"mountaintops" poems
Sometimes beneath close eyelids
I quest to bring you back
As if you were driftwood floating
Downstream on your back.
I dip my hands beneath the veil
And dry away the death
And from my parting, weeping lips
I give you back your breath-
Just like the rising sunset burning
In the summer sky
Paints and saints the mountaintops
And casts their colors bright.
*Unrhymed Notes:
Sometimes I dream I can bring you back
Just as simply as dipping my hands into the water
To retrieve a floating piece of driftwood;
Dry the death from your skin
And breath life back into you
The way the sunrise reanimates
The Dark Mountains
Each and every day.
I see your Ocean eyes open
Embrace you like I'm trying to
Fold you into my skin
Where I can keep you always
And feel your summer peach warm flesh
Tangible against my permafrost fingers.
If the dead could talk
Nothing profound would leave your lips
They'd only quirk into a Cheshire smile
And you'd tell me to let go
Relinquish
Move along and stop standing still
Life is for the Living
Death is for the dead
And dreams are for the foolish.*
"You *******
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
I once thought there wasn't any life outside of this town,
but I was okay with that because it had everything I needed.
But what do I know?
We are all so young,
running through parks,
climbing up mountaintops.
Strolling past all the shops
and driving around this town going nowhere in particular,
I thought that it simply could not get better than this.
We loved each other like the stars
I thought that nothing could separate us.
We were sure to last,
but little did we know
that all these days will belong to the past,
and everything that we always did
now live on pages on thousands of papers
and in pictures tucked away in a box of old things.
Happiness was in the air that day
when we all were together once again.
The moon shined bright that night,
lighting the path that we once drove down every day.
This city just seems so small now that I have broken all its walls.
I drive past all the places we left marks on in this city.
The now vacant houses that once held so many memories,
the lunch table where our love blossomed,
the midnight drives to the movies,
getting excited over slushies,
and the lakes we learned to float.
I look back on all these places
and think about all the things we ever did,
I simply thought that it could not get any better than this.
Setting the new year on fire.
Dancing to the sounds of Grease.
Picking peaches in celebration of spring.
Watching all the bands we ever loved.
I would forget all my stress and worries thinking about it all.
Can it get any better than this?
I want to thank this town for all the stories I wrote.
All the times we felt like children.
All the times we rose with the sun.
All the times I felt loved by all the people that were my stars.
As I'm driving through this town and watch it grow smaller in my eyes,
I imagine a time when I was not alone.
I know getting older can seem quite strange at times,
but what do I know?
All I know is that there is just so much to see,
and sometimes the grass isn't always green as it used to be.
But as long as I have these memories,
it couldn't get any better than this.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
I was with the ocean last night and your body
Was its vessel, overflowing. Words were frail,
Drops indwelling about the shapeless sky,
Water reaching for its own height and breath,
Like touch, were as desperate letters exchanged,
Endlessly read, until like loamy vellums, they
Disappeared in our hands. Inklings of tide-
Pool and driftwood.
My blood was a river that ran
Its course. Members feeding your deltas and birds
Breeding where the water-russet sheds on pampas
And inverness. Eyes like wing through ever—
Green, empties the fossil shell. Fire, brimming
Mountaintops that were, for countless millennia,
Sleeping. Did I mention that the earth moved?
No? Her displacement was involuntary.
Then came the waterfalls, lifting throughout
Time. The scent, searching for its identity,
The wave, calling to its own name— Ocean,
O— cean. And flowers, opening like galaxies
In the after-light. A universe of face and hand
With hunger for salt-rain and then the cloud
Burst-blue and spilt and spun more redolent,
Deities, in joyous creation.
I breathe, in your ocean, like a child unborn.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
In tunnelled darks, pastes of reminisce
Outward disjoint points to irrelevance
Spooned and coned in cold mountaintops
The darks of sorrows and trails of struggles
Persistence patterns of self satire in gloom
Sunken in identity crisis of broad oceans
Stormy seas spotlighted by beatific stars
Trajectory of spilled ice in recurrent motions
A mere past cocooned by fears and tears
Clouded in thoughts that cruise and decline
Greyed white imprinted by sudden sadness
Madness echoes on arched ancient bricks
Checkered maniacs of fulfilled passions
Filed and iced in cased prolific memories
Cascades of sunshine tickles to warmth
Orchards of glow that bloom and grow
Picked, ticked and unpacked from boxes
Attacked, nurtured and stored in bliss
Eventful lessons unfolds in untold augury
A mission as the known permeates and fade
Windowed eyes all line up in parade
Mirrored lights digest the haunted haste
A stranger to self, an ally to another
A dance of bright entwine a twist of blur
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
The purple haze
of heather had
dwindled in the sunshine.
Bluebells were breaking too,
their florets a flutter.
Smoggy incense rolls in
off the horizon smoking
over the crumbled mountaintops,
their peaks unable to break the surf.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
By Samaneh Nazerian
On a cold winter evening,
There was a dove with no wing,
Looking at sky,
Asking Him why?
It was cloudy,
Very gloomy,
And across the windows,
She saw a flock of crows,
They were humankind,
With nothing in mind,
In the fading light,
They were in delight!
Oppressing on a dare,
They were taking no care,
With time passing,
The kids' laughing,
The poor's crying,
The Lord's yelling,
And His warning,
The sun's shining,
Where it's rising,
And is setting,
No care with the moon,
Singing out of tune!
They were working,
And were playing,
Eating, laughing,
And were crying!
They were doing,
All every thing,
Save for thinking,
On their being!
No one caring for the poor, the old,
All what's seen was the gold and cold!
All were there so wise,
But getting shut-eye,
And closing their eyes,
To the how and why!
No one seeking,
The peaks and the ups,
And not looking,
For the mountaintops!
Finding the world of humanity,
In dark, free of any charity,
The dove,
With love,
Felt unhappy,
And like jelly!
She asked the Lord with courtesy,
For His Blessing, Help and Mercy!
She called on Him,
To forgive them,
Give them a chance,
To ruin their fence,
To save their face,
Well, in any case!
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Matrimonial stars in aisles of Auroral rainbows. Mizzling rays of twilights, arraying bays with skylines of lucent waves.
A plethora of scarlet roses reposed in florid clouds. Ashore the Giddy ocean in a gentle motion, caressing Mali garnets, mirroring effulgent lights, kissing the mountaintops before refulgent nights.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Flashing light paranoia
Insecure and dark
Dressed to hide a wounded heart
As she implores ya to make a start
Like a vampire with skinny teeth
Making love under painful art
What does she see when she looks at me?
Does she want to tear it apart?
Coming from the mountaintops
Are voices singing out
If only I could hear what they sang about
I'm counting on a soulful shout
She makes her way across the floor
Still unsure of what she's without
But when she reaches out for something
She receives a little doubt
Never mind the lights
Never mind what they hide
The song will say it's what's inside
It's alright to be shy
But when the time comes for showing up
Saying hello and not goodbye
I hope you know that rejection hurts
But regret will watch you die
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
What is artistic expression how do put my soul on a page
How do I stroke my aura’s color if I can’t see it
How do paint my humor and intentions
How do I draw my unbalanced chakras back to balanced and write the energies surging through channels
How do I chalk out my thought process when I am reminded of you
Walkie talkies hidden ontop my chalkie chakra blocked like telephone lines hit by drunk drivers or blackouts during storms
Sunshine burning mustard seething weekend breeding burnouts coming out of retirement like
My soul color bleeding rainbows with big blocks of grey in between Needing the contrast Needing the depth and blurred complications the world is not black and white we all bleed the same rainbow sparks into the same riverbeds breathing and exhaling with the time ticks of our existence of light reflected on the glitter trickled surface of the vibrations of our soul speaks ricocheting through galaxies for eternity.
Can’t phrase anything right
In come spiraling thoughts stories of me stories of we can’t help but trip I fall into thee mother Luna romanticizing the waves of the sea you rub my jaw with your hipster b
Crown king we’re being free
We’re trying queen
Forgot the beauty in the cold
Blackened hearts should walk boldly
Frozen on mountaintops trying to keep our souls warm
Broken and torn plastic bag in the wind escaping entities that block their flow
Exhausted on faking
Keep breaking from trying to make it
Ain’t no fun to be around
I keep all my words in my mouth
The devils got my tongue
I’m feeling numb
All my existence is to ***
I can’t get up out of the ******* ground
Years go by
I’m not feeling myself
Tears come out of me like a leaking spout
No drugs can bother me
My head belongs in the clouds
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
I've been pacing from room to room
Waiting for the world to stimulate
Something other than haunting gloom
Scroll unrolling a new series of emotions
Trends are mountaintops so better follow
The path is winding and this high peaked
Enjoy the view of this digital landscape
As the rest of the world crumbles at your
Feet
Feb 24, 2023
Feb 24, 2023 at 10:53 AM UTC
She is beautiful when she dreams
Dreams of yesterday, dreams of tomorrow
Soft smoky dreams of places far, times long past
Hard, wanton dreams of blood and steel
And dreams of misted green fields
wrapped in the scent of a spring morning
Cloud shrouded dreams of mountaintops
Caressed by gentle sunny breezes
Dreams of the milky moonlight
Wrapped about the night like stark lace
Passionate dreams of love and laughter
The taste of hot skin and warm tears
Desirous dreams
Of life, of meaning, of fulfillment
Dreams of romance that make her eyes shine
Dreams of lust and adventure that make her glow
I see her reposed, dreaming her dreams
White as ivory, fine and chiseled
Eyes closed, lips full, peaceful and content
She is beautiful when she dreams.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
***I've had enough, I'm done
Your standards are no fun***
*You're a broken wordsmith
Lost in a world of words
Searching for realization
While your story is unsung
Your screams from mountaintops
Heard only by cowards ears
Your brightest light
Can't catch my darkest hour*
***Good day to you sir
A forever blur***
Joseph B Schneider
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
punk music playing in the basement
heavy bass vibrating the walls
bacardi in a coffee mug
******* on a tiny mirror
hands on my thighs, *******
the rush sets
hands in my hair
eyes rolling back
he ***** on my neck
i light a cigarette
"my room."
he pulls my strings like
a marionette.
i know this
exchange of goods
very well.
i take another
bump,
eyes widening,
i can finally bear to
see the world.
he eats my ***** and
i feel N O T H I N G.
i gag on his **** and cry.
he strangles me
punches my ****
my *** cheeks
my stomach
he's getting his money's worth
he starts ******* me
drunken noise outside the bedroom door
in perfect rhythm
with the bass
and the headboard
against the wall,
every stroke hurts
my whole body
a wound.
i think about
a distant city
skyscrapers towering
above me like
mountaintops,
somewhere under
lights and stars
where i am happy
to be alive,
anywhere
but here,
this place
where death lives
and waits to catch
it's prey.
he moans
thrusts
shivers
it's over
i wipe mascara tears
take another bump
take another swig
i light another cigarette
he leaves the room
without a word
i follow
two steps behind him
covered in bruises
hickies
marked used
marked invaluable
a group of men
shout names at me
i block it out,
i really don't care
anymore.
this body
was meant for this
this body
doesnt matter
this body
is for getting what
i want
this body
is tired
and sore.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
a daring mountaineer
ran out of lonely peaks
and women he could brag to
he met a wild woman
just as tired
of her narcissistic journey
they attached
and hoped
they were in love
this projection
became their Everest
with no summit
they ate crackers and soup
listened to talk radio
fell asleep wondering
they sighed in unison
quit dreaming
of mountaintops
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 1:17 PM UTC
I see you
I've seen those eyes before
Drowning in patched-up paddle boats
With promises of tomorrow slipping down your face
Like saline shipwrecks fleeing harbor
And greeting the ocean floor with damaged handshakes
And now you're hopeless
Focused on could have been's and maybe one day's
Knowing one day
Swelled up storm clouds
Could slide through your cheek bones
Like sunshowers preventing your skyline parades
But I see you still searching for rainbows
Covering your face with two handfuls of imagination
Daydreaming of days where technicolor dreamcoats
Become wrapped around your soul
Like tuxedos for the bold
I've seen those arms before
Deafeated willow branches in the moonlight
Rebellious to rise upright
And now you're tired
Only fired up when your flesh
Converts to kindling on a campfire
Building sparks that shimmer for seconds
When your light deserves a lifetime
But I see you still inclined to shine brightly
Trying to assign meaning to your life with two inspired limbs
That can freely build bridges or climb mountaintops
Clinging onto hope with sturdy fists
Exploring the peaks of your potential
I've seen those legs before
Tattered toothpicks on prom night
Frozen in stage fright on the dance floor
Pressing muted prayers with each footstep
Into creaky floorboards waiting for silence to ensue
And now you're nervous
You're certain those two left feet can't possibly find the rhythm
So your shoes are the victims of bashfulness
Fearing one false step will uproot your jitterbugs
And place them alongside the butterflies in your stomach
But I see you still owning your insecurities
Because you know you're alive just fine
I see you
You are who I envisioned you to be
I see you
Brushstrokes of imperfections shaded in perfectly
I see you
It's more than just your typical hello
It's a phrase for all of us to speak solely with our souls
It can make you feel at home at the center of your bones
When all your hope is lost and there's no where left to go
So when I greet you
Listen carefully
This is a reminder that your eyes can be thunderous
Your arms can be victorious
And your legs can be ambitious
Your presence is necessary for this discussion
And your essence is accepted here
Let me speak your spirit into existence
Seeing is believing
And believe me
I see you
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
curling up into all sweet confusions
that trickle down from
your touch,
we become the sky, as birds fall
from above. i lose
a tactician's leverage throughout
this fog; a descension
if you were the moon,
an aberrance,
if you were a single leaf,
dripping from this
tree coiling up to
the lights hung on
netted strings set under
the darkness of the sky,
where-ever you have been.
where-ever you are.
so,
do the stars still shine solely for you,
the nights you most need them?
perhaps i have
gone blind,
just when i need to see you,
more now than ever.
perhaps i've just
been sleeping
a little
too long, inside this cave.
does the sky still divide the sea?
but, undoing the buttons on your grip,
you build declensions on foundations
of realisation: with full authorship of
your motions, you know you could
go anywhere, love. you now know
away from i is any road, every treadmark
save this single one.
and mine is hardly treacherous,
but you'll still only find me in mountaintops,
so i could barely blame you if the path gets
too narrow, or too long-wound.
do the clouds still turn images
in full colour, late afternoon, to
remind you of shapes i imitate
in all fractured disappearances?
i've seen retreat from so
many sides now, the addition of
yours could
hardly make a dent. not that i
would not lament a loss like you,
more than anything.
yet, don't
worry, never
worry, i can still stay in motion.
still, if you see fit to
collect all broken pieces of me,
and build up this cottage, or nest, you can keep
your heart here long as
you like, darling.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
I was with the ocean last night and your body
Was its vessel, overflowing. Words were frail,
Drops indwelling about the shapeless sky,
Water reaching for its own height and breath,
Like touch, were as desperate letters exchanged,
Endlessly read, until like loamy vellums, they
Disappeared in our hands. Inklings of tide-
Pool and driftwood.
My blood was a river that ran
Its course. Members feeding your deltas and birds
Breeding where the water-russet sheds on pampas
And inverness. Eyes like wing through ever—
Green, empties the fossil shell. Fire, brimming
Mountaintops that were, for countless millennia,
Sleeping. Did I mention that the earth moved?
No? Her displacement was involuntary.
Then came the waterfalls, lifting throughout
Time. The scent, searching for its identity,
The wave, calling to its own name— Ocean,
O— cean. And flowers, opening like galaxies
In the after-light. A universe of face and hand
With hunger for salt-rain and then the cloud
Burst-blue and spilt and spun more redolent,
Deities, in joyous creation.
I breathe, in your ocean, like a child unborn.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
Dear Little Lilly,
You're going to be very loved and cared for.
Your dreams will one day be accomplished and you will soar,
High above the mountaintops and clear beyond the seas,
Lilly, you can be exactly what you want to be.
Dear Little Lilly,
You will be my sunshine, with a sweetness that won't end.
And when you grow up one day Lilly, you'll be my closest friend.
Don't be scared to be anything but the best,
For my little angel, baby girl, you'll be my greatest test.
Dear Little Lilly,
You are luckier than most children, you see,
Your mommy and daddy are the golden key.
They are so wonderful and so bright and gay,
They will help guide you, love you, and show you the way.
Dear Little Lilly,
Little girl, I can't wait to watch you soar and shine,
Even in your darkest days, you'll pull through and be fine.
With God's love in your heart and the world by its tail,
You'll always be my winner, and victory will prevail.
Dear Little Lilly,
Do you know how much you mean to me,
As you grow into what you will be?
The next few years will so quickly fly,
With laughter and joy, mixed with a few tears to cry.
Dear Little Lilly,
You're an angel. You left us your wings.
Yet you have no idea how much happiness you truly bring.
You brighten up my days with your wonderful smiles and laughs.
You help me to remember all the blessings that I have.
Dear Little Lilly,
You're going to be very loved and cared for.
Your dreams will one day be accomplished and you will soar,
High above the mountaintops and clear beyond the sea.
Lilly, you can be are exactly what you want to be.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC
I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in bed watching the patterns reflected moonlight made on my ceiling when I heard the faint beep of the kitchen microwave. I smelled popcorn.
I decided to fill up my water bottle and see who was up. I slipped on a thick, terrycloth robe I’d gotten from Lisa last Christmas. It must weigh 15 pounds and it’s so warm and heavy I seldom wear it.
I silently glided into the main room. Leong was standing at one of our two large picture windows staring out at the night. Her left arm cradling a bowl of ultimate-butter popcorn. Anna told me last night that Leong and her long-time boyfriend, who’s back in China, had broken up. They’d been together forever and had been expected to marry.
A bright half-moon was hanging high over campus, an electric ornament on a velvet background, its moonlight glint painted the world, like ice on mountaintops.
“I heard about your breakup,” I said, “what does it mean?” In Leong’s world, who you dated was of family interest. That person had to be approved, their bona fides proven - they had to fit into some long term plan.
“It means I can’t be tamed,” she said, with soft bravado. After a moment, she spoke again, more seriously. “It’s better this way - for now - someday..,” she trailed off.
I understood. All of our hopes are resting on someday, like so many wagers at a casino. I imagined some gambler, stepping up to a betting window, in an old black-and-white movie, saying, ”Gimmie 5 bucks on Someday to win.”
Something in her voice, a brittleness, precluded further questions. I looked at the clock, it read 3:47. I gave her a hug and yawning, filled up my water bottle from the refrigerator's filtered tap.
“See ya.” I whispered and headed off, back to bed. With any luck I could squeeze another hour's sleep out of the morning.
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 5:04 AM UTC
A year has passed.
I couldn't feel it though, because all that time was spent with you.
A year full of
long drives for short vacations
intimate hugs full of sweet sensation
wind blowing our hair on snowy mountaintops
chilling in minimarts, enjoying some lollipops
staring into each others eyes, and feeling serene
joining fundraisers and runs to keep the earth clean
We sailed through troubles
Chased after our dreams
Drove ourselves further
And flew to the skies, touching the clouds and riding the jetstreams.
Before I met you, I did all these things many, many times.
But with you, we did these things together.
And they felt different. Every step, every move, every breath.
I felt electricity in my veins, a new light to see in, and freshness in my life.
And that was the difference that kept our unity.
I love you.
Happy anniversary.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
I dreamed I was a butterfly.
(Or butterfly was me.)
I fluttered by the golden sky,
The mountaintops, the sea.
I felt the warmth, the sweet caress,
The gentle breeze of love.
I knew there was no hell below,
No heaven up above.
I spread my wings and let it go,
Forgetful of the past.
I dreamed I was a butterfly.
I fluttered – free at last.
I drifted on the salty waves,
Beset by melting ice…
Amid long years and short days
I freely cast my dice.
My dreams came true, and all at once
The evil was no more…
I let it wash all over me,
And then – I crashed ashore.
Anon, reborn, I dreamed again.
(Or butterfly dreamed on.)
My whole existence – pure as Zen,
Unique as a black swan.
The shards, dispersed along the way,
I gathered – one by one.
The kintsugi of life I made
Was brighter than the sun.
The silent flapping of my wings,
Akin to sands of time,
Sustained a galaxy of springs –
Both mortal and divine.
I ambled on, both dry and drowsed…
The point of no return –
I felt at home… When I aroused,
A better world was born.
My dream, however short it was,
Is now a part of me.
Now, conscious of a grander cause,
I flutter by so free.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
don't keep quiet.
go, and tell your story.
sing it from the rooftops
and shout it from the mountaintops.
write it in the sky,
tattoo it on your skin
and braid it in your hair;
tell your story.
don't let it go unheard,
because there is wonder
in your story,
there is grace in your
redemption,
because your words
are stepping stones
to freedom.
tell your story.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."
This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.
Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.
But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.
We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."
tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.
Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.
But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.
Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?
There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.
Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.
These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.
I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.
I had lost the language of the ***** spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.
There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.
I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.
This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?
What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.
The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC