the Mountain by Frost

THE MOUNTAIN held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“This? Lunenburg.”

Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only felt at night its shadowy presence.
“Where is your village? Very far from here?”

“There is no village—only scattered farms.
We were but sixty voters last election.
We can’t in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!” He moved his goad.
The mountain stood there to be pointed at.
Pasture ran up the side a little way,
And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.
A dry ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the pasture.

“That looks like a path.
Is that the way to reach the top from here?—
Not for this morning, but some other time:
I must be getting back to breakfast now.”

“I don’t advise your trying from this side.
There is no proper path, but those that have
Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd’s.
That’s five miles back. You can’t mistake the place:
They logged it there last winter some way up.
I’d take you, but I’m bound the other way.”

“You’ve never climbed it?”

“I’ve been on the sides
Deer-hunting and trout-fishing. There’s a brook
That starts up on it somewhere—I’ve heard say
Right on the top, tip-top—a curious thing.
But what would interest you about the brook,
It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter.
One of the great sights going is to see
It steam in winter like an ox’s breath,
Until the bushes all along its banks
Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles—
You know the kind. Then let the sun shine on it!”

“There ought to be a view around the world
From such a mountain—if it isn’t wooded
Clear to the top.” I saw through leafy screens
Great granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up—
With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn and sit on and look out and down,
With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.

“As to that I can’t say. But there’s the spring,
Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.
That ought to be worth seeing.”

“If it’s there.
You never saw it?”

“I guess there’s no doubt
About its being there. I never saw it.
It may not be right on the very top:
It wouldn’t have to be a long way down
To have some head of water from above,
And a good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone who’d come a long way up.
One time I asked a fellow climbing it
To look and tell me later how it was.”

“What did he say?”

“He said there was a lake
Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.”

“But a lake’s different. What about the spring?”

“He never got up high enough to see.
That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side.
He tried this side. I’ve always meant to go
And look myself, but you know how it is:
It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain
You’ve worked around the foot of all your life.
What would I do? Go in my overalls,
With a big stick, the same as when the cows
Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time?
Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?
’Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.”

“I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to—
Not for the sake of climbing. What’s its name?”

“We call it Hor: I don’t know if that’s right.”

“Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?”

“You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it’s as much as ever you can do,
The boundary lines keep in so close to it.
Hor is the township, and the township’s Hor—
And a few houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled out a little farther than the rest.”

“Warm in December, cold in June, you say?”

“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all.
You and I know enough to know it’s warm
Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.
But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.”

“You’ve lived here all your life?”

“Ever since Hor
Was no bigger than a——” What, I did not hear.
He drew the oxen toward him with light touches
Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank,
Gave them their marching orders and was moving.

Seesaw’s and Mechanical Pony’s

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What happens when we cannot levitate any longer.

For when that disability begins,

it is our past playing hide and seek.

What happens when our memories of seesaw’s and mechanical pony’s come crashing down,

in an around our bare, to all, feet.

Only to be relinquished by a present we will not believe.

≤≥

How soon to the realization that we are all approaching something…

If not,

we are leaving it behind.

You don't fool the animals. Everyone knows, humans can't levitate.
You don’t fool the animals. Everyone knows, humans can’t levitate.

Definition of Levity:

High in spirit.  Lightness of soul

 

The Pains of Neutral

There are eccentricities about time that many… will never get.

Similar to chasing the family pet.

imageedit_8_2028553240There is a mortal need to have it all around.

Thou, it is injured and too tightly wound.

 

It may surface that there are brisk critics regaled  for being too passionately black.

And, those willing to make the ‘devil’s pact.’

 

As followed, before, the ache arrived, minutes filled the air.

As original as, the snowflakes in which we place our grateful cares.

Mind over the matters of time.

The pain of neutral.

No joy from fast forward or rewind.

 

For myself, revelations, on a dusky December day,

That, I too, conceded,

from the comfort of living in the in between.

 

There had been a frozen dust to the air.

It covered my tracks…

Or, considerate me…

I found myself not lost…for I never looked back.imageedit_6_4922132711

Shadow’s Harm

Careless Shadows

Mother Nature has gone from global warming to a hot flash
Mother Nature has gone from global warming to a hot flash

Did you say…that

you didn’t know

Soon after the overdrawn winter…

Before the summer’s baneful glow.

Are we not the same

Did the news report a day without…

unneeded rain.

Have the skies gone aglow

Neon yellows and cosmic greens

Our shadow’s harm,

watch it go, watch it go, watch it go.

Whether or not in fanaticism

Possibly in a good-bye wave of discontent

Mother is on a ravenous tangent.

These hints

These clues to lunacy and

ignorant bliss…

Knee-jerk disasters blatantly missed.

Between the stars and the middle class

Present is past, yesterday is tomorrow

No matter, the gift is fading fast.

‘Not quite right’ heard someone say

Half a continent wasted away.

Tepid places burdened in snow

New species of unknown origin

Dabbling in the science of things we don’t know.

Silent Misdeeds

Silent Misdeeds

Silent Misdeeds

Silent MisdeedsSilent MIsdeeds

Which form of abuse is to your liking?

Why?

You say….

The choice never had been yours

to make anyway…

Though it had always been your voice at stake

Just another orgasm faked…

Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…

Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?

They all say twice more than what they hear

Guardians of hand-me-down fear.

Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes

Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.

Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.