~ Ode to Joy ~

White gold ambassador
canine past eight
soul seekers ascend
(from cirque to seven)
to peak
to peak
to peak

Saddlerock spearhead
ptarmigan
and flute
Christmas trees
in winter glades
over dusted crystal scape

Fissile (eiger) sanction
open shale and tusk
indiscriminate members
roll the bluffs
and ice falls
above the
north face steep

Dead silent dawn
breathless, bitter cold
the beating hearts
and brahmas
warm the spirit
of pakalolo

We came to the chalet in the lush valley
at the foot of the Eiger. The line of
mountains rose ragged against the sky.

North Face loomed, a fatal *****
begging to be climbed. Death beckons
on its icy rock face soaring into the foggy
clouds, only to vanish. No peaks, no crags, no crevasses.

The ogre offered no relief, no guidance,
no help to attain the top -- the prize of balance,
strength, courage, and willpower.

We came to the valley to absorb the glory
of the Swiss Alps. Wordsworth succumbed
to the sublime here. Now we all romanticize
nature. But the sublime overwhelms;
it is too grand, too large, too dark, too menacing.
Too much for the scrawny human spirit to take in.

Apple trees heavy with fruit line the patio of the chalet.
Receptive, fecund, the Earth brings forth
sustenance to the eye, to the taste buds.
We will not climb Eiger, only devour its power.

The sun limns the crest of snow-capped peaks packed below
a pale, cloudless sky. The faded blue draws out the
steely gray of the three mountain musclemen: Eiger,
Munch, Jungfrau. Alpine white outshines the same hue
of fresh carnations placed delicately in a vase
on the living room table -- as if forever.

Alps wear puffy cowls above craggy faces, drooping
indentations from too many jaw-shattering bouts
with the natural elements. White wobbles always
on the ropes; the countdown begins. Disfiguring
bruises turn into the loser’s crown. Nature tricks
us with its charms of purity and innocence.

Lucerne’s {Kapellbrucke} exists only for us, transported
from the 14th century to now, little changed from its origins --
and all for our pleasure. Yet It is a ruse that anything
eight centuries old would remain in place for
our touristic joy. We are intruders on history, backpacks
replacing 19th-century carpet bags, gilded in fool’s gold.

At dusk, Eiger turns from white to orange, a fruitful hue
whose sustenance is only glory. You can feast on
white Raclette cheese, white wine, white boiled potatoes,
white onions, but not white glory. Nutrition comes in many
substances. Orange stones satisfy some senses,
but leave us waiting for more, night after night,

This is true even in the light afternoon rain of autumn.

The tiny red train clawed its way
up the mountain *****,
clamping on crampons to pull itself
over the ever-widening angle
of ascent. One-hundred-year-old
slat chairs defied any pretense
of repose. Comfort vanished like a wisp
of smoke as altitude rose and rose.

At the end of the line spread Schynige Platte
with its front-row seats to the three tenors
of granite. Pasted with snow, nearly equal
in height, they stared at us face to face,
unapologetic, unconcerned, untamable.
Sentinels over the knife-edge valley,
they penetrated our psyches with
the grandeur of Wordsworth's infinite sublime.

Up from the crest of our hilltop lookout  
swept a vast array of Alpine plants.
Flora flourished where oxygen
grew thin. A band of volunteers
humbly tended the garden
for nine months a year. They stuffed
hay pillows, sifted tall grasses
for hungry Ibex in Interlaken.

When the sun had sunk, they  
joined hands and bowed to
Eiger, Munch and Jungfrau,
the elevated elders of their tribe.

It's nothing
None of my priority
No one comes join my party
Creating chemistry
Branching separately
My black and white knife
Leaving the heart tough
Assuming the wrong in procedure of life
I am creepy,
Of your daily activity

Hunting eiger to speak
No replying, rebating, shouting
God loves praying
Prisoners are ordered to be jailing
King makes tyrant
Me, toward adventure
Exploring your day in my literature

Spooky heart raises slowly into the bay
Vibrating the romans in one's ray
Rats climb our communication
Teachubg dwarf to finnish expectation
Labirynt handle love
Alone and still laugh

Till all is done
My mom needs reflexy
With one more ****'s
Creaming down the water
Boiled with a sachet coffe.

7_th