Resilience Carved in Stone
What's to love about a mountain, you ask?
It's in the way it stands,
unwavering, ancient, a testament
to time itself.
It's in the way the dawn
kisses its peak,
bathing it in gold,
while shadows play along its vast expanse.
In its silent strength,
it whispers stories
of the ages,
of storms weathered and skies embraced.
Its slopes, a haven
for dreams and daring,
where eagles soar
and rivers begin their journey.
In its presence, we find
our own insignificance,
and yet, a connection
so profound it roots us to the earth.
To love a mountain
is to admire resilience,
to seek solace in its unchanging gaze,
finding peace in its immovable grace.
For in each ridge,
each crevice and peak,
lies a story of the earth,
an unspoken promise of endurance and time.
What’s to Love About a Mountain, Anyway?
Mountains are just inconvenient. They block the rain. They harbor Sasquatches and their big, malodorous, fungal feet. They are of a chemistry altogether unique--sleep under one in a tent and you put on sticky trousers the next day. You can really get too much of a pine scent. Snow, just as it gets dangerous, comes rolling down. Mist above tree lines is just no fun.
They split our country, so that anything loose, rolling in from the West, gets stuck. Under each one is a reminder that our tectonic plates are not our friends. And what mountains do to the Department of Transportation!
Mountains just get in the way. They may love me, but I don't love them. Give me a flat
Earth any time.
She’s jagged, but not sharp. You don’t clearly remember the first time you saw her, but she did remind you a little of your father— that was her lonely, rocky outcroppings— and a little of yourself. You’d never seen something so unyielding and still so lovely under God’s great big sky. And she was a little like your grandmother, and a little like a song, but only in the way that everything beautiful is.
Fog always shrouds one side of her or the other, or conceals her form altogether, so her shape is never fully revealed. You thought if only you trudged up her east slope one promising sunny morning, you would finally understand her and finally have your fill. But her winds whipped at your clothes, and drenched you in cold spray. So you cursed her grounds and spit on her as you set up camp, only because you had to. To struggle against her is your very nature, and to break you is hers. That’s why you’re drawn to her like flies are drawn to vinegar.
There’s a funny thing about her. Just when she has you believing you’re beat, that’s about the time the air clears, and the blazing sun starts to sink low in the violet distance. A few lonesome stars hang themselves above you, and she holds you up close to them. She no longer feels cruel beneath you, but almost friendly. And compared to the biting night air that is descending, her soft earth is so warm and familiar that it scares you.
In the morning, you’ll fight her steep sides again, and pray to God for fair weather. It’ll be muddy and mucky and terrible in places, but you’ll make it. And when you reach the end of the cleared trail, you’ll be sorry it was over. Her alpine music will bid you come back soon, and she’s held you in her grips for so long now that you dare not refuse her at least a hopeful and longing goodbye.
She is wildly foreign, and older than you by many thousands of years, and you will never truly hold her in the way you want to. But you have many things in common, and one is that you are created from dust, and one is that there’s no guarantee you’ll both be here tomorrow. So climb her while you can.
Peaking to Soon
A mountain? Of a man? Depends on who’s counting. One can make a mountain out of a mole hill if prone to overreacting.
Mountains once made for great divides. Separating cultures, flora & fauna, and many other creatures that come to mind. It was the hunting of those creatures. And gathering of edible plants. That spurned said groups to climb those mountains to see what they might find on the other side. Despite the great probability of falling or freezing to death. Because their hunger or curiosity wouldn’t subside.
There are mountains seemingly reaching for the heavens. And even greater ones sprouting from the ocean floor just trying to get their head above water.
Mountains make for strenuous climbs and exhilarating descents. And mankind generally makes every effort to forego climbing their peaks. By finding passes thru with lesser inclines.
And of course there are those that climb earths tallest peaks for? No other reason than ego or excitement comes to mind.
One can’t forget the mountains of trash mankind's consumerism has supplied. And most prolific of all? The mountains of trouble our forefathers have engineered for us all. Is a Sherpa’s to guide us thru such troubled waters an order to tall?
Picketh Yer Poison
at the drugstore
the childish sat
as Uncle Golucki
chuckled in rolls
over colored candies,
milkshakes, root beer
floats, n' other
as well as
cigars in big cartons
lines to the ceiling
behind his back
with lights strung
from cigarettes to
brown strands of
too many to count
rounding the door
to the street corners
where one turned...
maybe he went loco
or maybe he went
native, or just was
always part Navajo...
they say his eyes lit
scanning the labels
behind glass after
to quench the
has from birth...
they say, so the
when he saw
it was green
it hailed Neon
like from some
at the mouth
they still see him
out on the trail of
teaspoon in hand,
I hear he's getting
his own even now
sweet and clear
off the morning bluebells
and deadly nightshades.
Mountain Dew challenge @Huckleberry_Hoo
the apple orchard & the strawberry fields
Love lives in the mountains of Western Virginia
where the apple orchard is
we use tools I've never seen
to stab the apples high up in the trees
farther than either of us can reach
I twist the pole and it grabs a red apple
It comes down in a basket like a gift for me
both of my hands hold the small fruit that I plan to devour
when I look down I feel sorry for the ones that rot under my feet
that I will not know the taste of them,
they will not know what it's like to be eaten
Love lives in the dimple on the left side of my face when I smile
it's measured by the weight of the beg we carry home
the cost of the cash that you no longer own
the many, many miles on the drive home
love - we toss it carelessly with the cores we throw out
let its juice flow through the strainer into the pot
let it boil on the stove and emit its vapor
it smells like cider, a disguise for the kitchen disaster
but no love went wasted
it wasn't a failure
it was the final October before we constantly bickered
that summer we opted to pick strawberries instead
we didn't make the jam, we handed it over to someone with experience
and it came out a success
I came home with a sunburn, but it turned to a tan
we didn't argue about the music playing on the way home
from the mountains
driving East through Virginia