The Butt First Lunge (© RFA)

Forget about the leap, the reach, the
Scissored kick

Sure they cover ground
--Profligate, extreme
Nearly doing splits upon the strip--
Then leave you
Hanging out to dry
Stretched thin
O'erbalanced
All too often
Overthrown

Focus on the anchor.
Back foot rooted to the earth
Tunneling to the molten core
Powering volcanic bursts

The coiled power of the calf
The tensioned thigh the
Tucked bum
Leading with a coy swing of the hip

Stubby , powerful, controlled
Leaving open options
Waiting 'til last moment to
Ignite
Maybe not the showiest of moves
Stylistically impaired
Modest in it's reach
So you fall short--so what?

I'd rather live to take another try than
Flame out with extravagant ambitions

End Game: a poem on fencing, and life

First Period
A slight naïveté
But boundless energy
Stepping, eager, to the strip
Soaking in the world
A little tentative,
Perhaps a little shy
Cautiously advancing proof, disproof
Thesis & hypothesis
Testing how things work
Mapping out the world

Second Period
Buckle down and
Concentrate
Naming what I’ve done, and seen
Learning from mistakes
Using what I’ve learned
Theory morphs to practice
Sometimes,
Almost
Confident mastery
Life begins to flow

Third Period
Shepherding my small stash of

Compiled wisdom

Conserving energy

Husbanding breath
Feeling every ache
Tapping my reserves

Careful strategy to
Navigate the final stretch
Bring me home
Consolidate my gains
Or
Last chance to regroup, revise
Revitalize my game

Naïve once again, I tell myself that, coming from behind
It’s never, never too late to attempt a save