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High Sierra Nights poem

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High Sierra Nights poem

Postby illyav » Wed Sep 21, 2016 11:37 pm

High Sierra Nights

Late at night at altitude
aptly wrapped in warmth
amid an ambient wind
I lie awake in wonderment
staring at glinting stars
piercing through the abyss
and flickering through the
shivering tree canopy above me;
beaming moonlight illuminates
surrounding snowcapped
mountain peaks and ridges,
silhouetting lower layers
of jagged crags and spires;
breathing in soothing
pine scented air,
I turn over on my side
and doze off listening to
snowmelt splash and foam
over creek rocks gleaming
in another High Sierra night



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Re: High Sierra Nights poem

Postby rlown » Thu Sep 22, 2016 11:57 am

Nice poem..

In AP lit in high school, this was as close as I got to poetry: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems- ... tail/47552

Didn't write any.. Not my thing.
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Re: High Sierra Nights poem

Postby illyav » Thu Sep 29, 2016 11:58 am

Cool! Nice imagery within the tale and nice melodic rhyming throughout. :thumbsup:
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Re: High Sierra Nights poem

Postby rlown » Tue Oct 04, 2016 7:55 pm

Ok.. I'll post on this with the classic poem, even though I don't have a religious bone in my body (did make a plaster cast of jesus in the manger once, but I blame that on my Mom :) ) :


BY JOYCE KILMER

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetry ... tail/12744
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Re: High Sierra Nights poem

Postby Jimr » Tue Oct 04, 2016 8:42 pm

God in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.
-Ogden Nash
What?!
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Re: High Sierra Nights poem

Postby rlown » Thu Oct 06, 2016 6:46 pm

A compendium:

http://www.voicesfromtheamericanland.or ... aefer.html

Poems by Norman Schaefer:

Friend Moon

Friend moon, hello again.
I have watched you from hundreds of places
hundreds of nights,
and here where marmots do their perfect work
you bring me my shadow.
Unhurried, steady,
you float up like a lost balloon
above Mt. Williamson.
In the free air and free spaces
there is always room enough
and time enough.
Your cool light strangely arouses
and I see why Li Po is said
to have embraced you in a river.
Aspens turn again.
Soon these silver peaks will be dusted with snow
and deer will walk down the dry east slope.
How much I value your companionship.
Shall we meet next spring when the larkspurs bloom
and the good bears prowl the sweet-scented woods?

The Sunny Top of California

Dew gathers on the meadow grasses.
Deneb takes its place in the center of the sky.
Step by step around Rockslide Lake,
keeping my eyes on the radiant moon,
I call out the names of old Chinese poets,
who instruct me by saying nothing.
All my life I’ve loved high lonesome places.
Odors of moss and bark
and cones and twigs and snowmelt mud,
I feel like I’ve been coming to the Sierra
for a thousand years.
A human life is no more than a flicker of lightning,
but to die on a glacier
my bones would be pure forever.
Watching the moon begin its slow descent,
my mind quiets down
until there’s scarcely a ripple.
In the morning I’ll look for a campsite
somewhere green and steep and wild
where a wolverine might feel safe.
I talk brave,
but all I want is an autumn alone
with books and tea
and Bugler cigarettes rolled-your-own,
to be deeply enjoyed without hurry
on the sunny top of California.

Cold Climb

Biting wind quivers Dade Lake.
Tonight will be cold on Bear Creek Spire.
Ice rims the creeks.
I sense the sun’s frustration
spread so thin in autumn.
Following a ridge to the summit,
I am led again far out of myself.
To be on any mountain is privilege enough,
but what would I give tonight
for a shot of Early Times
and my lovely neighbor with me
inside my sleeping bag.
Sometimes it seems I climb mountains
when all I need is down on the ground.
Night wind stings.
Gladly will I welcome the morning star.
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