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The ascender
struggled to the dais
stopping to rub
his sore calves
still filled with lactic acid…

“I forsook the post
workout massage
to deliver this eulogy.

Thats how
important it is
to me…”

His voice began
to trial off but
he regained his
composure and
began to speak
with command...

“He gave his life for me.
Is there no greater love
than to offer a life
in service
to me?

My Sherpa
was moved
and motivated
by economic
compulsion.

I offered him
the only wage
paying job
he ever had.

He ran with it,
taking up my
cause as if
it belonged
to him;
performing
his job
as if engaged
in a heroic
mission.

At times it
he seemed
consumed by
the largess of
my pursuit;
and his death
will bring
economic
calamity
to his family.

This further
confirms
the nobility
of my
mission.

The price
of intrepidness
is dear and
made clear,
its value
fully fleshed
out in the
sacrifice of
my Sherpa.

You may ask,
“why do I do it?”

It is no longer
disputed, if it
can be done.

Sir Edmund
and his Sherpa
answered that
question over half
a century ago.

The only
question
remaining,
"can the mountain
be conquered by me?"

I'll risk sacred fortune,
limb, life, family and
Sherpa to discover
the answer to this...

I must guard
against the
inflation of
my desire to
summit at
any cost.

I'm aware
of the
dangers
presented
by the
expanding
circumference
of my pride,
just a
meager
centimeter or
two can spell
disaster for
me.

Yet testing
its tensility,
tempting
the tipping point
of temerity,
managing the
permeability,
of risk factors
and psychical
rewards to
sift through
the membrane
that calculates
the odds to
successfully
arbitrage the
resolution of
gaming
winners and
losers,
achieving
a perfect balance
manifested in
the mettle
of me.

My
determination
shines
in pursuit
of a
golden fleece.

In my
solitary
quest
I don a
holy halo
crowning me
and fellow
climbers
stricken
with a like
obsession,
sets us apart,
anointing us
the royalty
of high stakes
X Games,
bellying
up 70 grand
to claim our
place in an
extreme
leisure class,
gifted
with time
and treasure
to turn this
unforgiving peak
into a graveyard,
a dump heap,
an open latrine…

The glaciers bleed
my **** into the tributaries
of the Holy Ganges...

My virtues
made plain
in the indelible
mark I leave
upon the mountain...

My life dedicated
to the unselfish pursuit
of a magnanimous me
quick to forgive
and forget the
failures of the
lesser who
lack the ability
and conviction
of self
to conquer
the highest peaks
meeting challenge
and opportunity
with relish and
fortitude

I'm like a
strip miner
singlemindedly
tearing the roof
of the world open
so I can fill it
with the purpose
of me.

That is the
deeper significance
of the death of my
Sherpa.

When Edmund Hillary
and his Sherpa scaled
Everest 60 years ago,
it took decades
to remember that
Tenzing Norgay
guided the beknighted
Hillery, while schlepping
his baggage and
holding the ladder
lifting the
great man
in a great
endeavor;
whose strength
and valiance
turns history’s
creaky wheel.

Sir Hillary did it
because it was
never done before;
with stoutheartedness
and national vigor
Sir Hillary conquered
the last pinnacle
in Britannia's majestic
range of storied
achievements.

As climate change
turns glaciers
into slush,
my time
grows short
to scratch my
initials alongside
the greats who
ascended this mount
before me.

So it is
with well
considered
trepidation that
I send my Sherpa
out onto the
hanging peaks,
to set the ladders
and clear the
path for
the assent
of me.

Every morning
I look into
the mirror
glimpsing
a fleeting
notion of
greatness
that is only
affirmed by
triumph of
the will.

At such a cost
my legend is born
my burden
grows greater,
weighted by
the death of
my Sherpa.

Yet my resolve
grows, eclipsing
the size of
Warren Buffett’s
fortune.

As the world warms
urgency grows,
the alarm sounds!

Onward Sherpas!

Lay the ladder
portage my baggage
the labors of Sisyphus
will find reward
of a goodly outcome!

I press the coin
of the realm into
your hand

The prayer flags
fill with determination
that I succeed,
giving your life meaning
as divine compensation
for the cost of your life.

The prayer flag’s flap
with the mountain squalls
popping, snapping
our hosannas
of victory

Onward Sherpas!

Ever Onward
may the good
Buddha
embrace
you as you
climb toward
your next
destination...

Onward Sherpas!

Music Selection
Sherpa Dance Music

Poem dedicated to the 13 Sherpa climbers
who lost their lives this week on Mount Everest.
May they find peace in heaven
may their families find peace and
sustenance here on earth.

Oakland
4/23/14
jbm
this is a satirical poem, it is not meant to denigrate Sherpas, nor slight the enormity of the the loss of 13 Sherpa Guides on the mountain this week... its a piece that targets the destructive egocentric tourism of the climbers and its impact on the people and ecology of Mt. Everest... my best thoughts and prayers go out to the families and friends who were lost.... may we examine our motivations and impact the pursuit of personal goals has on the lives of others and the natural environment in which we live....
Holly Salvatore Dec 2015
Aren't you a medicine man?
Aren't your lungs full of blue smoke and jars of dust that your mother collected in Idaho?
Are you confident in the permeability of memory?
Confident in your snake oil cures?

I think I know you
I think I've been waiting for you patiently sipping my beer and humming "golden slippers"
I think the best thing about home is that there are almost no poisonous plants here and the bees rarely sting me

You sang the second verse of "Home on the Range,"
the verse that nobody knows
And I couldn't breathe thinking about what my life would have been if it hadn't been this
narrow

I went ahead and bought the miracle elixir
Srijani Sarkar Dec 2017
What is this train doing
To me?
Going to all the wrong places
And has the driver no control?
Other passengers are screaming as if homeless
To persuade the driver to take this trembling namby-pamby  sick ****
To their own favourite towns.
When I sit quietly in an infrequently haunted compartment,
the wasted smell from the toilet
And these riotous noises
Of the driver failing, the train stopping at lonely stations
and others howling unnecessary caps locks and exclamation marks
Infiltrate my senses and at the end of this journey,
You can see through the flimsy permeability
The holes are so prominent
Yet light doesn't enter. The train's timings are weird - all in the night.
The train gets derailed at one point due to the ruckus,
on fire and the searchlight came very late,
didn't notice my quivering queer hand rise amidst a burnt heap of  luggages of people who led to this ravaging
managed to creep out of the train at the right moment,
And desolated for the moses to grow inside this melted metal mess and through the rest of me.
This is too big a coffin for me- unceremonious, caliginous and under the open sky
There's not much of me left to give back to.
Train= mind, driver= thoughts, passengers= other people who influence or rule over your weak malleable mind.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i'm happy to conclude a revived jazz binge...
i lost patience when having listened to
john coltraine's a love supreme -
       when walking - i had to find a rhythm outside
of a music genre that has it -
but feels to be without it...
                yes... i had to learn to enjoy feeling -
not in this ivory tower of thought -
that the first moral lesson is: (th)ought i?
           i'm done with jazz - as much as i'd love
to stick around and listen to mundell lowe's
guitar moods...or harry edison's mr. swing...
the images popping into my head are all wrong...
all i see it cigarette smoke...
shady blues bars and all this... cosmopolitan
humbug... commotion or any other synonym...
i'm tired of the city music...
i need to find the roots again...
i would gladly eat a thumb's length of raw
root horseradish or ginger than have
these needles these jazz horns ringing in my ear...
i once felt this sensation when landing
in Kenya - thinking about it would do very little
for me: it needs to be destined for the domain of
lolz and feelz... and thinking is all too precious
and is not recycled? every thought is a birth of
a genius? geniuses - unlike angels and demons...
men: not gods... give birth to these creatures...
oh sure... they exist...
            "exist": always looking for an exit... that is...
but if the gods gave birth to angels and demons...
that's why i will never call any man
a genius - i'll call him: the man who gave birth
to a genius...
again... i'm still teasing the present-at-hand future
of listening to a mundell lowe record...
as much as i would to a kenny burrell e.p. -
                     because a guitar in jazz is...
like a horn in blues - a true oddity -
                             esp. on the part of solo -
i can't help to think that the guitar tames all the instruments...
hell... in the case of mundell lowe:
you might just fear a flute instead of a sax or horn...
but i'm done with this cosmopolitan choke-hold...
i could have sunk real low and become
crab feed for all i know...
       i need to go back to byzantine orthodox chants,
to german folk songs, to scandinavian music...
mogwai? let's not go that far... although:
who knows? if you said: sigur rós...
                well... björk: that's really stretching it...
more on the lines of garmarna...
       or... finnish: hedningarna... the scandinavian gnome
sing-along... no vikings up there...
just gnomes and lake people...
    or so i heard... "heard"...
back into the feelz... jazz made me think to much...
not that this "thinking" was about anything
related to things and extensions of things -
(res cogitans / res extensa)...
more like... res vanus and the inversion of things
(empty thing)...
  how would it feel like...
to be impregnated by that sly ***** that hide
behind this body in **** -
that became an ego - each time i'm impregnated
by thought i had to somehow sort it...
oh the daydream fabric is too much sometimes -
talk about the need to find a heart
and feel something more sincere, concrete...
immediate... even the negative emotions fair better
than all that nonsense that bogus custard
thickening the already bulging cranium soap
opera of: things not followed through...
the etc. basket of a car-boot sale...
after all - what's wrong with feeling -
what's wrong when you don't give your feelings
a tongue - but instead sacrifice / bind them
to the ears and the heart itself:
to feel... a stone at the centre - and a molten fire
surround it... that sensation of a pang:
a pecking beak inside a cage without a song...
beside this cipher - as any good cipher -
the eyes and itchy fingertips are invoked...
- thinking can be over-rated when it is shown a vanity
mirror - not all thinking becomes translated into
a wheel - at best: a good array of punctuation marks...
that's what thinking is: if it isn't a well established
narrative bordering on solipsism -
what is solipsism? a thought experiment that teases
the real world phenomenon of autism...
or i'm just juggling words like a thesaurus
maniac...
- one can only become democratic... pass... stop awhile...
move on...
     i know what being un-democratic looks like...
i almost became a william burroughs fanatic
reader... it's fun when it lasts...
   but then again: at some point the oeuvre does
dry-up...
       and there's only an old queen shooting paint
can with a rifle subscribed to scientology and
u.f.o. magazines...
the jazz binge had to dry up...
corvus corax had to made a return...
    away from all that commotion -
back among the fields, the shadow, the forest...
                        the breath and a silence of the mind...
back toward the heart:
the sinking stone in a turbulent body of the sea -
   back into tongues no longer spoken...
and symbols no longer in use...
          for the dead to see using braille...
adam...
              ⠁⠙ ⠁⠍
                i see...        ᚨ  ᛞ  ᚨ  ᛗ
            i see...                    Ⰰ  Ⰴ  Ⰰ  Ⰿ...
conrad...
               ­    ⠉ ⠕ ⠝ ⠗ ⠁⠙
i see...        ᚴ  ᛟ  ᚾ  ᚱ  ᚨ  ᛞ
           i see...  Ⰽ  Ⱁ  Ⱀ  Ⱃ  Ⰰ  Ⰴ...
    
away with the byzantine *****: цyrylliцa!  
     no can do... i will retain the latin script...
it's not like the romans venture as far as the baltic
sea or the vistulla river!
i'm a new-comer to a history as ancient
as these british isles -
          but i won't be speaking any 18th century
english: no'er doth o'er what knot...

back into the mystery of language...
away from the loud, excessively loud commotion
of modernity of which jazz is a part of...
back into the forest: for me...

back to shaking hands with my shadow...
i'd ask the semite from jerusalem though...
what it your lament - your lamed -
your L (ל) doing in braille... disguised as N (⠝)?

- and why wouldn't i have a fixation
on the hebrews - the german yids -
when there's talk about the hebrews of:
the tzabar... and the yekke...

   look it up...
http://www.scriptdelivery.net/source/resources/screenplays/munich.pdf...

there's the tzabar and the... yekke...
jews born inside of the ***** of isreal...
and jews born on the wing of judah's hope for resurgence...
even the jews have slang terms for the sort
of jews that aren't: the new the old... yishuvs...

but yes... i have a fastination
with the hebrews... and the german yids...
i too would: but it's a vain hope...
for some of us to return to pre-roman or pre-greek
epochs of time...

better show the dead through braille
a postcard of modernity...

what names have survived?
  i am dignified with the names i was given...
oh wait... yekke putzes...
i always thought that the yids
called the skin of a circumcision a schmuck...
i must be onto something...

yews or yids... their internal politics is like
a godsend!
      or something better than any english
soap opera - or mexican, for that matter...

that this letters still remain, intact...
and this latin... it's hardly an alphabet where
letters have names...
the greeks certainly have names
for their letters: o(micron)...
             a(lpha)...       e(psilon)...

among the northern "barbarians"...
             Ⰴ(obro) - good...
    ᛗ("annaz") - man...
what names are there... for the latin letters?
A is aH... M is Em... R is Ar...
  the atomised man... B is bE...
what would a roman name a letter with?
a syllable?
                  he would behave like a hebrew?
he would hide the vowels...
i.e. SoMa... better lowercase them or push them
into the "niqab" of a diacritical status?
SM...                            this tongue these eyes...
and no totality distinct from the unconscious bargaining
man's luck for mortal exposure -
this body a vessel: not exactly chaining -
on a whim... gone! come death's eager scythe...
on a whim... in a blink of an eye...
there's no soul... no totality transcendent of me
not minding my heart - beating -
my stomach and intestines - digesting...
my liver and kidneys filtering poison...
if there is no soul - then i should really..,
mind thinking about my heart doing what's
expected of it... i should exhaust all the freedoms
of thought to motivate the heart to become:
prone to outlive flesh and become a monstrous
mountain: upon which an interlude of someone
being hoisted on a cross, dangling...
should be met!

the romans didn't have names for their letters...
the greeks, evidently did...
no wonder so many of their letters became
scientific constants...
even μ₀ - the vacuum permeability -
is a name... a bit like Li Po - in the forbidden city...

the romans didn't have names for their letters...
but they did construct a colliseum
using IV / XL         fractions and measurements...
not an easy feat...
                in all honesty -
a bit like reading braille...
                ⠼⠉ and ⠉ - remember... no colon allowed...
stick to itallics (colon substitute)...
or just the uppercase...
             3c...                   ⠼⠊ and ⠊... 9i...
otherwise C = 3... and c = c... I = 9 and i = i...
unless... we're talking roman numerals...
why would you need... oh right...
    you don't actually have uppercase or lowercase
in braille... unless you're trying to differentiate
between ⠃⠊ ⠛ and... ⠼ ⠃⠊ ⠛ (397)...
      
          am i... somehow... "now"? supposed to
feel... "think", content, when translating
some 'orace?
       i... don't think so...
little good looking back on the roman empire
and being the ancient world's afghanistan
did for the brits... in the past history...
in the past...           not esp. now...

           clinging to the latin text like it was
deus verbatim...
the french invoked a signature with their
cedilla C to sound snake...
                      even the germans with their umlauts!
the english ne'er nearer 17th 18th century *******
language...
call them the consonant or vowel eaters...
but not spotted out of spite...
repose...

          a chance to stop listening to jazz
and return to the couldron of continental folk...
oh sure... if we were still having a fetish
for 1990s pop music...
i'm a ***** i'm a mother... with my one hand in my pocket...
c'est la vie!
                            c'est la mort...
                   c'est l'amour...

i agree... the etymology becomes mutated... grossly...
Ⱍ / ч - cherv... worm... glizda...
             i do have: чerwieц -
   the prefix - чerw-
                       which helps me... this much: |   |
given that       чerwieц means: the month of June...

   how "we" came about knowing
the runic ᚾ (n) and turned it into ł (łagodzić) -
to soothe -
well... there was king Cnut and
the north sea empire...
                and where do you think haggis or
black pudding comes from?
we have the same "dish": czarna kiszka...
        black intestine...
        which is literally what it is...
it's not disguised as haggis or black pudding...
it's literally a black intestine...

                              чarna kiшka...
since if vikings founded the city Kiev...
they couldn't have founded Kiev...
without passing via the Vistulla river...
                                      
                                    before me this old continent...
to look toward h'america and her myths...
before me this altar of time -
before me all things left intact...
undistrubed... with museums of other
people's tongues and craniums...
and gangrene hearts readied for extraction
and re-awakening by the toll of fire...

as some might add: his "heritage"...
                          heritage of an anglo-slav?
    well... less local to be welsh or anglo-saxon...
if the girls of Rotherham won't give it up
unless it's some ****- (oops... prefix...
the suffix is pending -stani)...
then at least i'll have a carousel when it comes
to what sort of idiots think in this language...
including me - the anchor...
and ahoy! the sinking ship!

               well... this is hardly written out of
ignorance... perhaps... when malice puts on a poker
face and wants to do a harlequin dance
of countering pride & prejudice: inbreeding...
and hierarchal breeding and...
pomp & circumstance dance-off...
                      if everyone is so attired...
why don't i put on my true guise?!
        i don't see the point of merely arriving
in a coffin to mind the matters at hand!
                    
                              feed: mille anni passi sunt.
or... la i mbealtaine...
           what's angry beetroot in welsh?
   dicllon betys!      well... because what prime
colour... would be better to describe
my current, jolly, disposition?
burgundy? plums done sly to a saute methodology?
dicllon betys! angry beetroot! yn ddig... iawn yn ddig:
betys... serch hynny...
(i guess that's serх and not serч hynny)...

no better cardinal or bishop doing each other
in holy matrimony of: anals of ****: first!

spawn of the constipated *******!
                                        hiroshima, ivanhoe!

— The End —