the river winding down below
the rushing sounds of rapids flow

while high above the trees I stand
to breathe the wonders of this land

vast pines outstretching toward the sky
give shelter to the fowl that fly

the covered rocks and earth that stay
stuck forever in their place

for years on end this place has been
untouched by man, untouched by sin

to some it may seem boring, though
to be in such a place alone

hidden in hills, surrounded by stone
but, for me,
it's coming home

when I heed the ocean's pull
I hear its rhythmic roll
it makes my heart seem full
creating music in my soul

when the mountains call
with their mist so softly rising
above their majestic sprawl
my dreams are mesmerizing

I hear the ocean's rhythmic roll
its gentle lapping waves
creating music in my soul
the peace my spirit craves

with mountain mist so softly rising
above gently rolling crowns
my dreams are mesmerizing
of that peaceful sacred ground

ocean's gentle lapping waves
licking feet, tickling toes
the peace my spirit craves
takes away my woes

above gently rolling crowns
the sky cerulean blue, a part
of that peaceful sacred ground
that lifts my grateful heart

ocean licking feet, tickling toes
enjoyment to the full
takes away my woes
when I heed the ocean's pull

the sky cerulean blue, a part
of enjoyment to enthrall
that lifts my grateful heart
when I hear the mountains' call

I think moon gets more love than it deserves.
Just because it's lucky to share the night sky with stars,
Everyone loves it more because it breaks and changes its shape every day,
And without doubts, everyone assumes that it's a good thing.
I fail to understand why this unwilling sacrifice is considered among the most beautiful things in the world.
Nobody knows what the moon has to say for all of this.
To be honest it is just a cold dessert hiding oasis somewhere on it.
But still, it manages to stop hearts and be a part of many important moments of one's life.
The poets write about it, the lovers gift it and someone in the wilderness admires it.
It shares there stories because it got lucky to be in the dark.

People ignore its arrogance and celebrate even when it vanishes with the sky.
Maybe if the sun had the power to grow and fade like the moon, we would have appreciated it more.
The sun shines every day but people have different emotions every day about it.
We don't give enough credit to the sun for it's being, and often ignore that it is the sun who makes the moon a moon.
We never appreciate the sun, it is always something else - either the wind, rain or the cloud.
The sun burns itself day and night to keep us from our fears.
But moon takes away all the praises.
Even when we feel safe when the moon is there shining brightly in the night, we forget it is the nostalgia of the sun wanting to be with us every moment.
Even when we are sad in the night, we blame the dark for making us feel that way, never the moon.

I think moon gets more love than it deserves.
But that's to blame on our eyes and heart.
It's there fault to get swayed away by the pleasant. They always look for beauty and reality.
A cold gaze seems more beautiful to everyone than a warm soul, but then they complain about this emptiness inside of their hearts.
Maybe paying a hard long look in the mirror will show us some reality of our own.

I wander trails that are shaded by trees
until I reach the first steep rock scramble.
Walking steadily on old, crunchy leaves
I believe it's the mountains' preamble

I scale these rocks with eager hands and feet
my yearning heart pumps blood through my blue veins.
This mountain will not hand me my defeat
muscles strain and the rocks help break my chains.

Sturdy rocks and sacred trees surround me
their presence strengthens my weak, depressed bones.
My muscles burn with effort, but I'm free
to become one with the trees and the stones.

Though there are times where my mind may plummet.
I'll survive the fall, I've reached the summit.

She saw a flower, sensitive plant of my garden
She saw a flower, sensitive plant of my garden
it was the warmest, sunniest morning
it was the warmest, sunniest morning
Warmest of garden, it saw a flower in the morning
sensitive, she was my sunniest plant


The wind is blowing from west over the river
The wind is blowing from west over the river
The sky turns dark above the mountains
The sky turns dark above the mountains
The west wind turns, is blowing over the mountains
From the river above the dark sky


The city far away, the buildings tall
The city far away, the buildings tall
Disguise the green fields beyond the crowds
Disguise the green fields beyond the crowds
The tall fields, the green buildings
Disguise the crowds beyond the far away city                                  


The tall mountains, the fields, the sky above                              
saw a disguise of crowds over city buildings                                                        ­                
my morning, it was the sunniest beyond the west                                                             ­             
The green river she turns dark                                                             ­                               
The warmest wind is blowing from far away                      
Plant the sensitive flower in the garden

She writes to him in the hospice,
his widow-in-waiting.  A girl at her care home
brings her envelopes, colourful pens, sheets of paper in
pastel shades, and takes her missives to
Reception to go out with the mail.
She writes to him, keeping her messages short so
the nurses have time to read them to him, and because
he gets tired so quickly now.
She encloses copy photographs for the nurses to
show to him, pictures of their adventures together:
them in hiking boots and toting backpacks atop a
Saxon burial mound; picnicking and almost sunburnt
beside a vast lake reflecting a perfect, bygone blue sky
in its tranquil surface; on a sandy Welsh beach, building a
campfire from smooth, soft-grained, bone-pale driftwood; him
asleep on a train, his head resting on luggage
and hat pulled down over eyes.
In one communiqué she writes:
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”
She means – she explains to the care home girl
who brings her stationery and takes her mail – that
when he moved to the hospice and she to the care home,
all the photos of their mountain holidays – the Vogelsberg,
the Dolomites, Monte Rosa, Chamonix – had been
packed up along with his possessions, and put in storage
by his family.  She sends him copies of
the only photos she has left.
And that is what she means, but not just that.
It’s been a long time since she stomped mud off of
hiking boots, or felt that gorgeous ache in her muscles
from a long, hard climb, or kissed in a cable-car,
or let the wind tan her face as she breathed
rarefied air.  Those summits seem very far away,
and the woman who once scaled them never could have dreamed
that life could become so flattened.

In some quiet room, a nurse shows him the photographs.  
A heart monitor describes
a craggy range of peaks and dips; each elevation, every ascent,
could be a terminal journey.  Soon, one surely will.
The nurse can’t tell if he hears her as she reads to him,
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”

I sat in silence yet nature was singing
With different hues of the sky so blue illuminating
the evergreens and aspen trees
I don't know exactly what it means to me
But I know it's something special
and deep
Life's about seeing beauty in the little things


These mountains, they're wise
They're lonely but they listen
Take a walk outside with them
And you'll find
that they'll take you
far deeper within