City lights reflect off low clouds, silhouetting the canyon walls.
We buckle boots, attach our climbing skins
As we click into our bindings, clouds part, stars appear.
Climbing we fall into a rhythm;
Swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh
Alone with our thoughts in the halo of our headlamp,
Swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh.
At Elbow Fork we stop
Remove our skis, pack our skins,
Click back into our bindings,
Look up to the stars above.
Breathe deep in the silent night, push off
and glide for home.
In the land of sand
he slept with a gun
under his pillow
in a bunker of
cinder blocks and plywood
Safe at home
nothing feels right
Steering the car
across the center line
at high speeds
fearful of roadside trash
It could be a bomb
Unable to manage crowds
he can’t see everyone’s hands
of following orders
they are unconcerned
In an incomprehensible world
void of order and discipline
now for medical care
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Army, poem, Veteran
We four proceed into the night
minds masked by alcohol, our laughter and voices stretching before us.
Dressed not as ourselves we make our way
into the mayhem of sports fans and pirates.
Kitchen passes in hand we play wingman as best three married men can.
The crush of the crowd grows as creatures of the night emerge,
their dress revealing their inner-most secrets.
An old man, his nightly ritual to sit at this bar alone,
looks up from his beer stein, eyes sparking,
barley clothed maidens talking through him.
He appears so happy for a moment before being masked again by the crowd.
We make our way out to the wild yet seemingly quiet streets
to another bar
where calm is shattered by the band and yelled conversations.
With time growing short,
our wingman duties complete,
we head for home in the cool mountain night.