" Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.
Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow.
Just walk beside me and be my friend." - Albert Camus
Beyond the Telegraph Toad
The telegraph road circled through the foothills,
arising towards the majestic mountain high
It’s been a long and twisting passage soon forgotten,
with the pavement abruptly dead ending,
just below the timberline
The dawning blue sky’s heavens look so much closer now
Just a step away from standing within reach
The birds uplifted on the telegraph wire rest atop me;
perched overhead on the final material traces
disregarded by a dubious world
My awakening soul is ascending
beyond the distant alpine horizon
At the threshold of a trackless pathway,
climbing up above the clouds
It’s exhilarating to look back and know
there is no turning back around
I’ve never been higher
and can never get back down
What unknown frontier lies in wait before me now?
Just on the other side of the impossible dream?
The last step forward to find the next step beyond the bounds
There is not that much that changes,
when we just repeat the same old song
The atmosphere’s thin air leaves me gasping for wings
Like dust and ashes free to soar with the tempest breeze
If only time would sever these loathsome ties that bind
The ones that enchain the weight of this load unto me
While understanding the pace to a long journey’s rhythm
The only barometer you have to trust is in your heart
Adaptation is at the core of freedom's survival
But it feels almost like running away
I have felt the fear of falling with nothing left to lose
I’ve climbed as far as flesh and bones can reach
I've come this far always feeling subtly afraid
It has been a great distance back from the beginning;
knowing I must take these last steps alone.
Understanding it was love that brought me here
Naturally tugs at the spirit in my soul encouraging me on
I'll keep searching for the shining light of guidance
Listening for a voice that softly beckons me home...
At 20, tragedy stuck my life when my best friend I had grown up with from just down the block, perished in a head on crash. We lived together in college at the time and we were all headed to the beach for the Memorial Day weekend. Another friend had just purchased a vintage used 2 seat sports car and at the last minute I could not go because 3 did not fit. (6’4” 200 at the time) I was disappointed and felt abandoned by my best friend as I watched them drive away, down the gravel road for the last time. Then came the knock at the door by the state police at 1 am inquiring about next of kin, a moment that changed my life forever.
When we snow skied together as teens, we always talked about climbing the mountain we were on.
It took another 12 years, some practice, training and a 6 month mountaineering class to find so much more than closure…
Your thoughts are sincerely appreciated...thank you for reading.
Created: Jun 18, 2011 2:27 PM
Finished: Jun 18, 2011 2:33 PM
In every breeze, in every blade waving to me,
I hear the poetry that encompasses;
the insects brushed off my tattered t shirt
are eavesdroppers, premature sightseers,
wanting a preview of what has just been scored
and written up and how big a part they have.
shadows upon the lawn,
dancing a modest but frothy salsa,
my heart lips speak peace unto us all
and my eyes see my dear ones, beside me,
in my envelope of words, you are embraced:
to all, I say now you are bound to me
by thoughts of tenderness no lawyers can sunder,
that needs no caveated blessing from
city clerk or prepaid spiritual diviner.
my forked branch twitchs where wells,
nay, reservoirs of all cherished natural vitals
are awaiting for us to drill and drink,
raw, direct to the bloodstream,
which when warmed by a warmth
I have no words to describe other than
it is given and stored within for consumption
when sad moments arrive,
and when called upon, restores and soothes
when hugs and words cannot,
but for now, for knowing, for keeping.
you though distant, grow closer,
and I will ride through the nite
with two lanterns to announce our reunification
after so long, what could be better
than to fall upon your neck, and lips parted,
whisper words of thanksgiving
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with tart empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.
a poet is to live
a poem that he writes
thus he lights the way
be it by candlelight may
to measure the acts of mankind and i say
he gives voice unto this world
through paper and pen only because
a poet lives each moment a poem within
I thought, one restless night, of the perfect title,
For a piece of comic verse,
And it I did disperse,
Unto my poet friend.
He sipped his juice, laughed his laugh,
But the laughter did subside,
And with candour, with pride,
“I’m sorry, old chum, the poem’s doomed
For Art is far greater than one
"Eärendil was a mariner
that tarried in Arvernien;
he built a boat of timber felled
in Nimbrethil to journey in;
her sails he wove of silver fair,
of silver were her lanterns made,
her prow was fashioned like a swan,
and light upon her banners laid.
In panoply of ancient kings,
in chainéd rings he armoured him;
his shining shield was scored with runes
to ward all wounds and harm from him;
his bow was made of dragon-horn,
his arrows shorn of ebony;
of silver was his habergeon,
his scabbard of chalcedony;
his sword of steel was valiant,
of adamant his helmet tall,
an eagle-plume upon his crest,
upon his breast an emerald.
Beneath the Moon and under star
he wandered far from northern strands,
bewildered on enchanted ways
beyond the days of mortal lands.
From gnashing of the Narrow Ice
where shadow lies on frozen hills,
from nether heats and burning waste
he turned in haste, and roving still
on starless waters far astray
at last he came to Night of Naught,
and passed, and never sight he saw
of shining shore nor light he sought.
The winds of wrath came driving him,
and blindly in the foam he fled
from west to east and errandless,
unheralded he homeward sped.
There flying Elwing came to him,
and flame was in the darkness lit;
more bright than light of diamond
the fire on her carcanet.
The Silmaril she bound on him
and crowned him with the living light
and dauntless then with burning brow
he turned his prow; and in the night
from Otherworld beyond the Sea
there strong and free a storm arose,
a wind of power in Tarmenel;
by paths that seldom mortal goes
his boat it bore with biting breath
as might of death across the grey
and long forsaken seas distressed;
from east to west he passed away.
Through Evernight he back was borne
on black and roaring waves that ran
o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores
that drowned before the Days began,
until he heard on strands of pearl
where ends the world the music long,
where ever-foaming billows roll
the yellow gold and jewels wan.
He saw the Mountain silent rise
where twilight lies upon the knees
of Valinor, and Eldamar
beheld afar beyond the seas.
A wanderer escaped from night
to haven white he came at last,
to Elvenhome the green and fair
where keen the air, where pale as glass
beneath the Hill of Ilmarin
a-glimmer in a valley sheer
the lamplit towers of Tirion
are mirrored on the Shadowmere.
He tarried there from errantry,
and melodies they taught to him,
and sages old him marvels told,
and harps of gold they brought to him.
They clothed him then in elven-white,
and seven lights before him sent,
as through the Calacirian
to hidden land forlorn he went.
He came unto the timeless halls
where shining fall the countless years,
and endless reigns the Elder King
in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;
and words unheard were spoken then
of folk and Men and Elven-kin,
beyond the world were visions showed
forbid to those that dwell therein.
A ship then new they built for him
of mithril and of elven-glass
with shining prow; no shaven oar
nor sail she bore on silver mast:
the Silmaril as lantern light
and banner bright with living flame
to gleam thereon by Elbereth
herself was set, who thither came
and wings immortal made for him,
and laid on him undying doom,
to sail the shoreless skies and come
behind the Sun and light of Moon.
From Evereven's lofty hills
where softly silver fountains fall
his wings him bore, a wandering light,
beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.
From a World's End there he turned away,
and yearned again to find afar
his home through shadows journeying,
and burning as an island star
on high above the mists he came,
a distant flame before the Sun,
a wonder ere the waking dawn
where grey the Norland waters run.
And over Middle-earth he passed
and heard at last the weeping sore
of women and of elven-maids
in Elder Days, in years of yore.
But on him mighty doom was laid,
till Moon should fade, an orbéd star
to pass, and tarry never more
on Hither Shores where Mortals are;
for ever still a herald on
an errand that should never rest
to bear his shining lamp afar,
the Flammifer of Westernesse."
~ The Fellowship of the Ring, Many Meetings
the only sound I want to hear escape your lips
is your breath
amiss in the sweeping endless echo of this ocean
I enjoy the feeling my fragile body
pulled and pushed
in this distance between us
I easily wave away these subtle forces
in my motion in your tight direction
subtlety hides this force that could take either of us by storm
into dark submission
embrace this submission to your skin now
your thrashing heart now
your strong compassionate arms now
sharp rocks amass baby power granules
This is where my feet belong
Shivering in our humility
numb to all but our synchronized vibrations
rocking in our susceptibility
to the depth, the darkness, the knowledge that together, now know
it binds our arms, strongly woven
fragile are we are in each other now
but strong in our conviction
anything could take us now, at this moment
we haven’t any worries
what can fear do for us now?
In the way you fit in the swoop of my neck and shoulder
we are pierced together, forever in this moment
the moon as she witnesses
Perhaps she sees something that keeps her
we are at the bones of mercy, of her power
and your body carried flush against mine
You hold me as if I carry some smoldering deep power situated in me
You are so much stronger than me, its in your grip
in the way you hold unto me
in the battle from which you contain your powerful thumping heart
that speaks so little of my own nudity
in this current situation
like I save you somehow
that my presence heals your predicament
smother me in your predicament
so that I may truly feel at your side
carried in that small corner of your heart
breathe into me
my sheltered trust
because while my body was not created to serve you
a small part of my being has been dedicated to you
the sands of time we mourn
like moths flickering out
in the flames of my favorite pass time
But even children cry
when the caterpillar begins its change
do unto others i will always say
we have yet to transform into something with wings
we have yet to fly
stop crawling towards the fire.
sweet death come unto me
i lick my lips with satisfaction
no longer wanting more
i am done
the path has grown cold
but is colourful in death
the rosy blood spills and splashes
in each and every direction
i have hit a dead end
sweet death come unto me
kiss my lips with the poison of the forever-end
wash over me like a tsunami
pull me under and spin me 'round
we are unstoppable
end this nightmare
These words I long not to regret
Words of such I'll never forget
A shining light; cascading
unto my soul
Your guiding might, one of
such I'd like to call my own.
A love to call my own.
The universe is guiding me, eventually;
she'll lead me home.
Forever in the place, I'll infinitely call our own.
Your love is calling me, leading me down these winding roads.
Such a beautiful heart; my beautiful heart,
love Is all I know, and love, it's all you need to know.
Nothing more, and nothing less, is more important or second best.
Those four little letters, you mean the world.
Every little piece of you, perfect, imperfect; my mold.
The fates destined this to be, soon; one day
we'll finally meet. I'll fill your hear with joy.
A smile I'll wear, only you can adore.
Here in my heart you'll grow.
© 2013 Christina Jackson