Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

Strong Legs



A man believed his legs were strong,
They'd carried him this far.
Through difficulties, great and small,
That left nary a scar.

He took each step with confidence,
And never knew defeat.
Then he looked back upon his path
When his life was complete.

In his wake were many pitfalls,
A strange sight to behold.
There were pot holes and stumbling blocks,
Where once lay streets of gold.

He asked the Lord how this could be,
"This path, I don’t recall."
It was an unfamiliar road,
Which he knew not at all.

"My son," the Lord said, "can't you see?
You were not on your own.
Faced with your greatest obstacles,
You did not walk alone."

"I was there each time you faltered,
And would not let you fall.
I helped you past each obstruction,
And over every wall."

The man began to understand,
Then looked back at his road.
Many times he would have stumbled,
Had God not born the load.

For when his strength began to fail,
Bled dry from every limb,
He fell into God's open arms,
And the Lord carried him.

No matter what encumbered him,
His path was always sound.
Life's pitfalls couldn't topple him,
Despite unsteady ground.

When the greatest hearts grow weary,
And legs begin to fall.
From there we shall be carried by
The strongest legs of all.

About this poem

This poem is about the pitfall I've faced in life, and the miraculous way I've survived every one.

Font size:
 

Submitted by MarkS on June 08, 2021

1:11 min read
4 Views

Mark Spencer

My name is Mark Spencer and, off and on, I have been writing poetry since 1977. I was born in Bend, Oregon on February 7th 1959, six short days after the day the music died, along with three of its icons: Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper), and Richie Valens. The Eisenhower administration was on its way out, and America was teetering on the brink of another war. A new administration was about to emerge under the leadership of a young Senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy. He would see his country through some of its most volatile times, until his untimely death in 1963. I was raised in a small suburb of Los Angeles called Lennox. Lennox rested between Hawthorn and Inglewood and was in the flight path of the Los Angeles International Airport. My brothers and I would play a game with the approaching aircraft. We would attempt to guess which airline the planes belonged to, before they were close enough to read. The winner, of course, was the one with the most correct guesses that day. I grew up with three brothers: Bryan was closest to me in age, and I was the eldest of the four brothers. Darien came next and my youngest brother Ross completed the quartet. We were close in age, no more than two years and four months apart, but we were even closer as brothers. We were our own best friends, frequently playing together at the park or in the yard. But time passed quickly, and bygone days slipped into the archives of memory, leaving a hole in my heart. The four of us grew up, and traveled different paths, leaving the adventures of our youth behind. Yet, to this day, I find myself wishing for one more game of over-the-line. My parents were, by no means rich. Union politics kept my father out of work for a time, and my mother was forced, by circumstance, to take a job with Polaroid. Somehow we always had food on the table, a roof over our heads, and presents under the Christmas tree. My father was able to build a strong working relationship with a large contracting company and things got much better. That is, until my parents divorced in 1972. I blamed myself for my parent’s misfortune, as many children do, and I retreated inside myself. The following few years were chaotic, I rebelled against the world; so much so that my parents had to ship me off to live with my grandmother. She was the greatest influence on my life at the time, and that experience pulled me back from the edge. The path she helped to put me on opened me up to the world of creativity. I owe her more than I could ever repay. So…I write…not for me, or about me, but for her, and the topics she thought were important. So here we are today, 45 years later, and I’m still writing, still addressing those topics, still weaving a little morality into each poem. more…

All Mark Spencer poems | Mark Spencer Books

FAVORITE (1 fan)

Discuss this Mark Spencer poem with the community:

0 Comments

    Translation

    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)

    Citation

    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

    Style:MLAChicagoAPA

    "Strong Legs" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 17 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/102212/strong-legs>.

    Become a member!

    Join our community of poets and poetry lovers to share your work and offer feedback and encouragement to writers all over the world!

    More poems by

    Mark Spencer

    »

    January 2022

    Poetry Contest

    Enter our monthly contest for the chance to win cash prizes and gain recognition for your talent.
    14
    days
    20
    hours
    45
    minutes
    75 entries submitted — 75 remaining

    Browse Poetry.com

    Quiz

    Are you a poetry master?

    »
    The repetition of vowel sounds is an example of _______.
    • A. repetition
    • B. rhyme
    • C. rhythm
    • D. assonance