Day Thirty- Playground

The world is a playground and life is pushing my swing--Natalie Cocisis

Acting is playing - it's actually going out on a playground with the other kids and being in the game, and I need that. Writing satisfies that part of myself that longs to sit in my room and dream.--Billy Bob Thornton

I must apologise because I know all writers have memories of being on the outer because it's the children on the side of the playground who become the dangerous writers.--Thomas Keneally

Today's prompt is simple: Write a poem about a playground
This comes from an email I received calling for playground poets from a friend of a photographer who is creating a coffee table book on playground equipment. There is no compensation, but the photographer is interested in including poetry with her pictures. Let me know if you would like for me to forward the results of this exercise. My email address: laurieg41@hotmail.com

Later

Exercise #30 

By Laurie Guerin

Remember tanbark

How the soles of your feet

were splintered and stained brown after

pushing other kids on the merry-go-round

faster and faster

stopping when the littlest begged

or flew off

and then starting again

for the few, the brave that remained

 eyes squinting, hair flying, skin tightening

 you ran until your feet were a blur

kicking up oak bits, you held fast to the rail

until the very last minute when you flung yourself

onto the metal platform

Remember the smell of oak and hot steel

everything swirling in and out of focus

the swing set, your mother in her sunhat

the see-saw, the twisty slide

the red ribbon in your sister’s hair

like looking though

a warped View-Master

time slowed until it stopped completely

and you all got off

drunken sailors

making your way home