Snow melt on a bright April afternoon
Sparkled as it sang down Turtle Mountain.
Women and children, heartened
with the promise of a summer near,
smiled through their daily chores.

Coal miners began their shift,
oblivious to the weight above.
The scoffed at the native tribes,
the Kootenays and Blackfoot,
who, fearful, kept their distance
from the Mountain that Walks.

Such superstition and 'old wives tales',
bubbled easily past their care,
just as the waters of the Old Man River chuckled,
slipping by the rocky banks of Crows Nest Pass.

That night, as their wives and children
wove lavender dreams on fresh pillows,
seventeen men worked the night shift
checking beams and trusses and walking tunnels.

Above them loomed the limestone,
cracking as meltwater froze and spread.
Tinkling stones sang out on the tipple,
and, falling free, rang off the rails outside.

Then, with a crack, sudden sharp,
loud as a thousand thunderclaps,
heard a hundred miles away,
the old mountain rolled...
rolled over and flattened.

The mountainside flowed, reaching far,
bouyed on a cushion of air
and in a hundred seconds of terror
crashed upon the town below.

Buried there yet are those people,
beneath the mountain that walked.
Under a blanket of stone they sleep
within the moonscape that was Frank, Alberta.

Listen to their cries
upon the cold wind, a wild
mourning song, they sing
to your trembling souls
and hope's fading light
dimming into the winter depth
of silence and clean snows.

Hear their falling notes, there,
echoing amid the cedars,
birch and silent jack pine.
Undulating over lakes,
under starry skies,
beneath the pale moon, they weave
their symphony of joy.

My children, do you hear?
The wolves concert is for you.
Safe within your false dawn,
upon thin ice, unaware and
lost within servitude...cut
from nature's wisdom, from the truth,
lurking just below the dream.

Far away, beyond the suburbs,
the wolves' melodious song
washes the sky...with
the promise of endings
and that which will be
and that which will come
to their ken and fen and forest.
.

Malleable clay
swimming in soup primordial
it lay, the melding man
in a glass bowl,
sparkling in twin suns,
a cordial, shifty spoonful
of a man and alien.

A trojan horse
in humanoid form,
DNA secreted,
archenoid bestowed.
a gift to our world
in dubious fashionings and
of therianist totems.

He walks-
He talks-
He knows our clocks.
He sees our shortfalls
He notes our downfalls
Uberman, Uberman, what will you do?
Will you work to undo our glue?

Eben-eeser Scrooge has nothing on you
When you begin to do what you do
And nothing will stand, and all will be new
When you are done, yes, when you are through.

Stones and fallen trees
twist the currents,
forcing the flow,
breaking the calm surface and
reflecting sparkles from an aloof sun,
feigning faux joy in the dance of light
and the incongruous music of a lying laughter

Loves' contentment, once a placid stream
in quiet reflection, mirror'd the world,
now tossed haphazardly to a million shards.
Around such obstacles our hopes are dashed
into an inescapable turmoil, relentlessly
testing and coiling while rushing down, down.

To the fastness of the silent seas
and the imponderable oceanic weight
of lost souls laden with stolen dreams.
Wearily we embrace the nothingness
in the company of sad ghosts, slowly sinking,
dreaming of evaporations to a warming sun
and the rainbow promise of reborn droplets.

Victory Child

Victory glowed in your eyes, no doubt.
Burning coals upon an ashen face,
sooty cheeks cleansed pink by tears
marking joy, pain and glory beneath their heat.

Your brutal war is won, millions lost
through the noisesome struggle. Acrid smoke
billows black above the receding floodwaters
where drowned cattle now burn in motor oil.

The Lowlands lay in ruins when you came,
smiling, the conquering major in a Jeep.
Showered with the flowers and kisses tossed
by a population much too long in the shadow.

Gin and flowers are a heady mix
for a victory parade, no doubt, but
so few men waving flags in the crowd.
How did that strike you, major?

Were you saddened by their absence
among wild blond hair and bright blue eyes?
So many tears of joy, gratitude, raw adulation
within the rain of falling bright pedals.

How easy it must have seemed then, Major,
to be accepted into that fine house that night,
taken immediately to the welcoming bosom
of a broken family too long under the Fascist heel.

They gave to you whatever they had hidden.
Food, drink, a warm soft bed and kindness
filling your belly and soul, easing memories
of roaring guns, blood and shattering death.

You've earned these small spoils, major.
Smiling as you accept the gifts they brought.
Allowing them to open their hearts completely
and pile even more gratitude upon gratitude.

Mother came to you that night,
and blessed you with her comfort.
Young and beautiful, she opened herself
to mark this moment with an innocent's gift.


Don't look back, father.
I forgive you.
Don't think twice of me, father.
I forgive you.

Wisdom

What should we not do?
Are we so complicated
that we dwarf the universe?
Is experience a greater teacher
than a PhD in Physics?

Do we have the courage
to deny the easy path?
Is good intention truly
a way toward unspeakable horrors?
Can science alone lead us?

Is the simple answer better
than a confusion of details?
Or is the trial of troubles
the only way of knowing?
Does pain trump ease?

Is contentment a reward
or a curse?
Is timeliness based on luck
or pure intelligence?
How do we suss the perfect moment?

If knowledge is of the past
and wisdom of the future,
then the scars of yesterday
heal our skin, our common sense
and ultimately our fellows.

Does science and knowledge
aid us or harm us?
Who decides what to apply where,
when, to whom and for what purpose?
Are we wise enough to tell the difference?

reply to post by masqua

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NOW THAT WAS AWESOME!!!!

I really enjoyed new age biker chick, really. What an immense vocabulary you have my friend.
It painted the coolest picture in my head. Probably because I'm a bike freak anyway but regardless, it was definitely something very original. Never heard any poem that went like that.



I enjoy reading your work.

[edit on 30-6-2009 by N3krostatic]

reply to post by N3krostatic

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Thanks for this. I'm glad someone finally took the time to respond and it's much appreciated.

I loved the wind in my face too, back when my legs straddled a beautiful 75th anniversary Harley. The biker chick is an analogy to how I felt back then, riding through the night over deserted highways, the moon lighting my way and the scent of the forest in my nostrils. It was all so primitive and personal.