If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.
He seemed an ordinary boy
until he found the supreme joy
of snowboarding, made it an art
in which no one can take a part
without recalling Craig, and how
he was the start of all that’s now.
He is recognized by his peers
as one of a few pioneers
who brought snowboarding up to par,
esteemed as other snow sports are.
It now is an Olympic game,
bringing other young folks fame.
He attacked his sport with verve and vim.
World accolades belonged to him.
He made the loved sport his life’s work.
Craig Kelly was not one to shirk.
He took responsibility
for safety to the nth degree.
It’s such a sad, ironic touch
the mountains that he loved so much
would be the reason for his death.
Their treachery would steal his breath.
Craig well knew the danger there
and went about his work with care.
Craig had his followers and was
Idolized by them, because
He was the master of his game
Teaching them how to be the same.
Unassuming and understated,
Craig was simply, dedicated.
Dedicated to work and play,
And to his loved ones all the way.
How many long-lived men can say
When they have met their final day,
“My life too short when it was done,
But every year of it was fun.”
For Chris Matt's "Gone to Soon" contest
If you are a snowborder you know his name.
If not just google-- Craig Kelly Snowboarder
b. April 1966--died January 2003
He was my step-grandson
He died in an avalanche in the Canadian mountains in January of 2003
Born January 31, 1953 – Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson – Died January 30, 2048
HeRe, tell the truth,
liEs The Right Reverend Hudson
reBorn almost a century ago –
thE time was winter,
suCh long, long hours
baCk in cold, cold days
SaFety was unim-
poRtant for women
whO were married –
noNe spoke of
By God! This woman
refUsed to let that
get In the way of
her Living –
she Excelled at life
she Understood her birth
diD not define or restrict
her Self, her choices, her
lOve, her presence, or her death – she
kNew, with certainty: only truth is true!
Nota Bene – January 30, 2048 is the 100th anniversary of Gandhi’s assassination
We Thank All That Is Good She Was Here!
Her eyes amused me, slices of January that held April tightly....
she could rain in snow, drop from upside-down skies, and we held tightly to the tears that
only appeared on the opposite side of closet doors as we marked our claim on unusual with
hand prints that never saw the sun.
Two days could have passed underneath us before we blinked, my windows whispered glorious
promises but we kept them closed for safety, for the opposition of who we could be, and
she knew the secret of every season, she knew how to laugh when bedroom doors...
I drew her behind the mirror and we created October across December stars, we became
disobedient underneath the glorious names we sang that night for lips speak magic when
they pretend to lie and dishonesty was but a kiss away from sunrise.
Time stung me come August, come March, come the age of thirty-two, her eyes had been shut
for years now and she sunk beneath flowers I am positive would be beautiful enough to
photograph had I the courage to glance, but my feet have never crossed the grass that
blankets her and roots her promises...
tangled beneath tomorrow with a tight grasp on yesterday, and I wonder if the days have
yet to fade the color of her hair.
It rained in January when I existed miles away, teardrops of memories that fell as softly
as the whispers of her name, I closed the bedroom door tightly and listened intensely for
the echoes of dishonesty, for she remained there, somewhere, behind mirrors that painted
her and the lies that bit my tongue, that reassured me...
our hand prints would hide from summer...
covered in ice-cream secrets that screamed her pain from a smile, from a foolish wish that
spoke us inseparable.
Her eyes, blue as October, slapped me, that day, as they painted themselves the secrets
girls are never supposed to witness, as they refused to allow April to fall but declared
with the beauty that she
could never see.
Something about January
Broods my blood to slush.
A new year's unknowns
Hearkens hope to hush.
It's a dark visage that stuns,
Heritage of Januarys past.
Death calls my loved ones
With winter's harshest blast.
It seems we're trying to cope
By saying "Happy New Year!"
Yet one must toast the hope
That a wish can fight a fear.
But I think—I'm sure I'm right
The Reaper so deathly scary
Will call me an ice-enameled night
In the cold heart of January.