Friday, July 27, 2007

Summer Camp Talent Show

Small brown arms akimbo,
big red helmet crooked,
knobby knees poking out,
he rides.

Wheels wobbling,
he takes sudden turns
circling the playground
dragging his toes for brakes.

“I’m doing it!”
he cries in delight
right before crashing into a bush.

It was the summer camp
talent show.
He rode his bike.

No training wheels.
He is just five and
his talent is freedom.

The watching children
caught their breath.
A few emerald leaves
twirled in the sunshine.

He rose from the dirt quickly
Hands up, eyes bright,
Brushing off twigs.

"I’m ok!" he proclaimed proudly
ignoring the bright red
trickle of blood from his knee.

The audience cheered.
Who can stop clapping
for these scraped-up knees
and this triumphant grin?

-Andromeda Jazmon
July 2007

Buddy has just learned to ride his bike without training wheels. He begs me to take him to the empty church parking lot around the corner every day so he can ride. His summer camp had a talent show and he brought his bike to show off his new talent. I had to try to write this up in a poem to remember the moment. Do you remember learning to ride a bike? Or being in your first talent show?

The poetry round up is over at Check It Out today, courtesy of MsMac.

9 comments:

Alkelda the Gleeful said...

Thanks for posting this! I love it when "akimbo" shows up.

Off topic, check out this article on gluten free options in NYC in today's NYTimes:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/25/dining/25glut.html?ex=1186200000&en=8be6cb45a9aaa834&ei=5070

Sara said...

"His talent is freedom" Amen. Long may he ride!

Sarah Amick said...

I learned on my own because I was too stubborn. My dad had to go to work and instead of waiting for him I did it myself. It is another first moment. They grow so quickly.

Kohana said...

No training wheels.
He is just five and
his talent is freedom

This had me smiling and I laughed aloud.

All growing up my parents took people in who were trying to turn their lives around. Our dinner table welcomed scruffy young men and elderly alcoholics. They lived with us. Sometimes they moved on to success, sometimes they stole our car. It was one of these guys that taught me to ride my bike. Down the slight incline that seemed like Mount Rushmore, I went on my yellow banana bike with streamers, a young guy steading me with his hand: my hero.

Alkelda the Gleeful said...

P.S. Did you receive the copy of Brain, Child I sent?

eisha said...

This poem made me so happy I got goosebumps.

Christine M said...

That is a great poem!

cloudscome said...

Thank you all for this encouragement. When I posted it I was feeling unsatisfied with the poem and I was afraid no one would think much of it. I am so glad to have it well received!

Alkelda I'll email you. I got it and it was great! Thanks.

John Mutford said...

I find it difficult to write poems about my own kids for some reason. I feel like I won't do them justice or something. You did a fine job though- maybe I should reconsider.