It was a Christmas of oh! long ago
pine trees were dappled with frozen snow
it was a time when Noels were chimed
alongside ladders of life, still unclimbed
It was a season of pure delightement
without technologies bombardment
a moment of grace a time of quietude
filled with the Spirit of Yuletide's exude.
Beauty and truth
forever embark
Born of the moment
together apart
To mountains unclimbed
and oceans unsailed
Beyond the horizon
— where prescience unveils
(Dreamsleep: September, 2024)
Through troubled times I traveled far,
lugging life with lanced dreams’ deep scar.
Twilight tinged the mountain mystique,
I couldn’t climb the attainment peak,
failed life faded like shooting star.
Engines turn-over only to drift backwards
into the on-going.
Cats cling to kids and kitchens.
Discarded are the shopping shoes.
Stale ideas grow dust clouds
in that space between our skulls
and heaven.
Paints for store fronts
are brushed aside
forced to hide under long
unclimbed ladders.
An ill-wind adds gossip to tongues, but where?
The talkers are not listening
and the silent have surrendered.
Tree roots clack and crack under street lamps
buried, yet they creak as loud as
any brittle-bound Grandfather clock.
Small towns struggle
to trim the sly slow weeds
that mesh and bind
their collective ramshackle histories.
The surging stream cascades in swirling ebullience
Through dancing shadows of swaying trees entranced
The spectral dew drops draping the glinted grass tips
Weave lattice of splendor on the meadow bejeweled
The drizzling dust on moonbeam in blue satin night
Adorns the pearl laced waves of rolling sea beguiled
That’s where I look for my muse elusive.
Up above the majestic mountain’s serenading slopes
Waits the sun-soaked summit of ecstasy unclimbed
Far down the verdant valley’s slithering spine curved
Sparkle emeralds on picturesque plains untreasured
The rain-washed sky spreads the tapestry of dreams
Of chromatic imagery on rainbow horizon unreached
That’s where I seek out for my muse concealed.
The sun rises with the grandeur of the nascent dawn
Lifting the veil of miasma from the sense of unfeeling
The winds of imagination blows on the mindscape
Raising the dust of all dormant emotions unbound
Turning them into a surging storm of creative urge
Flying the muse to me with afflatus unconfined
That’s when it makes me a poet profound.
________________
June 30, 2022
For A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest
Broken Glass
Bits of color...
washed up on the beach.
Items that tell stories,
about faraway places,
new people, and old.
Red like roses, fine wine in winter...
Yellow like the flowers in spring.
Blue, the very sky,
captured and revisited
in forever's embrace.
Green, meadows un-mowed,
and trees yet unclimbed
somewhere in our minds,
remembered.
Chrystal clear windows
to the mountains in the distance,
and some...
foggy summer sandblasted,
by the deserts of thirst.
Rainbows on the ground,
found all around,
to turn our entire world...
upside down.
Collected and treasured,
a gift beyond measure
trash turned to pleasure
with a smile.
I sat too long in a window watching as life passed me by
Consumed by fear or feeling ashamed to try
Often I wonder what magic did those lost days’ hold
Did I miss out on a life larger, greater and bold?
I forgot that I told myself that one day I would be someone
But so much life has passed that someone just didn’t become
A shadow who footsteps disappear in the night
Avoiding a reflection dulled over time & still laden with fright
I watched my dreams blow away with the wind
Dissolve into todays, brittle and thin
I try not to ponder on “what if’s” and regrets
Those mid mornings thoughts, run-away frets
Of unclimbed mountains and loves that didn’t last
My faults still haunt me and unearth a hidden past
Now I sit at the window with the time in my mind
Each precious minute I left so, so far behind.
Nebulous ambition drifts away amorphous
floating on the formless wings of wispy clouds,
the destination disappears in the hued height of sky,
falling on the debris of hollow aspiration.
The ladder of constrained effort stands steep shaking,
its fragile rungs flung chaotic, you can’t climb.
The veneer of sadness shrouds your broken heart,
its shadow smears your face, you can’t hide.
From the fading fringe of nocturnal despair
you travel to the meadow of illumined new dawn,
find yourself a different person, transformed,
abandoning the chase of the migrating mirage.
Beyond the limits of your earnest endeavor,
the demanding desires are tamed and conquered.
You perceive the metamorphosis completed,
as you return to the fold of another you, joyous.
Discovering the luster of success in the gloom of failure,
you smile sated at the foot of the ladder unclimbed.
______________
February 9, 2021
Contest : All Yours (Feb 9)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
The cascading stream leaping in swirling ebullience
Through dancing shadows of swaying trees entranced
The spectral dew drops draping the glinting grass tips
Weave lattice of splendor on the meadow bejeweled
The drizzling dust on moonbeam in blue satin night
Adorns the pearl laced waves of rolling sea beguiled
That’s where I look for you elusive.
Up above the majestic mountain’s serenading slopes
Waits the sun-soaked summit of ecstasy unclimbed
Far down the verdant valley’s slithering spine curved
Sparkle emeralds on picturesque plains untreasured
The rain-washed sky spreads the tapestry of dreams
Of chromatic imagery on rainbow horizon unreached
That’s where I seek out for you concealed.
The sun rises with the grandeur of the nascent dawn
Lifting the veil of miasma from the sense of unfeeling
The winds of imagination blows on the mindscape
Raising the dust of all dormant emotions unbound
Turning them into a surging storm of creative urge
On its wings to me you fly the afflatus unconfined
That’s when you make me a poet profound.
Written : March 27, 2020
May 23, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice Q
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Up the tortuous mountain trail
sun-soaked summit unclimbed,
down the meandering valley spine
emerald sparkled plains unreached,
mindless I dragged life disillusioned
as the slothful drudge of trying times.
The sun rose with its splendor unseen,
tracked the tenuous journey of unfeeling
in dust of dream on fragile garden path
to the desolate horizon of dusky despair,
sprinkling hues of hypnotic sunset within,
rainbow waves in sea of emotion surge
and I sail as the part time poet of twilight.
July 4, 2019
When the first man left the trees for the cave,
did those men in the trees think him crazed,
as he grazed land did they look on amazed,
why leave your known home and natural place?
Overtime trees unclimbed were left behind,
with the duties of limbs reassigned,
thrive in an unknown world they find,
cus one soul braved the unknown blind.
Actions against instinct presumably bad,
perceived as life threatening totally mad,
the unnecessary those before never had,
reasons for the existence we now have.
There's comfort when sticking with the known,
be brave with courage and go it alone.
The first to crawl from water or have flown
shaped destiny, live true to you be your own.
"You did what he did and he did what she did,
that's how the sheep live, look how the sheep live.
Give roots to the path not yet routed,
you did what you did and he did what he did".
Nebulous ambition drifts away
on wings of wispy clouds,
destination disappears in blue height of sky
falling on debris of hollow aspiration.
Ladder of constrained effort stands steep shaking,
its rungs fragile, you can’t climb.
Veneer of sadness wraps your broken heart,
its shadow smears your face, you can’t hide.
At the edge of night’s despair
you travel to new enlightened dawn,
find yourself a different being transformed,
abandoning chase of mirage at limits of endeavor.
Demanding desires tamed and conquered
you return to another you joyous,
discover luster of success in gloom of failure
and smile at the foot of the ladder unclimbed.
April 26, 2019
Unclimbed Stairways
by Odin Roark
At the base of the stairs
He lay on his back
Upon his chest
He propped his hero
Peering up through GI Joe’s
Stand-your-ground stance
All seemed climbable
Just like in the movies
But he knew
Summit of the stairs
Was the attic
That frigid place
Lures of the forbidden
With air suffocating its captivity
Like his mother warned
Such was the explanation
Penned studiously by the doctor
Connecting the dots
Of thirty years subsequent
The strategy of solipsism
Where more forbidden climbs
Ensnared him with madness
And a padded enclosure
The doctor thought he had control
But the man/boy knew
In front of him
Just a mother in a cheap suit
Warning
Always warning
Was Van Gogh warned?
Was David Foster Wallace warned?
Is the next Hoffman going to be warned?
Check your stairways
To the bathroom
Safe
To your bedroom
Probably safe
To the attic of adult life
Oh my
Caution
Or
Instinct
Here we go
I remember the day, when I wrote my first verse!
Writing a poem was not at all a matter of business for me,
And it wasn’t a colossal chore when my master asked me to write one;
But, in veracity I have ever written none.
Pondering on great poetic legends and their near and dears…
Their prodigious thoughts crammed my wits-
Then my proceedings seemed as if they are gliding higher than the clouds-
I’m all set and clear nearly for hours.
Then my sister scoffed at me, brother mocked with her,
Granny chuckled, grandpa giggled and of course there was a silencer!
Amazed, to get appraisal even before I moved further;
After all those are initiatives for an up-and-coming writer.
I astounded that I too got critics, but it made me to go on;
Puzzled to find out what they actually mean;
But it made me to climb that unclimbed mountain;
And fasten my mission.
Then with loads of coolness, I took my wand
To wave her magical spell for my deed;
Everything went impeccably organized
Until I got a doubt how to get it started… …
Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly,
cloaking moor and heather, the
curlew and grouse silenced by
the haunting of a solitary piper.
Kilt clad from rocky outcrop,
the lament Land Of My Youth
echoed ridge and valley.
Beckoning the lost footsteps,
the gillie, the baker, the bankers
son, the urchin that raided your
orchard, once names, once faces,
now empty spaces at the dinner
table.
And the tune reaches out beyond
the gorse and fern to strange lands,
names we failed in geography at
school but now etched in heart
and epitaph.
The lofty peaks point skyward like
prayers some unclimbed, some
unanswered. The grass will grow
where boys once ran, the laughter
now an aching memory.
The piper stills plays beckoning
souls not names, the stag raises
its head and the eagle circles
this land of our youth. To duty
or glory from boys to men, from
men to earth. The orchard will be
quiet tomorrow and the hills less
worthy. At the dinner table a
serviette to dry the tear and the
piper will fill the glen.
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