Best Sierras Poems
Widowed Dad zested for life,
Every day new adventures:
Hiking in the Sierras,
Naked white-water rafting,
Hours of gambling in Tahoe,
Dates with beautiful women...
Then married his best friend, Mike.
Hurled into the desert by a beatnik pilot and dropped off just above nirvana. I find myself in a peculiar yet remarkable position. I am now alone. I look out above the high sierras and find a moonbeam shooting down on the valley below me. I follow it down and realize it is not a guiding light but that of a 747 landing at LAX. I am up here with the coyotes and jackrabbits. Equal prey once I get hungry. I have a canteen full of gin and a beretta 32 caliber pistol. No directions no map. Who cares? The other thing I have is a tin full of sardines and 4 joints of some primo sativa.
I begin to wander towards the city wondering what I will find on my way down. I crank up a joint and take a hit of gin. Another night in city for me, its just a few miles down through the valley. I’ve been here before. Messed up on crank. They keep telling me I must survive. And I keep asking them what is it that I must survive? This ain’t no homeward bound trip. I slip into between rocks of billionaire’s homes hoping not to set off the security systems. When I get to the bottom will they pick me up or have they dropped me off for the last time?
I change my mind. I head the other direction. Away from L.A. trekking towards the desert and maybe home. At least there I have a chance of a new beginning. There is nothing left for me back there. I stumble and fall but I get up and keep going. There is something and somebody there for me. I just need to keep moving.
Sometime around dawn I awake from an alcohol and drug induced stupor. I think of heading back to L.A. it would be so much easier. Then a car passes and I stick out my thumb and she stops.
“Hey where you heading?”
“Anywhere but here,” I reply.
“Hop in I am headed for Santa Fe.”
“Sounds good to me”
“You like the Grateful Dead,” she asks?”
“Hell yeah I got some conscious bud here.”
“Cool”
And the road begins to wind to our future.
Ah tis a glorious morn in Old Penryn Town
A chill in the air, sparkling frost on the ground
The Sun rising o're the mountains and trees to the East
What a beautiful sight .. for these old eyes a grand feast
The garden is aglow as it greets the new day
The flowers and plants rising from their sleep in the usual way
The field basks in the sunshine and soon the geese will arrive
Settling in to rest and feed on the pond what a sight for sore eyes
At the foot of the Sierras Old Penryn Town does quietly rest
The remnants of old orchards paint a clear picture of its glorious past
The hills and valleys provide a small shelter from the cities that lay beyond
Bathing everything in their beauty as if created by a mystical magic wand
In the distance a lonely train whistle can be heard loud and clear
As the train's monotonous hum draws ever more near
People traveling to somewhere, supplies destined for those further North
The train tracks form a majestic hi way as they weave back and forth
Every day in Old Penryn Town is a gift to be cherished
I often think of those that settled this land and then quietly perished
Their spirits cast an invisible cloud covering this beautiful land
And sometimes at night they can be felt among us .. still lending a hand
Life provides many challenges and often our rewards are too few
And to find peace and comfort is something most of us seldom do
So I am thankful that my love and I settled on this most hallowed ground
As each day is a blessing in Old Penryn Town
It is something
I've never feared,
I was born to fly.
Born to see cloud shadows
on the ground and the sugar sprinkles
of snow along a ridge,
leading to
the frosting clad Shasta.
Born to see the meandering
snow melt rivers descending
into checkerboard farm lands,
and the straight course
of the plane's shadow
paralleling tiny highways
towards home.
Born to do this forever,
if I could,
in and out of cotton clouds,
towards the tops
of distant thunderheads
along the Sierras,
plunging down
to sudden showers on
small town's streets.
Like my Greek ancestor I would fly
high enough to bronze my skin
and dive,
into Pacific waters with
a blacksmith's sizzle!
I was born to fly,
and if I could,
I would hijack this plane
with all of it's cringing travelers.
I would take them on such a ride,
that they could never go back
to a normal life again.
We would have arguments over
whose turn it was to fly the plane,
this time,
and resolve them with endless games
paper, stone and scissors.
A unique vision through the camera lens,
Portraits of nature in black and white.
Letting the beauty of contrast speak.
The California Coastline, the Sierras,
The Southwest..all in the starkest outline.
And Yosemite, whose grandeur he loved best.
A life spent capturing these wonders
Letting his work inspire; an incentive
To protect these treasures for all our tomorrows.
For a look at his work to to:
www.anseladams.com
The sky was sunny, the temperature was mild, and the wind was calm and mild. Tornadoes are known to rarely occur here, but the winds can get rather gusty. There is no hurricane season here, but the summer heat can often be rather terrorizing. In these parts, there is a rainy season in winter that often produces very little rain. Earthquakes are widely common in California, but not so much in this valley region.
As I was saying, the sunny sky had created such awesome beauty on a late spring day. As I drove home, I looked up and into the west and observed a sunset in this month of May. I tell you, the bright clouds nesting in the western sky is enough to take your breath away.
Clouds are said to be the 'Dust of God’s Feet'. Perhaps today he portrayed his feet being comforted in the setting sun. The clouds were snowy white and perhaps, they too were staring at their own beautiful sight.
San Francisco once embraced us with beautiful views and captured us with the flight of kites. Whether renting or buying in the City by the Bay, the views were always a part of the price. Clouds? I don’t remember clouds there, but most days, after the fog, turned sunny and nice.
Where I live presently, there’s no Golden Gate Bridge, no super curving street, but there are views. Yes, I miss the fog and the foghorns, and I wish we had the cool San Francisco chills on those hot summer days. But no, I wouldn’t take anything for the cloud views that never cease to overwhelm me.
Yes, my mind sometimes flows to the city of hills and chills and the views from Twin Peaks. But I like Sacramento with views of the High Sierras, and I like the clouds I saw today.
06012015PSContest, Sky Poetry, Anthony Slausen
Contest entry 101620, Old Poems, Free Verse (003)
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A. 8P
Tufts of ghostly cotton candy,
Backlit by lavender sage,
Caught in rocky nooks and
crannies,
Sky islands of stage.
Sugar whipped and frothy,
Clouds of pink and blue,
Melting in the moisture,
Disappearing with the dew.
Sticky light, fluffy grains,
Momentary treat,
Saccharin violet bliss,
Diabetic feat.
Rock candy gossamer, air-
whipped, spun,
Majesty's paper cone,
Rainbow sprinkles of
precipitation,
Air and water and stone.
Xylose billows, sucrose puffs,
Mouthwatering bits of sky,
Trapped by sierras, amethyst,
Until they melt, die.
The climate of planet earth has always been in a constant state of change, but modern science seems to have discovered a pattern of transformation that is very disturbing. Such revelations enable them to predict changes that will occur based on conditions that we mortals have created or have been a great contributor. Whether caused by natural processes over time or due to the reckless greed of mankind matters little, but the bigger question is whether or not we can effect a change, or is it really inevitable that we are ecologically and realistically doomed to annihilation. For at least half to three-quarters of my life, the government and the popular media have given me endless scenarios of, not possible but most probable catastrophic outcomes barring some drastic altering of mankind's current way of life. The kind of climate change that they foresee engenders a wildly ballistic mentality of anticipated pain and lasting misery of yet unheard of proportions, and it has the feel of a movie whose director and producer are prepared for mad dashes to high hills, mountain tops, and cave dwelling as the borders of southern Oregan clear across the Rockies and northern states become mere icepacks and freezer zones. The entire state of California will break away along the High Sierras and slide into the Pacific. Massive earth quakes, tsunamis, ice caps, floods, mud slides, forest fires, massive power outages, regional droughts, tornadoes, and hurricanes will as if having a mind of their own form a treaty to create a perfect storm in the northern hemisphere. Like the wild animals of the jungle and beasts of the wilderness, mankind's only feat will be to survive in an environment where the reasoning and rationalizing ability have been exchanged for a chaotic world of anarchistic instinct. *It is said that the locust does not have a king, yet they travel in bands. I do not look forward to a time when the locust accomplishes more in a leaderless state than we humans will. We will not be unified but disconnected as we slowly drift into a planetary abyss after pounding each other into the dust from which we came. Need I say more about how long this distructive condition will last? I know. So much doom and gloom....but I have too much to declare.
06042017PSContest, The Bleaker The Better, Julia Ward; Proverbs30:27*, NA
There was a place, supposedly, that was my home.
I was born and grew up in that Southern place.
My family was great, but that place, not so much.
I heard it said that home is where your story began.
But honestly, that place was never really home to me.
There is a neighborly place, saturated with love and grace.
It's a church community in a river city of trees, situated
In a valley of beautiful sunrises and sunsets between
The High Sierras, Lake Tahoe, and The Deep Blue Sea.
Sure, we were looking for a new church home,
But I was not in a hurry and did not want to go there.
For years, after going, I never really wanted to be there.
For years, I was uninvolved and behaved like one who didn't care.
And then, that friendly church became a place like none other.
Like being knitted together with family, a sister, or a brother.
Like a place of renowned, to cherish and to treasure.
When I think about our 28 years there, I realize it was the dearest.
A place where success was rewarded, and failure did not cause one
'To be less than', to run, to hide, to pretend, or to feel disregarded.
A place where rejected and weak ones can once again become strong.
A place, not about who's right or wrong, but about finding where one belongs.
A place where one could say, "Leave me alone", and not fear being left alone.
O, you may say it's time to move on and find a new place to roam. Make no Mistake, We have moved on; but 'that pastor' will aways be 'my pastor',
And 'that church' will always be 'my church'.
031722PS
Driving along last fall, we pointed to the beautiful orange trees of Autumn. There were many beautiful Sunday mornings as we drove to church.
Now early February, it's a bit cold and the breathtaking leaves are gone. Not to worry, the snow-capped Sierra mountains can be seen in the distance.
Today is a clear day so full of sunlight, and the white clouds are pure and stunning. As we drove along The Antelope Road, someone spoke of crispiness
and clean air. Although driving, safely I must add, I could not help but look up, out, around and away. We are deeply grateful to be getting plenty of rain in
the Central Valley without flooding. Heavy snowpacks in the mountain this winter will release ample supplies of water this summer. Like so much of life
itself, in the brightest of clouds, though unafraid, we must notate the grey.
Today, I saw tints of grey tucked so pristinely about the white clouds of peace,
poise, and calm. Knowing the meaning of it all, I INHALED the sun, snow-capped Sierras, and the beautiful clouds. I knew the meaning of it all and
instinctively EXHALED the site of slowly forming dark and grey clouds. Perhaps the rain would return Monday, but we welcomed the sunny Sunday.
02132019PoSoupContest, Mid Feburary, Brian Strand; 1P
The Highlander
From the sierras of Peru to the land of promise he came
as a student of life to learn but not for fame
but to absorb the thoughts of the American mind
and giving of his own in kind He took me as a friend
and always gave without regard
Even when his times were hard although he never showed it.
His knowledge and warmth has left a burning light
to brighten the path for all to see the breadth of his sincerity
What do children, parents ,best friend mean to you Contest
Sponsored by Jeff Cantor
May 19, 2018
Last winter he wandered away to the west
wearing a black hat ,a suit and a vest,
he practiced his shooting till he had it honed
he put a hair trigger on all that he owned.
He had to find Jagger ,a wolf of a man,
to bring him back down he would tackle his clan
A rough pack of owlhoots who hid out in caves,
up in the Sierras where only God saves.
He followed the trail of pillage and pain,
till he came in sight of the cave in the rain.
The rustlers were loaded with liquor and guns
fighting and laughing and having some fun.
He went in there blasting his pistols on fire,
he killed every man with a vengeance most dire,
The only one left when the smoke cleared away,
was Jagger who snarled"who are you anyway?"
The cowboy in black tipped his hat with a smile
It's your own son he said....
Now you're going to trial.
You left us to die on the trail in the past,
but somehow I lived and I swore to the last,
I'd find you and bring you back home to pay
for killing my Ma and now this is the day!
A CAUSTIC CACTUS
You left me low in the high Sierras
standing naked and all alone
there stood I midst sorrow and sand
sorrow, sand and stagnant stone
there was one lonely cactus
almost lonely as lonely me
both of us begging for sustenance
neither of us to ever be set free
I can't find the path that led me here
and you might say that I can't take no more
you might say i've reached the end
and no one has ever been so right before
why can't you just get it through your head
there will never be a time where the middle will meet the end?
I'm stuck in the arid air of sadness and it's cohort
it's comrade called the wind that makes both that cactus and myself bend
we are blown to and fro, from left to right
and every morning greets me with a sun that cooks my blood
one moment of sanctuary from the heat would be a gift
instead yet another night I wilt like a a lily or a blood red rosebud
I tried to hold you but the sun got in the way
I tried to keep you but no water might I find
i'm stuck in the acrid humidity of improprieties
and that sunlight has left me sweaty and blind
so here I am laying low in the high Sierras
knowing full well there ain't no escape
I remember love sworn on dunes of sand
and picnics midst the misty beauty of the cape
© 2012....PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
There are Springs so divine as to make one sing.
And there are Springs that warmly embrace queens and kings.
There's pure joy in watching the slow snow-melts of Mid-West Springs.
It's exhilarating in the Spring to see the rushing rapids from The High Sierras.
But there is sadness as tornadoes ripe through those Southern Springs.
I don't understand it all, but I will always be a lover of Spring and Fall.
Also, even though filled with adversity, Spring always rises to life universally.
Of late, there is much debate about 'Climate Change' and dramatic swings.
Some Springs have to wait in line until the Winter takes wings,
which might not happen until she's had her fill of cold bites and stings,
or until Winter ceases hiding behind deceptive clouds of ice, hale, and snow.
And sometimes Spring pitches a fit and demands Winter to pack up and go.
042522PSCtest, Spring Rhyme-8-12 Lines, Tania Kitchin
Allison liked to climb big rocks,
that’s how she spent the weekend days,
with ropes, pitons, and other gear,
felt most at home on a cliff face.
She’d come out to the Sierras,
to a campground with ledges near,
a short walk to the technical climbs,
she would enjoy all her time here.
The first day she’d done a good climb,
but just a warm-up for the rest,
the next day she’d really push it,
and give herself a worthy test.
But that night as she drank some wine,
perched before a big camp fire,
a young man walked by, tall and bronze,
naughty thoughts he did inspire.
Allison called out to the man:
“And here I thought I was alone.
Come on and help me drink this wing,
I can’t finish it on my own.”
A pretty girl offering booze…
What sort of man would turn down that?
She he sat down and took a swig,
then said,”Hello, my name is Max.”
Now Allison, she was no prude,
and was looking for a bit of fun,
both of them soon were nicely buzzed,
went to the tent when it was done.
So began a wild affair
that was to last all of that week,
by day she’d climb the big rock walls,
at night do anything but sleep.
One night she murmured to the man,
“I want to keep seeing you, somehow.”
Max just smiled and held her close,
said,”Let’s just both enjoy the now…”
It was on the last day she had
joined with some others for a climb,
at the bottom, on the scree-slope,
she stumbled upon an odd find.
A white cross painted on a rock,
half-faded by the sun’s harsh glare,
she asked, and a local climber said:
“I think a climber once died there.
“It was a bit before my time,
but now that I stop and think back…
I believe I can recall his name,
it was Mike…or Mick…or Max?”
The minute that she heard the name
she knew that something big was wrong,
Allison rush down to the camp,
but her Max was completely gone...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.