Edit 2: Becoming Characters

[alonso ramoran]

Becoming Characters

A crippled friend and I 
are heading to the metal-welded jungle 
to let our little souls loose, with our class, 
where we will dance and dart  
about the beams and bars 
like all the fauna of a spring 
in its leaping tininess, croaks and calls, 
and bounding restless wings. 
 
Energy spills into our little-legged sprints, 
all kicking up turf to be lodged 
in the sweaty stink of our socks, 
assisted by our excitement 
in the overjoyed shrieks 
coming from every which way; 
from up high, a kid 
with his used roll of paper towel, scopes 
the lower levels and screams  
"Tally Ho!" 
All the others below rush to that sound 
and the sight of their enemy 
running and laughing at their 
in-pursuit-laughter. 
 
Mrs. Raimey keeps a watchful eye 
on the pretty souls that clamor 
to the minutes that she kept 
and discusses lesson plans 
with the other teachers sitting  
at the round picnic table. 
 
Not far from those women, 
stands a generous giant 
in an eternal hush, 
but the brush of his leaf against leaf 
in his groaning lumber of limbs 
gently reaching for what the Earth brought 
in its crisp autumn winds, 
but he was too slow. 
 
My friend and I are wizards  
in the giant's shadow. 
The wheelchair that he sat on, 
cushion, wheel, and all began 
to rust, rot, and warp 
as he rose, wand in hand 
and flicked a spell at me 
that I countered with a cracking dazzle. 
 
Fifteen minutes went as quick as it came 
and we funneled from our ruckus 
with the slickness of our sweat 
into a smelly single file line, 
heading back, one finger on the lips, 
another two in the air. 
 
It was back to our classrooms; 
for a cooldown, Mrs. Raimey, 
who could pluck guitar strings 
to mellow out our souls  
with a wise and tender old voice, 
sung of a faraway land, as I pick chunks of tire 
out of my socks; 
she sung about the friendship 
of a boy named Jackie and an immortal dragon 
whose fate I now know, 
if, from a window, the clouds aren't the smoke 
of some firebreather's woeful destruction. 

Edit 1: Attributing Fantasies- II. Becoming Characters

A crippled friend and I 
Are heading out to let our little souls loose 
In the metal-welded jungle, with our class, 
To dance and dart about the metal
Like all the fauna of a spring 
In its leaping tininess, croaks and calls, 
And bounding restless wings. 
 
Energy spills into our little-legged sprints, 
All kicking up turf to be lodged 
In the sweaty stink of our socks, 
Assisted by imagination's excitement 
In the overjoyed shrieks 
Coming from every which way; 
From up high, a kid 
With his used roll of paper towel, scopes 
The lower levels and screams  
"Tally Ho!" 
All the others below rush to that sound 
And the sight of their enemy 
Running and laughing at their 
In-pursuit-laughter. 
 
Mrs. Raimey keeps a watchful eye 
On the pretty souls that clamor 
To the minutes that she kept
And discusses lesson plans
With the other teachers sitting  
At the round picnic table. 
Not far from those women, 
Stands a generous giant 
In an eternal hush, 
But the brush of his bristle on bristle 
In his groaning lumber of limbs 
Gently reaching for what the Earth brought 
In its crisp autumn winds, 
But he was too slow. 
 
Ashton and I are wizards 
In the giant's shade. 
The wheelchair that he sat on, 
Cushion, wheel, and all began 
To rust, rot, and warp 
As he rose, wand in hand 
And flicked a spell at me 
That I countered with a cracking dazzle. 
 
Fifteen minutes went as quick as it came 
And we funneled from our ruckus 
With the slickness of our sweat 
Into a smelly single file line, 
Heading back, one finger on the lips 
Another two in the air. 
 
It was back to our classrooms; 
For a cooldown, Mrs. Raimey, 
Who could pluck guitar strings 
To pleasantly shake the air by the ear 
And enchant us to mellow out our souls  
With a wise and tender old voice, 
Sung of a faraway land, as I pick chunks of tire
Out of my socks;
She sung about the friendship 
Of a boy named Jackie and an immortal dragon 
Whose fate I now know 
If, from a window, the clouds aren't the smoke 
Of some firebreather's woeful destruction.

Original: Attributing Fantasies- II. Becoming Characters

Some pretty souls that clamor 
for their immortality 
in a film, book, or song,  
are heard and understood by
not some abstract concept;  
but us as kids- 
reenacting fantasies  
in the schoolyard.
Among the monkey bars,
swings and slides 
imaginations take off there
like some rocket rides. 
Of these kids, my petty self,  
who wanted so ridiculously 
to star in and direct 
the reenacted fantasy 
into the biggest summer blockbuster hit.

We don't align our visions 
As seamlessly 
As we do with those we're close. 
It was just a matter of time 
Before that rocket wavers, 
Sputters nuts and bolts
Into its rotting trail
Of oil in an angel's breath
That was once an effortless  
Thread of pale unspooling smoke.
 
I stuck within my room and drew  
the weapons and the armor 
of knights and wizards that I knew, 
intricately plotting maps of regal swirls 
on plated articles of armor 
from the tricky head to shoe.
I would try to match those characters 
from books and movies I had drawn
by donning awkward garbs of winter clothes
and charging through my house 
to duel my kin. Though 
I might have been just short a friend, 
who really cares when you're a knight 
and you're sparring with
the love of those familiar mighty men?
 
So, by the duels that rang the wrists
and tales of fairies and jolly old men,
allow my wrists to ring again
and finger joints to ache
before I'm left remiss.