"sherpa" poems
In my mind, I raced against time
I smoked peyote with the Apache
I chased Kangaroos
Through the bush with the Aborigine
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I outpaced time
I drew cave art with the Neanderthal
I climbed to the top of the mountain with the Sherpa
I hunted seal out on the frozen tundra with the Inuit
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I eclipsed time
I wrote poetry while under the tutelage of Langston Hughes
And I created visual greatness while apprentice to Gordon Parks
I even stood on the wall with Che' Guevara, like a Sentry standing watch
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I turned to face time
I wrote an addendum to the Emancipation Proclamation
And I saw the ugly truths
Of freedom's farcical Declaration
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I embraced time
I sought to free my nation from the pandemic perils of *******
And I prayed that we Americans would be free of
The snares of racial and economic divide that still has us chained
I did this while searching for truth, in this, our most tenuous hour
...then empyreally, God reached for me, touching me, and I finally found my power
* Reprinted from 'Exegesis a Decade of Poetry by Mekael'
© July 14, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
his hands
are firmly wedged
inside pockets
unwilling to risk
exposure to this
frost-coated morning
if he tripped
or slipped
stumbled
fell
even then
he would not rely
on their numbed support
he could not trust
that they would do
what was necessary
if called upon
deep in the sherpa-lined
abyss of his coat
his fingers remain
protected in gloves
clenched and wriggling
with all hopes resting
on a return
of warmth
of bloodflow
of feeling
before he gets home
before central heating
and chill-blains
turn his frozen tips
into scalding rods
when there is
no use but
to desperately
and ironically wish
that he could not
feel anything
at all
Feb 9, 2023
Feb 9, 2023 at 11:04 AM UTC
My body is a rugged mountain pass
whose dangerous peaks and valleys
call out to the hubris of would be adventurers
with its hungry siren song.
Lovers have come the world over
with their maps, pickaxes, fire starters and rope.
Some brought tents intending to go the distance;
several with flags to stake their claim at the summit;
a few with pocket knives for carving their names.
All leaving trash on the trails as they went.
“Did I make you ***
they would ask believing in their foolish arrogance
that their movement and noise were really capable
of causing my avalanche.
Covered in the sweat of my labors in Sherpa-ing them to the peak
I whisper “Yes.”
Understanding in those moments that some things cannot be taught.
Only one ever came truly naked -without intention or ego.
The many times he found himself cresting my summit
it never occurred to him to pierce me with his pride
but instead he kissed the earth beneath him in gratitude.
He always moved through me as if he had gone this way his whole life
and yet still could get lost on the trails of a single limb.
He made himself an eager student of my skin
and produced waterfalls where before there had been none.
Singing songs into me as he studied my topography with adept fingers.
The echoes of which ring through me even now.
Never was he concerned with the ridges
for he being too preoccupied with the beauty of my slopes
thought of them only as trail markers.
The songbirds in the trees of me call always for him.
The animals of my wilds stay hungry as never before.
A small fire burns constantly for his return.
Unclothed.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
This Poem is dedicated to the lives lost while climbing the most unforgiving Peaks in the world.
" **"Why did you want to climb Mount Everest? ** "
" Because it's there. "
George Leigh Mallory 1923
Eyes stinging,I'm facing up to the test,
realising that this could could be the death of me yet,
take a peek at the peak from under my hood,
life sapping winds leech heat from blood.
*Of a lesser one maybe,but me no never,
take the pace easy,got to box clever*
As the hurricane howls I know I can't sweat,
if you do you lose heat,that's the kiss of death,
push endurance to the max through the **** zone,
keep your mind right cause you're on your own,
*stay positive,already faced K2,
Savage Mountain behind me,time for take two*
taking on the monster,most unforgiving,
Goddess of the sky,sacrifices the living,
of the ones who tried 9% have died,
Sagarmatha- I say a silent prayer for their lives.
Don't want my name on the roll of the lost,
souls wandering the peak like a host of ghost's,
**save a thought for the Sherpa's,unflinching guides,
without whom the attempt is sheer suicide**
Is it Vanity?, Ego? that pushes us to climb,
the 8 thousand plus defy man and time
I can't answer-even though I know the ledge
all I know is life's sweeter when you're on the edge,
of the precipice the gap between life and death
preserve your oxygen-steal each breath,
Born risk taker- adrenaline drug of choice,
free-dived blue hole,flew Carl's walls heights,
but this is the big one,can't take fright-
or I'll be frozen like a statue,by the dawn's cold light,
point of no return strength got to summon it,
whole life leads to the push for the summit."
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.
the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them the teabag people.
but to me they are like those seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.
the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.
the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this slope for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.
the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.
the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!
the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.
as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
They had *** everywhere.
In the car,
Parked at Costco,
She teased him,
Bra-less under an unbuttoned shirt,
Her agile hand coated with a thin primer of Vaseline,
She stroked him slowly, precisely with a twist,
As somnolent sad faced suburban Sherpa,
Their neighbours and fellow citizens,
Hauled their apocalypse supplies
Across pristine acres of fresh asphalt,
Doped by fear,
Trapped inside the pixels of an infinite routine,
Unaware and
Unable to imagine life as a movie.
Out on the highway, as he drove,
She pulled up her skirt
And pulled down her tube top
Trucker’s horns roared their musical approval,
The benefits of a long haul driver were scant and skimpy,
Her ***** alive and anonymous,
Guilt free and aroused.
They ****** in washrooms,
Molested each other on escalators,
Texted friends while they copulated half clothed,
Shared their pride with angels dressed as ******
And counted their ******* like winnings at a casino,
Excited by the number and the game,
Their brains hot-wired,
Life a blur of alternating currents of sensation.
Death is constant state of ****** he told her,
When we leave this organic realm,
When we have finally turned the oceans into pudding,
And caged all of life,
When it is over,
We will enter into a cosmic stream of pleasure.
This is why the universe is expanding, he told her,
Pleasure is a colossal force,
The big bang was God’s ****** after all,
Her consequence the stars, the galaxies,
The dark palette of her entropy.
He was ******* her on a balcony while watching the moon
And waving to the woman with binoculars
When she asked,
Why is it so difficult,
Why do so many ignite pain and cant despair,
How did the curl and cling of hate
Take such deep root, she asked.
We fear death too well, he said,
And
Within the quick boundary of this moment
As they searched their waft and scent for clues,
They heard a whisper.
Inside the swell,
On top of a crest of acid clear thought
And without regret,
They forgave destiny,
Only to fly to the ground and beyond.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
On a clear day, I envy upon sight of cumulus clouds. Billowing, Drifting, Shifting. Floating to and fro vast landscapes in its glorious white state. A fluff of wondrous properties, perched effortlessly above in Stratospheric realm. I yearn to uproot with thee. To unshackle me from the iron ball and chain on my every limb. To float me above from this maze of a land. To lift me from my dull perspective that exists only in left and right, forward and back. My Sherpa, I beg thee to guide me around jagged alpine rocks, through oceanic stretches, above the skyscrapers in my hometown, towards unseen horizons and magnificent views, so that I may per chance witness the meaning of life. In return, I offer my soul as a gift: to form with the essence of thee. Though I know, my naive and loveless character would only taint your color with amorphous grey. Perhaps one day, I can billow, drift, and shift with thee.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
I barely survived the Devils hour last night
There was music playing in my ears for awhile, a strange combination of tunes I became enveloped in
They cushioned my thoughts as I read, blocking out the birds that started chirping out of turn, and the crosswalk beeping every three minutes on the dot
The reason I almost didn't survive, however, had nothing to do with the music or the story or the crosswalk
I heard something coming for me
A shadow, but I heard it
It comes for me some nights
There's no pattern like the crosswalk signal
I've fought it before, so I am usually ready for it
But this time I forgot to bring my armor to the orchestra
I came exposed, in an oversized Sherpa coat
You see, I was cold
The armor would have chilled my skin
I'm so sorry I forgot it, my shield too
I was unprepared
The synesthetic darkness crept over me, like an invisible thunderstorm, or the lowest note on a bass guitar, or the smell of burnt toast
I could not fight it
I am sorry
I will try harder
Do not forget your armor, they said
We know certain things will always happen, they said
One, is that the crosswalk signal will always beep every three minutes
The other, is that the darkness will come, and it will prey on those who are not prepared.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
My country says that same *** marriage is illegal
They have put a ban on it and 10 years imprisonment
They have the time to make such decisions
But not the time to put a protection on women
In a country where women feel animals are safer than them
In a country where 1.3 billions reside
The Supreme Court's decision on 11th December, 2013 has made me believe that elders aren't always right
Even if they think they are
That the government has some deep flaws
That the future of our generation are a bunch of blind sheep following the sherpa
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Her present universe reflects an insurmountable challenge.
See how she struggles, climbing then sliding back on her alpine slope.
Climbing then sliding,
climbing, sliding.
How relentless her microscopic brain.
How miraculous such a diminutive creature evokes our human emotions.
Poor hopeless thing. She is the center of my attention.
She can count on all eight of her fuzzy legs that a sherpa rescue is at hand.
I toss in a towel.
Aware of oppressor, not saviour, she contorts her body,
covers her eyes with her legs. Screws herself into a dried raisin.
A class act if ever I saw one!
When the sound of thunder ceases to rattle the bath
she cautiously unfurls, stretches her joints,
then scurries over the snowy fibres.
Only then does a frisson of fear creep across my flesh.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 6, 2011 at 2:07 AM UTC
ONLY for dear Eliot and his Amount
that’s in my serious head that counts
WOW! Dear Poetess, (referring to a best friend)
Your rhyming skill comes up to the HP service,
I mean surface,
ah, phonetically it sounds the same,
no one to blame,
in fact, I am an evangelist
and that's for HP true bliss,
IF I think what it is as it IS,
ah, that bliss
we may give through to dear Eliot as he IS,
he needs that amount
for his account
is also our account
as we all mount here
our creations
for many nations
worldwide
nothing to hide
as it comes only to demand that amount
for his and our account
his special baby
his special lady
seriously this is a thought-provoking one
huge one,
non comparing please, to none
but If I may say
not as huge and difficult as the Mount Everest,
the New Zealander Edmund Hillary and the Sherpa Tenzing Norgay
mounted the world's highest mountain,
is more than that, I reckon,
it is also known in Nepal as the Sagarmatha, now I start to sing
and it flows till Tibet as the Chomolungma, haha!
Remember this poem is just for Eliot from our dear HelloPoetry
from me, just the simple and humble Sylvia
as usual as we are creating poems for HP
we are oft in greatest glee
please don’t forget
the pure meaning and close target
of my poem today
well, I wanna say
make way
and hurry up to donate
an up-to-date
firm donation
as fewest as you can
but of course IF you can
as much and many as you are able
for our dear Eliot knight of our Round Table
he is fighting for this most important strife
we must help him ‘coz we are also part of this ardent life
worthwhile
for the apps mobile
HelloPoetry has become true famous worldwide
please help Eliot as quickest with this
‘coz this bliss for him, is also our bliss
and then we can create and send many a mile
our loved poems through our mobile
be noticed that I have done this blend
in a few seconds of moment
I have done this only for dear Eliot
may we have in the nearest future
for our poems a better structure
spending more time at our mobile on this spot
then we will enjoy a very lot
greatest glee and happiness for our dear Eliot!
This concise
I hope you’ll regard it as nice
thought it would be a brevity
as you can see I ain’t that wise….
PLEASE, don’t forget the Donation
then we can say to Eliot: Felicitation!
Sylvia Frances Chan
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC
It’s a Monday morning and I’ve awoken with this grog
what is this horrific feeling starring at me through the fog
Oh **** I sigh with a cough and a weeze
It’s the flu I’ve heard so much about
Why’s it always me!
I’ll pop the Sudafed I left in the drawer from this time a year ago
that’ll teach this viral ******* whats for
I remember everyone drifted very far, Declared me the patient
Proclaimed I had man flu and was being over dramatic
OH THE PAIN i cried, FOR THOU DOES NOT KNOW!
Why wont you get out of my head
I honestly feel id be better off dead
this mucus and sinus inflamation will allow no silence
to the pounding that exists in the echoing arena of my head
Right ok, Its 8:15 time to lift the dog and bone
And shockingly I sound the picture of health to the boss on the phone
Sick again they sigh as my sinus’ explode
im sorry boss I’ve got to go, My head is pounding and my nose needs blown
Time to go back to bed
Sleep is what I need
Become a marshmallow in the blanket
and try to remember how to breath
I’ll lie on one side as my nostril feels like it fills
i hate being ******* sick. Where’d I put my pills?
I stare at the ceiling while the realisation kicks in
I left them in the kitchen, my moody temper is thrilled
I sound 80 years my senior as I curse the steps below
Hanging on the hand rail, like a Sherpa who’s promised to get me home
I should have gotten a stair lift, My arms are dragging like lead
Why is that phone ringing, If it’s work tell'em im dead
Call it man flu
Call it a cold
It doesn’t stop me feeling old
Its dramatic I know
and my tone is dire
Guess I’ll just feel sorry for myself and go drink lemsip by the fire
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
hurling sherpa into the Sun on a rainy day can open your mind
and your children will wander off from your womb... into the next room.
it's the little things that **** you. and the invisible that redeems.
peeling papayas in a prison is still fruit of the doomed.
if you wish to be free -
i suggest you leave
The Pit.
watch out for Mangoes.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
Succulents and decor,
Meticulous cleaning, more friends.
Swiping crazy on tinder,
Online shopping, expensive skincare
Ruminating on what was once there sitting,
In suspended reality.
Where were the parents? That child is
dead now.
Locked in a haze, trying to forget
What a let down we’ve become.
That’s just how it can be.
**** that really blows.
What you thought was flush,
could just be bust.
Watching Disney + shows,
Toes the color of a mood.
Brooding about the future,
And saving the cash.
Cooking up and meal prep,
A meditation streak
you’re scared to break.
Excessive napping and
rubbing ten out on Sunday.
Dealing with small men,
eating like a champion,
taking a bath with an enemy
then do it again.
Avoiding all your frequents,
Picking up your phone calls,
singing Doja lyrics in a commute.
Drinking away the anxiety,
Staring at the tv,
Covered in twenty Sherpa-
You’re gone and I want to stay high
But I’m settled in an empty room
with self care books
I hope this time it’s a womb and
not a coffin.
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
Chaque fois que j 'escalade
Les parois des mots vers les pics inviolés
J 'emmène avec moi dans l'expédition
Mon éclaireuse d'élite.
Ma sherpa me guide et me prévient
Des chutes de sérac et des avalanches,
Cuisine les rimes embrassées, porte les alexandrins
Installe le campement des rimes embrassantes.
Alors elle se repose sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de deux tercets
Tandis que que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.
.
Ma pisteuse pose ses pitons et ses broches à glace
Dans l 'ombre des cimes
Sans oxygène sans assistance
Dans les nuages de la haute poésie.
Nous avons ainsi planté nos sonnets
Dans les vingt-et-un sommets continentaux
Ma sherpa c'est mieux qu 'un sur-homme
C'est une sur-femme, une sur-muse
Une sur-déesse
Une vieille briscarde
C'est Junko Tabei et Bachendri Pal
Et après chaque sommet qu 'elle franchit
Sans désagrément
Elle se retire sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de deux tercets
Tandis que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.
Parfois la chute d'un sérac imprévisible
Nous emporte, nous ensevelit et nous broie presque
Mais jamais ma sherpa ne se départit de sa pipe
Ni moi de mes surelles
Dans nos joutes poétiques.
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 6:59 AM UTC
Occasionally one may feel fear's fast grip
But let us not be governed by its restrictive embrace
So the fear of death may not control our actions
May the fear of living never penetrate our minds,
And depart from whoever's in which it resides
Let the fear of our temporary state scare us not
Let the fear of the uncertainty of our tomorrow govern us not
Rather, let it's constant ******* at our heel motivate us
Motivate us to believe in the abilities we have,
And to learn new ones as well
Motivate us to reach heights inconceivable to those whose minds and hearts have not been freed
Heights which only a man freed may attain
A man freed of the darkness that inhabits everyone's soul
Freed of the fear of the unknowable nature of our futures that consumes us all
Embracing that fear so he can transcend death,
And be remembered beyond the many years he will grace this earth
Remembered for the heights he reached
Remembered for the people he chose to lead up to join him
Because he did not succumb to the malice of condescension
But was a Sherpa to the uninitiated
Giving these freed minds a new perspective
That they may soar to unimagined places
To which they will lead him and us in train
Perpetuating the chain of incredible events
Till we can finally reach our Elysian dreams
Started, not by a people of untold knowledge and wealth,
But by the one who decided to live without fear
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
i have four gallons of
holy water in my car
and I'm headed straight down.
looking for a sherpa with a kazoo at this point.
how linear would reincarnation be?
you know what I like,
no money/no news.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
That mountain that you climbed
You told me it felt like Everest
You were so blind
In a land so treacherous
But in reality
It was just an anthill
A speck of salt in the dead sea
On a diet of sleeping pills
Far from base camp
Give me your hand
I will be your hurricane lamp
You and I will trek this land
Let me be your guiding Sherpa
And conquer this depressing frozen peak
Baby steps to conquer inertia
Companionship is what we both seek
You don't have to be alone in your depression
At least I don't want to be
I guess this is my confession
I need you and I want you to need me
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
Go ride the mountain,
Stand atop its highest tiers.
No words as witness.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
Remember, boy
The sherpa'd pray
Don't build your dreams
On what others say
Don't float your canoe
On the reeds of others' promises
The wolf skin gives no warmth, no
Love is a salve to its final growl.
And remember, youth
The harlot told
No love may glitter
Brighter than gold
The ivory teeth
May chatter and squeak
As much as my joints
On my wooden, bent-backward frame.
Don't forget,
She'd order
Don't forget me
I shook my head
No time to
Ask her name
I gloomed over my fireplace
And settled down to the ink-spilled night,
My own skin
Warmer than the moon, at least.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
Yo
Fil -Am I am
Tho' that Uncle Sam
Is a pilfering kind of uncle,
I still believe in Love
Of Freedom rides
Of Lady Liberty's symbolic
Light
Burning brightest
A united flame...
Yo! Bro'
There's no need (yet so many do)
Have - nots hafta
Feed
All Walks
Long Roads
Home.
The seeds will sprout
Great roots / Evergreen
When we quench every thirst
With poetic Justice
Logic / Science / Reasoning
Truth.
Yo!
Now, Says we
No Underground or miners' sky of coal
Cuz hearth is home
Where the heart is strong,
(Where resides living souls)
A coat of amor of many hues
Of cotton--chain gang--rainbows
Of our bodies
Electric / this sojourn railroad
We dance
Deep down getting down
Blues / rhythm/ love on high
Every kind
Spectrums of hot jungles and purest light.
Sun tan and showers
Brought to you by the Maker
Of Sky...
Yo!
Joe, my bro', is not
No ******
G's / Living Proof
Peeps this
White wigs
My All American is multinational
(A Hero)
Youths
And fountains
A World of many nations
Toward one republic :
Mans Fire and Golden worth
(The future points to moot)
From soot or steep
Great Walls and Mountains'
Sherpa Buddhist peace
Rise from our only Earth
As we bask beneath
with all
The bounties of the Sun
We are Sam / I am you
And we are
One
together
Here the same
We are
American genomes
As for me, half breed
A Filipino and green
With Irish flame
"O-oh"
No shame in my game.
Yo! Americans
Be Thankful / you thinkers in kind
Mankind / Human
Down to the last
Past
Suffering,
Sufferage and Tribunes,
From melting pots
A succotash
What kind of American are you?
_____________________________________
*African American
Native American / Indian American-Hindi
Asian American
Irish / Italian American
Spanish speaking Mexican American
Japanese and Chinese American
Korean American
European / Candian / French American
Siberian / Slavic American
Middle Eastern / Arab American
All American Russian / Serian American
A cohabitat of all of us.
(A world of beautiful Mutts)*
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
From my father I got,
Anger, Self doubt, a lonesome tiredness of people. No discrimination.
He taught me to question everything
Even when there are no answers
Even when the question itself was the answer
There is no better built in confidence in the universe, like that of a man in his 60s
Having lived a small but loud life.
Full of oppressors and zero self love. A proud life
My father doesn’t always understand why I follow the herd
Having always been the Sherpa, minding his business on top of his high mountain
He tells me to get higher paying jobs in one breath, and that I’m still a baby in another
From him, I’ve learned the value of hard work
And the basics of computer
And how to yell for no good reason
My father loves me dearly and I miss him so
If only he knew how to love himself better
Then maybe I’d miss him more
Jun 30, 2024
Jun 30, 2024 at 4:50 PM UTC
Why do I want to
Learn Tibetan
Why do I want to
Lear dazongka
Why do I want to learn
Sherpa
And uyger
To connect to my
Ancestors.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 4:08 PM UTC
My aching little fingers
feel colder than my thumbs
My toes no longer tingle
they've gone a little numb
My wollen gloves aren't feeling
so cosy any more
My sherpa socks are making
my cold feet very sore
I'm wearing clothes that haven't
seen daylight for a while
I note my balaclava
is raising many smiles
I hope this weather passes
and heads on back to Russia
I long for London drizzle
and clothes that suit me better
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC