Short Sherpa Poems

Bedtime Delicasies


Soft, warm, big pillows.
Flannel sheets, sherpa blankets,
Warm cat, at my feet.

             

                12/11/2021...

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Cliff edge narrows, steps in place
 danger looming strong
Height above me terror laced
searching right from wrong
Summit beckons, flag to place
and leave my name among
Flocks of pilgrims reaching grace
—to finally belong

(The New Room: July, 2022)...

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Tackled by a stutter murmur of Deus.
The praying ended and packed as threats.
Err, umm, uhh, were cliched by vomits. 
Grasped all the needs and rusty flirts. 
Prune back Sheoak! The cutest green pine.
Pity Sheoak no more green crown again.
Where are Quechua and Sherpa? They go....

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If it's a choice to be happy
is it a choice to be beautiful?
Will beauty wrap me up in sherpa
and bake me until I'm gold brown
like the perfect chocolate chip cookie,
if I will it?
What is beauty anyway?
Is it even real?
Or will it all just 
disappear
with our flesh
as it wastes away
into the earth
it once called beautiful?...

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TRANQUIlLITY
             




One, sleepy eye peeps
At foggy, gray sunless skies
Comfort of Sherpa blanket arrives
Wraps her as a warm butterfly
Embracing her, owning her
With wings gently nurturing 
Her poetic thoughts beginning to warm
Velvety as a monarch's wings
California, it's January morning
Tranquility, at it's dawning


           JANUARY 2, 2020
                8:30 AM PST...

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Risking it all
in the earthbound sky

Her summit was calling,
the weather defies

An avalanche beckoned,
one Sherpa was lost

A trek through the death zone,
another one gone

The temperature dropping,
the oxygen sparse

My crampons now heavy
and feeling much worse

To retreat or push on,
the danger the same

All hail Sagarmatha
—still calling my name

(Memories Of Nepal: March, 2021)...

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How much like my uncertain destination
Your climb from drab youth began
In cold ascent from marginalization
To the peak of honored man.
And rare, so rare, fame instant
And accolades that upon you in vintage poured
Was that they were cognizant
There is no summit except that which you assured?
Your brown feet on white face of snow
Slip-proof, the journey yield its cold, callous distance
And nothing so warm as the glow
Of a motivated heart where sharp snowflakes dance...

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