Skip to main content

Bonus Poem: I Wonder, Mountaineer

How does one end up
In a house on the trembling edge,
Breathing in the mountain air?

How do you, stranger in a strange land,
Decide this paradise is the one to throw
Your blanket down on in the grass

And smell the sweet lavender
While it reaches out its royal arms
Toward you, tenderly?

Did you smell the dankness
Of the city first? Or were you born
On that fresh mountaintop,

Skiboots strapped on shortly
After diapers? I wonder about your place
In the sun and wonder if you've ever seen

Oceantide in the evening,
Foaming up on the soft-sanded shore
While the sea turtles scurry in head-first?

And I wonder if you've ever known
Five lanes of traffic, or swampy flatlands,
Or desert thirst and the miracle of cactus.

Mountaineer, you are a force of curiosity,
Barreling through my thoughts as I drive
Back to the dankness, to the five lanes

You've never needed, to the people
You may never meet. And I leave you
To the rocks and the trees of Heaven on Earth.

And I wonder if I could have the strength
To sit in that silence, in the lavender's arms
And not wonder about the ocean foam.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Bonus Poem: Look Up!

Looking down, I read the priceless pages, Someone else, sweetly, precisely, Had written their drinkable life on. And I drank in the appreciation Of her words, one sentence at a time, A good, fresh white. Sensational, the clouds were Pouring in, filling my cup,  Easing in, with a soft voice that said, "Look up!" My eyes glanced, only peeking At first, toward the sky. Those rain-bringers harnessing My irises with glee. And as if it had been there All along, the whole long while, A sparrow drifted into the Watercolor before me, soaring. It glided on the currents That were my own world, too. And we shared the view, Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now. And then the wind found itself Playing in the cottonwood's hair. And I smiled, thinking About how good it probably felt, Those wind-fingers, sifting through. 

The Protagonist

She was more of an idea Than a person, yet Her arms reached through The wrinkled pages As I was planning Her defenestration. “Don't,” she said, holding My hand steady. Her typical loquaciousness Gone in a moment - being At the rim does that. Her desperate idea-fingers Grasping, trying to stop The Dusk. I brooded over her Resistance. This story Would be knee-deep In hardship, in never-before-felt Pain. How could I put her In the middle of this Vast dystopian wastebasket And hope she clamors Out? Perhaps I could give her A companion, a slobber-filled Canine or a not-so-kindred Spirit? I could fill her days With synchronicity, with a This-leads-to-that purpose, to fight through The drawl and the drudge, The beginning. In this oneiric world, More nightmarish than The last, she would find Herself at the cusp of Her Self. First demure, red lips Parting only for candy-laced words, And then later, only To respect a humble god or command Her hunger-ridden army To live. Yes, I see the smoke ...

Leashed on the Edge of "I"

Do you ever wish you could view yourself As others see you? At a distance? That you might become one of the crowd Or the speck from the airplane? Or maybe you might become so close That you are nothing but locks of hair And the smell of Cabernet and black tea And a force in the night. I imagine you could even be mistaken For someone else. Could you mistake you For someone else? I think I could do it, Be you, or her, or him, or that dog over there Sniffing the fence, sorting out these Divisions. I didn't say I was I from the Beginning, but I wonder how we drag "I" Around like a stick, and chew a piece off Now and again. You were thrown the stick, And you fetched. But what if you could sniff Beyond the fence and be something more Or something less? Would you? Could we?