"hikers" poems
It's half past four and the Red Rose
is Doppler dashing across
bullying slow fourth class hikers bikers
who dare to share the bridge walkway.
Puffing pumping its steam sweat smoke
straining through the shielding lattice
smogging choking foot folk
who snort its sulphur scented smuts.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
eve's elongated shadows
darkened the atmosphere
for the company of hikers
trekking Milton Ridge
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
The **** blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.
It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.
Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the **** blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
with moonlight, he travels mostly
at night, past snoring hikers and embers
of fires that cooked their food, kept darkness
at bay, and heard what they had to say
if the coals could only speak, perhaps
he would find the right circle of stones,
a black heap of carbon that once glowed
red and gold, and her tale would be told
at least he would know the last words
she spoke in this wilderness--whether she
chose to vanish into the deep wood, fodder
for the scavengers
or was the prey of evil men,
who lurk at every turn--in bustling city
and quiet forest as well--vipers who strike
without warning, without curse or cause
when the moon's light wanes, he moves yet
in darkness, feeling his way, a nocturnal detective,
hoping to find what the others have given up
for lost and registered among the dead:
sign or scent of her--black coals or white bones,
a piece of tattered clothing, the canvas backpack
with her name, the hiking boots he laced for her
which left tracks he forever yearns to find...
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
a
rainbow
came into view
as the hikers
trudged the high hill
its colors were dazzling
they stood for many a minute
marveling at its bright palette
no handsome *** of gold could be seen
but nature had provided a grand scene
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
The first night you stayed in my bed until the sun rose the next morning,
I was afraid to fall asleep out of fear that you wouldn’t be by my side
When I awoke the next day.
I lay on my side, you on your back, and my cheek on your bare chest.
I listened to your heartbeat like a loud lullaby trying to pull me to sleep.
I watched your eyelids, waiting for them to crack to see if I had fallen to slumber
But they never did.
Your chest elevated up and parachuted down in a perfect sync
With the heartbeat drumming in my ear.
Occasionally, I walked my fingertips softly up your chest as if your body were a mountain
And my fingers were hikers exploring your beauty and landscape.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
Sometimes we run
into the arms of a terrible person
just trying to escape a broken heart
because loneliness has been known
to taste like warm whiskey,
parliament lights and the kiss
of a lack luster lover who spent more time
trying to lie you between the covers
than they did learning to say your name
out loud, you know the type.
I'd be lying too if I didn't say
I've been that kind, that tall glass of water
promising to dampen a dry tongue
which ain't got the courage to say I'm sorry,
not to nobody else but to themselves.
So I want apologize for not seeing
or perhaps ignoring how crushed you were
when I rolled you up in my arms
the way hikers do sleeping bags
and I held you in my lap
because the car was packed
and I didn't know where else to put you.
You must have felt safe there
thinking you were the place
for me to lay my head on this road trip
we call life, but little did you know
had the trunk not been full
I would have been sitting alone
face aglow from my cellular phone
texting other women,
probably with a smile.
I am here to tell you, you deserve better
and I don't want you ever settle
for anything less than a lover's embrace
because comfort plus time
equals unease on your mind.
Worrying whether this companion of yours
has become a stone tied to your heart
with a heavy rope and its tugging you down
into the dark blue depths
filling your lungs with ice cold seawater
with every last breath.
I want you to be with someone
you can chase for the rest of your life
and when you get tired of swimming
they won't leave you treading,
chumming shark infested waters
with blood from a poorly stitched heart
but they will follow and follow
until you both find that deserted island,
that paradise you promised one another.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
I love my early morning hikes
in the Georgian-woods,
where alone
I glide along,
my feet carrying me
through the zephyr-mists,
upward on the granite stairway
into the disappearing stars
& onto the bald-summit.
Happily,
I stand exposed
on another sacred-peak,
one of God's gifts
for wayward hikers,
smiling.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Love is for the poor,
and money for the rich
but wisdom is reserved
for those who caught the itch
of curiosity for the fact that they exist.
Those sparse few who dare
to put their faith into people
but expect not to see the eyes of god
inside of another man’s cathedral.
Knowing well that these lies and laws
could never guide us past the flaws
of good and evil.
Only believe in the dreamer
who refuses the role of a follower
and shuns the idea of a leader.
Be not deceived by status or acclaim
because it only makes you a disciple
of a product and a name.
Hold in high regard the tired hikers
born to the depths of the deepest valleys
and yet they rise before the light of dawn
like a striker to set ablaze the malaise
of these pedestrian days
that mock our souls
with monotonous toil.
This life is but an eternal recurrence
therefore every morn we are born anew
and that potential is a shot at transference
into something more eminent than you.
Become the bridge my friend
because there is no future
in being an end.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Grain of wheat
When I rise without sleep,
According to God to abandonment.
His love is projected on the horizon,
Cool is the water of its source.
The good God loves us happy,
Lady mothers his Empress.
Without faith the world and consternation,
The man without a heart.
Hikers with thirst and hunger,
God made man.
The Light is eternal and free,
God loves you and purifies.
We were very confident in our Lord,
It was divine, is love.
The grain of wheat that produces,
Love of God, Jesus.
Victor Marques
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 11:45 AM UTC
Sit down my friends, come hear this true story
It's interesting, but it's also gory
One fine day in eighteen seventy-four
Alferd Packer, who just loved to explore
With five friends, he began a three-month tour
'Cross the Rockies, but don't ask me what for
Six men walked for seventy-five miles
But the voyage just was not all smiles
For you see, when the group finally came back
Five of the men the party now did lack
At the end of those cold seventy-five
Alferd Packer alone finished alive
When asked why, he didn't know what to say
His memory seemed to change day to day
But at last he settled on one version
Of what happened on that long excursion
The police decided this one was true
And it's this one that I'll now tell to you
One hiker, it seemed, whose name had been Bell
Just went insane, but why no one could tell
Packer claimed that Bell had killed all the rest
Of the hikers, and that packer was next
So ole Packer, he said, "I tried my best
To stop him; but I fought back with such zest
Shannon Bell died, but it's just common sense
When I say, I killed him in self-defense"
Then Alferd, he was left with five dead men
What could he do? It was getting cold then
So Alferd, to warm up that freezing hell
Took the body and he devoured Bell
For dessert he then ate his other four
Dead companions; but hey — what are friends for?
When finished, he caused a sensation
By arriving at the tour's destination
When Alferd had ended his gruesome tale
The local cops threw him quickly in jail
Where he served over seventeen long years
But if his fate fills your eyes now with tears
I'll reveal here, he was released alive
Died a free man, the age of sixty-five
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
Try and die,
Or,
Heed and succeed.
Where in either
does wisdom lie?
Do smarts give in,
Or,
Blindly vie.
Is it for all,
Or,
only for some.
This non-commodity,
called
Freedom.
It is not sold on Amazon,
Or
bid upon in Ebay.
Unlike a Ferrari,
no one looks twice
upon this ride
called Freedom.
It runs on blood
of patriots,
who saw the light.
Always picking up
hitch-hikers, carrying
someone else's baggage.
Hello! my love,
Won't you cruise
with me,
in my ride called Freedom.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Down in the forest,
past the bluebells sits a glade
Hidden from the outside world
Protected, dark in shade
A magic place where fairies live
Behind a silver veil
With a gate made out of spider silk
And guarded by a snail
It's hidden from the normal path
Behind large ferns and leaves
It is only seen by fairie fok
And those who do believe
The snail sits watching up the path
For hikers and their ilk
Prepared to send the warning out
by breaking through the silk
The bluebells let the fairie folk
Know it is time to hide
Behind the silver slippers
Secret signals they abide
A place where water runs as clear
As blue as summer sky
Where magic lights the world for them
Where fairies float and fly
It is a glade not seen by us
If we do not know to look
To us it's just a darkened glade
Fed by a smallish brook
But, there inside the curtain
Is a world of childhood dreams
Where wishes are all granted
And tears help fill the streams
Magic is the hallmark
It keeps the land of fairie well
If you found it, who'd believe you
really, just who could you tell?
Protected by an old brown snail
With his silver trail behind
with a spider web to block the way
It's a place so few will find
Believe and you will see it
Past the trees and in the shade
It will open up to serve you
In that small and magic glade
If you see the folk of fairie
And their wings of gossamer glass
Then you've met up with the old brown snail
And he chose to let you pass.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
I'm attracted to men who do things
the hippie health nut rock climbers
the con-going, larping nerds
the artsy poetry writing, painters
I'm attracted to results,
to getting up off the couch and going
to hikers, and bikers, to MMA fighters
these are the men that I want
The men who get up in the morning
with a purpose
the men who know where they're going
and why they're doing what they do
The men with mettle, with strength, with power
I want a man who takes control
Who's not afraid to spend an evening
away from me
If we have differing interests
He won't give up what he loves
for any woman
I'm turned on by men
with steel in their bones
With iron in their hearts
who don't take their hits lying down
To men with hobbies with talent
with ideas and dreams
that they're making happen
not just pondering
I hate talk
The muscles built for sight's sake
aren't worth a **** thing to me
I need skills, a brain with the bulk
I want a man who rarely rests
who never stagnates
who can take me out to do something new
I'm attracted to men who do things
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
*dandelion seeds
too tight to fly--
frozen Spring lovers
stream breeze--
pollen ripples into sun,
brace of current bed
inflorescent burst--
hikers' boots beside a pool
on sun-baked rocks
green buds ***** the air--
in corymb echoes,
fuzz of leaves
water-sounds cascade--
moss-drops, trickles; dog-splash, falls;
gurgles under foot
the tones of waves
tiny on the smooth shore
lipping on
stem-length stars,
streaming rays of sun
and water's deep shade
gentle eddies over stone--
one world,
one world
froth twirl and tendril
under Spring brook shade--
so clear beneath
burl-sprouts misted bright,
cups of water,
forest thirst
waterfall gasp--
the cold! the winter! now swim!
the first breaths
Spring Misogi--
pummeled muscles--
grin of mossy heart
your wet shirt against my chest
--hot love--
thunderous winter-melt
we sink laughing,
numb in Spring's fluids--
our voices drown
papaya lunch--
a tropic fruit
and i am home
sweaty backpack--
two beloved women hike,
my heart weightless
cliff-jumpers--
green from nostalgia,
i hit bottomless
cameras first,
avert canopy surprise--
Spring screen
black-backed iridesce--
warm beetle slips
in and out of scree
barefoot in the stream,
our hands and voices smooth--
ankle sprain
Spring paths--
a parent's visit
breathes new life
my womb-maker
from another life--
ageless comfort
her haiku eyes--
water shining sun green
bloom here again
*
\|/
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
The Hiker reaches the foot of the mountain
And pulls out his map,
Laden with a golden path in lemniscates
Knowing where he is to go
For he had known this since he set foot out
His door.
Day by day he scales a piece of the mountain
Face, lacking not skill, but
Having patience, knowing the safe and
Prosperous journey is the
Patient one, the one whose tree of meaning
Is rooted in passion, the passion
To wait.
The Hiker fears not the delay of the summit
For the summit is already his,
Her hand his bride, for it is known in the
Hikers name who he is meant for:
The Summit, forever and for always.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
Mandolin harmonies
trailed up Bear Hair Gap,
echoed between
the chestnuts, hickories
& sweet blackberries.
Lodi & a bad moon rising
stifled the cool air,
wood spirits whispered
secret incantations
to the fairies & sprites
flying amongst the fireflies.
This is the sacred
Coosa place,
where bricks have names,
where the wolf man
drove his Impala
spooking summer campers
& where old blackie
got trapped.
Two are gone now,
one succumbed to the bottle,
the other still stalking hikers
near the Raven Cliffs
o'er near Helen.
The bricks will remain forever
'neath the phases of the moon
beside the maiden Trahlyta,
up from Blood Mountain.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Dear Mountain hello
I feel bad, I’m sorry
Everyone thinks you are this monster
But I know,
The hikers always make the trail
The mountain has no say
They can’t see the forest for the trees
But I see you mountain for the trail
Our spoken words your trampled ground
Emotion bonds for twists and turns
Our animosities propel your summit further out of reach
“It must be cold on all that ice up top, hu?”
I know your top is frigid warm
Like I said, I sorry. They don’t get you
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 1:37 PM UTC
Ole jalopy
Chugging on down the road
•
__
(The heart)
••
Don't seem able to make it home
(But then again it always does)
••
We always DO find love
••
(If we truly want)
---
SOMETIMES WE GET SO HUNGRY WE JUST CAN'T EAT
••
Ole jalopy
---
Takes it real slow
••
Stops for hitch-hikers
Dogs
Kids
••
The heart of the matter
Meaningful discussions about the world
-
•
-
Once it stopped at a little cabin
For about 40 years!
••
Nice and easy
SAY!
Ain't it good to know that ole jalopy is around?
••
Seems we may need a ride
Some sweet Day
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
I'm not yankin' your chain, pullin’ the wool over your eyes, or any of that ****
This is the job man.
Fly a plane, build a bridge, climb a mountain- do it man. Don't limit yourself.
Unless you’re not that adventurous guy, I mean, that's cool. No inner drive to be outgoing: That's cool, that's cool, I get it, stay with us… work at the Laundromat. There are so many benefits to a Laundromat. Good… well decent money. Not much real work, we operate machines, so whatever really. But the chillest part is, we get to see the creepy stains people have on their clothing... and have a good laugh behind their backs.
These stains tell stories.
Pilots are sweaty under their arms. This tells me they are confined, cramped, caged, we are free in our own little Laundromat world.
Bridge builders have industrial stains; no regular old machine will get those out. We are chillin’ working for the same pay they are at a quarter of the effort. Hikers are even worse. They are soaked head-to-toe in sweat for a view from a postcard- idiots.
It may not be as stimulating as flying a plane; as as helpful as building a bridge; as monumental as hiking a mountain; but it’s the superiorly important.
We are doing the world a huge service. Without us, there would be no uniforms for pilots, no clothes for the bridge builder, and no hiking gear for the mountain man.
Buck up, life could be worse, you could be a more useless guy with creepy stains who flies a plane- builds a bridge- or hikes a mountain and then overpays us at the Laundromat to clean his clothes.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
When I met you, believe me, I didn’t intend to fall for you. By no means did I want to put your laugh on repeat every time it filled the air, every time it filled the room, all the moments when it felt like time didn’t have a definition to begin with. When I met you, I did not believe that opposites could attract. I did not know how valuable words could be until they came in slow thought out sentences, quickly traveling from your lips to my ears and hanging in the space between us like Christmas ornaments, the ones that are so beautiful you understand why they should only be put on display for a short period of time, the kind where you’re afraid to touch them in case you might leave a fingerprint, smudge the beauty of it off with your quick responses and loud voice, the ornaments you put high enough on the tree for everyone to see, but not high enough for the risk of it to break. You tell me that you are easily breakable, when people first meet you, you tell me, that your brain stops functioning because it cannot handle the pressure that new people bring with them. It’s not easy for you to let people in enough to see your elaborate conversations. My luck is the kind of luck that gets me close enough to want for me to see it, know that I’m close enough to touch it only to have me land on my face not much farther from where I began. I am lucky enough to know you, lucky enough to hear all the ticks of your brain that the world could only dream of hearing, but I will never be lucky enough to love you. I’m a desert that doesn’t get rain for hundreds of years at a time, and you are a thunderstorm that will only stay for a little while, you will overflow me with happiness, flood me with hope, and create fields of dreams and overdone romantic scenarios that I am not good enough to play the role for. When you leave, when you return to the amazon where you belong, there will be some lonely hikers who will find the remains of what I wanted it to be between us. They will pick the flowers with your name on it, but they will not question. Some questions aren’t meant to be answered. And the same reasoning applies to how beautiful Christmas ornaments don’t belong on the same branch with the generic ones you find at the bottom of the dollar store bin.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
In the art section of Retiro Park’s book stalls: Picasso hides in the shadows of Goya.
Along the streets of Lavapiés: graffiti strikes a blow against the crimes of Franco.
Atop the boulders of La Pedriza: hikers spread out the city like a tent.
And in the sea-swept climes of Asturias: we adorn our plates with pulpo.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Morning yawns and stretches across aged mountains.
It rolls over, pulling its blanket of mist over their shoulders
and wearily, yet steadily, opens it eyes.
It sighs with a breath that trembles the leaves on oaks and birches
and whispers its way through the countless needles of pines.
It wakens the birds who give song to its breath and announce the new day
to weary hikers, canoeists, climbers and shoppers
still nestled in their beds
still weary from yesterday's
adventures.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
Setting sun splinters
on Hudson’s frozen currents.
Sea of gold shimmers.
Palisades prop up
wooded banks of New Jersey.
Springtime beckons boats.
Hazy summer heat
thickens air and slows the steps
of earnest hikers.
Autumn leaves rustle--
wind blows downhill ornaments
of gold, red, orange.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC