Happy Poetry Month PPTC

One thing that draws me to poetry is its relatability. I find that a true marker of good poetry is if most people can relate to it in some way. One person’s connection to a piece probably won’t be the same as another’s, and therein lies the beauty of poetry. You may not understand it, but it makes you feel. We often try so hard to understand ourselves and the world around us that we forget how to feel. How do you feel during a run? After a run? How do you feel when you sit in the park? Stop and notice. Take the time to breathe it in. PPTC’s poets took that time to reflect through their poems about Prospect Park and running. I hope the poems make you feel.


Ode to the Runner’s Oath
by James E.

If your thoughts vibehum like a bee’s bum wing,

if you’re 25 and picked up a cocaine habit,

heartbeat up Dancing Queen,

if you felt more free and wrote better at 18,

you might find yourself running into 33.

Bandits in winter, miles for dinner,

the cold can’t seep when you step

this headless rhythm into December.

Sunsets will be stolen and we won’t ask for more,

just feed me the next step and more concrete to pour.

Mantras repeated - “Hills pay the bills” -

complex carbs and energy pills,

another medallion to hang

a noose around my time,

A pond with turtles and ducks in the spring

the sunrise can’t catch what was never really alive.

Chase me, a centipede, bobbing and weaving

Prospect Park green, light like a whisper,

stinging like memory.

Am I at peace, or has it filled a gap?

Is there any difference between this and that?

A footstep fallen is still just a baby calf.

The one thing I know:

Music box runners can’t drink decaf.



Prospect

by Cora Wellington 

runners running on a road in a park during winter







We meet where roots hold the earth like breath,

where skyline hush gives way to birdsong.

In the first mile, the world peels back—

sirens soften, time slows,

and the path ahead is all that matters.


This park remembers every footfall—

pre-dawn sprints, long run chatter,

stride for stride in sudden downpours,

the weightless joy of negative splits.

Here, we become our best selves:

mid-hill, lungs burning,

legs bargaining with will—

we do not quit.

trees overhanging a gravel path

A thousand stories pulse through these loops:

first 5Ks, heartbreaks sweated out,

friendships forged in pace and breath,

the quiet knowing that we belong.

Prospect cradles it all—

oak, asphalt, sweat, sky—

our messy, beautiful pursuit

of forward.







I Heard a Heron

by Mary Crowley 1/13/23

I heard a heron

this morning, a Great Blue.

A heron at the pond :)

It flew low, primordial

along the narrow Lullwater,

blending into the bleak branches.

I have been tracking them,

these apparitions from the past,

for three decades.

Perched motionless on rocks

or flying high and long.

A compromise between elegant

and ungainly.

I had never heard a sound;

believed they were silent –

holding the weight of history

in their long bodies.

But today it called –

a squawk, unearthly, hurt.

What warning was it sharing?

What memory summoning?





Tree with vibrant red, orange, and green leaves lit up by sunlight

DEAREST MAPLE
by Rachael Nevins

I cannot say which astonishes me more

the blinding shock of your orange leaves, or

the fact that you and I are related

 

you whose body reaches as deep into the earth

as your branches extend into the sky

 

and I, weighed down with this bag

these books, this baby

 

How I envy your rootedness as

all day long I wander

to and from my son’s preschool, the grocery store, the park

 

and as my mind wanders, too, wondering

when the library books are due, and should I

take the bus or the subway home, or maybe walk,

and maybe stop along the way to buy ink for my pens

and maybe bread for our dinner

 

hoping the whole time the baby does not fall asleep

before we return home, where I may lay him down

in the half-dark of his bedroom for

 

milk and a nap

and my hour or two of precious silence

 

It’s all so banal

but what can I do, it’s my life

played out under the same great sky

you never lose sight of

 

if sight is something it could be said that you have

What you must know of the heavens

having thus far survived with no shelter from its storms!

How do you bear the wind and the winter?

 

Dear cousin, do you dream?


Poems by: James E., Cora Wellington, Mary Crowley, and Rachael Nevins
Intro text and Production by: Rachael DePalma (she/her)

PPTC is a diverse and supportive team. We want to celebrate the diversity of our club and membership. We welcome and encourage everyone to share their stories with us.

Rachael DePalma