Tight Rope Walker; draft #3

I stand on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees three-sixty:
steady while I sway, approaching halfway.

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await disaster,
that I should fall without a safety net:
I too was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
but nonetheless gleeful bystander to the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

From on high among the rafters, the nosebleed,
a yawn settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls.

The platform nears
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to my pace, the subtle swish of legs.
Mind and eye are one
an audience of Baptists thinks I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood platform edge.
I hear first a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Tight Rope Walker; draft #2

I stand on a tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees 360 degrees:
Is the wire swaying? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await
some say court my disaster
that I should fall and with no safety net:
for this walk too I was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
all while gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

A yawn from the nosebleed settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls:
I am a juggler
all at once dealing with seven tossed balls of circus glory.

The platform now looms near
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to the pace of the swish between my legs.
Mind and eye become one
and baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge:
I first hear a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Tight Rope Walker; draft 1 (formerly Tight Rope)

I stand here on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees
measuring my distance to the platform
simultaneously looking back:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts but they are for the most part waiting
(some say courting) disaster,
that I should fall this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
while also gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this spectacle in a media driven life.

I can hear someone yawn from up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price.
My feet softly lift and glide forward
my eyes remain glued on the goal despite the catcalls:
my mind a juggler
looking at seven tossed balls of circus glory all at once
all while I wonder, are they tired of me or just worn out from work?
For many it seems my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all week,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights,
and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

The platform now looms near
and my mind turns to the philosophy of distance
how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
at the moment my right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge
where I declare both my living pulse and the success of the venture.

Tight Rope; rough draft

I stand here on the tight rope
not walking just standing
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees,
measuring the distance to the further platform
simultaneously looking back on the pitter-patter of my feet:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts, but mostly they are waiting
some say courting
disaster, that I should fall and this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare, put on me by passersby
both too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
and also gleefully participatory in the glitz and glimmer
of this spectacle and media driven life.

I can hear someone up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price,
yawn.
My feet softly lift and glide forward and my eyes are glued
but my mind is a juggler
looking between tossed balls of circus glory
and the wonder, are they tired of me or worn out from work
where my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all the week long,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights, and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Nearer now the platform looms,
my mind philosophizes on the meaning of distance
and how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body glides,
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
as my right foot clears the cedar of the platforms edge
declaring both my living pulse and the success of the venture.