Chances are a lot of us are watching the Olympics whenever we can. There are so many great events and stupendous athletes. How about the Women’s Hockey Team, right? (Young people today seem to end all sentences with the word “right.”) There’s a Danvers young woman on that one, which I care about because I’m the editor of the Danvers Herald. I have to care.

But, really, they withstand such physical tests and such emotional tests. God. I’d rather not go through the pounding heart, sweat, tears, thank you, even if I had the talent.

Now that I think about it, when I was a child, during some very cold, wintry winters, when all of us in the younger set in my neighborhood seemed to go down to the local lake for ice skating, some of us with shovels (or did they just magically appear out of the snow-encrusted pine trees, which may have been dressed-up Ents harboring goodwill toward children?) so that we could skate every day. And, back then, while practicing figure 8 s and speeding along the straight-away portions, I used to dream that I would be in the Olympics someday.

Of course, I was comparing myself to one of my big sisters — actually, both of them — who were pitiful on the ice, one of the few places where I was the star to their distant moons.

And, I’ve also been thinking about the teachers in my children’s school, and some of the do-gooder parents, who used to talk about “dream killers” — that all children should keep hold of that feeling they can do whatever they want to do in the future.

Which brought to mind a poem by Shel Silverstein. Well, I’m elaborating and extrapolating a bit from the real thought process, which was — what poem might go with thoughts about the Olympics? Silverstein supplies more my style of Olympic thinking — that is, gone!

The Little Blue Engine

by Shel Silverstein

The little blue engine looked up at the hill.

His light was weak, his whistle was shrill.

He was tired and small, and the hill was tall,

And his face blushed red as he softly said,

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

….

So he started up with a chug and a strain,

And he puffed and pulled with might and main.

And slowly he climbed, a foot at a time,

And his engine coughed as he whispered soft,

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

….

With a squeak and a creak and a toot and a sigh,

With an extra hope and an extra try,

He would not stop — now he neared the top —

And strong and proud he cried out loud,

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!”

….

He was almost there, when — CRASH! SMASH! BASH!

He slid down and mashed into engine hash

On the rocks below… which goes to show

If the track is tough and the hill is rough,

THINKING you can just ain’t enough!

For poets in the Beverly area, please join the North Shore Poets’ Forum at the Beverly Public Library on Saturday at 11 a.m. to share poems and gentle critique.

Happy February (it’s almost….well… spring!)