Grandmother Everest caresses clouds
with her diamond-studded, silky crown.
Westerners come to conquer and boast
Sherpas wish to provide for their loves
and must always bear the heaviest load.
Shaman chants echoing from base camp
The mountain tourists are not listening
They're having a toast and chewing granola bars.
Prayer flags dance and quietly chat
Snowflakes are dreaming in avalanche.
Shaman chant from base camp
They're still not listening.
Today is the push for the summit.
The rich. plastic-dipped mountaineers.
Pickaxe the icy apron of Grandmother Everest.
The weather shifts-windchill dips....
The fog and wind perform their wicked tricks.
The reaper is the death zone storekeeper.
Shelves lined with broken axes -blistered faith.
Empty oxygen bottles, the last prayer of a mate.
Grandmother Everest is the keeper of ego and bones.
At base camp, the shaman chants
The prayer flags whip
Only the dead and dying are listening.
In the belly of Enugu’s coal-dark earth,
Men toiled beneath for all they were worth.
Sweat and silence, pickaxe and pain,
Digging riches, yet bound by chain.
No crown they wore, though kings they stood,
Their hands were scarred, their hearts were good.
But when they rose with voices loud,
The empire answered with gun and shroud.
November wept in forty-nine,
As rifles cracked a crimson line.
Twenty-one fell, dreams undone,
Beneath the unforgiving sun.
They asked for bread, were given lead,
By those whose flags in silence bled.
Their only crime? To dare to stand,
For justice on their native land.
The coal was black, but deeper still,
Was British greed and iron will.
Yet from that grave, a fire grew,
A cry for freedom, strong and true.
Oh Iva Valley, sacred ground,
Where martyr’s blood still speaks profound.
Not just a tale of loss and dust,
But how the broken found their trust.
Their names may fade from pages read,
But history walks where they once bled.
And every step toward liberty’s light
Was paved by those who dared to fight.
Despite the bellowing of loved ones,
you've chosen to go it alone.
Thus far you've had immunity to folly and mishap.
Now you're long overdue, but nobody knows.
You've left no itinerary nor coordinates.
There'll be no search and rescue
upon that avalanche of arrogance.
The pickaxe has slipped from your hand.
Sliding into the sweet blackness.
Days layer upon a twist of broken bones.
Blue ice licks its own thickness into a groan.
You've reached the black pinnacle of the purist, alone.
Under a robin's egg sky upon the throat of icy cliffs.
The alpinists ascend a blizzard of sorrow and bliss.
Sowing a string of prayer flags into the white heart soul of spirit pass.
The 49er arrives with the virgin sunrise.
But the golden veins have long ago dried.
Pickaxe in hand, dynamite in his good eye.
He's the only one left of the calloused kind.
Back in spring, Blackjack the burro broke free.
Bolting for the last watering hole
Licking the salt from his reins.
Deeper and deeper the miner burrows in.
It's all about double blind commitment now.
The poison of pride over the succulence of time-
Willowy faith over the slag of good reason-
The gristle of isolation over nectar of companionship.
At the very edge of the dimming lamp light.
The black snake has all but tapped the vein dry.
A dusty angel sips the last of the moonshine.
The 49er rolls two stones over two black holes
that once were hazel stars on the rise.
Here rest my oars.
A killick thrown to the school of fishes,
To still my boat from the peering waves.
Fishy-wishy scatter as water splatters,
Like wood chips flying when the pickaxe strikes.
A ship draws near, but my killick blocks its kiss—
Its stale mouth might stagger my rest,
And send my gathered fish fleeing the net.
Much of the mud my killick swallows,
So the wave won’t tug the boat an inch.
More students from the school must reach my net.
A long wait beneath the twilight-dimming sky.
Yet the fish market waits for a refill.
The cool breeze begs my eyes to close,
But hunger bites hard with its mocking teeth—
My killick just has to steady the float.
The Grind
In Gielinor's realm, where legends reside,
A hero emerges, with nowhere to hide.
From Lumbridge to Kharazi, a journey untold,
With pickaxe and sword, a story unfolds.
The grind is relentless, the hours they blur,
Woodcutting, mining, a monotonous stir.
But whispers arise, of glory and fame,
To slay the great dragon, and conquer the game.
From barrows to bandits, a constant fight,
Forging ahead, with unwavering might.
Each skill a triumph, each level a gain,
A digital odyssey, easing the pain.
With friends by your side, a camaraderie deep,
Sharing the burden, secrets to keep.
The memories linger, the laughter, the tears,
A timeless adventure, conquering fears.
So raise a tankard, to Gielinor's might,
To heroes of old, who battled through night.
For in this realm, where legends are born,
The spirit of Runescape forever will adorn.
What love embodies is set in stone
Only a pickaxe can break
What's truthfully there, damage prone
What the heart wants is stuck with a stake
Maybe I’m the pickaxe who destroys all love
But I will never be so sure
Because the pickaxe can be anything, a gentle dove
I don’t know what love has in store
All I know is that love still embodies
Anyone who sets me up a glance
My heart seems to take many vengeful hobbies
But hey, my head won’t move it’s stance
What love embodies is set in stone
I’m the pickaxe that breaks
What's dishonestly there, lying prone
I must stick my heart with a stake
Top of the world, Ma —
See those little fingers down there?
Those tiny rivers runnin’ thru the valley —
You fall, you won’t be repaired
Gimme pickaxe, gimme rope-ladder
Gimme both McKinley and Everest
I think best at highest altitudes
I’m hottest at my grooviest
Sheer fall —
You’re goin down
You’re goin down all the way
(2x)
You know the Donner Party was up in these parts
And they ate each other up
Much like those handsome boys from Brazil
Who were tryin’ to win the World Cup
When you finally scale that mountain,
Of course there ain’t nobody to witness
And then your ego sends the avalanche down
And you’re a sacrifice to physical fitness
Sheer fall —
You’re goin down
You’re goin down all the way
(2x)
As if by other ears,
you hear the trees cracking,
a black ice splitting the sky,
a pickaxe laying bare
night’s white bones.
Sleepers arise
still dreaming of such things.
A cave, and inside
that carved-out ear
the dreams of others’
troubling you
into a kind of love.
And was it you walking
angrily away
driven wild and shouting,
with a night-gale roaring
in some other ear?
Teach them just enough words to know
a pickaxe from a pencil…. just a few practical words
for practical applications, not too many,
otherwise they might turn into poets,
and god-knows we don’t need any more of that.
Teach them just enough words to know
a pickaxe from a pencil…just a few practical words
for practical applications, not too many,
The chimps could build dog kennels for dogs,
shelves for their tools. Park benches for
other more elderly chimps.
Humans on the other hand could
curtail much language education,
perhaps needing only enough words
to tell chimps what to do,
leaving them more time
to shout incoherently into cellphones
while communicating
almost entirely in emojis
even more than they do now.
We should teach the chimpanzees to read
the names of certain things. Objects like tools
for instance
then label the tools: hammer, saw, axe,
screwdriver etcetera, then screws and nails.
Teach them just enough words to know
a pickaxe from a pencil…just a few practical words
for practical applications, not too many,
otherwise they might turn into poets,
and god-knows we don’t need anymore of that.
The chimps could build dog kennels for dogs,
shelves for their tools. Park benches for
other more elderly chimps.
They will, of course have no use for words
like romance, religion and politics.
If they wanted to fight among themselves
(as chimps often do),
they could simply go back to grunting,
screaming and throwing sticks at each other,
as we used to.
I might have made a miscalculation,
maybe tools for low-tech apes
eventually leads to holocausts and Hiroshima.
Perhaps after all,
we will just teach them how to write poetry
for those who prefer their muse
to scream and grunt a bit.
Then maybe we can start on the dogs and cats;
force them to play the piano for a living.
Though dormant, your strengths are still present...
within the silky staircase of God-woven DNA.
Just peel away layers of perceived weakness
climb through the fiery muck and mire...
through acidic jive-devil-clawed lies.
Climb with a pickaxe of love and faith.
Shed decades of doubters and layers of deceivers.
Buoy the desperate dreamers, along the way.
Climb until ogres cannot reach your lowest high.
Until jealousy no longer bangs a cymbal against your mind.
An enriched life awaits those with fair intentions.
Climb as if every step uplifted the heavens.
Climb until you smack your face against the stars.
Just climb.
Miss Andry, you are truly a mystery.
You have Revealed yourself as Artemis and Lady of Ephesus to Many.
Miss Andry, you're mother nature that Roars like a lion and your voice thunders time after time.
Miss Andry, you're the root of most religions and goddess to many nations.
Miss Andry, you're the role model and idol to women all over the world, and even worshiped as queen of the Amazon women long ago.
Miss Andry, you're Strength was revealed when you transformed into your twin brother Apollo.
While Transformed into Libera, the goddess of Freedom, you have forgotten your attributes of Justice and Mercy.
Miss Andry, your Heart is cold and hard as the statue of liberty, not even a pickaxe can penetrate your disharmony.
Miss Andry, why do you treat me like you do?
Why do you blame me all the time?
Haven't I tried to love you through and through the passing of time?
Miss Andry, MIss Andry, How can I get through to you?
MOUNTAIN
I
used
to be stable,
dependable, granite;
a mountain holds an echo
like a lover’s kiss. Once holy parts
of me are crumbling away, eroded by betrayal
~ that shifting precipice, integrity ~ that landslide, my honesty.
? How long does it take for a mountain to become a boulder? ?
Geologists know the answer but you don’t care, you have a pickaxe ?
and the desire for security. If a woman asks you to give up your mountain-ness,
no matter what she needs the rocks for, in exchange for her love, refuse indignantly;
it is not a fair trade.
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