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Juhlhaus Jul 2019
O black toad,
Sage of the sodden floor,
Grant me your stoicism
As I my go labored way.
And may you prosper,
Consume legions, grow fat;
Yet deftly elude all
Who would do you injury.
A tribute to the noble toad of the Northwoods.
Abigail Annette Apr 2019
Soon, we will be immersed in the woods, Along the lake and under the trees.
For 300 miles, we'll be together,
Welcoming the sunrise and
Kissing the sunset goodnight.
We will dream under the stars
And share our thoughts with the moon.
The birds will sing for us
As Spring grows.
The breeze will travel with us,
Whispering to us through the leaves.
Soon, we will be immersed in love.
wrote this for my boyfriend and he said it was beautiful, my heart is full
Dshamilja Sturm Apr 2019
It was noon, sometime in mid-July;
Imagine the road, a twisting highway to my grave.
The bus, a roller coaster ride unhinged from the tracks.
Dodging missiles with headlights, horns rattling my nerves.
Just another three hours.

It was midnight, somewhere out at sea,
Somewhere in the universe, the Milky Way, another galaxy.
A shallow heartbeat, a distant echo of a Chinese Karaoke show, but all else was still.
The stars never seemed so vast, and I remembered that they were bigger than me,
I was just a speck.

It rained on the way back to ** Chi Minh,
The roads turned to rivers, the scooters grew ponchos; under them a family of three.
The city brought chaos; sad, tired faces, begging for one thousand ****; a cent.
The children danced in the downpour, jumping over sticks
Like hopscotch.

I thought of Ha Long Bay, just the night before,
I couldn’t hear the silence; I couldn’t see the stars; a dingy hostel ceiling, grumbling strangers snores.
I went to sleep dreaming of peaceful valleys, fresh spring waters, trees as far as the eye could see,
For tomorrow was a new day,
The next part of my journey.
Lucius Furius Aug 2018
I left my mittens in the Smokies.
It was that night at Maddron Bald on the ridge
after we'd hiked from Davenport Gap --
12 miles, 4,000 feet.
The girl gave us icicles.
Dazed and breathless, we pitched the tent
and scrambled into our sleeping bags.
The morning sun felt good -- Sterling Ridge
on our left, Cosby far below to the right;
Mt. Guyot with its spruces and firs;
lunch at Tri-Corner ****; then down through
the rhododendrons and mud to McGhee Springs.
Raven Fork -- the beech tree, the icy water,
the boulders, the sunlight.
Cabin Flats and Smokemont -- the rain,
the people with pancakes.
Campfires, backpacks, flapjacks, barley;
sunshine, lichens, blisters, . . . wood-smoke.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( )
Maxx Dec 2017
an army of naked sycamores
like skeletons- they march,
for the porcelain forest
reclaiming their art
one leaf at a time
the golden hour of sundown
like an indigo pacifier
silences the landscape in
preparation for the great horned owl's decree
lionness Dec 2015
oh, how
we have

we have left
that lifestyle of
hair in our faces
and scarred skin
worn like a
we have quit
cowering beneath
it all. we have
escaped the smell
of hospital beds and
the taste of pills
under our tongues.

we have grown,
and although we are
a little grayer, a little
less alive,
we made it out of those
years, and that is
all that matters to

come what may,
so long as the mountains
are carrying us.
Alex Hoffman Sep 2015
Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill. 
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance.

First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin.

Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face.

As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun. 

But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants.

The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live.

And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.
Wrote this after a backpacking trip to Yosemite Valley. It's accompanied by a photo, which you can see here:
Alisha Vabba Sep 2015
My bones still feel humid
Above these clouds
As I soak in these days

A song with strangers in the rain
Una pachada
my voice softer than ever

Humid walls
Faded colours, vivid people
bright warm darkness and so many stars!

I can feel you slowly leaking out
Life soaking back in
With this music…

You, who filled me with emptyness,
And I bled with anguish.

Now I bleed light and love and life
I’ve been awake for days
I am everywhere.

And you’re alone,
Lusting after your own charms:
Your perfect inconsolable pain.

I loved you fear and restrain.
How can I look after you
Here on this rooftop, under the scalding sun?

Now my mind sees more
And my eyes run wild
Fireworks in this cold comfort

These dunes by the ocean
Are a smaller desert
Then your desolate company.
Amanda rodeiro Dec 2014
i dreamt of you the other night and i cant say i've felt the same since
why were the bumble bees on the appalachian trail so furry and friendly? Maybe it was the fresh mountain air that turned them into fuzzy mutants. I swear i could feel them softly whispering calming pleasantries into my ear, like stop worrying you're going to fall off this mountain silly girl, that wont be the way you die.
a white spotted greyhound tagged behind our group on the trail for a solid thirty minutes, my heart ached for the loneliness and hopelessness it must've been feeling, depression cant only be limited to humans? i thought about that dog obsessively for a week straight while everyone else shooed it off easily. No living thing wants to die alone and that dog reminded me of that paralyzing fear i inhabit.
bare feet padded down the beaten dirt path, walking sticks and grime galore. smiles graced their content dirt streaked faces. this must be an early preview of what my heaven will appear as.
cows were dotted everywhere, in another life i hope to be apart of a cow herd on a mountain filled with dandelions. they aren't weak, they are assertive and docile, only a ***** if you mess with them.
i wish words could fathom the beauty in the orange that sunrise contained. rustling sleeping bags and soft sighs of sleep enveloped the tent in a hazy glow, chilled faces turned rouge from the bittersweet breeze. this moment awakened my resonating need for individuality, the feeling of standing alone amongst others who seem to be enduring each day in a sleepy zombie like state. Only surviving for the moment they can finally collapse into their homely, bundled sheets. I'm afraid of being like them.
where did i leave off on you, something about a dream?
i miss the summer and all the carefree, light worries it brought with it
Mira Lamb Oct 2014
When backpacking, there are certain
rules that everyone knows like
take less than you can carry;
   you’ll pick up things as you go.
Be careful when hitchhiking;
   follow your gut instinct. Always.
Stick to your budget;
   you don’t wanna run dry in Kansas.

What no one actually tells you is:
   Don’t fall in love
      with a town or
      with a boy in a town.


A boy who is settled and nestled in a town is dangerous.

The other roaming, free-loving boys are fine, because
   they understand and you understand
   that, like a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, your
   both freebirds who must be traveling on.
These boys are easy to love and set free.

Townies, on the other hand, are like rose-colored poison
which seeps into your every thought,
   but then you don’t really mind.

They show you that their quaint little town
doesn’t just look like magic.

   It is magic.

They show you that there’s something beautiful in
   greeting the mailman with
      “how’s the wife?”
   the charming town diner
      where the pie is county-famous
   the declaration of love on the water tower
      written in red spray paint.

The boy shows you how to fall in love with a town,
and in the town you fall in love with the boy.

They should start printing warning labels on backpacks:
      WARNING: don’t fall in love with a boy
      who is settled and nestled in a pint-sized town

because he will clip you wings.
just wrote today
trying to get back into my writing groove (and I need to flush all the ****** writing out of my system)
(starting with this piece)

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