EARTHBORNE ONLINE POETRY MAGAZINE
MT WASHINGTON COUGAR
MT. WASHINGTON COUGAR
As far as mountains go, it’s not very tall
though its winter personality is precariously erratic
and the most difficult to tame.
But during the summer and in my boots,
I climb and climb the various trails
until every foot of its six thousand plus
are behind me and nothing remains
but blue sky, bald summit observatory
and a green beard,
reaching outward all around.
On a clear day, in one complete turn,
I can see the ocean, the concrete peaks
of a city over one hundred miles away,
westward hills humped like camels
against the melting sky,
and northward, another country.
Yet the most striking vision of all
stepped out from a cloud of maples
and padded along the brink,
sure footed and unafraid,
a magnificent cat perusing her property.
Her wide gold face was interrupted
with a white muzzle, intense hazel eyes
and black lips that curled a subtle snarl,
her shoulders vibrated and her tail swayed
as if to sickle the wildflowers. Moments later
she was gone, leaving me alone
to contemplate her perfection,
a lean and muscular mystery
that belonged to the achievement
that was the mountain,
home to such creatures
whose distinction is nature’s miracle,
randomly revealing themselves
from the waterfalls, forests,
and unencumbered caves of this idyllic green cage.
FLOWERS
They demand our attention
with color and fragrance,
lull our senses with proportion
and beauty,each singular like snowflakes.
But they function beyond ornate,
like lilacs that peer
through green tailored gowns,
mauve heads with intoxicating scents
patrol borders of a yard,
well above the marigolds,
with bright, yellow faces
that weave between
lilac legs and run along
garden paths to provide replacement for the sun
on cloudy days.
Tilted sunflowers act as sentries
while bowing peonies
pronounce the advent of growth,
the chrysanthemum
accompanies our travels through warmth
until the althea bids farewell to summer.
Their majesty lies in recurrence,tradition and patience,
characteristics to heed.
FLOWERS ALONG THE PATH
Fickle flowers with your collection of colors,
summer is the season you flourish,
a time when you demand
precise attention from sunlight
and a beverage from the clouds,
lest you wilt with a crusty edge
while the wind steals away
random petals, unlike brethren trees
with branches that bear
the weight of winter’s calamity,
you hibernate, snuggled
beneath a frozen pod of sodthen dance enthusiastically in Spring beneath lightening and rain
while others seek cover.
You would shrivel
should the clouds abstain.
What schemes do you concoct
in starlight as you ready
to fulfill the drone’s sweet appetite,
secrets hidden well within your corona,
a watchful eye that guardsyour fragile disposition.
To those of us that daily passyour handsome trail,
our troubles buried deep within,
your smile provides a welcome distraction,
your scent an intoxication
that momentarily vanquishes worry.
MORNING SONG
A distant sound
fills the morning air,
a far singing sound
from between the hills,
amplified with intensifying light
and echoing off the sky,
the contented awakening
of creatures in thickets
and trees, in shoreline reeds
and vagrant tunnels
where some might dance
to the rising pulse of dawn
as the Earth spins calmly
toward the heart of the day.
CRIMSON MORN
In the morning, the cardinal is busy
fluttering majestically
upon the branch of a bald maple.
He is stout and shining.
His wings, folded tightly against his body,
gleam fiery red in the morning sunrise
and make him,
when he poses with his head upward,
his orange beak wide with song,
an opera in red tux,
his intense melodic overture,
a crimson beacon of sound
that ushers happiness,
even on the bleakest of days,
reviving the notion of contentment,
a sensation worth capturing,
to store for the frozen times
when the cardinal has flownto warmer climes.
And when he returns
to dart from tree to tree,
a cherry stain upon the branches,
ruffling his feathers
against blue firmament,
he refreshes the landscape
and stewards the deliverance of Spring
so we may stand replete with praise
for the little, red pieces of joy
in this world.
THE PLEASURE OF BIRDS
Early in life
we learned to love the birds,
their kingdom, high in the treetops,
full of song and hope.
Their vibrant colors
and weightless lives
flash in the sunlight,
pierce the clouds
above the landscape
as well as the tallest buildings
we might erect.
They float like leaves
and call to each other
in times of frolic or danger
from those tiers
between the branches
and blazing brightness,
to soar then glide
about our homes,
teasing us
with their airborne acrobatics
and lightheartedness,
almost poking fun
at our weighted dispositions,
chattering until
we cease our admiration
in the dimming light
as the first breaths of darkness
evoke a silence
broken only by a rustling
in the dark shadows of trees.