Base Camp

In my head, sometimes I'm the

climber who stays at the base

camp, soporific and satisfied on the

thick air, deep breaths bringing

calm, but wonder and longing as well

as he looks up toward ledges iced with danger

and then the haughty, arrogant summit,

its silence a dare and a promise

of clear vision, of everything shrinking

beneath the one who dares, standing

strong in the wind and the sharp sun,

knowing that there's no more to be done,

this clear ending point, this last step--

the treacherous route that tells only

part of the story, nothing of the euphoric

missteps and saves and leaps over those

crevasses that lurk deep inside,

the peak in the chest, in the gut,

in the mind, that worry that gets

the last word--All of these thoughts in

the idleness of the base camper, longing

to sink his ax and crampons into the

sheer ice face, to know that if it

is to be, it is he who decides, who

takes those steps as far as

nature and fate allow.

High Peaks Blues

Gonna carry my rock up the mountain,

carry my rock up the mountain,

feel it every step of the way.

Feel my troubles weighing me down,

weighing me down,

for the last time today.

Gonna leave that rock at the

top of the mountain, top of the mountain,

up high with all the rest.

Gonna leave that rock at the

top of the mountain, top of the mountain,

up high and I'll feel blessed.

Leave my troubles when I drop that stone,

drop that stone, drop that stone,

haul it up and let it go.

Now a rock is a rock, and a man is a man--

A rock is a rock and a man is a man--

Simple words, and I know it for sure.

Leave my troubles when I drop that stone,

drop that stone, drop that stone,

won't feel that weight anymore.

When I come back down, gonna

be a new man, be a new man.

Look up at that high gray peak,

can't see my troubles,

from where I am,

from where I am.

Between Blue and Me

Hearts don't grow on trees

beg, and you won't receive

even prose has its thorns

wrinkled as the day you were born

walk the thick ice, slick and strong

know “goodbye” is not “so long”

Cry me an ocean:

all depth, no motion

a teardrop on the sea

just between blue and me.

Snapshot

Within the curling print's white

border his hands say “ta-dah!”

as if producing the little teapot

from thin air--this would-be magician

in his plaid shirt and horn rimmed glasses

under a hanging light in a humble kitchen

his thick hair rising like a dark wave

over his beach of a forehead above

sliver-moon brows

he's here in this ordinary

moment, a man and his tea as

his eyes meet the camera's one,

this time-stopping Cyclops whose

metal-and-glass gaze makes

anyone fall under its split-second

spell--and I guess, then, that it is

magic after all.

Ode to Coffee

My dark, bitter goddess,

pulse-quickener, mind-sharp

miracle bean, sunrise rouser--

it's you I serve—the master

becomes the slave to you,

equatorial, tropical queen,

and I worship every morning--

your siren song, my alarm,

dispelling the fog of my mind

like your misty mountain home,

calling me from sleep in tangled

sheets as the sun streams

and I prepare the chalice for

our ritual, a clumsy acolyte

fumbling through the temple

of a quiet, still kitchen.

Ode to Words

I praise hidden thoughts that loop again,

ideas amorphous and vague given shape,

spinning freely from a liberating pen,

that evolving step between man and ape--

how is it, these lines sinuous and ornate,

can amuse, anger, evoke love and hate?

Shooting like arrows as the mind reloads,

things that calm, caress, hit and explode--

a ticker in the mind, running all the time,

scalding, harsh, smooth, sometimes rhymed,

mercurial messengers under some command--

obedient, insolent, issued from mouth and hand

getting us closer to it—all the way? Not quite.

Dispelling some darkness to light the night.

Magnets

ever have a day like that

when you become magnetic

in the aisles in a store

attracting people and

their laden shopping carts

pulling pedestrians off

the sidewalk without

them even knowing right

in the path of your car

which you of course slow

for the little iron filings

willed by something beyond

themselves to behave this way

not like yesterday when you

pushed everything

away—got a

clear shot up the street

down the road

through the thicket of

an undulating crowd

with your little mysterious

force field working silently?

science says the earth's

magnetic field

(which keeps us safe)

changes poles over time

due to what's deep inside

so why not us too?

Between Spark and Fire

Seductive shadow chaser

trilling in night air,

enough to ignite desire,

a hand-over-flame dare.

Bring the heat to this

iced heart--

show the way,

celestial star chart.

Fire and fuel are we

close at hand,

no choice but

chemistry's command.

Chase the shadows out,

become so dear,

melt the frozen coiled fear--

Live between spark and fire,

together we conspire.

Lie List

No, I'm not seeing anyone else.

Sure, I'll leave your money on the shelf.

I really have something to do.

Would I ever, ever lie to you?

I'm very experienced in this area.

Fancy free? Nothing's scarier.

I just want to be alone.

Nothing incriminating in my phone.

It's not you, it's me.

You're the one I've waited to see.

Of course I did well in school.

Of course I'll return your tools.

How many? Six, seven—no, eight.

But no, not tonight... I work late.

I'll wash your clothes, fold them too.

Have I ever, ever lied to you?

Fire's Promise

Let me light the lamp of you

your mercurial fuel--

it's me, it's what I do

bring me near and you'll

see and feel--

a shadowless flame

shimmers the bending light

makes wrinkles in time

wicks dip deeply in ancient oil--

endless reserves are there

once one finds it--

sweet pain of flame, the

tingle before the burn,

take me there again and again.

We blaze for a time, light and heat--

settling in to a steady flame

like hands pressed in prayer--

pointing up, not out--

heavenward, a halo of light,

a star in someone else's sky.

Dusk, Late June

Words in speeches echo, get

carried off in impatient air--

dozens of different scripts quietly

running, writing under square caps--

blue and white gowns over colors of souls,

tiger lilies for her, confetti and platitudes,

and the names called hang briefly and

they amble, saunter, swagger, sidle

across the ordinary grass as if it were

a high-wire or runway or pit of coals

as the ice-cream truck's song fades in and out

like childhood itself carried on the air

and the sun sinks slowly and fate smiles today

as dark clouds roll south and thin wispy

fingers overhead reach eastward, stretching

the sky as the sun is pulled down and away

beyond the plains and the purple rays

reach over hundreds of watts of smiles

on the darkening field and some are

lit within, radiating outward before

breaking rank, absorbed by the crowd--

little halos of light grab moments of time

to be seen again as they grow

into what some already know

and fill out shapes and outlines made today

on the island of grass inside the track

and the restless sky is pulling, moving overhead,

urging us all on into a sweet firefly night

as headlights find ways out and home

to never precisely return again.