"rockies" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
In my little-boy town up north
rivers were not yet plugged.
Poled men came down and watched
for silvered flashes.
Pink would be inside and make
a mouth want to melt it down.
The river power we would sing
Guthrie-style in grade school,
how rolling power and darkness
were misaligned, how wild
river and light was such empty logic,
and little boys learn to forget.
In school, where poor men send
the next young nation, a new
nation conceived in hydrodamnation
and simple salmon ******
Little boy rain from Rockies
going near my door, and whipped
whirlpools spinning funnels of
quick deadening swim traps,
so stay so far from bad river,
doing nothing more than
running off to sea. Stay near shore
and enjoy the new electricity.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
It's a **** count down on Rockies ranch
Rock's got the list
and Clancy's got the **** counter
listen to Rock sing his favorite song
good old Cockity ****
to see how many heads pop up
time is a ticking
counting all those chickens
so cockity ****
get them heads up
my lovely *****
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
The Rockies sing to us at sunrise
when crystal snow-capped peaks
chant iridescent matins to the dawn,
the dawn of a fresh new mountain day.
Luminous pastel clouds
hover across the horizon
painting the hills and valleys below
in mysterial shades of
lavendar, amber and rose.
The Rockies sing to us at daybreak
when every crest and vale
unites in raising anthems to the dawn,
The dawn of a bright new mountain morn.
Forests and fields awaken.
A bull elk grazes by an alpine lake.
An eagle soars through the morning mist
over rainbows of Indian paintbrush.
A hilltop lake spills over its rim
and cascades down the slope
etching serpentine streams in the valley below.
We can hear the mountains singing.
In every creature, ridge and flower
They bring to us their jublilant songs
of wilderness, wildlife and wonder
.
We can hear the Rockies singing.
The mountains sing forever!
June, 2009
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Barack Obama
Is a fork tongued devil
Who supports abortions
And homosexual marriage
The Lord said
His hand of judgement will come
Against the U.S.
The first devastation will hit
There will be another right on its heels
A series of devastating events
Look to the skies---- (nuke)
Look to the seas---(tsunami)
Look to the earth---(earthquake)
People being killed with guns
Marshall Law
The United States will fall
Because of its wickedness
The U.S. will decrease
And Israel will increase
It will happen
These things will happen before
His return
The sword will be the nuclear war
Drought from no rains
Pestilence new strain of disease
5 year war
Then famine
Fill up storehouses
Landscape of America will change
Waterways will become poisonous
Sun will emit flashes of radiation
His hand is on the weather
(Hand of the Lord)
Ocean will come as far as the Rockies
Geological plates will shift
Russians will attack infrastructure
Of the nation
A nation of lies
Darkness will overcome
A deep darkness will cover
The people
Because they love the lies
The Lord said to her,
"Do not despair my children
Out of the darkness
Comes the glorious light."
There will be
Cities of refuge
For those who know Him
Intimately
There will be a city of refuge
Stay close and He will instruct you
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Cerro Aconcagua sat on his Feet
Watching his children browse his Bones below
Either for Sport or for Samples replete
As they enjoyed the Splendour of his Brow
And how you hugged the Wind which sprayed your Frost
Then took your Role as a Giant-of-Salt
This the Rockies felt the best you can boast
Though in that Line conscience comes to halt
For what they discovered, an Inca wrapped
Possibly a Victim of Sacrifice
Flesh still worn; Of Fibres long-live sapped
For the Sky-God's Hunger he did suffice.
The only Wonder as far as I see
How Sturdy are you yet Motherly be.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
America, Why I Love Her
Written by John Mitchum
Poet/Actor
You ask me why I love her? Well, give me time, and I'll explain...
Have you seen a Kansas sunset or an Arizona rain?
Have you drifted on a bayou down Louisiana way?
Have you watched the cold fog drifting over San Francisco Bay?
Have you heard a Bobwhite calling in the Carolina pines?
Or heard the bellow of a diesel in the Appalachia mines?
Does the call of Niagara thrill you when you hear her waters roar?
Do you look with awe and wonder at a Massachusetts shore...
Where men who braved a hard new world, first stepped on Plymouth Rock?
And do you think of them when you stroll along a New York City dock ?
Have you seen a snowflake drifting in the Rockies...way up high?
Have you seen the sun come blazing down from a bright Nevada sky?
Do you hail to the Columbia as she rushes to the sea...
Or bow your head at Gettysburg...in our struggle to be free?
Have you seen the mighty Tetons? ...Have you watched an eagle soar?
Have you seen the Mississippi roll along Missouri's shore?
Have you felt a chill at Michigan, when on a winters day,
Her waters rage along the shore in a thunderous display?
Does the word "Aloha"... make you warm?
Do you stare in disbelief When you see the surf come roaring in at Waimea reef?
From Alaska's gold to the Everglades...from the Rio Grande to Maine...
My heart cries out... my pulse runs fast at the might of her domain.
You ask me why I love her?... I've a million reasons why.
My beautiful America... beneath Gods' wide, wide sky.
[topp]
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
homage to Wallace Stevens
I - My Focus pistoned up the rise
and all at once, the Rockies -
silhouettes against the western skies.
II - On the road to Boulder
a pleated ridge crawls north
like a blue whale bound for the open sea.
III - Appalachia's intoxicating verdure
never fails to induce in us
a certain mellowing of the spirit.
IV - You 'conquered' my North Face, did you?
Why, I should skewer your arrogant ***
like a holiday lamb culled for the sacrifice.
V - Lewis and Clark looked west
surveying the Bitterroots' frigid expanse.
Farewell Northwest Passage!
VI - Pueblos stranded on Enchanted Mesa -
their rock stairs crumbled to the valley floor.
Should they dive to their death or starve?
VII –Touristas at Big Bend Park
wonder at its pastel window -
its romantic haze a toxic gift
from stacks across the Rio Grande.
VIII – The once mighty Ozarks humbled by age,
dwarfed by the youthful Rockies.
Listen up, youngsters, your time will come!
IX – We de-bussed to seize the dolomites
with our hyper-kinetic shutters.
Pausing for a draught of Italian air,
I felt the whack of an Alpine snowball.
X - Before Oregon's crater had its lake,
the mountain scorched the village below.
Today its azure waters preach only serenity.
XI – Looking down from Shissler peak
to the golden meadow below
where the elk herd calmly grazes.
XII – Do mists veil the Blue Ridge Mountains
or are there really no mountains at all -
only clouds decked out in mountain attire?
XIII – They say that peaks more steep than Everest
soar up from the ocean floor.
Who will scale their sunken heights?
May 28, 2010 – Boulder Colorado
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
PEA pods cling to stems.
Neponset, the village,
Clings to the Burlington railway main line.
Terrible midnight limiteds roar through
Hauling sleepers to the Rockies and Sierras.
The earth is slightly shaken
And Neponset trembles slightly in its sleep.
3.3k
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
I'm not sure if death is an injury
but from the Rockies to the Yangtze
If you read any Bukowski
You may never rip that knife free
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 7:36 AM UTC
Packed into
holiday traffic
on Christmas Eve,
I recall a story
told by my mother
of a snow blown pass
in the Rockies
near Estes Park
and the searing glow
of cougar eyes
just beyond
the high beams
her rear wheels whined
the engine sputtered
and the snow
kept falling
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
You kissed her
and I cried.
At first, every tear was a memory.
That time at that party,
Missing buses to stay late,
Meeting the family, birthdays, Christmas,
Endless evenings in the garden,
Planes, trains and automobiles,
A Canadian summer,
The four of us, together.
Until that night when you stopped being you
And became 'him'.
Then, each tear was a plan we'd made.
Christmases, holidays in the Rockies,
A life abroad, living in the street you'd build.
A wedding.
You didn't notice I was crying.
You kissed her again and laughed.
The same way you kissed my sister
And laughed at our friend's jokes.
I willed you to look at me,
To ask why, so I could tell you:
I cried because
I miss you.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
I never leave the West when it isn’t raining,
My brother says to me through the phone.
He is on his way back
over the Rockies and through Nebraska.
He’ll never make it intact—
hands fuse to the steering wheel
like nylons on a burn victim,
knees and elbows bolted in
precise angles keeping the car straight,
tires pulling everything forward.
One foot is the pedal, one becomes the floor mat.
Shoulder to armpit with a semi truck
hauling jet wings from Denver,
he notices the paths of rivets
like bread lines in Omaha.
Some of them are starving.
But where is the rest, the airplane body
without its wings? A hollow silo,
pilot in a cockpit
not going anywhere.
I think airplanes molt this time of year.
It’s still raining or it will be,
the white-lined highways
will carry you here unscathed.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 12:05 PM UTC
You leave that dismal room
And walk
Past open doors
And broken clock
Down dingy corridors
You creep
While strangers
In strange rooms find sleep
You walk on carpet
Stained and fading
Designs all ruined
Yet not abating
Out where the housekeeper’s
Cart is parked
Her smile sunken
Her manner dark
She emerges from
Behind a stack
Of ***** blankets
Folded back
With broken teeth
And burdened eyes
Wrinkles worn
In plain disguise
Someone’s daughter
Whittled down
Her hair too thin
Along her crown
Yet harboring
A warmth untouched
Her shattered image
Says too much
Windows open
On a courtyard scene
Junkies nodding
In the sun serene
High altitude
Of Denver streets
Smell ***** smoke
And searing meats
In Civic Park
The men that stare
Sell rough-cut gems
Which slice the air
One calls you over
With his hand
More incantation
Than command
Says that he’s got
Just what you need
With eyes now begging
To be freed
You walk away
And in his strife
He calls to you
“I’ve lived my life!”
With eyes as dark
As afghan hash
He fades away
As you move past
In distant vistas
Where the Rockies lie
You hear that unknown
Ancient cry
You feel the motion
You must move on
The mountains are calling
The city is gone
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
Skeletal,
she had laid comatose,
thirty-six hours,
morphine tubes & cotton swabs,
so cold to the touch.
It wasn't supposed to end this way.
I remember her in her better days,
before the cancer
had ravaged her *******
skydiving over the Rockies,
Montana whitewater,
sailing the sound
between St.Thomas & St. John,
margaritas in San Juan.
She was the most brilliant light,
a beautiful soul,
truest fighter to the end
& I miss her,
pray everyday,
"May our little sister
rest in peace.
Amen."
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Sug
The frame a town in the Midwest time teen years the person a girl I have been touched by the Smokies
Its southern magnificence the heritage it evokes, the Rockies awe inspiring, the Sierra Nevada its
Grandeur commanding sheltered by the San Gabriel’s as I played in Los Angeles these places have one
Thing in common they cause you to look out and beyond on the rich views below and they cause a
Mighty flood of memories to crash ever so sweetly in the soul yes plenty of teenagers were around but
For different reasons each uniquely stood out and apart all that made up the texture of this time its
Greatness the final touches were being added to our lives and from this we would go on the harder
Sometimes tougher road of life but in the midst of it all she stood like a Goldenrod impossible to miss
Bright yellow in the profusion of other vivid colors for Ed unforgettable she possesses an undertow of
Quiet Cool she didn’t make a great stir but a gentle one you slowly stepped and submerged yourself in
The Quiet magic she created truly the pebble had fallen into the pool imperceptibly you couldn’t put
You’re Finger on when but the circles continued to widen and you felt their effects a gentle hush
Pervaded our sometimes rambunctious lives she at times was that indefinable darker hue that brought
Depth to The picture soothing tremble that came into your life touched you then continued to the outer
Reaches Still it lingered and in its make up hope sprang up causing a defense ageist alarm no harm
Defied Her Charm this is just my simple way of saying thanks for being a wondrous part of my youth and
what I am today and also happy birthday Sug
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
‘Allowed Rockies, I understand the empyrean choice
for Olympus—why Jove barred all mortals from knowing the wondrous
high atop a peak—the clear air—thin crisp, ever present
breeze that cuts through the body.
Heracles—transcender from human
to god; immortal fire setting his mortal flesh to ash
to scatter into the dirt so he may sit high upon
deathless Olympus—above man and woman. As the Rockies
stand above the new world—unlike Olympus, the Rockies stand
indiff’rent to the affairs of men and women.
Heracles—
who in wake of Asia’s venture to the cave where the protean
spawn of Jove’s lust upon Thetis befell to veil—unbinds
humanity’s one true immortal patron: Prometheus—
whose only want, and whose only single fault: bestow upon
humanity immortal fire—the spark to enlighten
mental parity with gods.
Embers that burst to flame in the
heart and mind of such a fiery thinker as Zarathustra:
who taught to go over not under—over humanity,
transcend the status quo—climb! Rise above—where the
crisp clean air can whisk away the smog of congestion—congestion
of thought—congestion in all form. Zarathustra who showed
us the bellows to fuel our Promethean gift.
For the
Rockies are not ephemeral; they will stand tall long after
humans are gone; fire will raze their trees without human prevention;
like Heracles, the flames will only burn mortal evergreen
flesh to ash, and the mountains will endure immortal—from that
ash, that darkness life will arise as it always has for millennia.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Today I felt my death
stalking me,
breathing its genderless
ice breath
down my neck--
giving me visions
of my semi-truck and trailer
sliding off the edge of this
icy cliff,
or that one,
with me inside,
the close-up showing me
with that concentrated look
of someone who is
unsuccessfully
trying to avoid
coming to terms
with their imminent
demise.
Needing to change the
doomed channel,
I stopped
flirting with death
long enough to
park my rig in
the big gravel lot
of Dot's Cafe,
and
eat lunch.
Compared to cold death,
wrinkled
baby tomatoes
and wilted
lettuce
were good--
real good.
The gray cucumber guts
disemboweled
all around my
salad plate
looked better than
mine would have,
at the bottom
of that cliff,
I'm sure.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
There’s something about campfire;
The scent of wood burning
And smoke rising higher…
I close my eyes.
I blink open and I’m back
With our ancestors of hunters
And dwellers of caves,
Sitting by the flames,
Watching the fire cast
Shadows upon stone.
Mixing water and mud
With an old, cracked bone
In a futile attempt to
Capture on cave walls
The fearsome beauty
Of the blaze that could
Consume us all.
I close my eyes.
Squint open to find myself
In the Rockies on a full moon night
In a circle ‘round a fire, with drums
Pounding and voices raised
In a chorus with the wolves,
Howling praises to the Mother
Of the good, green Earth.
*The Elder Chief takes the peace pipe
Inhales the harsh tobacco
And passes it around.*
Exhaling smoke, he begins
To recount stories and folklore
Of wise turtles and great Eagles
And earth spirits come and gone.
The young listen to the wise;
Imaginations taking flight
The fire dances in their eyes,
Wide and shining in delight.
I close my eyes.
In the early hours of the morning
When everyone is sleeping sound,
And the blaze, no longer burning,
Is reduced to embers on the ground,
I open my eyes.
Thin wisps of smoke still rise;
Ethereal fingers reaching high,
But disappear in wistful sighs
Before reaching the dawning sky.
I smell the scent of campfire
And something primal stirs;
I am the stoic hunter
From days of caves and furs.
I am a Native in the snowy mountains
Beneath a sky full of stars by the thousands.
And in the silence of the night,
A crackling fire burns in the woods
And under the swirl of the Northern Lights,
You’ll hear me howling with the wolves.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
I rode in the black back seat
at the age of three
From Wichita to Selma
in this land where nothing comes free
Across Texas , Arkansas , Mississippi
under stars I dreamed
While a heartbeat
was ever following me
Strange the things we choose
to remember and recall
Are the things maybe trivial
But are another brick in the wall
I lived in Panama City
until I was twelve
Swam with sharks and rays
Fell in love but on it I won't dwell
I ran with wild mustangs
in the wilds of Spokane
Climbed up the Rockies
Trekked the snows in a winter wonderland
I slept in the desert under
the most gorgeous stars
Ate mushrooms and peyote
trying to figure out who I are
But there's no place
No place , like the one
Where you were born
No place
on earth
Can lead you away that's far
There's no where
Like the dirt running
through your veins
There's no place
like the place where
you got your name
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
The clouds reach their hands down
and cover the mountain peaks.
They call the Moon to reflect the Sun's light;
the fog glows a golden orange across the slopes.
In a dreamstate,
we are driving through Castle Rock,
the star brightly shining atop the granite anomaly.
He lights his pipe,
his hands swipe the match against the book like a maestro conducting a symphony,
and exhales the aroma of Philosopher's Blend into the thin Colorado air.
Many miles now separate
us, from the Rockies of Colorado
to the badlands of new Mexico;
but his smoke rings still
linger in the air, among the clouds,
that shroud the mountaintops.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC