I never was good
At getting kites to fly.
I run until I am blue in the face,
Turn with anticipation and look upwards
To find the stupid thing
Laying on its back on the floor
Glaring at me
Daring me to try again
I swear it’s grinning at me
Smirking, even…
Despite a hurricane behind me
And a firm resolve,
I still can’t do it. It won’t let me.
It won’t cooperate. It just laughs.
I beat it with a branch, John Cleese style,
Nothing
I even stroke it and whisper words of love
Nothing.
It hates me
It hates me and I feel abandoned
I feel inadequate and inferior
I look with envy
At the six year old
Close by
Who’s flying her kite beautifully
Swooshing, spinning, turning somersaults
Diving and gliding
I’m gutted.
Devastated.
For my future peace of mind
I determine
Never to try flying kites again
The kite simply chuckles
...delightful Bob, I happily recall kite flying as a kid. Today kite flying is another name for floating dud cheques about. C'est la vie? Best Jerry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tweaks childhood memories but equally could be a metaphor for the struggle to succeed in life. Mine was an orange tubular steel framed box kite which used to go so high you could barely see it. One day I tripped and fell on it and it never flew again. Nice poem, evokes memories. Patrick