"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." ~ Maya Angelou
A lake view emerging from a mountain pass,
turquoise water reflecting the sun like glass -
a view of heaven;
butter-fingered hands that missed,
a football to the stomach and a fist -
countless bullies (six or seven);
on a prairie, soaking in some peace,
hearing honking of Canadian geese -
moving with the seasons;
the girl next door, a beautiful bride,
several of the wedding guests cried -
for different reasons.
I long to be cycling up a mountain pass
A mountain goat on the cliff, a lake like glass
A foaming river on my left, cascading down the height
Indian paintbrush in a meadow, snowy peaks on my right.
And I couldn’t go wrong
If I had Dad along
The way he used to be
Explaining the landforms to me.
Mother and brothers would pedal too
We’d crest the pass to a panoramic view
of mountains and valleys and a wide blue ocean
Elegant towns, freight trains in motion.
Once the road was narrow, but the future was wide
Every pass a stepping stone, every mile sanctified
We ventured without thinking what it cost or meant
Some stops to regroup, but hope fueled our ascent.
I long to be cycling up that mountain pass
But freedom like that now lives in the past
Can’t do it anymore—so many restraints
Maybe in an afterlife we’ll ride with the saints.
Back to the mountain, just a metaphor
We go our own ways, life closes the door.
If you take the wrong path, hard to get on track.
Can't tell the clock to turn itself back.
The ever-cherishing...
View of the panoramic blue hills
The melodious tone of a Thrush
A glimpse of a distant horizon
The sight of clouds kissing the sky.
The Panache of...
Lovers weaving the dream web
The demanding depths of a mountain-pass
The luxuriant foliage
The sparkly stars in the pitch-black skies
The sharpest gaze at the infinite.
It is a desire...
To descend the hours of hardship
To sightsee a palmy garden
To feel the caressing north wind afar
To recreate the defunct fauna and flora
To sense the aroma of Bethlehem Lily.
Must care take ...
The emotions swinging in the sky canoe.
To mouth shut the gamut of harsh words
To augment the woe of parted love
To fill the voids with the right choice and
To put off rage, a forest fire in action!
Exquisite is...
The unheard song from the unknown
The illusion is craving for an Oasis.
The reality, time plunging into an hourglass
Afar, a new beginning undoes.
The sunrise, twilight and nightfall, the viewers!
The snow retreats with gentle grace,
Revealing Earth’s hidden face.
Young blossoms bloom where frost has fled,
And streams awake from icy beds.
The Winter Wren call through warming air,
Their voices angelic, beyond compare.
Soft moss returns in emerald hue,
Beneath the pines still kissed by dew.
The mountain breathes a fresher song,
Its stillness stirred by daylight long.
A daffodil, so small and true,
Stands bold against the melting blue.
The winds grow mild, the skies are wide,
As life returns to every side.
No grander throne, no finer art,
Than springtime in the mountain's heart.
Behind mountain pass
Flowers radiate moonlight
Lights overrides scents
All the shelves been emptied,
there are no books left about;
Both hist'ries and the words
become nothing but a shout.
Those in the old paintings
that hang, but barely displayed,
Hold the names forgotten
as places and faces fade.
The gardens are vacant
for last year's crops are long gone.
This land's now for condos
from this first day and beyond.
There will be no playgrounds,
they are pulling down the schools;
Concrete jungle's coming
as well as are private pools.
Mountains will disappear
behind the large one way glass;
Rivers are diverted,
there will be no mountain pass.
Trees come down for lumber,
grass is turned over for roads;
Then come one acre blocks
to the rich they will be sold.
If ones kept the paintings
they are rich beyond compare;
They hold a heritage,
yet so few here are aware.
Pride goes before the fall
in all of this commotion;
What's left is flattened by
the progress that's in motion.
I shaved my head
and wore a robe
the mountain pass
I found at last
grew thin alas
but fat I got
on nature's lot
her sounds were not
my thoughtless strobe
though I was dead
to the mountain's mass
in me she saw
I knew not what
my feet grew raw
I found my past
a timely flaw
the mountain pass
my life aghast
and all was for
a little more
though I was dead
I shaved my head
The bear came limping down
With body singed and bloody paws
Lay on the ground
And let out its final groan
Its spirit rose around
The shoulder of the mountain pass
Where all was blackened stumps
And rising smoke
We took a day to reach the brow
Through searing air and choking heat
Crawled the last few yards
Of granite sheer and steep
The horizon all around
Stained with bloody gall
We stared out and saw
The mountain range bleak
Of the raven’s empire.
Dawn Chorus
In the shifting colours of the spreading dawn
A solitary song from the woodland trees
Then a chorus of voices that rising morn
Carried on the impulse of the early breeze.
A thousand melodies over wind blown grass,
The chorus drifts over plain and mountain pass,
Filling silent valleys with the song’s refrain,
Until lost in the waking day’s loud domain.
For Ottava Rima Contest
by L.Milton Hankins
Checked by Howmanysyllables.com
Barry Stebbings
Sept. 2022
What lies ahead, I do not know,
But I will confidently go
Along this rough and tumble trail
O’er mountain pass, dank, boggy swales,
To scale the heights, be brought down low.
Though ‘twas ordained so long ago,
I find there is no cause for woe;
Nay, joyfully I look to scale
what lies ahead.
I may befriend a would-be foe
To sanctify and flourish, grow,
Or stumble over some travail,
Cry out in need, or badly fail,
But I know all is apropos,
what lies ahead…
—————
For the Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Written on 06/06/2022
One never knows where a winding
road will lead
A winding road can lead you
up a mountain pass
Or a hill road winding pass
A winding road can lead to
a stream or river bank
Or lead you on a dirt road
that leads to a farmer's field
A winding road can lead you
to a hidden beach
A winding road can lead you
on a journey to anywhere
Time waits for no one man.
It comes so swiftly and surely.
Be sure to have a plan.
‘Cause when he comes, you’ll see
That you might just be able to
Pass by and run quickly
Away from him and through
A mountain pass. Or maneuver
Through woodland caribou.
The world is your oyster!
Make something of it somewhere
You could live forever.
Remember, time is there.
Waiting. For a day that it
Catches you unaware.
If caught, don’t throw a fit.
With wit, you tried to cheat death
It’s your fault you nitwit.
Four friends and I, one Sunday, take a ride.
our church still closed just short of one full year.
We drive, white almond blooms on either side,
instead. Their branches wave as if to cheer,
“Prepare the way! Prepare the way for God!”
Each blade of mountain grass we see arise,
like little children singing praises, laud.
Some tiny purple flowers sing reprise,
join fiddlenecks of gold, much like stained glass
to deck the mountain like an A-frame church.
We slowly drive the narrow mountain pass
to see the valley from a lookout perch.
The treetops seem to bow, like they declare
their love for God. In awe, we join their prayer.
March 7, 2021
Breath of Spring Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
The soul has to courageously experience all things,
taking steps in new direction by adjusting the wings.
Genuine sincerity regardless of fancy and pleasure,
destinations journey to accumulate embrasure.
Silence serves as lock of the excitable,
shielding the wisdom as veil before versed delightable.
The trades of life adjust in time to advance,
mastering oneself to vices enhanced.
Passing through and rise to conquer,
progress loving virtues anchor.
Believing fuel and inspired light,
struggling self as consuming flame of right.
Compassion the smoking glow of faith,
flames that illuminates the path of right.
The journey of freedom leads to captivity,
mountain pass of discipline towards liberty.
Translation become reincarnation,
the fine line of interpretation.
Subjecting the ideal as true realization,
the soul as part of love becomes glorification.
A golden halo crested jagged peaks,
It’s kiss of morning splendour
Tasted like a Valley-fruit cocktail;
Yellow-orange fire rising over the glass,
And, full to the brim, sloshed streaks
Down the mountains. Citrus venture
Splashed the spruce and the soft shale
With orange juice hues along the mountain pass.
Morning breathed a soft sigh,
Just enough to raise the hair on
My arms. Standing over Heaven, its gates
Of carven oak and sharp pine musk;
El Dorado is the majesty of the sky.
A golden city reflected upon
The ground which I stand, the lakes
And the streams in a land of dusk.
Golden leaf, silver spoon, still distraught
Are those that don’t realize beauty cannot be bought.
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