Archives for posts with tag: Colorado

pueblo-mural
Before the Levee Comes Down
by Kyle Laws

Murals stretch up in the afternoon sun
and what’s reflected back into the river
are primary colors painted on the levee
by those who dangled by ropes from the top:
reds, yellows, and blues.

And as the river flows east the blend of primary
becomes secondary: red and yellow become orange,
yellow and blue become green. This is the function
of levee—creation of color as river moves over stones.

Where the river eddies, in the swirl where kayaks
hope not to tangle, are remnants of last night’s party:
barbecued pork rinds mingled with burnt twigs.

Underfoot is a crush of rock that is trail. My boots,
thick-soled, can scale the opposite bank. I can pull
myself up by saplings that know there is water,
that have roots enough to get me to a place

where I can see the murals, not in reflection,
but as if atop the horse Lady Godiva strides
that’s next to the rendition of Joan of Arc.

Even with the smell of algae, I want to drink
of the river, submerge myself hidden in a cluster
of trees, know that as I arch my back to rinse hair
of debris, green will trickle into my mouth.

I stumble down the wooded bank, take off boots
and orange-ringed socks, watch paintings for what
could be the last time while feet whiten cold and
stiff in the river from a slip of rock that extends
into the Arkansas on its way to Kansas.

Previously published in Turtle Island Quarterly and in Ride the Pink Horse (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019).

PHOTO: Mural on levee along the Arkansas River in Pueblo, Colorado. Started in the late 1970s as isolated patches of graffiti, the sprawling mural grew to become almost two miles long and 58 feet tall.  (cpr.org).

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The levee along the Arkansas River through Pueblo, Colorado, built for flood control, featured the longest outdoor mural in the world. In 2014, the top layer was taken off for repairs and the height shortened. All the paintings were lost except for a small section that contained ashes of the artist, Judith Pierce.   

PHOTO:  The levee in Pueblo, Colorado, after the top layer was removed, before what remained was resurfaced. Photo by Allison Kipple, used with permission. For more about the mural, visit cpr.org.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kyle Laws is based out of Steel City Art Works in Pueblo, Colorado, where she directs Line/Circle: Women Poets in Performance. Her collections include Ride the Pink Horse (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019), Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing, 2018), This Town: Poems of Correspondence with Jared Smith (Liquid Light Press, 2017), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press, 2015), and Wildwood (Lummox Press, 2014). With eight nominations for a Pushcart Prize, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., Canada, and Germany. She is editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Find her on Facebook.

20183892 - mount sneffels range, colorado, usa
Mount Sneffels
by Ann Christine Tabaka

The mountain stood before me,
staring me down,
with arrogance and pride.
I would conquer him today,
or die trying.
Ice axe in hand
I began my ascent,
one chilling step at a time.
Wind was his ally
as it forced against me,
fracturing my will,
blistering my flesh.
Sun beat down with vengeance,
blinding glare obstructing view.
Fighting for my hold,
creeping inch by inch,
I rose to new heights,
I had never reached before.
Had hours, or a lifetime passed
before I reached the summit?
14,158 feet of rock,
snow, and ice lay below.
Joy overtook exhaustion.
Outstretched arms towards the sky,
I stood above the clouds.
The mountain stood below me now!
Mountain was real,
mountain is a metaphor.
I have defeated my own fears.

Published by Impspired, January 2020

PHOTO: “Mount Sneffels (Colorado)” by Don Yanedomam, used by permission.

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Mount Sneffels is the highest summit of the Sneffels Range in the Rocky Mountains of North America. The prominent 14,158-foot “fourteener” is located in the Mount Sneffels Wilderness of Uncompahgre National Forest, 6.7 miles west by south of the City of Ouray in Ouray County, Colorado, United States. (Source: Wikipedia.)

PHOTO: The author (center) in 1992, when she and companions climbed Mount Sneffels (Ouray County, Colorado).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. Winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020,” published by Sweetycat Press. Internationally published and the recipient poetry awards from numerous publications., her work has been translated into Sequoyah-Cherokee Syllabics as well as Spanish. The author of 11 poetry books, she has recently been published in several micro-fiction anthologies and short story publications. She resides in Delaware with her husband and four cats. Visit her at annchristinetabaka.com and on her Amazon author’s page.

Maroon Bells
Lost on Maroon Bells Trail
by Barbara Leonhard

I.
The Maroon Bells chime,
So long, dear. May you dance
& sway with the breeze
In our floral meadows.
Do you know the edibles?
The wind ruffles my hair as I hike out.
II.
An old man limps from around a bend.
I take his course, turning right,
Not left. The path narrows,
But well-marked steps
Pin me to a destination
Down a steep hill on my behind.
               The old guy did this?
I call for my husband, who had run ahead.
III.
A clearing opens, & prior travelers
show no sense of direction.
Their prints scatter like whitetail deer
Fleeing the hungry cougar.
I call for my husband over & over
& look for his shoe size.
IV.
He runs back to check on his mate,
But the two stragglers far behind her
had surpassed her stride.
               She can outpace those guys! WTF?
Bearing a 50-pound pack,
He sprints like a mountain goat fleeing wolves
To inform rangers.
V.
Sun splinters through spots of shade.
               Where am I? Lost!
               Gone from sight!
The creek, dear! The Bell clang.
               Dizzy, I stumble. Up? Down?
I call his name again & again.
               Some prints smell of animal.
               Large cat!?
Dear, run up the hill! The hill!
VI.
Pursued by hot breath,
I scramble up a slope,
Grabbing hold of the arms of Aspens,
To an overlook of the trail.
               Help! Help!
                         Are you Barbara?
                         Your husband is looking for you!!
I am lifted out of the abyss by wind
Resounding in a chorus of bells. 

PHOTO: The Maroon Bells in the fall, at sunrise by Anton Foltin, used by permission. Note: The Maroon Bells are two peaks in the Elk Mountains, Maroon Peak and North Maroon Peak, separated by about one-third of a mile. The mountains are about 12 miles southwest of Aspen, Colorado. Both peaks exceed 14,000 feet.

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: A few years ago, in Colorado, I became lost while hiking on the wide and well-used Maroon Bells Trail after a night of camping on Crater Lake. Fatigued, I took a wrong turn and became lost for almost two hours.

PHOTO: The author,  resting in a Maroon Bells meadow after dancing and swaying in the breeze (August 1995).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Barbara Harris Leonhard is a writer, poet, and blogger. Her work appears in Phoebe, MD: Poetry + Medicine, Well Versed 2020, Spillwords, FREE VERSE REVOLUTION, Heretics, Lovers and Madmen, Go Dog Go Café, Silver Birch Press, Amethyst Review (pending), Pillbaby.com, and Vita Brevis. She is the author of Discoveries in Academic Writing, which is based on her years of teaching English as a Second Language at the University of Missouri.

tim_reaves
My Tuscany in Colorado Springs
by Jim Ciletti

He arises at the crack of dawn to raise his arms
to recite scriptures of the morning wind
and dawn’s cracking rise of fireball sun;

The tools and his hands speak the only verses
he knows to seduce stone and cement with
sweat and blisters and swigs of water as he

builds his Tuscany in Colorado; for the arbor
that will bear the fruit and harvest
for the grapes of his body’s wine

for the garden where he will kneel before
tomatoes and peppers to offer a humble
sharing with garlic and basil and oil

for a space for tables for family and friends
to break bread and drink his wine in a joyous
adoration of their friendship and love for one another

for a chair and a table under the arbor where he
will awaken soon to a morning time with his pen in hand
and new songs from his voice and heart

because this is his life and this is where
he will exhale his last breath into the
scriptures of the morning winds and sunlight.

IMAGE: “Enchanted Morning” (Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs, Colorado) by Tim Reaves. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Award winning poet Jim Ciletti is the 2010-2012 Pikes Peak Poet Laureate. He volunteers to give creative writing workshops in Colorado prisons, helps his wife
Mary at Hooked on Books Bookstore, enjoys cooking, gardening, making homemade wine, and loves all things Italian. His poetry blog is plumlover.wordpress.com.

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FOR ALL
Poem by Gary Snyder

Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

Photo: “Moffat Lakes, Boulder, Colorado” by Tyler P. Porter, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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“The most sublime act is to set another before you.” WILLIAM BLAKE

Art: “Give More Than You Take” by Jim Hodges was designed as an Aspen, Colorado, ski lift ticket in conjunction with the Aspen Art Museum. Hodges wanted to give skiiers something to ponder while they rode up the hill. Read more about New York-based installation artist Jim Hodges here.

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FOR ALL

Poem by Gary Snyder

Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

Photo: “Moffat Lakes, Boulder, Colorado” by Tyler P. Porter, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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“The closest bonds we will ever know are bonds of grief. The deepest community one of sorrow.”  CORMAC McCARTHY