mountain lying before
awesome width, height, unclimbable, insurmountable....
option~ tunnel through
I am a dangerous dream
Lure you in, distract you with my lies, grey
Not as I seem, am i
My skin are scales
Cartilage willed rough and agreed to
Mirror no longer needed
I know what I am
Dangerous dream
Or something to take notice of
Silent request for rescue
Or a lure to an unclimbable hole
Where I sit
Hello...are you coming for the ride?
To whom it may concern
What I regarded as my best work
a selection of poems and written words
The title is "intense memories"
sent to a publisher that, after a week
said they would like to print my book
As the world stands for an unknown writer
I paid 400 euros for them to publish
Then came the long silences broken
with a request for more money, which
I ignored with a sigh of resignation
Our non-communication is growing
louder and deadly silent
I have reread my work, and it makes me
despair to tears that I'm not able to find
a proper publisher, but have to rely on
The third-rate publishers who are not
interested in literature per se, but a way
to make money from those who believe
They have a gift, a talent to share
Today is the saddest day in my life. I ask
What's the point of living when the wall
is unclimbable, when disappearing is
a welcoming option, because I'm losing
the belief that I matter.
That they were right all along, but they
felt sorry for me and wrote kind words
that in the end felled me like a rotten
tree in a green forest of the talented
Whitestone Hoodoos
Near where I live,
just up the hill above the airport,
is a place of mystery and wonder,
a place wizards might once have dwelled,
or young warriors wandered in search of vision.
It’s a thicket of chalky hoodoos, sitting now
like a forest of plump petrified dwarfs made of meringue
sculpted by uncountable drops of rain
and whatever it is you might call a single unit of wind.
It’s enchanting for sure,
but largely ignored by the sensible folk.
It’s a place of unclimbable slippery slabs and
crumbly sliding slopes, of snakes with rattles
and succulents with thorns.
I’m sure to some eyes it’s just a barren hill,
and to others an inspiring view that’s always just out the window,
to some a marvelous result of random tectonic drifts
and to a few at least, a glimpse into the past
when wizards and warriors met
under the shadow of watchful dwarves
and ate the bitter root.
(from my third book, SUN MADE FLESH AND FIBER, 2019)
bedeviled by saucy angels
he takes a twilight walk
behind his eyes
the old world is fading away
left and right
were but one
unclimbable horizon
he quickened his steps
as if fast walking would
outpace the beating of his
homeless heart
as for the tender-hearted angels
they were undressing
always undressing
always demanding
he stay rooted in his earth
if he could
even if he couldn't
the sun arises
so as not to surprise us
with freezing to death
mostly taken for granted
on this small circling planet
inertia reigns
within most things lacking brains
course remains the same
in daylight or deepest dark
be it stone atom or quark
things bend in the wind
time proven way to defend
avoid a dead end
better to guard what we've got
than contemplate a new start
not just the knowing
keeps understanding growing
often tis going
where all seems strange fresh and new
with unique truths to accrue
come what may or will
storm or unclimbable hill
pure fact or cheap thrill
despite all that is bygone
existence always moves on
There is an unclimbable mountain that no one can scale,
though many have tried.
It is very tall and frightfully steep
and many, many miles wide.
Snow is at the top
and cactus is down below.
Frost bite is gonna get you
or sunshine will make you glow.
Few animals dare to
make this their home;
With dark legends and myths
that will scare you to the bone.
Enough of the storytime my friend,
it is time for me to descend.
3-September-2021
Heaven would crash on earth,
earth would crash into hell,
and hell would crash on Satan.
Satan would rot and transform into fertilizer for growing humans,
and humans would turn into preachers.
The preachers would turn into politicians,
and the politicians would try to fool God.
God would be an unclimbable mountain,
and the mountain would be hell.
Hell would be the president of the world,
and that world is Donald Trump.
Donald Trump would be a pink toilet,
and the pink toilet would be the White House of America.
The White House of America would be Nigeria,
and Nigeria would be a glorified shithole.
The shithole would be the president of Nigeria,
and Nigeria would be a Nigga from Niger.
Niger would be a deep sea without fish but contaminated water,
and the water would change into crud oil.
The crud oil would be used by God to cleanse the madness of the world.
…and that world is our **** whole world;
a word blessed with too many joys, wars and whores.
A name on the tip of a tongue.
A father caught in traffic, who never made the party.
A mongrel fighting a lion,
whose only reason for living was the one for which he was dying.
Were you here yet changed so much?
Never be recognised; a caterpillar-butterflied.
But I tried...
...and I tried...
...and I tried.
Every season fallow,
exhausted,
exacted.
Have I retracted or is there time for one last sweep?
Am I the janitor never paid,
always more dust to collect, to heap?
My bristles are worn and no longer reach into your corners.
A spider, relentlessly scaling an unclimbable bath,
a forward moonwalk that will only end in withered legs,
and blistered feet,
then nothing.
Life may throw you a paper ladder,
but all too often life is wish washed away,
with the scum, the debris, of a bad bad day.
Mistaken,
unrecognised,
potential is lost,
if potential is there it comes with a cost.
A surety that exists only like beauty,
in a beholder's eye,
In an older sky,
an older I.
Tender beauty cloaked with timid face
Unveil please! put them in their place
Bye to your tragic armoured defence
Astounded, put them in a trance
Sorry sweet duckling it wasn't fair
Don't be haunted Now they want to stare
Let go of hatred, replace it with a smile
Don't know what hit them, it had been a while
Stand proud today, grown pretty flower
The Sun shines wanting to devour
Nature kind in this loving hour
Revealed to all, unclimbable tower
Live today for the next will reminisce
Only the days past comtemplate amiss
World breathless you've forgot your hiss
Humbled by the compliment of your natural bliss
Now impossible for one to adorn
Became invisible scar of all thorn
Unfortunate all perfections end
Universal infinity The Stars had one to lend
Every year she returns to the scene
This place in question where life has been mean
On muddy banks down by the waterline
Alone in her tomorrow's, solitary resigned
Having already lost her husband in his freedom fight
No mother should enter this fateful night
Her baby, her son, that a mother sees to grow
Wandered from her safety to that fast water flow
All innocent and fearless little steps slowly walk
In playful surrounds just barely in talk
Noises up ahead attract this mind to peek see
So curious they are when they get a chance to break free
Down an unclimbable bank he faces his lure
Once a slow flowing stream soon to take natures pure
Yesterdays storms allowed the heavens to cry
Whilst his mother kneels down and still asks herself why
In her hand she clasps a bunch of Roses so red
Tears fill her eyes knowing her tomorrow's lie dread
Once again she looks back, facing a mothers fear
A last glimpse of the flow, feeling her lost sons tears
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/loss-5.php
The Great Plains offers it beauty slowly as the edge of
The Rocky Mountains rose like a rugged and
Unclimbable fence keeping them penned in
Driving southwest the line of fence posts became a blur of
Old hand cut wood and slowly rusting barbed
Wire save for the occasional juniper shrub
The sun warmed the air, the smell of prairie grasses and the
Expanding desert, arid and dusty but too the taste of
Honest hard work and over a century of history
The unending ribbon of blacktop eased left and right around
Bluffs and mesas following the original wagon trails
Of long ago. The cars engine whined as armadillos lay
By the side of the road. Just waiting
Following the magnificent Rio Grande as the early settlers did,
It is time for a rest now, stepping off the dusty trail,
With the oasis sought clearly in view
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