Posts Tagged ‘Mountains’

Becoming

Posted: January 13, 2002 in Poetry
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A winter white sheet covers me
As I sit in this chair, unmoving.
My breaths are shallow and I can’t see
Whether to move or stay very still:
I am hung on that decision
Like a meathook.
The longer I wait, the more my weight tears me
To get off is still more painful
But there is no mistaking impalement
On the pike of indecision.
What to do? I don’t know;
I will never know unless I do
Something – anything is better,
But to throw off these veils
Is to see what I am afraid of:
That lonely vista of sunrise
Over faraway mountains from another mountaintop.
No road nor path presents itself
In the gloaming beyond this sheet;
Light-shadows shiver and mold to each other
Unknown consequences and results
Which my feeble calculations
Cannot fathom as I am staked here.
Nobody knows who I am anymore,
But if anyone can it must be me.
Count on a breathless ride for part,
Meandering, enjoyable inner tubing for another,
And yet other unpredictable situations.
These are all definition-grounds,
To file and hone the self-blade
And the mind-sword.
Be born and becoming.

Risen

Posted: November 10, 1996 in Poetry
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That which may sink still may rise
Those who are living still may die
Rock may crumble, trees may fall
A king may sit in an empty hall
Mountains may soar to support the sky
If lightning speaks, will thunder reply?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Wood may break, iron can rust
That which is sunken still might rise
Even those who are dead still can die.

In a dream that plucked me
From the couch that I slept on,
I walked, ant sized, through the growth
In my garden,
Shaking nasturtium stems
To feel the dewdrops like rain,
And climbing mountains
And ferns
Like a child with no friends.

Reminiscing like a fool,
These dreams torment like reminders;
Gleans of silver behind the tarnish,
Cigarette smoke fanned out the window.

When waking I walk
Through the garden I planted,
I can hear, I can see, I can smell
But not understand
Like I was able to way back when
In the gloaming of orange street lights,
Summer solstice and heat lightning.

A chaotic path steps the manic mind
Hill and valley; summit – abyss
Mountain goat leaping skills,
Green eggs and ham from
Point to possible point
Attempt before justification attempt
To find the insight first
The new the unconditional the flexibility
Of constant movement
Adjustment, refinement
Creation of perfection through spirit
Of inventive investigation.
Nothing is quite good enough –
There is always something better:
What else can I do with this?
Enough to stay a defensive blur of feet, fists
Flying kung fu ideas and actions
Drunken praying mantis style
The key to the monk in every monkey
Is an overactive innovation:
Imagination.

Arguments

Posted: February 9, 1995 in Poetry
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You stand on your viewpoint
Like the top of the mountain
As the floods rise,
Carrying off your unicorns.
They, like you
Were too proud for my ark;
For their pride,
We all have horses with no horns.

Sailing to Byzantium

Posted: December 19, 1994 in Poetry
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I perch upon a basalt wall,
12 feet high; it surrounds the port
Separating the rough-hewn blocks
Of the well-travelled docks
From the slopes of the mountains lost
To the predations of much-prized rationality.
Many a sailor I watch disembark
From cutter or barge or sailing-ship;
They wind their way from wharf to within
The city whose walls I’ve scaled.
Young and old who, unfamiliar
With the burnished minarets and golden spires,
Wander lost amidst the buccaneers
Who have been here many a dream-time,
Stride winking to their carts and kingdoms.

coming calling

Posted: December 13, 1994 in Poetry
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The snow has touched the mountaintops
And the leaves drift on the ground.
My breath is grey before my face
As I’m walking into town.

I left my car parked in the drive;
I wished to go on foot.
A whim the moon brought to my thoughts
When I laced my father’s boots.

When I come calling at your house
I’ll check to see that your light shows.
If it’s off, I’ll admire the frost
A moment, then I’ll go.

Sometimes I won’t see one car pass
Going either way.
The wind spins papers through the dancing trees;
They keep my footsteps gay.

The silent night and the Christmas lights,
The pine-bough’s fresh perfume;
The ribbons and wreaths and lost Autumn leaves —
They all point my way to you.

When I come calling at your house,
I’ll check to see that your light’s on.
If it is out, I’ll leave without
Telling you that I have gone.

The walk back home is always long,
But the beauty still remains.
I imagine a sleigh, two horses; some hay,
And my hands upon the reins.

The moon is calm in the darkened sky
It silvers the windowsills.
I climb into bed with you in my head;
Stuff for these poems I build.

When I come calling at your house,
I’ll check to see if you’ve lit your light,
For if it’s not, then I guess you forgot,
And I can’t come and say goodnight.