Atalanta is tired:
of fending off creatures who would have their way
with her;
of having to outrun every man.
Her quads are sore and Achilles inflamed from overtraining
and she could do without comments
from women who disapprove of her warrior lifestyle.
She's still bitter about being left behind
but is managing.
And she really hates those damn apples
getting thrown in her way. Questioning
what deliciousness is and wondering
if she hasn't already tasted it.
How tempting they are: pick them up
and put an end
to all this hunting and running and fighting.
6 comments:
I've got your back as always!!
J.E.N.
Ken, don't let them drag you down. You are a righteous warrior. Even those need a rest and a hug. Here's one for you. Pat
Daughter of hunters,
Atalanta knows survival.
Daughter of bears,
Atalanta knows hibernation.
Daughter of man and woman,
Atalanta knows expectations.
Sister of many,
Atlanta knows abandonment.
Born to run, raised to fight,
Atalanta longs for winter,
a time to flee the race, the hunt,
even the golden apples.
She must make her own winter,
find her own cave, even in
the middle of the race.
The warrior always feels alone,
for those for whom she fights
stay far behind, not aware
that there is a war, much less
that they are losing it.
Thanks, women, for the supportive words!
And thanks, Diane for the poem. I especially like the last stanza.
Wow. That was such a perfect expression of war-weariness (Ken) and encouragement (Diane) that I had to bookmark it in Delicious.
Damn, y'all are good. I'm so sorry to hear that you're struggling, Ken, but thank you for naming the exhaustion we all feel sometimes.
I may have to copy these out and stick them on my monitor. Yeah.
My pleasure.
And, unfortunately, I know exactly how you feel.
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