* * *
Mountain snow fields
seen through transparent wings of a fly
on windowpane
Poems on the topic: mountain
Poems on the topic “mountain” on Poets.by.
River Poem
senile river,
floor littered
with aeons of pointless garbage
slender frameworks of beast
granite leftovers from
a mountain eaten during the mesozoic,
in lusty banquet of your middle age.
let it be said you are less than the
Least silence
of any entranced youngster,
Who gulps a nascent universe
with each unlikely breath.
Illusion
A wolf wound up the twisted slope,
Its hide gleaming silver and eyes like to sun,
The farther it got the closer it seemed.
Upon reaching the top the beast stood still,
Clouds black as the night's fresh veil,
The mountain it climbed had looked taller before,
But the wolf lost foot as a piece did fall,
And it tumbled head over tail.
Battered and bruised but very much alive,
The peak of the mountain reached above the clouds,
And again the wolf climbed the beaten trail,
For this was all it knew.
Tyler Matthew
On top of a mountain
Looking down on Green Valley,
The desert sun shines,
The the prairie dogs run wild.
Its hot and its dry,
And though you left us behind,
I still feel you with me
Looking down on Green Valley.
Standing on a balcony,
Looking down on Tuscon's city lights,
The desert moon shines,
The stars glow like wild fire.
Theres a beautiful night sky,
And though you left us behind,
I still feel you with me,
Standing on that balcony.
Bright April Clouds
bright April clouds
bits of snow left beneath
the mountain pine
The Gum-Gatherer
There overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill, early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him where I’d been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks split off the mountain mass--
And hopeless grist enough it looks
The Birthplace
Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was ever any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn’t know our name.
(No girl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.
Mourning
On this rainy afternoon
while I walk alone the streets
the music that my shoes make
on the wet asphalt
sounds to my ears
like a funeral symphony
and my walk like a dead march.
Casually raising my eyes
to the mountain in front me
I notice that the white cloud
which in the morning
was kissing the mountain
is there no more.
So, I say to myself;
‘these wet drops falling
are not the rain drops,
Time and the Order of Death
Mountain, Wolf, Oak, Bird, Dream, and I
are here together today.
All waiting the decision
that time will announce
about which or who will flee first
from this siege.
We talk, kiss, sing and help each other,
while not forgetting
even for a moment, the deception.
Although the world
has more than enough space
for all of us,
we still feel cramped
and stealthily we pray
for each other’s death.
Then time starts reading its verdict.
Early Spring Drizzles &
early spring drizzles &
so many shades of green
on the mountain
These Are Highlands
These are highlands, in a region of highlands, so
not especially notable. It takes a long
time to get there, though the graveled road
is short enough; park and walk -- not far,
but bring a lunch and water. Sign in; it's wilderness
according to the kiosk and its map.
Immediately you have shade. These are
Douglas fir, mountain hemlock, perhaps
some red cedar. Beneath, on both sides the trail,
a scattering of vine maple, ocean spray,
rhododendron, and, in the draws, willow.
Sometimes bear grass is in flower;
not this year. As late season turns, first
vanilla leaf, then devil's club, then red
huckleberry, then the blue, will shade through
gold to sienna to cranberry: cool nights.
Seventy-Three
The mountains and
flowering dogwoods
Were never so beautiful
as that day our brakes
completely failed
as we rolled down.
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