Cold water king.
Blood of the Holy Mountain,
crystal clear,
except for when it rages,
smashing falls through the canyons.
This is the place you made,
the only inheritance you had.
Fatherhood for you
consisted of a sunrise
and a sunset
and no boundary in between.
So strange now,
that I have found
myself shackled to a wheel.
Carnival merry-go-round,
two-bit hustler,
paint flaking and starting to rust.
Man,
I really thought I understood.
Thought that hate and revenge
would be enough,
and they were,
but only enough
to keep a man
from drowning.
I have come to learn
that treading water
is not living.
I guess that’s why
I keep looking West.
Those old Rockies
are still Mecca for me.
Shangri-La.
El Dorado.
Lothlorien.
Hidden and fantastical places.
I remember you showed me
how to listen to the trees.
How to see the forest floor,
and stalk the creatures
that called it home.
How to live with care,
for the wild world
always seemed to care for you,
but the hatchet eyes
of the grin and bustle world
never did anything,
but fuel your rage.
Rage and paranoia.
I guess that’s why we found you
on the edge of the world.
Mountains all around
and that clean water
coursing through your veins.
That’s how I was raised.
Progeny of the western ranges.
Nothing in this world
has dominion over me;
only God,
and those snowy peaks.
I have decided
that I want to die
with a view of the Rocky Mountains.
Heck,
any mountains will do,
after all,
a man can’t be too particular.
I just want
to live out my days
in the best way I know how,
the way my father showed me.
One with the wild things,
because he was a wild thing,
and I
have that same
crystal clear,
glacier fed,
blood in my veins.
HG – 2022
