When a mountain
   I dare not climb
the ropes and tackles  
  are in abundance

In great shape
  my body and mind
Not a weak link
in the expedition

But when a mountain
  I dare to climb
the ropes and tackles
  are often misplaced

Out of shape
  my body and mind
Weakness as a
  spell does bind

Hopes and dreams
  of tireless youth can
be all but forgotten
  in the spiritually aged

Strength   the glittering
  cloak of youth can
fade in weakening
  jaded resolve

But in me common
  traits dissolve
The bucking steed
  will never be tamed

Pigeon-holed the
  misfortune of other
souls   has not been
  allowed by my resolve

But this determination
  is not without cost
The foothills of youth
  are far removed

by erosion caused by
  unstable belief systems
washed away into
  the Sea of Ambiguity

A distant mountain
  I often see
(distance   the deceiver
  of proportion)

Challenged at the foot
  of the formidable sight
halfway climbing
  only to slip and fall

Does this mountain
  need to be climbed
Do youthful dreams
  need to be fulfilled

When these dreams
  are all you ever had
you wake up falling
  or climbing higher

Driven by dreams
  and gifts and talents
that rage like a river
  in the driest desert

calling home what
  must come home
holding on to what
  must be fulfilled

Obstacles that have
  become landmarks
seem to fade
   into obscurity

like threats that
  always remain empty
laughing at what
  used to bring tears

I remain standing
  through all these trials
not unscathed
  and a bit weather beaten

halfway up another
  formidable mountain
making up for lost time
  from a major fall.

Trying to be a few rays of light
And a shade from blinding light.
Trying to be a part of the solution
Though it's easy to unwittingly
Contribute to the pollution.
By the sheer fact of being human
We can at times and by turns
And at the same time be
Culprit and victim
Survivor and casualty.

I cried those words,
into puddling paragraphs,
just spilling sentences,
tripping on my tongue,
into rapidly coursing chapters,
pulsating pages,
fast moving meter,
in rivers of rhymes,
stacks of biblical books,
etched in my mind,
carved by hand,
on my life's headstone,
made of bethel gray granite,
to read :    Here lies a poet.
                
Ma Cherie © 2017

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .  .
~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  

what about the gull
                          with a wayward splash
or the balanced blend
of cirrus and ash

foghorns throw
the pock wave
sewell stragglers
and bonny boats
earn their keep