Time to start pumping poems and get in shape for April and NaPoWriMo. So here goes:
Remember, as an athlete, like a lot
of other things, I suck. But even so
there are a lot of things I want to do
like hiking in the mountains. Yeah. I know.
A couch potato really shouldn’t be
caught dead pretending he could climb a hill.
A mountain is a death wish. Never mind
the altitude. The attitude that I
would have the strength and the ability
to climb a mountain, well just look at me.
And even forty something years ago
I was the same. But still the mountain called.
We weren’t prepared. But still we’d never have
the chance to climb the Rockies highest peak
in Canada again. And so we went
with dirty clothes, canned food, and brand new boots.
It must have been that we were newly wed.
The hiking, camping was spectacular.
We woke to ice bergs calving in the lake
and towered over ancient, full-grown trees
while walking to the glacier which we rode.
I grant you that it didn’t take us far.
We didn’t even go a quarter inch.
That’s not the point. Who else has ridden one?
The journey back was painful. Blistered heels,
stubbed toes, and every step was harder than
the one before. Who says that going up
is harder than the journey going down?
The only benefit to going down
is every step is closer to the end,
is one step fewer that you have to take.
We sang to keep us going. Sang out loud.
We were the only people on the trail
so why not sing out loud? Why not shout out?
Our marching took us to Pretoria
and back again. We counted bottled beer
that lined the walls; a hundred bottles we
disposed of, counting steps with every beer.
They kept us to our ragged, foot-sore march.
The canyon rang with spiders eating flies,
old ladies eating everything of course,
and dying at the end. And we were dead
or almost dead. At least we felt like death
when Ken and Barbie came around a bend.
Clean, young, strong, with perfect hair and clothes,
the pair took just one look at us and laughed.