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Steve Page Mar 19
confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about bumps and scrapes
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs with desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving with more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
least there or thereabouts
a re-working - still climbing
It's a frigid January
With gloomy sky,
Depressing weather, and
Falling snow.
Yet, I don’t care!

I want to play,
I want to have fun,
I want to climb in the trees,
I want to be free,
I want to be present,
I want to feel alive!

Winter will not take hold of
My love for nature,
I will forever have an eagerness to
Dance to the eternal melody of life!

Hussein Dekmak
I got inspired to write this poem after I saw a kid climbing in a tree from across the street.
Annie Oct 2021
It is true, though,
that I'd rather leave scars
on this body I possess
and leave tears in my heart
from the lovers I've met,
than to have never lived
or loved at all.

Life is a climb, a trip and a fall.
Steve Page Aug 2021
I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain.
The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength
and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face
- but I smile.

I have my compass, the North Star
and the maps I made before.
I can still climb this new stanza
navigate past the memorials,
through to the meadows beyond
and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain
and write again.
re-write of Navigating the hills, flexing my writing muscles ahead of a poets retreat
B Jul 2021
All my life I have appreciated the view of this city.

I’ve climbed the highest mountains to see as much of it as I could. And every time I loved it, I loved how it never seemed to end.

But as time goes, we grow up.
I still climb the mountains, just not for the view.

Nowadays I need to know where to go next. Not for adventure, not for new experiences.

I’ve been through things, things 10 year old me didn’t see coming.

I never knew this city was going to break my heart.
M Solav Mar 2021
All of those past events
The mountain climb, and the descent
They're scrolling past to lay my

And once I'd gone to the other side
Despite all that I had left behind
They've started hunting for my

And they're gone,
Yes they're gone,
While I'm torn
In the maze of my

And they're gone,
Yes they're gone,
While I'm tearing
The fabric of my
Written on July 22, 2020.
Michael Luciano Dec 2020
This is the Canyon lands Can you feel it man?
Dawn's early promise to lend you her hand.
Awake from the cave from the rubble you climb.
Down the lonely path to the river of time.

This is the Canyon lands far from the thought Plateau.
Deep down in that crevasse where the warming fires glow.
Where the canyon walls climb to the cheeks of the sky.
The sun she peaks in from time to time.

This is the canyon land Where the River she winds.
Cut down deep by her flowing design.
Through the valley she runs away from the caves.
On a long from our shelter to a place that we crave.

This is the Canyon Land but all we want is more.
To travel the river of time set sail from our Shores.
Slide along the river to where the canyon meets the sea.
Float on from that crevasse to Eternity.

This is the canyon land from where we took the plunge.
In to her cooling hands flowing toward the sun.
To divide and conquer explore the high seas.
Gain, grab, and get more than we can dream.

This Is The Place To Where the River Flows and the canyon meets the sea.
Plastered form our being until eternity.
Something Beyond this miserable cage that we live in.
and the sky opens up to give all she has to give
Where the sky opens up to give all she has to give.
Steve Page Sep 2020
I lift my pen from the page
and smell the coming rain
I hear the rising wind
and sense gathering pain

and as the scouting drizzle coats my face
I smile, because I have my compass
I have a North Star and the maps I made
when I came this way before

I know I can navigate these hills
and I can form a new stanza
to take me through to the meadows
that wait for me there
I navigate by poetry
In a glass room
at the top of a mountain
I learned how to speak.
At 10,000 feet
I learned the shape of words
and how they can sound
so much like wind
persisting, wailing against
the impossible odds
of sturdy, dismissive construction.
If this is not a home,
then what is it?
A shrine atop this mountain?
An offering to the gods of
sunrise, sunset, thunderstorm,
and man-made radio equipment?
Man-made fire?
There are certainly plenty
who climb to worship at its feet.
Surely nothing, save from
the mountain itself,
could send this glass room
tumbling down the path
I just walked to reach it.
Bryn Kennell Jul 2020
Monkey bars
Hold on
Do not let go

I climb high
To hold you close
But it takes all my strength
So I let go
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