks us again, so I
Will keep running, I have
Dreams, I’ve lovingly dreamed,
I run after them for those of
Us that are afraid to keep living.
Runners on the track
All men are invited
Attendance is a must
The time is set
Humanity runs
The track is life
It's curve its changes
It's stretch its moment
Yet some will sprint
Others will jog
Some will hop
Others will walk
Before it Over
Some will win
At the sprint
Others at the jog
Some at the hop
Yet others at the walk
In all these
Some will fail
in
reluctant
teardrops
plop
visions
of my field
of dreams
a bloody
track
of cinders
where
schemed
lithe
runners
to box me in
and ere
i fell
this
lonely race
become
my requiem