Mountaineering Poetry

Tent Poles

I’ve heard the hisses and dribbles
patting on my everywhere

and none so fine
the black anodized poles
taunting and flexing in the wind

the dark cage that holds together my constitution
and the dribbles
and splats
condensation
walking and walking
when I am neither there
for sentiments of forever wonder

what hollows will hold up high
all the feelings we could not contend
in a space we call ours


Ridges

I have seen the ridges of plenty
where the immediate is notched and sculpted into
endless shapes
twisted in rock
cast in stone
where shades of grey tapestry
of planes dotted with snow and outcroppings

a passing backdrop to the rifts of sky
the dark waves of cloud and mist
that wage their battles against the sun’s castings
heating the ground in a glow
in pockets
that can be felt all about
in the summer air
a short time
a time to be cherished
when one is left to wander the ridges
following those distant mathematical planes
to somewhere

 

Rustling

In a cacophony of bugs where strange things grow
there is a space I’ve come to know

autumn colored shrubs covered in insect slime
and spider webs of intricate design

and in the leaves the branches grow
twisted and weeping from winter’s snow
butterflies, berries, roots and yew
all work together to make anew

but in this garden there is something amiss
a rustling noise confusing the bliss

could it be the wind
a vermin
or maybe a beast
or merely a mind affected by heat

and in the dusk of sun and reason
will inevitably come a change of season
I reason

 

  • These three poems were published in
     The B.C. Mountaineer in 1998 and 2000
 



Tent Poles

I’ve heard the hisses and dribbles
patting on my everywhere

and none so fine
the black anodized poles
taunting and flexing in the wind

the dark cage that holds together my constitution
and the dribbles
and splats
condensation
walking and walking
when I am neither there
for sentiments of forever wonder

what hollows will hold up high
all the feelings we could not contend
in a space we call ours


Ridges

I have seen the ridges of plenty
where the immediate is notched and sculpted into
endless shapes
twisted in rock
cast in stone
where shades of grey tapestry
of planes dotted with snow and outcroppings

a passing backdrop to the rifts of sky
the dark waves of cloud and mist
that wage their battles against the sun’s castings
heating the ground in a glow
in pockets
that can be felt all about
in the summer air
a short time
a time to be cherished
when one is left to wander the ridges
following those distant mathematical planes
to somewhere


Rustling

In a cacophony of bugs where strange things grow
there is a space I’ve come to know

autumn colored shrubs covered in insect slime
and spider webs of intricate design

and in the leaves the branches grow
twisted and weeping from winter’s snow
butterflies, berries, roots and yew
all work together to make anew

but in this garden there is something amiss
a rustling noise confusing the bliss

could it be the wind
a vermin
or maybe a beast
or merely a mind affected by heat

and in the dusk of sun and reason
will inevitably come a change of season
I reason

*These poems were published in The B.C. Mountaineer in 1998 and 2000