When you stepped in my door,
I realised I was Paradise
in my heart and soul.
You were so surefooted
because you came up from the high.
So long I longed for it.
O Fathima, only to kiss your feet!

The time was so sweet,
beyond anyone’s dream
only in pure beauty
I was rendering,
screaming to new highs.
I did it my way!
Lovely bouncing on
my polished pitch,
the rivers forget to flow
back to the seas.
But no one knew
where my toe melts!
Until you did
and took me for a tread
closer to your spring,
my sweet dream:
O Fathima, only to kiss your feet!

Your so pleased man wished
to rain down with love,
but humble you hid your feet!
You blinded the moon, snowed it
away under the seven seas.
No wonder it's
your winning footing.
Like the Prophet said:
I found me the heaven
beneath the mother’s feet.
O Fathima, only on your feet!

I looked to the stars to see what I could find,
and I sighed with exasperation at the wonders in sight.
For lo, behold, there were more than millions,
and poor old me, choosing one just wasn’t an option.

If you gaze at them all at once, you notice there is a sky,
but if you pick solely one, you find yourself willing to fly.
One of these twinkling wonders might be you someday,
for the world knows whom it should repay.

Focus on one tree, you lose sight of the forest. 
But look at the forest, you lose sight of your tree.
Find your star, hunt it down, and you just might,
you just might, you just might,
absorb that glittering gold glimmer of light.

Then its all uphill from there,
as you shoot up,
and reach forward
and outward,
and suddenly,
you fall back down.

But this time, you have your star,
so climbing all the way up, it can’t be that far.
After hauling and hiking, you reach the top.
and as you gaze at the bottom, you start to wonder.

Wonder about what? I cannot say.
But you’re at the top, you have to stay.
Since it’s you who made it all the way.
L’appel du vide, you start to sway.

Then it hits you. It hits you hard.
Back you go! as you go down.
Down again, down on your knees!
But as you look in its eyes, your glittery golden glimmer lights it up,
and you can’t help but notice what wasn’t there before.
It cannot be, but surely, it is.
A trace of affection, gone as quickly as it appears.

As you get up, you swear it smiles,
and when it disappears with a gust of wind,
you bet on your life you heard it whisper,
I’ll see you at the top, you’ll get here quicker.

And you scramble up again, surefooted and strong,
as music surrounds you, life’s very own song.
Your ascent slows to a stop, and you look around.
Many are there, whom you never found.

And in the centre, who else could it be?
Your very good friend, whom you mistook for an enemy.
It glides towards you, and you don’t wince,
Because now you know, that which you’ve known long since.
Life pushes you down, not out of hate,
but so you learn, to open up the gate.

Now what did you learn? How can you explain?
What you’ve spent years on, things almost impossible to gain.
But you don’t give away the answer, it’s not yours to impart.
You must help out, pick up all who’ve lost heart.

Her mind is gone
Lost among the dust
Her lies pierce me
Inadvertent as they are
One day bleeds into the next
Days of the week spelled out
Empty spaces in the pillbox
Sharp eyes grow confused
Losing their purchase of life around
My heart tears amongst the dust
Lost life murmuring in the dark
Surefooted stumbles and quick falls
Blurring confusion sweeps past
Room filled memories gathering dust
Her mind is lost
Gone amongst the dust

cc1210

there are paths

that we know

with our familiarity

we set off surefooted

toward our known destination

then as dusk settles in

we begin to doubt

to wonder

the markers and signposts

appear to have shifted

perhaps tampered with

and our assurance dwindles

replaced by confusion

unsettling in the fog

questions arise to which we believed

we already had the answers

and what was known becomes lost

along with

our selves

Love-driven on the edge of chance
he took the stairs in his surefooted stride:
Two, four - and one too many.
Happens, sometimes.
He dunked his thumb in the jam ***
And sought for a sentence –
That eluded him.
He rooted, laughed and drank,
Took his scarf,
hat
and thought:
Such a lucky chance –
It happens, now and then,
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
And leave on the dot.

Well then!
Four, two – you know the rest:
One too many.
It was meant to be.
There were flowers by the table –
And the cups were steaming
Invitingly to be stirred.
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.
You know too well,
It happens now and then:
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.

Autumn is here
A season with two faces
One blows a farewell kiss
To her late friend August
The other adjusts his spectacles
And looks for the surefooted
Arrival of the cold months

Orange and gold falls from the trees
These petals and leaves
Resemble to true likeness the pollen
Coated bees that buzz and
Construct the giant honey combs
That little bears love so much

Trunks and branches of trees
Sigh away the dry whisper
From Summer’s heat and
Thieve away any trace of water
That within their thoughts
Reach they may sense
From this thieving of
Liquid pure
Comes verdant mosses
Those in jest proclaim sole dominion
Over the apple’s green

The deer venture through the
Rains of petals and leaves
Sniffing with their muzzles the
Tiny mushrooms
That escaped the underground when rain
First touched soil surface

Squirrels chase each other around
And up the trunks of soaring oaks
And with their teeth
Collect nuts for when desire
To go search is not a question

Orange and gold
Falls from the trees
What falling wonders are these?

the challenge is to be surefooted
steps soft and light weaving
through the house as it resists
my every move
to stop and kiss innocent cheeks
make sure the bodies are still warm
prepare the same rituals
of hot coffee and cold juice
while the dogs wait patiently
for fresh air, water
they exist only for my care
and hurried touch
this day like any other
you are here as well
asleep in the back room
i know this as certain as i know
the path i need to take
towards my favorite chair
also waiting for me
to take pen to paper
in the near light
in the almost day
the challenge is to create a life story
strangers want to read

You are like a well
of fresh water
in a desert
of desolation.

You are like a warm flame
in the cold night
of dark nihilism.

You are as a compass
in a directionless universe.

You are as a revealing flare
in a sea of distress.

You are as sense
in a maze of absurdity.

You are like a purpose
behind apparent chaos.

You are like an answer
to a long list of supplications.

You are like a surefooted guide
through the muddles realms
of space and time.

You are as a cool dawn breeze
after a night full of fever.

You are as a shining star
in the essence of our beings.

You are like the finest cut diamond
that sparkles in our souls.

You are like the best of wines
that brings solace to our hearts.

You are like a lover
who gives his all
in anticipation
of nothing.

I have nothing to impress you
            nor the strength to follow
                        your surefooted step.
                             But the will to be yours
                                            with love forever.

I could tell you everything about the day Dad took me along to his mountain lake fishin’ spot. We didn’t talk much, not knowing what to say, but it didn’t matter then. We skipped rocks, sunned, & I basked in the company. Wading into the water, too surefooted, I slipped on a broken beer bottle. The day ended as jaggedly as the glass. Sliced my foot open from toe to heel. And our quiet relationship faded away like its scar.

My perch up here is so
precarious. Though you led
me to this now, so surefooted upon
the steep trails we have
not dared broach for
these long months, I am scared
the warm sound of your voice
will soon fade, and here
on top of the world without
a hand to hold, though now
I am giddy, it will grow cold. You see,
on top of the world makes
it so much easier
to fall.

As dark a place as I had always thought
That loneliness would be I find its not
As empty as the smiles of those I’ve caught
Just pitying my scars with gazes hot
I rush to cover what they shouldn’t see
The raised and reddened lines across my back
Where surgeons tried and failed to cut me free
Instead they left rods glinting in the black
They tried to slice out Pain, but they found hope
And by mistake they cut that out instead
I woke up, found it gone, and I could cope
For by the time they found it, hope was dead
But while I ought to miss this thing I’ve lost
In truth I’m just so glad to shed the cost

In truth I’m just so glad to shed the cost
Of trying to convince them I’m okay
That I can barely feel this endless frost
The hardest part of every single day
Was making them believe the lies I told
That Pain was fading, life was kind once more
When all I wanted was to simply fold
Into myself and lock every last door
I painted red my cheeks to hide the pale
And flashed a cheerful smile to cover dread
But once in a long while my lies would fail
And everyone saw storms rage in my head
But sometimes I can drop the lies I wind
On days when Pain fades gently from my mind

On days when Pain fades gently from my mind
It’s almost like my thoughts are once more mine
Like loosened are the ties that often bind
And sheathed once more the claws that tear my spine
Black tendrils weave no longer through my thoughts
And heavy fog lifts slowly from my eyes
My shoulders finally relax their knots
At last I do not hide behind my guise
My steps are light, my smile no longer false
The sunshine feels like heaven on my face
My back may finally forget its faults
And everything at last will find its place.
But then the Pain floods back and rain does come
To save itself my mind must be made numb

To save itself my mind must be made numb
The sleepless nights and endless tear filled days
Would rip and shred my strength if not for some
Last way to hide myself above the craze
Of burning, tearing, blaring, broken nerves
That screamed their Pain so loud and long that they
No longer know the purpose silence serves
One day they’ll learn of whispers, this I pray
But ‘till they do I lock away my mind
I shudder at a world where it runs free
My only solace from a world unkind,
For surely as I live, it’d run from me
So here in this dark place I hide away,
Until the Pain does cease, here will I stay

Until the Pain does cease, here will I stay.
The dewy greens and sunny beams are not
Within my too short reach, so far away.
One day I’d find my way or so I thought
To all the places that my life forgot,
But heavy fears and unshed tears do weigh
So heavy on the dreams I’d once been taught.
The fervor of my wanderlust does gray
When pressed against the far too precious cost
Of moving through the world like others do.
They all seem so surefooted. I am lost.
The days when I stand tall are oh so few.
I look and laugh at days before I knew
Although I’m but a girl my dreams are dew

Although I’m but a girl my dreams are dew
That fizzle, fade when morning heats the ground
That know their fate before they see the blue
Though barely out of infancy they’re drowned
In sunshine that wreaks havoc all around
In shadows I can dream without the fear
Of sunshine showing places where I’m bound
I wish upon the stars and smile here
And for the briefest moment I am free
To dream as others, of a daring deed
Of fame and fortune, what my life could be
If only Pain could slake its boundless greed.
But sunshine burns away my shaded home
As always I’m reminded not to roam

As always I’m reminded not to roam
When every morning I awake to flame
To flickering hot tongues that char my bone
It’s difficult to walk shrouded in Pain
The agony is bearable until
One movement kindles flames to rise again
The ever wary watchfulness within
Is wearing ever thinner on my brain
The final fading of hope held so close
Is comfort unlike any I had known
The fears that Pain will never cease now doze
And sureness carries safety hope just won’t
And so I’m finding hopelessness is not
As dark a place as I had always thought

O! Praise upon the cloven-hooved beast,
the fawn, the doe, the buck
that bound and warily snip the leaves.

O! Praise upon the moose
its dark muscular tranquility,
slipping out then into shadow.

O! Praise upon the bighorn sheep
who cling nimble to cliffs and know
to climb sideways, cracking
resolved conflicts down
the mountainside.

For blessed are the cloven-hooved,
named and unnamed,
surefooted, fleet, horned and innocent,
that grace the graven icons of demons.

It had been a long idyllic two-day ride from Taos to Jackson Hole.  The bike had been running well, in spite of the altitude, and the 1600 C.C. Yamaha Venture Royale handled with ease whatever the mountains had in store.

This was the second extended tour for Kurt and his twelve-year-old son, Trystan, who everyone called T.C. (Trystan Colin).  They had started in Long Beach, California, and were making a long semi-circular loop through Arizona, New Mexico, and then back to Wyoming.  After hiking and riding through Grand Teton National Park, they would head North through Yellowstone to Missoula Montana and ultimately reach their final northern destination — Glacier National Park.

This morning though, they would be traveling into an unknown world on the most proven and time-tested forms of transportation, horses and mules.

Teton Scenic Outfitters was the oldest guided tour company in Teton National Park.  Today’s route would take four tourists on a twenty-five-mile ride deep into the park.  At its highest point, the trail would be over 2000 feet above the Buffalo River. There would be two professional cowboys leading the tour.  The lead rider, and boss, was a 6’ 3’’, 200 lb., ex-college football player and rodeo bulldogger named Russ.  At the back was a diminutive, bow-legged, journeyman cowboy from Miles City Montana named Pete.  In between there was Kurt and his son T.C., both riding horses, and two nuns from the San Cristobal Convent in Cody Wyoming, riding mules.

There were two additional mules, between Russ and TC, that were loaded down with a week’s supplies for the Teton Art Camp at the end of the trail.  The Art Camp was a popular summer destination for both experienced and budding artists and depended on the supplies that Russ’s company delivered every Saturday.  At 8:30 a.m., four mules and four horses started the arduous and steep ascent up the narrow trail that was carved out of the east side of the mountain.

Before leaving, Russ had said: “In some places, the trail that’s cut into the rock is less than six feet wide. Don’t let this upset you.  The horses and mules do this almost every day, and they are more surefooted than any person walking.  Whatever you do, DON’T try to get off along the narrow trail.  We will come upon four open meadows, as we climb higher, and you can get off there, if need be, to walk a spell.”

Russ reminded everyone that they had signed a form acknowledging the risks of a mountain trail ride and that they were not afraid of heights. “Whatever you do, make sure to give the horse or mule its head.  Don’t try to guide it or change its direction, it will be following closely the animal in front of it and will become upset and disoriented if you try to change its forward motion.”

Pete, who was riding in the rear, had heard this speech a hundred times before.  He knew Russ would repeat it several more times as they continued their climb.  He also knew something that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet.  After feeling poorly for several weeks, he had traveled to the Medical Center in Idaho Falls for tests.  Two days later he had the results — Cystic Fibrosis.

Pete was only 26, but his doctor had told him that with treatment he had a very good chance of living into his fifties. “What can’t I do, Doc?” Pete had asked.  “Anything for right now,” the specialist advised. Just don’t get too far away from a good Medical Center, just in case. I wonder what he would think if he saw me today,” Pete mused.

The two nuns seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the one in the back, Sister Francis, directly in front of Pete, kept pulling on her right stirrup.  “I’ll have to adjust that when we stop,” Pete said to himself.
At 10:30 a.m., they came to the first clearing and Russ called everyone to gather around him. The meadow was a naturally formed pocket that carved into the mountain for about 100 yards.  There was tall spring grass growing as far as you could see.

“Hey T.C., whatta you think those two things are sticking above the grass about fifty yards ahead?” “I don’t know, Russ, they look like sticks.” “Well ... those sticks happen to be antlers that belong to a resting moose.”  Before Russ could say another word, T.C. had spurred his horse and was headed in the direction of the moose.  As T.C.’s father started to head after him, Russ grabbed his reins and said — “watch this.”

T.C. was still thirty yards from the antlers when an enormous moose stood up out of the grass. Seeing that, T.C.’s horse slammed on the brakes and T.C. went sliding off the right side of his mount.  Time seemed to be frozen in place until ... BAMM!

When Russ saw the moose stand up, he withdrew the Colt Peacemaker (45) from his holster and fired a shot into the air.  The horses and mules never moved, they were rifle trained, but the moose turned and ran into the woods at the far end of the meadow.

“Those things can get ornery when you take them by surprise.  I didn’t think your kid had the guts to charge a moose in the open field.  It’s one of the damnedest things I’ve seen in a long time.  With ‘try’ like that, he’ll make a good hand.

Both cowboys dismounted and went over to where T.C. was still sitting in the grass.  “Here, take this,” Russ said, as he gave T.C. a Snickers Bar from his vest pocket.  “The way you got off that horse would make any bronc rider proud.  Sister Marcella was filming you with her camera.  It you’re nice to her, I’ll bet she’ll send you a copy of the tape.”

Hearing Russ’s words were like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.  His rear end was a little sore, but his spirits had never been so high.  “Hey T.C., if your head hasn’t swelled too much, try this on,” said Pete.  Pete handed T.C. a baseball cap from his saddlebags.  It was a watershed moment for both father and son as T.C. took a giant step toward manhood.

Back on the trail, Russ repeated again: “Don’t try to guide your animal, they know where they’re going.”  In all the confusion, Pete had never gotten around to adjusting Sister Francis’ stirrup.  It was still bothering her, and her squirming was starting to affect her mule.

“Don’t mess with that stirrup anymore, Sister.  If you need to, just let your right leg hang down straight until we get to the next clearing.” Pete hadn’t finished speaking when Sister Francis pushed down again on the stirrup until it came loose and was dangling free.  The momentum of her pushing down with her right leg had pulled her body across the saddle, and she was now off the mule and standing — screaming — on the right side of her mule.

Less Than A Foot From The Edge ...

“Stop screaming, Sister, and I’ll try to get to you.”  Pete knew there wasn’t enough room on the trail for him to make it to the panicked nun, and he also knew he didn’t have enough strength in his upper body to pull her back if she started to fall.

Russ had heard the commotion and stopped the lead horse. He was too far in front to be of much help.  Pete’s best cowboy skill was that of a header in the team roping event.  The hat he had given T.C. was from the last rodeo he had won in Calgary, Alberta.  Pete instinctively took the rope from his saddle horn and formed a loop.  Just as he started to swing the rope, Sister Francis’ mule panicked and moved to the right pushing the nun toward the cliff.  As she started to fall, Pete managed to get a loop around her head and under one shoulder.  He pulled ******* the rope as she fell over the side.  He quickly took three turns around the saddle horn.  Pete knew he could hold it for a while without his horse moving, but if he tried to dismount, there’s no telling what the horse would do, and all three of them might go over the side.

It was just then that Pete saw something crawling between the legs of Sister Marcella’s mule.  T.C. had slid off the back of his horse and crawled between the legs of his dad’s horse, the two pack mules, and Sister Marcella’s now stationary mule.  When he got underneath Sister Francis’ mule, he started to talk in a gentle voice as he worked his way back to the rear.  Once under Pete’s horse, he reached over the side and grabbed the rope. Luckily, Sister Francis was only three feet below the rocky ledge. With T.C.’s help, and a lot of adrenalin, she was able to get her elbows up over the edge and slowly inch her way back onto the trail.  Pete held firm to the loop to make sure there was no backsliding.

T.C. and Sister Francis sat there for a long time until T.C. said: “Do you trust me, Sister?”  She said that she did as T.C. said: “Ok, follow me.” Together, they crawled underneath Pete’s horse to the very back of the train.  “How far is it to the next meadow, Pete?” T.C. asked.  “It’s only about a half-mile, “Pete called out.  “Ok, Sister Francis and I will walk the rest of the way, and we’ll meet up with you at the meadow.  Pete waved ahead to Russ, who was sitting there in a mild state of shock, to get going again.

It was a hero’s welcome when T.C. and Sister Francis arrived at the meadow.  “How did you know you could crawl underneath those horses and mule’s legs without getting trampled?” Russ asked.
“Well, it’s like this,” T.C. said.  “My dad was raised with horses and said that a horse would never step on a man.  I just figured it was the same with mules.”  “And where did you get the guts to try?” asked Pete.  “It wasn’t guts, I was just trying to finish what you had started.  If you hadn’t gotten that rope around her, nothing that I did would have mattered at all.”

“That rope was thrown from the hand of God,” said Sister Marcella, “and today, we were all blessed to see one of his miracles in action.”
The rest of the ride was uneventful.  Pete readjusted Sister Francis’ stirrup as Russ started to sing an old cowboy song.  “What’s the T stand for in T.C?” asked Russ.  “Trystan, my first name is Trystan, T.C.  answered back. With that, every Ian Tyson song they knew was being sung at high volume with the name ‘Trystan’ interjected into every one.

T.C.’s father had never been so proud.


Kurt Philip Behm: June, 2024

A lapse in time
A moment in which I've lost my focus
A lapse in thought
A valuable token
The most thoughtful thinking is done without speaking
And taught without seeking
In a room with a clock
So that there's never a moment in time you can't take back because
Time heals all wounds so that you can walk
And fools talk
So don't open your mouth for foolish critiquing
The art of being thoughtful is that no one knows what your thinking
Because your thinking too deeply
And if you can instigate a moment in time
Through the power of your mind without blinking
Then you have the power to concieve a new state of believing
Believing the ability to see beyond the realm people are ordinarily seeing.
This level of achievement is unbeknownst to my fragile concepts
I've realized the pattern, but have yet to pick up the steps
And I miss being the surefooted label
Because I was less likely to slip on the time tables
And maybe one day I'll be able to think in time and master by mind
So that i wont MIS step for fear of being mistaken
But rather use my mind
To place my hand in time
And twist my fate to that of my own making.