Our setting is a ski lift.
It doesn’t matter exactly
when or where, which mountain,
because we all understand
the chair lift as a machine
that carries us upward, onward
like the metaphor we ride
to the end of the poem
with Billy Collins or Billy Kidd,
Ingemar Stenmark or Ingmar Bergman,
Jean Paul Sartre or Jean Claude Killy.
I was once a lift operator
so I still check the bolts
and hear every squeaky shiv assembly
like a poet alert to every fraying strand
on those braided steel cables of words
strung taut as trip wire
across the sky’s blank page.
It’s a windy one-way trip
up the mountain, tower to tower
until we reach the top,
tips up, rise onto our skis
sliding into uncertain terrain.
- 87,675 hits
Tag Cloud of Limingaars poetica Audio Poem autumn beauty bird birds Buddhism cat clouds cold crow crows death depression desire dogs dream dreams fall fire flash fiction grief haiku haikus heart home kiss life light loneliness lost love love love poem lovers lust moon morning naked nature night nude ocean poem poema poet poetry poets Post by Voice rain Ray Sharp river sadness sex short poem short story skin sky sleep snow song sonnet spring stars star tattoos summer sun sunset tanka tattoo tattoos of stars time trees water wind winter
Copyright Notice© Ray Sharp and Bard of Liminga, 2008 to Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without written permission of the author and web site owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ray Sharp, Bard of Liminga and raysharp.wordpress. com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.