"mountaintop" poems
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity
Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach
Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
you must rise above
the gloomy clouds
covering the mountaintop
otherwise, how will you
ever see the brightness?
11k
Dare to live.
Stop insisting on chasing after death.
Stop trying to die.
Quit the grand illusion.
You shall never die.
Grow your wings and fly to the mountaintop
of your world. Breathe stars.
Bravely go alone. Only you can do this.
Regularly in your day--exercise conviction.
Visualize Stars, the Sun.
Golden, fibrous threads
of starlight, of sunlight --
take them in, through the nostrils.
This is nothing less than
soul's power-fuel.
Inhale slowly and experience
the gentle music of love's fire,
as flames would pull up
a chimney stack, up pipes of ovens.
Faith builds with such breath practice.
Greed cooked transformed.
Anger put to rest.
Ignorance surrendering
to ways of knowing.
Prepare that your purpose
shall speak to you.
Breathe starlight.
Are you surprised
that you feel no heat?
Your unique timelessness
awaits your recognition.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
The Beatles - I Am The Walrus (Freaky Rare Version)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIXEUcrUCtI
Strawberry Fields Forever
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9r4mJ3aEhHo
Magical Mystery Tour
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqb_fJd-GVs
We Can Work It Out
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g--Vlij1X1Y
MLK's Last Speech
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aL4FOvIf7G8
The Fool On The Hill
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDtK7xUIDxk
How Long? Not Long!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAYITODNvlM
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I Have Been To The Mountaintop
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nL5vJKXzOrI
Sgt Peppers Lonely Heart Club Band
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xj2bmQ4P4cM
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
My Country Tis of Thee,
Sweet land of liberty-
Or so we sing.
Land where my fathers died-
But my forefathers died in a battle
Trying to keep their slaves;
My fathers killed your fathers
For trying to run away;
My fathers **** your fathers
Cause it's late at night, and
He's reaching for his gun-no, wait,
His ID?
Land of the pilgrim's pride-
But so often we leave out of history
How if it weren't for a Native American,
The pilgrims would've died.
From every mountainside-
Like Stone Mountain in Georgia,
Where Rebel Generals are memorialized,
Where the **** was revived-
God, help me, I can't hear freedom's ring;
I can only hear white-washed history.
From every mountainside-
But these days, the mountain is in my chest,
And liberty's ring sounds a lot different,
And a lot of folks don't like it.
Let freedom ring-
And I want to fight for freedom for all-
#BlackLivesMatter-
I want to help-
HANDS UP, DON'T SHOOT!
But-
I
Can't
Breathe.
Let freedom ring!-
But peaceful protests turn into
Bloodbaths as those who have sworn
To serve and protect are sniped down.
Let freedom ring!-
I try to educate myself
On the side of history not taught-
I've always felt that Nat Turner was the bad guy,
But these days I'm questioning it.
I read "The Meaning of Fourth of July for the *****
by Frederick Douglass
And I read "Bury Me in a Free Land"
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
and I read "Sympathy"
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
and I read "Letters from Birmingham Jail",
"The Mountaintop Speech", and
"I Have a Dream"
by Dr. King.
When I was younger,
I'd research Dr. King & his colleagues
For fun.
I'd wonder, "If I lived in the Civil Rights era,
What would I have done?"
But when I turned seventeen,
I realized, "I live in a Civil Rights era;
What am I going to do?
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Going to the mountaintop
nothing to keep
to see, an explicit wonders
a blissful dream
only, holding in my hands
a flute withstand
when I reach at top of peek
I inhaled a scent
that nobody ever breathed
with full air I blew
forces of nature awakening
*A Galway style comes out
music bars slithered
all across coming
down my feet
guiding notes far & near
peace touched to
the rivers warring
solitude filled the valleys
fairies and goblins
in delitescent
filled with great joy,
the mountains were vivified*
At the end of my song
I blew a soaring note above
and caves opened
some going here and there
hopping, waving
trees bowed with splendor
And all I saw comes frolicly
sigh of full relief
my phantasms has finished
on my way home
leaving my flute up a stone
hoping someday,
someone, would be willing
-enough to play
to hear my song over again
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
This is my mono-monologue.
I stand alone befoe the world,
My lonely clean white flag unfurled,
Wondering when the winter sky
Will melt my wings and let my fly.
Perched upon a mountaintop
With not a soul in sight
"When will my isolation stop?"
I cry with all my might.
This is my mono-monologue.
The wind whispers
What I hoped I'd never know:
"You are so far away from them
Because you are below.
"But maybe you are
The one who lives above.
Maybe that is why
You never could be loved."
This is my mono-monologue.
I've lived a shunned life
(It can be hard to see)
Although I haven't felt much strife,
My freedom's far from free.
I do not truly know
What you mean by 'best friend'.
I'm fated to live alone
Until the very end.
This is my mono-monologue.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 11:51 PM UTC
Put 'Goodness' of a good man on test.
In moderate clime it might appear best.
Examine the 'Goodness' in extremes.
It will be different from what it seems.
Leave 'Goodness' under the desert sun.
To help 'Goodness' there should be none.
With magnifying glass check its sphere.
Cracks and fissures are sure to appear.
Now place 'Goodness' on mountaintop.
Keep it in position with the help of prop.
Leave it in Bone-chilling cold and depart.
Within days it will crumble and fall apart.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
every day, speak a little less
reduce the number of words you say from half to
ten less, and then none at all.
Don't forget to be soft.
Kiss your mountaintop goodbye for
one last sunrise and descend
into the night
where it's quiet
like you should be.
one by one, pull back towards yourself
the orbs of energy you've left
bouncing around you in the
atmosphere.
be their chalice
one last time
and watch them burn out.
and when you're reduced to
dying ashes and deathly whispers
a strong voice will suddenly falter
and they wonder -
didn't we once know a ... ?
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
I want to bang you in a wicker basket
With ropes around us
And a ball of hot air above us
I want to almost fall out
At least five times
And then realize it's ok
Because I'd love to die
While free-fall ******* you
I want to do it in a storm
With thunder in the distance
And right between us
I want the wind to pick us up
And carry us toward a mountaintop
So we can have a picnic
In a grassy area looking over
And you can sit on my shoulders
To see just a little bit further
I've never been in a hot air balloon
But I want start with you
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
He's the hand I felt on my shoulder as the tornado went over me . He's the one who saved me from choking to death in my own ***** . He's the one who sat beside me on the mountaintop as I cried over my wrongs . And if I ever kneeled before him he would take my hands and raise me so I could kiss his cheek . Who is God ? My best friend who has saved me time and time again . Who understands my limits and my failures but forgives me each and every time . One who is always there for me to lean on when I am tired , lonely , discouraged . One who has shown me heaven and promised a place there for me .
Who is God ? He is in me , my past , my present , and future . I am nothing without my God .
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
On the mountaintop
Where all things are made new
We'll grow old and young
In the forest shade
Where Nature hides her treasure
Our songs will be sung
When the sunlight fades
Constellations fill the sky
We will find our truth
And when new day dawns
We will greet the morning light
Full of life and youth
In the cool autumn sun
We'll make two into one
And we'll let loose our joy
As our fears come undone
We'll write a thousand hymns
Knit a fabric of our dreams
And live to see them all fulfilled
And bursting at the seams
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
spread-eagle at the summit
facing endless gusts of sandy billows,
mountain-backed vitruvian man,
i flail frustration at the outer
drips against, again in toes
forget the boots the pack
the bearbag full of snacks
the nylon thunder night-fret
flash of demon forking
shamefaced fear in throat
of shaken chest or weakness
soaking downy thermarest--
underfed it seemed so clear!
with only distant puffs within the blue
so here i lay despite the warnings hitherto--
the stakes have ripped electric
by the sky or sudden wind
as corners rock and threaten
rolling off into the gale--i sweat to add
a static vision sailing back alone,
a teardrop tent against the lightning caverns of the clouds
a skeleton of light suspended in the strike,
a sierra sign designedly godlike,
zapped nocturnal whisk i am
in awe now fearful grateful
mythos-understood of human
imagination's pawn still prone
with whining seams the poles still hold
within the whipping whites so loud
to tug my heels against the flying fabric
portal damp enstormed insomniac
to will the stony sand there once again
to sleep perhaps another dozen in
before the morning knuckles
pound the staff from off this mountaintop
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
I was three , no bigger than a west Texas tumbleweed . . . just three .
My mother hung the wash out on the line
and wiped the sweat off her brow with her hand .
Half an hour later the clothes were frozen .
Blue Norther . . . you can see them coming
a hundred miles away .
Wichita Falls , Texas . . . on the Wichita river .
Moses sat on a mountaintop gazing at the promised land but it was out of his hands now .
Leaning on his staff , the one that ate the Pharoh's two serpents . . . sssssssilently a single tear falls to the ground .
No fence could hold me . . . I was over or under in seconds .
A terror at three , a potential runaway .
The police knew me by first name . . . just three .
The plains of North Texas , jackrabbits , coyotes , rattlesnakes and all . . . were home .
Forty years of desert wilderness ,
till the last man , woman , and child of Egyptian connection had died ,
. . . . . . was such a sacrifice made . . . . . .
Moses was the last to fall .
On a mountaintop of no consequences .
"Run Rabbit Run"
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
The thoughts in my mind continually race;
I need something to slow down this awful pace;
I need to hear the crashing of the waves;
maybe a peaceful mountaintop where you just sit and gaze;
Just something to give my mind some space;
A way to empty my mind, like a runner does his legs;
The kind of quiet where if you pause it gives you grace;
for me this peace was never a specific place;
it could be staring at the sky, burning in the sun's rays;
it could be a memory that lasted a second but to me it was days;
something to make me feel small, like I've vanished from my body without a trace;
My mind can float safely here as writing is My escape.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
I open my eyes
to see a sun so bright
up on this mountaintop
I find a rock and stand up
I breathe in, as the dust picks up
the wind of life
carries my body away tonight
Oct 17, 2022
Oct 17, 2022 at 7:16 PM UTC
They'll use Martin Luther King day to sell anything from mattresses to cars.
Even he has been ripped up and replanted,
capitalized, like Christmas or Easter,
by the people who give us images of a white Jesus,
but you bet they don't pay everyone equal.
We have boulevards, schools, and libraries named after King,
but streets over, we have Confederate soldiers carved into a mountain,
we call 'em heroes, that's what I was taught,
the ones who fought, the ones who ate lead,
But, they aren't talking about who really put a bullet in Dr. King's head.
What the **** is wrong with us?
America will go see Selma in millions,
this weekend, go back home to their all white neighborhoods,
thinking about how it was bad then, but now, it's all good.
Who are we really trying to fool?
Stand up for the pledge in school
Put your hand over your heart and forget
all this country denies you
telling you that there isn't a heart of a human beating inside you
because you're gay, you're black, you're not like that,
She was a flirt, she wore a short skirt,
Every day you try to heal the hurt
Justice for all? Like are you kidding me?
There ain't such a thing here as liberty
Do you know where you stand
was Native American land?
Ripped from their bleeding hands
And don't even get me started on Iraq and Iran.
You know that mountaintop?
The one I was talking about,
Did they tell you it was a KKK meeting spot?
Bet not.
I wonder, is the clay here red from all the blood?
We hide our history,
sing promises of liberty,
say that racism ended with slavery,
and it's Stonewall Jackson, he's a hero, they say
but never speak of Stonewall Riots any day
and I'm afraid for our children and what they will learn,
in classrooms, will they be silenced?
Come here kids, let me tell you a story,
of Ferguson, New York, Hong Kong,
about how people will look back and see they were wrong,
But some never did, some died with hatred,
some died because of it,
Let me tell you about homeless LGBT youth
Let me tell you about all these issues
Let me tell you the truth
And there are different ways of seeing it,
but only one way to say it,
you and I both know,
You just have to listen for it.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
as i walk through this desert,
through this valley of shadow of death,
i'm keeping my head up,
i'm smiling through the bitterness
because i know this won't last forever
because one day i'll look back
from the mountaintop.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
*I want to bud on
A mountaintop.
To bloom with no
Shelter from the
Weather. Let my
Petals fall down
For hours, so that
Those below don't
Know from what
Place I've come.*
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Every journey that I take
Every rule that I break
Every moment I create
In you with you
Reminds me of this place
That reminds me of your face
You are the light
At the end of my tunnel
The perfect mountain view
When I climb the slopes
Of our love
I can see
More than
I knew
My Kilimanjaro
My connection
To Christ
My spirit feels alive
When I look into
Your eyes
You are the mountain
My Yogananda
My tender Guru
My greatest crush
That accepts me as I am
You believe in God
You believe in Love
You believe in Friendship
You are the perfect
Mountain view
When I scale the rocks
Of our relationship
Rising with every step
My heart is left
With a feeling of
Completeness
Sweetness
Mother Divine
Has brought us
Together
To share, to ascend
To believe in God
To be my friend
You are the beginning and the end
When you are away
I climb this mountain
Everyday
Wind, snow or rain
Joy or pain
I can go to our mountain
Climbing to the top
This gorgeous point
Holding on to trees
With wings of grace and ease
And the Gods
Are pleased
Let friendship
Lead us to our
Mountain tops
Let Holy Spirit
Guide us there
Let everyone
Who reads these words
Feel the wind of love
Against his face
And in her hair
We are magic
We are flying
We are laughing
We are crying
In the end
No matter where you go
No matter how far
I will know
How to find you
Remind you of our
Friendship
Of our love
Meet me on our mountain top
Look at the stars
As they shoot across the sky
I'll be riding one
Or on a cloud
To meet you there
Waving you a smile
As I fly
You know where
Into your temple heart
On the mountain
Of our
God
Given
Love
If you know
The way I feel
If you feel my energy
You will know when I am near
Without looking you will hear
Me crash into the atmosphere
With the wings that Spirit gave us
To share
Meet me on our mountaintop
The one that reminds me of you
The place that we've found with the perfect view
Sitting on a star
On a comet
Or a gust of wind
So sharp
I will find you
I will find your temple heart
Invite the world
So that we can curl up
Into a blast of light
A spoon of love
Lighting up the heavens
Everywhere
With a love so bright
Every creature in sight
Will witness
Our forgiveness
In the air
Meet me on our mountain top
Look at the stars
As they shoot across the sky
I'll be riding one
Or on a cloud
To meet you there
Waving you a smile
As I fly
You know where
Into your temple heart
On the mountain
Of our
God
Given
Love
tHE tERRY tREE
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
A man was driving in his car,
Or carriage, on the road the runs,
Where with his wife and little ones,
His horse did stop
On mountaintop–
Over the vale of Chappaqua
Black as night without a star
Came pitchy darkness on men's eyes,
And then great hailstones from the skies
Rattled around
And with rebound
Drove creatures mad in Chappaqua
The awful grandeur of the scene
Impressed him so it made him clean
Forget himself,
His house and pelt
And all his goods in Chappaqua
Thank God, they're safe! One did debar
Destruction on the road that runs–
To him, his wife and little ones.
Tornadoes pass,
Green grows the grass
In the valley, aye, of Chappaqua.
The New York Times. 5/13/2016.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
The climb
First exhilarating
Then regimented
Finally exhausting
******
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Euphoria! Climb, energetic and prostrate yourself!
Walking each graffiti hajj
Bleak signal from an indigo mountaintop.
Iraq memoir remains constant.
You, Pavlov knew,
Coax solitary jazz.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
dragged out of bed by the beating of my blood through my eardrums,
then pushed back into the deep corner of my mind by the drumming in my head,
this idea's progressing to a level higher than the mountaintop it was conceived on.
as it draws itself out in the stars; by my fingertips pointed heavenward,
the picture completes itself with the slightest adjustments of my mind,
and produces somewhat of an opus to be driven and dragged out upon.
killed in its final instances, it's death brings renewed life;
rebirth only gets to those who really ever let it mean something important,
and as we give purpose to our purposeless lives, i see what you're awakening to as a con;
a deception not of the hands that were supposed to belong to somebody else, but of my own.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC