Best Workouts Poems
I like to exercise my mind, but how I hate to work.
Whatever needs exertion is the action that I shirk.
Labor with the brain is fine. I do it all the time.
How I love to sit and read or think of words that rhyme.
But send me to the bathroom with a brush so that I'll scrub,
and I'll barely rub the ring off. Then I'll lie there in the tub.
Peek inside; you'll find me, a novel in one hand,
resting as I'm soaking in my own little Bubble Land.
Clean the oven? What a joke. The most that I can stand
is loading up the wash machine (a task that's merely bland).
Maybe run the vacuum once a week across the floor,
and quickly dab where dust is bad; most stuff I ignore.
As my jobs all pile up, housework's even more a chore.
Why must work that's physical be such a dreadful bore?
My well-ingrained aversion to utilizing muscle
does have one exception: at the gym I like to hustle.
To kick box is so fun although it makes me sweaty.
Step and dance are choreographed. For those I'm always ready.
But I wish that just as quickly as from running on a tread
I could burn up calories doing workouts in my head!
I used to like barbells, enjoyed pumping iron,
my Nautilus* gym was one happy environ.
Those posters of 6-packs and marbled biceps
inspired me to start counting carbs, pounds, and reps.
My trainer would coax, "hold as long as you can!"
Doing deadlifts I felt like a WAS a dead man
The kettlebell, medicine ball - hated those,
since dropping 'em both on my poor little toes.
My dad-bod and willpower soon parted ways,
after only 1 set, I was shell-shocked for days
My back hurt, my knees ached, I'd injured my hips,
after grimacing nonstop, I'd sprained both my lips.
Oy! The sharp pain that shoots
through my quads, delts and glutes...
Now my game plan is shifting
no more power lifting.
To planks, it's "no thanks",
I'm expunging all lunging.
I feel stabs in my abs,
there's a hex on my pecs
and my lats shriek like bats.
When I tweak my oblique
I am sore to the core...
and I want it no more.
The rowing machine is no longer my scene
I loathe those squats lots and I hate crunches bunches.
Do sit-ups or push-ups? Do jump-ups or chin-ups?
I'm more inclined now to do lots of "I-give-ups".
My doc tried convincing me I'd be less tired?
I'm questioning how that poor man's brain is wired!
I felt half exhausted just WATCHING staff clean
the ellipticals, treadmills, and stair-climb machine.
Then... I found when I stood on the locker room scale
That my plan to lose weight was a sad epic fail!
I'm done! I have finished my very last burpee -
I just want a hot dog and super-size Slurpee.
What happened to wanting to feel fit and well?
When it came to workouts, I was just a dumbbell.
I've resolved now to walk more, or swim a few laps
maybe jog, ride my bike, play some tennis, take naps.
That's right, getting plenty of rest seems so plain,
it appears the most challenging muscle to train ...
is the brain.
* Nautilus is a brand of gym equipment
written 2 Oct 2022
I once knew a poet named Cecile
Call her skinny and hear her spiel
I'm petite with small bones
I have fat and rolls she groans
If I called you names how'd you feel
So she decided things had to change
Lifting weights at first felt strange
Her trainer pushed gently
Encouraged intently
Her life she happily rearranged
Now building bone density and power
Her muscles sprouting like a flower
Strength is now her friend
Workouts are now her trend
It takes discipline and willpower
No longer thin rather lean and fit
Liking the changes she does admit
Active body and mind
Healthy diet combined
This lifestyle she'll never quit
06/01/2016
*I been working out for 6 months now : )
( after Sachida's after the war)
There will be war, in fact, there have always been wars,
and will continue.
Wars satisfy us.
Our nasty muscles move in festive workouts,
when there is war; in hearts, minds and on tongues.
We suffer from cerebral indigestion, when deprived of
wars.
The other day, the day after his son's birthday celebrations,
with exploding music and drunken noise, which lasted
till wee hours of the night, my neighbor, somehow,
managed to transfer his frustrations upon me by littering
my backyard lawn with empty beer cans; probably
thrown over the barbed wire fence, by reveling guests
of his punk-offspring.
My dog, Snow, barked at the strange garbage with unsual
agitation.
It sensed an arrogant invasion on its fond green grass.
I too was gravely provoked and felt the need to wage
a war.
Thus, I skipped breakfast and waited for his emergence,
pacing on my courtyard in furious strides while my eyes remained glued to his front door, all throughout that sunny winter morning.
What followed next, I choose not to reproduce.
It was a war, of words, we prefer not to engage in
front of the children.
Ants crossed borders, everyday, in their tiny lifetimes.
But wage no war with termites, earthworms and roots.
They simply tolerate each other's organic aspirations.
Why do we have this genetic longings of counting corpses,
fallen chariots and diffused bombs.
Even as the good books cry for love and peace, while their
revered middlemen conspire with rulers and falsify faiths,
we are eternally charged for wars, until
nothingness will prevail in memories of ruins and ashes,
where poetry will lament with silent screams.
Love's Symphonic Passion
by Odin Roark
Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.
The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.
The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.
Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.
Hence forth
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
present challenge,
chaos,
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.
The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
Rhythms,
Keys,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.
Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.
Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…
Awaits.
Argentina's son, a lineage to immigrants
shaped by boyhood aspirations
diminutive left foot striker
taunted "dwarf" in childhood
his growth hormone deficiency
overcome through meds and workouts
a counter to foes physically imposing
Messi's daily slog of skills
agility and balance
slow grind of mastery to mesh the skills to speed
on the football field, Messi dribbles through opponents
pivots round defenders, takes an opposite direction
accelerates
de-accelerates
takes stock of field positions
awareness like a lordly hawk that calculates its prey
a kick triggered whittles through the air
the ball's stinging centre,
flight controlled
at a goal keeper spiralling to the ground
this FIFA World Cup champion
devout in faith
celebrates goals by a gaze upward
a pointed hand to the heavens
another field of his embracing
790 - Messi's career goals for Barcelona clubs and
Argentinean glory
football awards that roll on like credits on a movie screen
on field moves that burrow into memory
through the entanglement of limbs
Messi's footwork, like a dancer's gift
his sprints to fill the field with unheeding power
midst the bulging roar of fans
a homage to glorify the footballer
before he fades
to legend
Poem written January 4, 2023
An ordinary rectangular wooden mirrored lid, paint-chipped and worn,
sits in my bathroom, the mirrored part having gotten spotted over time.
I often hold it up in front of me, faced away from the bathroom mirror
to check my hair and clothing from behind.
Sometimes I take it in my gym bag to check myself after workouts.
Other times it has served as a receptacle for small items such as pins or pencils.
The remnants of two gold latches, flattened now and a bit rusty,
prove that this common lid was once attached to something else;
it was a lovely jewelry box, for which the mirror served a definite purpose.
When the box was open, the mirror, upright, reflected a tiny ballerina
dancing on a center platform to the tinkle of a pretty tune.
No one would guess the sweet scene this old mirror once reflected
nor the many childhood treasures its lid covered, so why do I still hang on to it?
However ordinary it is today, this mirror inside a bulky lid gives me some small comfort. . . .
If I try, I can almost recall the times I opened the precious box beneath it
to see a ballerina twirl, accompanied by that sweet music from my youth.
finesse a finish to
finely embellish fast wishes
friends flying with the fishes
frying fish in the flying kitchen
his rhymes were vicious
and yet silly and suspicious
glued together with
questionable superstitions
strange transmissions
how do I possess this person's vision
wordplay workouts
stretch out words and play about
play around words to stretch thoughts out
what about, I don't know
you'll have to work that out yourself
the next time you play with words
so let me stretch out my inner nerd
fool about, loop thoughts fool around
early in the morning
for my mental heath
before my next self wordy workout
I guarantee I'll be the person
you'll be talking about
I'm the name that's constantly
in your fast food full mouth
in my boxers writing nonsense
on the comfortable creative couch
smoking endless joints
from Pandora's box pouch
I'm a witness,...you're an audience,
Yes,...Christ and the church,
Abide to list of ineptness,
Meet a criteria of creche,
A lioness gifted with new furs from gold,
Love in their abode,
Attractive and benevolent flower in the botany of a gardener,
It is purchased for a purpose;
providing rich scents,prestige and endeavors,
Beak of falcons wish to feed upon,
Doves and sparrows like it's leaves,
But they work in vain,
News about you and I is heard in the East,
Those from west come to view the feast,
From North comes Kings and Queens,
"Very adulterated with endearment",
That's the voice of the southern prominent, .
Three things attributed by love;hardworking,dedication and focus,
The head of one man carries the goals of perversion,
Joy and peace;they are the son and daughter of couples,
"Open your heart,...I.want to hide myself in there",
The man said,
Incredibly the voice of the woman toned,
"come in to your breeding home",
Oceans we take sight,...greener pastures we stroll along,
How can I taste your sweetness?
When will I have you as a fuel in my lamp?
I guess writing your feelings in my heart,
Matrimonial seal our consolidation with angelic visitation,
Heaven then hails our glory with hope and laughter,
Day and night concludes our sojourn on the surface of greatness,
That's when death workouts its part with loneliness and weariness,
Feeding the belly of graves with our rotten vessel,
She wakes and each morning is begun
With a salutation to the sun
Only one of many asanas
A meditation mantra she says
Benefits to the spirit and mind
In the yoga practice are combined
Other workouts leave us tired and sore
Sense of wellbeing yoga restores
Jogging and weight lifting not for her
To a total wellness she defers
Laughter and smiles add to yoga’s charm
Commune with Hadji to keep from harm
*For Tahera's contest
THE GAME REQUIRES DETERMINATION.
ALONG WITH LUCK AND SKILL.
YOU PROVE YOURSELF OVER TIME
THAT YOU CAN FULFILL THE BILL.
YOU SAID YOU WANTED
TO PLAY THE GAME.
AND CLAIMED YOU HAD A
REASON.
YOU VOWED TO DO YOUR
VERY BEST.
THROUGH OUT THE ENTIRE
SEASON.
YOU'RE THE CAPTAIN ON THE FIELD.
SELECTED TO LEAD THE TEAM.
COLLECTIVELY FOCUSED ON
THE SUPER BOWL.
YOU MARCH THEM TOWARDS
THEIR DREAM.
THERE WERE BATTLES
IN THE TRENCHES.
PUNISHMENTS WERE DEALT.
ALL THROUGH OUT THE SEASON
INJURIES WERE FELT.
YOU PLEDGED TO PROTECT
THE AIRWAYS.
WITH THE INTERCEPTED PASS.
I SAW YOU HAD YOUR EXTRA
FUN.
WHEN YOU WERE TALKING TRASH
YOU PUT IN MANY HOURS.
YOUR WORKOUTS TOTALED TONS.
WHEN EVERYONE WORKED HARD
TOGETHER , VICTORIES WERE
MUCH MORE FUN.
YOU PUSH YOURSELF AND
TEAM MATES.
TO FOCUSED ON THE GAME
YOU PLAYED AMONG THE CRAZY
CROWDS.
AND YOU'RE STILL CONSIDERED SANE.
HEAD COACH UNDER PRESSURE.
HE MANAGES TO KEEP YOUR COOL.
HE LOOKS INTO HIS PLAYBOOK.
LIKE IT WAS A TOOL.
BACKUPS MADE THEIR DEBUTS.
THEY STEPPED UP AND PLUGGED
THE HOLES.
KICKERS DID WHAT KICKERS DO.
ADDED POINTS WITH THEIR FIELD GOALS.
LINEBACKERS YOU'RE A SPECIAL
BREED.
THEY DEFEND THE PASS AND RUN.
THEY GO OUT THERE PLAY THE GAME
AT THE SAME TIME HAVE SOME FUN.
FOOT RACES UP THE SIDE LINES.
SOMETIMES DOWN AND OUT.
QUARTERBACKS LOVE RECEIVERS
WHO CAN RUN A PERFECT ROUTE.
RUNNING BACKS CAN MAKE A SEASON.
AND PUT ON A FANCY SHOW.
YOUR DEFENCE WILL PRACTICE ALL
YEAR LONG.
TO DEFEND AND SHUT DOWN THE
HOLES.
SUPER BOWL SUNDAY
END OF THE SEASON.
A CHAMPIONSHIP WILL BE WON.
A TROPHY WILL BE HANDED OUT.
MEANING YOUR TEAM IS NUMBER ONE.
BUT IT'S ALL ABOUT THE RING.
WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE.
THE MEMORY FADES
AND YEARS GOES BYE
BUT THE RING IS PROOF
YOU WON.
Michael E. Harris
02142022
Off-season training
running, lifting weights
Grueling workouts
we loved to hate
Pre-season practices
10 pushups per lay-up missed
Wind sprints brought on the blisters
Complain? ~ from the team dismissed
Then came the league games
the chances for glory
No post-season without a winning record
lose too many, 'twas the end of the story
A question nobody asked back then, 'Did you enjoy it?'
Looking back, I'm glad I played, but ~ 'not even a whit!'
Behind a Round Table:
This is ANDERSON WALKINGSHOES...
VERSE 1:
I'm a witness,...you're an audience,
Yes,...Christ and the church,
Abide to list of ineptness,
Meet a criteria of creche,
A lioness gifted with new furs from gold,
Love in their abode,
Chorus:
"come in to your breeding home",
Oceans we take sight,...greener pastures we stroll along,
How can I taste your sweetness?
When will I have you as a fuel in my lamp?
I guess writing your feelings in my heart,
Chorus:
"come in to your breeding home",
Oceans we take sight,...greener pastures we stroll along,
How can I taste your sweetness?
When will I have you as a fuel in my lamp?
I guess writing your feelings in my heart,
VERSE 2:
Attractive and benevolent flower in the botany of a gardener,
It is purchased for a purpose;
providing rich scents,prestige and endeavors,
Beak of falcons wish to feed upon,
Doves and sparrows like it's leaves,
But they work in vain,
News about you and I is heard in the East,
Those from west come to view the feast,
From North comes Kings and Queens,
"Very adulterated with endearment",
That's the voice of the southern prominent, .
Three things attributed by love;hardworking,dedication and focus,
The head of one man carries the goals of perversion,
Joy and peace;they are the son and daughter of couples,
"Open your heart,...I.want to hide myself in there",
The man said,
Incredibly the voice of the woman toned,
Chorus:
"come in to your breeding home",
Oceans we take sight,...greener pastures we stroll along,
How can I taste your sweetness?
When will I have you as a fuel in my lamp?
I guess writing your feelings in my heart,
Chorus:
"come in to your breeding home",
Oceans we take sight,...greener pastures we stroll along,
How can I taste your sweetness?
When will I have you as a fuel in my lamp?
I guess writing your feelings in my heart,
Outro:
This is ANDERSON WALKINGSHOES....
Matrimonial seal our consolidation with angelic visitation,
Heaven then hails our glory with hope and laughter,
Day and night concludes our sojourn on the surface of greatness,
That's when death workouts its part with loneliness and weariness,
Feeding the belly of graves with our rotten vessel,
How much is an idea worth -
enough to make you poor?
What if you found the ultimate
that shook you to your core?
Suppose it took a thing you hate
like struggling with planks,
and sneakily turned it to fun,
would you pass and say, no thanks?
Ingenious, this board called Stealth,
paired with an app that’s on your phone;
Your elbows help you navigate;
it’s hands-free, in the planking zone.
You’ve got to stay up on your toes,
Or on your knees at first.
And most folks cannot stomach it
except in shortened bursts.
You use the board to fly through space
or shoot an asteroid,
or roll a marble through a maze
(That’s one I’ve not enjoyed).
The goal of Stealth: make you forget
that you are working out,
and focus on the game at hand
like finding the best route.
It seems we humans can do much
distracted from our pain,
and some of us will even pay
to play and play again.
----------
Stealth Core is a planking board that rests on a ball that allows it to rotate in all directions. You run a game app on your phone and place it on the board, and you use your elbows and arms to move left or right, up or down, by twisting/tilting the board, and as a result, the phone. The phone detects the movement and changes what's on the screen, moves the cursor, or the ball, or the scene. It is really quite clever! It is also devilishly difficult if you're not accustomed to ab workouts.
Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.
My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.
A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.
College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.
College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.
Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.
I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.
Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.