Don't Walk Ahead
One does not walk ahead of yesterdays,
but behind tomorrow.
Having come from some place,
is not the same as going somewhere.
It takes wisdom to see where we've been.
But it will take even more,
to find our way in the dark.
***
- Mountain Poet, Copyright March 2001
Portals Into Forever -Anthology
International Library of Poetry, 2001
ISBN - 0-7951-5036-9
Under A Quicksilver Moon Series
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The Monsoons Return At Last
ReplyDeleteI listened to the thunder roll in
for over an hour.
It crossed the sky horizontally,
flashing like a beacon of change.
First came the long echoing rumble
of something big and as it neared,
the sound turned up high and full.
More than cymbals or drums,
it was as if the whole sky
full of instruments was tuning
up for a bash.
Suddenly I remembered myself
as a small girl,
huddled between the covers
when a bad storm passed overhead.
By the time I was a teenager,
I'd learned how to absorb
some of the power of these storms.
I'd sit on rooftops with a friend
and wait for the swirling black clouds
to break right over our heads.
Then we'd go back inside,
wet and exhilarated by a downpour
and the raw touch of Nature
released on cold skin.
Now I'm middle-aged and still wondering
about these storms.
Listening to their movements,
and watching them
with something mixed with awe.
It isn't angels playing dice,
but it could be a force full of more
than motion and light.
- Mtn Poet, July 6, 2002
That Last Vision of You
ReplyDeleteThat last vision of you,
set a deep fire to me.
I found a thousand snapshots in my mind.
Your leaving this world ripped through me
like a gale force of grief beyond description.
You and I were suppose to grow old together.
We were going to laugh at ourselves,
and others as the gray crept in
and our knees began to ache.
Even in wheelchairs
we could have laughed together.
The level of intensity from a world
left void of your being
sent a shock through my
very core identity,
a grief so great
that entire rivers of feelings
long gone broke through me.
Did our lives together flash before my eyes,
on the day we first met?
I am left with that first and last vision of you
burning in me like a star*.
***
Poet's Footnote:
This poem is dedicated to my dear friend Louie R. Ingle,(September 30, 1946 - January 17, 2001)
and spawned by friend Greg Francis
who passed on yesterday (October 13, 2002).
They will always be missed and cherished for their time here on earth.
May the Great Spirit* Bless Them
& Keep Them, Always.
May they be free as the eagle flying
over canyon rim beyond.
Strong with gentle direction.
Mtn Poet's Journal, - October 14, 2002
Lunar Eclipse
ReplyDeleteThe last full lunar eclipse
of this millennium
brought to mind
your enchanting face
under the August full moon.
Can I ever gaze upon this circular reflection
in the moody night sky again,
without your image coming to mind?
Some say that the moon
holds the dark forces
of our nature.
Our meeting
brought forth both
the dark and the light,
in each of us.
Fitting like a perfect star
in the night sky
of my deepest desires
and the need,
to fill them fully with light.
***
by Mountain Poet
September 28, 1996
To Doyne McElvain,
in loving memory
November 1, 2002
three years after
your passing.
You were too young to die,
old soul that you were.
2870.7 in reply to 2870.5
ReplyDeleteThe Dying Aspen
The arborist said three of our aspen trees have cancerous spores and must be cut down.
I am reminded of Doyne
who died of cancer suddenly,
of Linda who struggles with leukemia,
and of Will whose tumor in his neck
is expanding. He believed in natural care,
but has taken a turn for the better
and started taking chemo at the end.
I hope the last good fight is worth it.
I would wish to go out fighting,
faced with the same odds.
The trees it seems are subject
to the same sort of stress and trauma,
but they won't get hospice care.
They will be taken down with a saw,
and I shall mourn them as if they were fellow travelers on this road of life.
I shall miss their golden leaves come autumn, miss their soft tapping this spring.
The view from the front of the house
won't be the same without their tall
white legs standing guard around the driveway.
If you've ever hugged a tree,
you might know what it is to miss one
even before they're gone.
***
Mtn Poet's Journal, April 25, 2003
When I think upon what inspires me,
ReplyDeleteyou do it easily.
Is it your words,
the sound of your voice,
or the memory
of your tentative touch upon my skin.
That smoldering gaze
across a lunch table
more times than I can count.
My memory fails me sometimes,
but these distinct impressions
don't fail me.
The longing you inspire is
like a fire burning.
Coal bed full of embers
too hot to touch.
Today you told me that going
back to school
was a waste of time.
I used to think that way.
Before I became so comfortable,
or so free and easy.
You also said a course
in journalism
was beneath me.
But I don't want to write
for a paper,
I want to write
with deadlines.
It's death at the door
that moves me to seek
something faster.
Something to drive me
beyond recognition,
and to move me quickly
to the very end
of my own confusion
and fear.
Were I to write a book about walls,
I'd want you to come
and tear them down anytime
they grew too high.
Whenever a wall divided us,
I'd wish for you to play
Humpty Dumpty and put me
back together again.
Here I am in search of myself,
or you.
***
- Mtn Poet's Journal, April 30, 2003
The Promise of Woodland Park
ReplyDeleteUnder the white and blue moon
leaning on a wooden fence
high in the mountains
looking at your face
as if for the first time.
Our kiss was full of passion
and promises to keep, elsewhere.
Ten years later
and all I remember is
what we didn't do.
***
- Mtn Poet's Journal, May 1st
Written On The Fly
ReplyDeleteThe red-headed finch
has brought his mate
to the straw basket house
that I hung hoping
I would hear
the birds sing,
this spring.
A small patch of snow
sticks stubbornly
to the ground
beneath the hot tub,
refusing to give
up on winter,
just yet.
There are large piles
of paper on my desk
threatening peace
until I can go
through them.
How difficult it is to discard
remnants of things
laden with memory or romance.
I try to sleep
but am still haunted
by your face.
I try to move
my mind anywhere
but on you,
or in you.
I can only hope the coming spring
will bring me back into bloom.
***
- Mountain Poet, March 12, 2010
How Can We Be Friends?
ReplyDeleteLove is patient,
how long will it be
before I see you again?
I've never strayed far
from my heart,
even though I know
the urge to run from feeling,
too much or too little.
Love is kind,
be gentle with your self.
This struggle is just one
more mountain.
Climb it, and expand
your heart.
It will not break,
take the leap.
Learn to love greater
than you ever have before.
Love is not envious,
nor does it boast.
My heart is no more
or less than yours.
My life though different,
comes from the same race.
We live in the same era.
Beyond time and space,
we are all one.
Love bears all things,
hopes all things, endures all things,
does thou believeth in all things?
I have friends
who were once lovers,
but what's greater than this,
is love unconditionally given.
Love does not delight in evil,
but in truth.
This love is true.
Was what you've told me
all these years a lie?
Without love we die.
Love never fails.
The darkness is within you.
Let love live, and it will guide you
firmly into the Light*
***
Mountain Poet's Journal - April 24, 2006.
Fish Feel Pain
ReplyDeleteA new study concludes that fish feel pain.
The anglers make the distinction
between receptors in the mouth
and the lack of a cognizant brain,
to the sensations of a hook in the mouth
that makes the fish pull away.
I've seen fish wince when I was young.
Life is said to begin at the first breath.
But every year the ability to breathe
seems to get younger and younger.
Technology that kick starts
the smallest human
has us wondering when life actually begins.
Life and death are just flip sides
to the same miraculous coin.
So far everyone seems to be in agreement
as to when life fundamentally ends.
But between the fish and the tiny babies,
small enough to fit in the palm of one's hand
It still looks like all life is sacred.
***
Mountain Poet, ©2003
Editor's Choice Award
'The Colors of Life" Anthology
Internation Library of Poetry
ISBN #0-7951-5239-6, Copyright 2003
Death Comes In Moments
ReplyDeleteWe think we understand death
because in a moment
something significant is gone.
But we could be wrong
in that our dying
may last a long time.
Death comes in layers.
We move through the moment
as if in a dream.
That dream could be forever,
or just another petal unfolded.
The significant question
about the dream is,
do we ever awaken?
Mountain Poet's Journal, 11/12/03
The Silenced Bells of The Shrine
ReplyDeleteThe night air is cold and clear
as the bell silenced in the canyon
because it was annoying someone
whose just arrived in the neighborhood.
I miss the shrine bells
beating back the clouds.
A red fox runs down the driveway
aware that I am watching
but he's lived here longer than we have.
We're at home together.
The path by the creek
runs toward the house,
the deer come, the racoons,
the red-tailed fox, and occasionally
something in the shadows on the hunt,
prowling out of reach.
Something I can not name,
but sense watching from the trees
in the darkness where I stand
drinking in the iced air.
Wondering how many creatures
lie just beyond
what I can see or hear.
I know they see me clearer
than I will ever see them.
My quietiest movements broadcast where
I shall go next before I get there.
Whoever those eyes belong to,
we're both searching in the night.
Oh! To be wild again,
free as the creek
running down the hill.
We're in different places
in the physical world
as well as in the mental sphere.
I don't know how to comfort you
or soothe your brow.
I don't know how to say
what sweetness your being
brings to me.
What tenderness you wave
through my heart like a song.
So I send you poetry
hoping that the rhythm
of the words
might break loose the grief
that runs between the days and nights
of your deepest burden
and release.
I used to set my day
by the times the bells were rung.
"Have no fear my dear," You said.
"God's love is perfect."
***
Mountain Poet
March 28, 2004
Laptop Bits and Pieces
Of Mountains and Clouds
ReplyDeleteThe mountains were bathed in thick clouds
gray, swirling, wet, heavy clouds.
Your call reminded me
that clouds come and go.
I have but to watch the horizon
to see all manner of movement.
The sky is a mirror
of a multitude of moods.
I have but to wait for you
to experience the full range
of wind and clouds.
***
Mountain Poet
April 5, 2004
Mountain Daylight Savings Change
IF For A Moment
ReplyDeleteIf for a moment
the leaves sprouted all at once
spring would run into summer.
In a flash our lives would be full
soft, green, new like the leaves.
If for a moment
our dreams became reality,
we might not know
which season we'd become.
My hand opens palm wide to the sky
to receive the blessings from above.
If for a moment
my hand fell upon your thigh.
would it be my hand that comes to mind?
Your hand on my thigh.
If for a moment,
I'd sigh.
***
Mountain Poet, 3/28/04
Lap Top Bits and Pieces
The exalted lover takes the woman
ReplyDeleteembracing her
until the wetness of their form
fades into a mixture of smoke and heat.
What kind of chemistry is this?
These waves of feeling
so far away as to leave
only the shadow
of strokes and kisses
upon my breath and lips.
So far away as to be
miraculously close.
The distance no further
than a dream.
You touch me here.
I touch you there.
Is it more than memory now,
that guides us?
The simple stretch of hearts to mind.
Your hand in mine, goodnight.
***
- Mountain Poet
The Smile of the Satisfied
ReplyDeleteA smile
on a woman satisfied
reveals itself
in the pale morning light
under the last ray of moonshine
before the sun
takes over for the stars.
***
- Mountain Poet, 1974
Soon to be published in a 2002 anthology
entitled "Letters from The Soul" due out in the fall.