Inviting and magnetic the towering awesome sight
A perspective of domineering rock and icy peaks
It challenges, dares and beckons with unfolding beauty
Stretching upwards into shades of blue and puffy clouds.
Along the winding sloping trail I make my way, the easy
Lower tract encased in green, till rough terrain appears
Then stimulation is released when steep ascent arrives.
I climb and breathe the pure fresh air, intense intoxication
It is so peaceful all around, a place for meditation.
The time goes by. I look for holds and make full use of spikes
Intent on concentration. The wind comes by and contributes
To the hazards of melting ice and hidden crevasses
The weary limbs in need of rest; a keen lookout for falling rocks
An avalanche of crumbling doubts that slows the pace...
Subdued exhilaration when the going gets too hard.
At last the top is right above. An added burst of strength
Dispels the peril of defeat. One final forward thrust
Victory is mine. The summit reached I gaze in awe
Surveying with pride my sprawling kingdom down below.
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Far away from this bonded crowd,
Far away from these layers of
Oh wings of the air glide me away,
To the world, world above the
To the giant mountains of mist,
Where sparkling houses of rain
World beneath where would be
And sun rays where will be cold
Where I won’t be bound by laws,
And I could speak freely about
things I love aloud,
Yeah to the world with cloud
above the clouds,
Where everything just everything
will be allowed.
Sliding on morning dews that stays
Diving in the night’s sky that looks
like morning light,
With no paths to follow,
I’ll glide free and fast,
Yawing, pitching, bouncing,
Like the endless penumbra it’s
unknown where I’ll last
Yeah endless it is,
And it’s unknown where I’ll last
For Above the CloudsContest
I think I am late :-( posting this
THAW AT CROWSNEST PASS
Huge mountains massed and cliffs sheer. It’s March
And endless blue sky cold is held back by the Chinook arch,
Snowy prairies rolling into their thousand-mile realm -
The landscape is gigantic, majestic, orchestrated to overwhelm.
But I stand and watch the lake-ice thaw,
Surprised by the tiny delicate music -
Descant ice - jingling, jangling, tinkling
In delicate accompaniment to the giant symphony.
Ice chunks tangled in slow waves with the wind
Tiny tintinnabulation before total ablation.
There is silence and harmony around the sound,
The small melody of the ice breaking into spring’s chorus.
Note: Crowsnest Pass is the southernmost way through the Rocky Mountains in Canada
As the sun awakens the forest,
I ascend the faded trail.
A doe and her fawn spring,
startled by the stranger,
traipsing through their paradise.
These overlooked alpine slopes
soak in tranquility,
and newly conceived sunshine.
Enchanted and purified I drink
from untouched springs of refreshment.
Give the valleys to the cities.
Grant the plains to the farmers.
Leave the mountains to her unsettled visitors.
Where civilization grows,
ugliness breeds in desperate streets.
Pollution collects beside her gutters.
Man turns on himself in greed.
In the places people gather,
desecration and hatred are common,
and he is cut off from himself.
His cities are bastions of confusion,
concrete coffins awaiting the fill.
Save me from our urban abominations.
In the musty mountains crevices
covered with overgrown foliage.
Trees hang on the edges
grasping the sheer rock
of these aging towers
that reach for the sky.
The clear pristine waterfalls
flow endlessly, cascading downwards
Into the cool blue pools below.
The water creates a rainbow
within it's downward spiral.
Sparkling water sprays
all that lies in it's path.
As it flows the downhill slopes,
it veers and runs to the canopy
of forest below.
The water along with it's cleansing rain
are nature's refreshment.
Joined mountains and blankets of forests
Where the sun dances just above the breeze
Deep inside the past and positions of clouds
Following branches and roots to the inside of the earth
Meadows and crevices, climbing alpine heights
Freedom in the wildflowers and fields
Memories tangled up down long dusty roads
I love sky I love trees
and sometimes I can feel the breeze.
I feel like I can fly
With the wind pushing my hair back so lightly the trees are waving
My hair is swaying so is yours as we glide together
as we watch the sunset go bye
and once again I can feel the breeze
the mountains are high
so so high
they are so high
see them see them
to protect me as I walk across the lake
I love the lake
it is so big big big big
I love big
do you like big?
I like the mountains
they are so straight like a statue do you think?
the mountains are high in the sky
I love to just watch the sunset go bye
so quiet and slow like the clouds I soar through the sky
I love soaring through the sky
Here i am again hiking near a mountaintop
as the aroma of hibiscus reminds me
of my charmed youth, of a serenity the winds
cannot contain. As I reach the peak,
my breath spills of gratitude, gently affirmed.
It didn't matter if the trees are older now
perhaps, rustling my grandfather
and Dad’s sleeves---
or if the mossy ferns gather like wrinkled
toes on a late afternoon.
I was bathed with soft of light beyond
the ridges inhaling the serene madness
of a nature-child as if the moment
stretched into a dance of family bonfire.
I flow… and now, my sweet memory retains
a journey of girlhood days: on Mt.Cordillera,
the fullness of my spring lips, my summer cheeks
embrace a rapture I cannot touch
or cuddle in my arms.
While gazing at how new stars emit their beauty;
all I know is on this angelic evening’s bliss…
I become a child of eight again.
Anthony Slausen's Pinnacle Contest
WATERFALLS, RIVERS AND DROUGHT
The frenzied forces of cold, icy streams
detonate explosively on the rocks below.
Their rapid currents wreak havoc
on logjams caught in crevasses beneath
the mist and rainbowed spray.
We blink in awe to see this
of pretentious power abruptly
become whirling vortexes
of descending splash downs.
But then, almost as quickly, this despoiler settles
and begins to accumulate in multitudes
of rippling bubbles and froth
immediately bleeding onto the embankment
promptly losing much of its potential goodness
swooshed as sucking sounds
into the wild soils of the firmament.
What survives roams free and for awhile
flows in any direction, with no beginning, no end
as the river turns into riverlets
Eddying on without any selected steering.
The rains that used to drip down from the mountain top
cry to see the diversions of the most glorious river
dissipate and dry up knowing that the drought
which has appeared can not adequately supply
sustenance to a parched soil.
For that sunbaked soil to be reclaimed
the river must continue to extend its reach
and water the seeds of new growth.
and use its silt to fertilize the new life
that waits anticipating its turn
in creation's timetable.
CAK 6-04-2012 Revised 6-18-2013
I remember standing in the emerald green jungle with screeching monkeys swinging and dancing on tree limbs. Colorful parrots of reds, blues, greens and yellows watched me silently, suspiciously, as if a gold toothed conquistador. Beautiful flowers grew wild and free, like the ones in the hair of young girls on Sunday mornings down there, with red dusty bare feet and honest smiles. The roar of the gigantic falls reverberating across the gorge, thundered as a cranky old lion bothered by flies. The chilly Brazilian night left us shivering under llama wool blankets, warmed by dry red wine, sustained by thick bread and rich cheese. On my strolls through the bush I must have been like Fawcett in search of some place or something like Z. Whatever that may have been?
I can feel the frigid air bite my lungs
as my shallow breaths try in vain to
soothe and stop the burning pain.
Each struggling footfall could be my last,
yet the mountain taunts me to keep onward.
The snow has consumed my crampon booted feet
with numbness as trembling loins beg my brain for rest.
Heartbeats match the pounding in my head.
I just can’t stop now when so near the summit.
Blinding snow begins to fall as I leave my two
closest friends behind on the promontory.
They plead with me to turn back with them.
All sensibilities have vanished into the whiteness.
“As I feel the snow fly, I will conquer or die”.
Let these words be my epitaph I call to them,
should the mountain claim my sorry soul.
August 10, 2014
For Charlotte Puddifoot's
Dark Poetry Contest
There's a place to go that feels like a kingdom-
sounds like the magic of a newborn day.
Those shreds of illusion I wrap myself up in
can never dissolve the rapture I'm seeing.
Gazing intently at miles of enchantment
the roar of the mountain takes over my senses.
Layered in purple with streaks of black-silver
singing out clearly across the horizon,
this is the stuff that most dreams are made of.
Amethyst notes that play on in your soul.
for contest "The Sound Of Color"
SOMEWHERE ON TOP
Breathing free, I behold--
sash-like fluffy blue clouds
Nearby, terrace of trees greets
and falls that warble deep.
05:20 PM, January 10, 2015
Sponsor nette onclaud
Contest Name SOMEWHERE
Would I could recall and savor
the striking moment
I came to know of mountains.
Not lowland’s timid rolling hills,
adorned with scant veneer
of weeds, cement and green-grass lawns,
but lofty pinnacles that scratch the sky
with unyielding granite,
against whose might
the setting sun itself does daily yield—
Its bluster damned in mute dismay.
Yet there faintly linger,
among the tangled ganglia
of my mind, images and feelings…
of summits gained, and all the world below,
that I might behold
have no need to remember.
You can travel the four thousand miles of the Nile
to its source and never find it.
You can climb the five highest peaks of the Himalayas
and never recognize it.
You can gaze through the largest telescope
and never see it.
To be a part of landscape
From a distance landscape has a
A skin mite, grazing fleshy meadows
grotesque microscopic cow,
has no concept of the human form it feeds from.
Just as a mountain in close proximity
is no longer symbolic of its form,
romance and the imagination of it
is reduced to a frozen, physical obstruction
that is a challenge to survival.
The skin mite tumbles, a huge force
has torn it's clawlike hooves from
living apertures, it falls
with flakes of dead turf into a
depthless void, unoticed
by the scratcher,
and the mountain climber sees the
blinding wall of snow that
flashes by him as he falls,
unoticed by the mountain.
For Giorgio's Impress Me 111 Contest
The clouds drape low,
shrugging blue mountain shoulders,
melding with ghostly river mist
ascending in specterous vapor trails
salted with primordial tears.
Between stately mottled sycamores
and aged medicinal white oaks,
slippered phantom figures glide,
clad in hides of deer and mountain lion.
Down to the silvered stream--
a mirror for chalky spirits and bright stars--
they slip to drink of pristine springs.
The powerful spell impacts within, without,
invading every animated sense.
A dream, an apparition?
I wonder at the dawn of bright sun rising,
green moss clad boulders warmed, fog dissipated.
I discern the curious sensation
of withdrawing from an ancient trance.
The happy river dances down the valley,
bordered in mountain laurel ruffles, pink;
the fragrance of breakfast bacon wafts,
a tantalizing, hunger inducing wave,
and campers' laughter echoes off a dream.
August 19, 2014
Living on a mountain top in Vermont "Spring Showers" are very dangerous
With several feet of snow still covering the rocky terrain above the tree line
a recue unit is always prepared for the fools that climb the cliffs; unprepared
They pay no heed to the weather report: Spring Showers today and tomorrow
on top of a mountain the rain falls and creates tiny rivers under the snowdrifts
A slow rain tears the bottom layer of snow away with a sheet of ice at its base
The potential now for an Avalanche just rose 80%.Are there fools climbing today?
every fifteen minutes, the rescue squad check their gear. The thermo body raps,
Snowshoes, Snow spikes, heat sensored depth poles,helmets with red, yellow,
and green push on lights, two way radios;checked batteries,Coffee and Whiskey
When one lives up here long enough; You can hear the snowdrifts : drifting
It has been raining for almost 48 hours,as raindrops keep falling my fears rise
Down in the Valleys, they cherish the April Showers,looking forward to May Flowers
I have to go now and call on my ham operator radio for assistance.The alarm is
ringing, the Snow is rumbling down the side of the Mountain.You asked to tell why
we do or do not like Spring Showers. I will tell YOU when and if I Return.
April 15, 2013 for the Contest : "Spring Showers" Sponsored by "Russell Sivey"
The grandeur of a majestic mountain
standing proud against the horizon
with its snow-capped peak
enveloped in fleecy white clouds
against a clear azure blue sky
The glorious majesty of a stately sequoia
towering above the surrounding vegetation
being the largest living thing on earth
its massive trunk over thirty feet wide
with its gnarled rugged beauty
The wondrous artistry of the setting sun
edging the darkened clouds with silver linings
and painting the evening sky
in brilliant colours of the rainbow
mirrored on the ocean's surface below
The awesome power of a thunderstorm at night
with jagged bolts of lightning
that split the darkness
and light up the surroundings
with blinding dazzling intensity
The thunderous roar of a mighty waterfall
cascading down in huge torrents of liquid fury
smashing into the water below
creating mists of water droplets
that transform the sunlight into a rainbow
What lies behind the mountain?
A far and distant land?
Are there valleys and flowers,
Or hot and burning sands?
What lies behind the mountain?
A place I’ve never known?
Is it desolate, and barren,
Or do you reap where you’ve sown?
What lies behind the mountain?
Somewhere to rest my head?
Do the weary cease their labor,
Or do they toil in fear and dread?
What lies behind the mountain?
The sun’s warming glow?
Should I stop or keep on going?
Many things I do not know.
But I know what is behind me,
And where those paths have led.
Of all the odds around me
Greater things must lie ahead.
The wilderness has been improved of late,
Or so they say.
The maple trees where sticky syrup oozed
Between the cracks of scarred and broken bark,
The wild apple trees whose crooked branches
Cradled clumps of crudely woven twigs,
Have been replaced by houses, row on row
Of painted boxes gleaming in the naked sun.
The narrow trail, a divine doodle
Traced across the earth and kept in place
By centuries of coyote and bear
And deer that bounded zigzag up the slope
Lies tame and straight beneath the asphalt sweep
That cuts a leveled swath across the peak.
The blackberry briars that pressed against the path
And tore the skin from little hands that wiped
the purple stain on Sunday clothes,
Are cut away, and soft green grass grows in their place.
“Superior development, and more to come,”
The realtor explains,
Not knowing that I was here before.
I scan the hills for one certain house,
An Improvement on a three-room shack
where squirrels chattered in the rafters
And wasps built nests against the eaves,
And berry bushes dirtied up the window panes.
The modern house is pink with snowy trim;
A cement sidewalk leads from drive to door,
And tulips nod obediently by the steps.
Beyond the manicured lawn,
The last undeveloped forest hugs the hill,
And stubborn briars spill onto the planted grass.
“I’ll buy the house,” I tell the man.
He sees me looking at the woods and smiles
Apologetically. “For a slightly higher fee,”
he says, “that bit of forest can be cleared.”
“I’ll take it as it is,” I tell him.
“The blackberries might still grown in there.”
You whisper in my ear
midmorning bird songs
with that scent of mountain air
and foliage extracting its green emblem.
Switching to fields of neon;
your breath mimics the sunset sky
the feeling of kissing your newborns forehead,
so gentle and soft your entrance.
You ease your way into a majestic overlook
of pomegranate leaves,
and weak, crisp, dead skinned grass.
My delicate irises wince at
overpowering sun rays
but the heart of your existence
I open my eyes for.
I can’t miss this.
My body balanced
by your impeccable temperature,
you look so beautiful tonight,
in my window frame,
your fire grows in the pale moonlight.
You whisper in my ear
midnight cricket hymns
so seducing in your presence
that I can’t get enough of this.
Their Autumn Leaves.
And then embrace the ground.
The pathways I tread
And the horizon I see.
Amidst them, I halt
Amongst them, I sit,
Stare and admire
Them as they shower from trees.
I listen to them,
As they rustle,
In the soothing autumn breeze.
Wondrous it is to listen
To the tales they tell,
Tales spelled in their toungless accents
Tales that are the soul of each of those
Falling, twirling, rustling
High amongst the mountain peaks,
Stands a gnarled old tree.
Clinging desperately to the rocky cliff,
It is the only one to see.
How many years long past,
Has the tree tried to live,
On that rocky outcropping,
The mountain would grudgingly give.
Into the ancient cracks of the mountainside,
The tree’s roots desperately cling,
Barely covered in the little soil,
That the airs could barely bring.
For countless ages has it borne,
The wraths of wind, ice, and snow.
Reduced to a contorted pose,
The tree continues to grow.
Half dead in the summer it is,
From the eternal lack of rain.
Still, when the snows do melt,
It tries to grow again.
How many years more will it be,
Before the tree is finally slain,
And standing there forevermore,
Its withered shell shall remain.
Between the sea
And the mountains that seem
To hold hands
Refusing to let go
Of each other's ties
For together is the home that lasts
While at the same time
Bathing their feet
In the love of deep blue sea.
A place of serenity
That once seized
One comes to feel infinity
Watching the tides
Moving onward to the shore
As they have done
For thousands of years and more
Protecting all life
For it knows its size.
Many have come and go
But the land remained
The mountains have kept their hands
Together, hoping some day
Some will catch on to their message
It is here one can know peace
That holding hands enhance
That the sea from the moment of first glance
Has been so in love with
Reaching out to this eternal bliss
In tidal waves of
Copyright August 2010
A polite rain
joined me briefly
before heading uptrail
to leave me standing, alone,
in a suddenly steaming forest.
1) Roger Davis
I wrote this on a hikein the Adriondacks to to Mt Marcy, the highest mountain in New York State. My Adirondack Guide indicated that Tahawus was the a first Nation (Iroquois ??) name for the mountain and it meant “cloud-splitter.” I decried that the mountain is now named "Mt. Marcy"after William L. Marcy, who as Governor of New York (1833-1839), authorized the geological survey that explored the area. I speculated that this is why there is so little poetry in our time.
However, a later Wikipedia search revealed that the name was likely never used by the aboriginal peoples of the area to refer to the mountain, and its meaning, may have no roots in any language.
Those who climb mountains
unless they fall.
They only drink icicle drip
and chew thorns.
Their soles are like thin mattresses
that are well used.
They breath tinted air,
Over and over again
the hill is calling.
No obstacle is too long.
They are blind
except by instinct.
A raptor circles, catching a thermal.
The climber would mount one
and ride higher
if he could.
A rock falls from its place
and like a seesaw
lifts the hikers.
Always there is imagination.
Always there is a goal.
Sky is no limitation.
Her imagination is married
to her distant goal.
Rules are broken here:
no time for fooling.
They are reaching,
Like shoppers wanting stacked goods
on a high shelf.
The eagle flies in the day;
the climbers never stop.
Mountaineers are like people,
colorful as the Swiss.
Their cheeks glow like tomatoes.
Their toenails are steep.
Finally the launch is ready
and all who climb
drift down again.
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
I traveled and see
The mount of glory
Where animal and person
Live as friends
The mountain of peace
Caries two peaks
Home of wonders
Guests be keen on
Mawenzi is the smaller
Kibo is the taller
They all have snow
Melts to life juice
The mountain is splendor
Tanzania must celebrate
sheltered colonizers and travelers
Kilimanjaro is the mount
Where lord was worshiped
A mount of glory where glory lives
Dare not missing once in being
People come people go
They dare again going
They felt the beauty
More and they live
Our friends and neighbors
Live in mount’s gossip
That we play and teasing
Though lucky than them
Still illiterate and stupid
Of all the years!
No body had volunteered
that attract sightseer
Only is thought
pouching and smuggling
I hate this life, full of poverty
On natural richness!
I lay sleeping with eyes wide open,
I lay sleeping with dreams that have no meaning,
I lay sleeping with nothing to dream about.
I lay sleeping with no care and sleep with eyes blind,
I lay sleeping, there with my eyes wide open.
Seeing the dark change from dark to black.
There is no moon, there is no sky
just purple strokes of paint in the sky.
Take that morning dew smell and close your blind eyes.
Smell the morning, that smell that clicks in your mind.
The smell of childhood dreams,
that as an adult never came true.
Sleeping bare in the nude with your eyes wide open.
Thinking of her, as she is five thousand miles away from you.
Wanting to love and hold her, but no use in crying.
Sleeping their with blind eyes in the dark that dances in the light.
Your lamplight turned down low,
as life trickeles down in its nightgown and yawns for sweet slumber.
Tired from longs days, and sometimes long nights,
wanting to curel in bed and close its blind eyes.
Dusk will soon peek its head through the blinds
and awake life to a new dawn.
She sleeps in the morning, and walks at night.
When he sleeps at night, and walks with a bare nude heart in the morning.
Life climbs over yellow mountains,
and meets her fellow compainion
a handsome fellow with broud shoulders and blessed with an ego
as I sleep there with my eyes wide open.
As I sleep with my eyes blind to what life has intented for me,
and as I raise to walk the lone streets at the break of the dew covered lawn
at the first sweet smells of dawn,
I can see life go on with the handsome man
and I blind and wanting to go to bed.
I dream of dreams that have no meaning
Gardens of cluelessness and raging emotions
tare me down and I am confused on which way to go.
Do I stay here and dream away, blind and half awake
as life slaps me across my broad cheek?
Or shall I walk on with life hand and hand
and regain my vision of the world,
Start to sleep with dreams that make sense
and dreams that are made of gold and have no end?
Dream of fancy dreams that show love and happy endings
I would love that, and I would love to walk with life,
but she is out of my leauge.
And my bed is so cozy and I feel like sleeping.
So I shall sleep on more restless night chashing life down.
I lay sleeping with my eyes wide open.
I lay sleeping with dreams that have no meaning.
I lay sleeping waiting for life to come back from the mountains
and lay beside me.
I lay sleeping with hope of regaining hope and salvage
what is left of my spirit at hand.
i travel three-and-a-half hours
for peace of mind
leave the city dwellers
worship our Mother Earth's kind
She takes my breath away
A trail, I take my hike
"Who walked this path?" I say
as dusk draws near
a dance with the rays
the sky, the clouds
amber and red hues
an a fading blue canvas
my mind blends in
top of a ridge
sweet smell of sage
my mind at ease
one with the earth