I lift to fill the cavern of my heart
Where you have been and yet won’t stay.
I lift to grasp the fleet-footed day
Who won’t be held, who sprints away.
I lift to strengthen my weakened bones,
Which cancer drugs aim to leach away.
I lift to grasp the charging bull by his horns.
I lift: urging him to turn another way.
I lift to fill my empty soul, where dogs drop in then trot away.
Leaving nothing but wisps of fur
To show they’ve even been here at all.
I lift to expand the weak winter sun,
To pull him from the clouds wherein he stays.
I lift because there’s nothing else that helps,
When days are dark and nights too long.
I lift because I cannot write a song.
Because the words they always flit away –
Just out of reach of all my new intent
To frame my world so it makes sense.
I lift, bolstering my shaking confidence,
To build on the small progress I have made
With bars and bells and weighted balls:
I need to up my targets of them all.
And in the spaces between what I need and what I own
I lift because we are all alone.
Alone on this darkening plain of fear and endless blame.
The forests shrink, the seas recede,
The fires burn, a desperate need for comfort and freedom from fear,
Which can’t be calmed except by lifting weights.
And is it luck or is it fate or is it something else instead.
Withought the chink of light we’ll all be dead.
And as the reaper rides towards me at a canter,
I know that lifting heavy weights must be the answer.
Behind the clouds the winter sun breaks through:
My body aches and yet my spirit’s resolute.
To rise and meet the challenges of pain –
I start another set of tricep lifts, again.
And on and on through winter fog and sleet,
After lifting I know that I will sleep
And dream of sunlit uplands, leaping lambs
Of lynx in forests, beavers building dams.
Wolves will return and with them a kind of hope,
That maybe the whole world just might not implode.
A slim hope, and yet worth writing hear.
I lift to dull the constant ache of fear
And age, and decline and mental anguish.
For all of this, I speak the simple language
Of lift then rest then lift then rest again
Till what comes is the long-foretold end
Of love and life and hope and all those things.
Lifting centres me within the silent scream.
Happy Sunday everyone!