The trail led to a mountain top
unveiling a becoming view
there not expected to be seen-
and knew we found a peekaboo
to an attractive, bubbly scene
likened to a movie prop.
Effervescent was the blue lake
framed by the verdant spruce and pine.
Pure and untouched for nature's sake-
a harbinger of peace divine.
If the narrow trail of wisdom you seek, my son,
And not the broad highway of insouciant life,
From merciless suffering you must never shun
For there endure the truths that make the spirit rife.
Demetrios Trifiatis
22 August 2026
Along the Appalachian trail
was a leftover petrified bale
on top stood a lonely quail
looking sturdy, in no way frail
also left was a loaf of bread, stale
according to my goofy cousin, Dale
Always good for stories without fail
comedienne after his stint in jail
next to the straw bale was a grail
Dale thought it was carved in shale
he heard a coyote’s drawn-out wail
it came to him on a gusty gale
He nibbled on a piece of kale
which he had found in a wooden pail
soon he felt hearty and hale
is this the end? asked the inquisitive quail
Thomas stirred the tasteless,
clear liquid into his wife's
evening chamomile tea.
He smiled, thinking of the life
he imagined with another woman
he met in a stripper night club.
By midnight, Eleanor was gone,
her sudden passing blamed on
natural causes.
The grieving husband played
his part perfectly, weeping at
the funeral.
Two weeks later, he prepared
to sell the estate and move
away.
An insurance investigator
arrived, asking to see
Eleanor's final medical
records.
Thomas confidently handed
over the paperwork, certain
his tracks were completely
clean.
He failed to notice the smart
watch still syncing on her
bedside table.
Its biometric sensors
recorded the precise
moment her vitals fluctuated
unnaturally.
The digital timeline provided
the evidence needed to end his dreams of freedom in handcuffs.
Long Walk
dark silhouettes of maple trees
etched against the evening sky
a whiteish haze in the distance
dulls the sharp outlines
of the Smoky Mountains
my time on the
Appalachian Trail has been
long and arduous
my soul aches
for home
my body wants a soft bed
but I have miles to go
to reach the southern terminus
at Springer Mountain, Georgia
I put one foot
in front of the other
as I trudge on
just another through
hiker finishing
a long walk
I'm bewildered by what I see yonder,
Now hold yer horses, let's cease to wander.
We're fixin to meet yer coffee boiler.
He's the new one who's not a straight shooter. Whoah!
I reckon he's got an excuse for it.
And he will tell me why he didn't quit.
I'm stumped why he bamboozled you last night.
I thought I'd be cashed in for that big fight.
But I thought we should cowboy up!
You know I'm gonna call that wrangler's bluff.
We'll not run from trouble and skedaddle.
A strong man must sit firm on his saddle.
Grab a bandana, and fetch a canteen.
Nobody's guessed where this trail's gonna lead.
I once road down a lonely darkened road.
The burdens that I carried formed a load.
But I stood determined to cowboy up.
To set my trail straight and clean myself up!
That waddler will learn to ride for the brand.
By my wise warnin' and wisdom's command!
Those punchers all hat, surely no cattle,
Soon learn wild broncos make 'em chew gravel.
Cowgirls too!
These days, cowboys must learn to communicate!
And get the best result negotiatin'
Big change is ridin' hard across the range! Whoah!
I have grown old and slow and soft,
and my herd has all run oft,
but I still have my trusty friend the snail...
on the Colorado Trail.
Ear side chats do scale
Nature see; balancing act
Spider sense tingling strings
I hiked a portion of the Harriet Tubman trail with boots upon my feet.
I can’t imagine walking the entirety of the path she, several times, had to complete.
I hiked it in the light of a sunny day when the weather was particularly nice.
I can’t imagine walking in the cold and rain, blanketed by the darkness of a Maryland country night.
Of course, no one was chasing me; no masters were left behind.
Being a privileged white American male, I cannot truly appreciate her state of mind.
But I have a creative imagination and have studied my U.S. history,
Enough to understand this heroine had more courage than that which resides inside of me.
I may have exactly retraced some of her steps, quite literally,
But in no way mirrored her brave journey in any way metaphorically.
After the hike I drove home exhausted looking forward to a nice long nap.
With only the physical and emotional strength left to tip Ms. Tubman my Oriole baseball cap.
A trail of breadcrumbs is my return. Repentance is my reason. Love is my cure.
Long and winding is the trail
slickened by a slimy snail.
Through life he does wend,
wondering how it will end:
"If I might beg your pardon,
little snail in my garden -
is your day going well,
little creature in a shell?"
The mollusk replied in fright,
"I beg your pardon if I might",
said the snail whose skin was wet
with nervous beads of sweat.
"I'm God's creature just like you",
said he as he eyed the shoe,
and, "My, you're looking good,
glad you're in the neighborhood."
But those words were too late,
for the beast of sluggish gait.
It wasn't how he had wished,
his life stilled by being squished.
Nations split the atom
Unleashing impending doom
China stockpiles munitions
London rings europe's bell
Europe prepares for the inevitable carnage
America plants silos in the midwest
Russian bells are tolling
Kremlin halls are glowing
Nuclear war can be won
Under the right conditions
Contrary to what peace geeks think
Knights of freedom must rise
Let loose the lightning
Echo the shattering thunder
Holocausts and hellhounds
Embers will reign
Ash will choke the skies
Dust is but our destiny
Send them all straight to hell
If I were a poem
metaphoric words would dance in
synchronicity,
similes would waltz the frown
from off my face.
If I were a poem
I'd wrap sonnets around you,
Like tourniquet stanzas
healing chapters in verse.
If I were a poem
cliches would clash with
unwritten rules,
words would not rhyme and dear diary would not exist.
If I were a poem
gone would be the day
that I smudged my own ink,
threw you in the bin and said
" I'm done with all this. "
Oh
if I were a poem
my legacy would remain
As a great prophet who once was
and always is-
If I were a poem.
We hike the trails where emerald silence grows,
The forest hums beneath the morning light,
The mountain breathes in rhythms nature knows.
The beach wind plays with gulls in seaward flight,
We splash through waves, our footprints wash away,
The forest hums beneath the morning light.
By lakes so still they mirror skies all day,
Canoes drift slow like dreams in midday sun,
We splash through waves, our footprints wash away.
Through wooded paths, the deer and foxes run,
We pitch our tent where starlight softly lands,
Canoes drift slow like dreams in midday sun.
A fire is born from our own weathered hands,
We share our tales until the embers die,
We pitch our tent where starlight softly lands.
We hike the trails where emerald silence grows,
The mountain breathes in rhythms nature knows,
The beach wind plays with gulls in seaward flight,
We share our tales until the embers die.
Civil Rights fight is where the need for freedom began
An end
Society says Race once again
Thrown in the face
The upward battle
No settle
The Blockade
No sitting in darkness under a shade
No hidden words
Having a mind to excel
The need to prove
Inspired and determined to move
Don’t need permission
Created from above
Freedom to think of
Society doesn’t want races to interrelate
There is a purpose to associate
The look of hate
No appreciate
Forefathers fought then and legacy continues in protest
Rebel ringing through the air
Society doesn’t care nor are fair
By any means necessary
Shout and speak making awareness as an outcry
No stand by
Freedom is a must to try
Look hatred in the eye
I am the who and not the why
Can’t be silent because I shouldn’t
Determined with desired words
The need to be heard
Look at me and see
My own means necessary
The theory with a story
Freedom will be my glory.
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