G. LOUIS HEATH - POEMS

G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He has published poems in a wide array of journals. His books include Leaves Of Maple and Long Dark River Casino.
 

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Power On The Mountain
​

​The reefs of scree disappeared hours
Ago in my ascent to stand triumphant
 
On this peak. Triumphant is a standard
Watchword we climbers ascribe to our
 
Insanity realized. Conquest is another
Born of colonial times. For me, this day,
 
Its wisps of cirrus icing the adrenaline,
Cerulean canopy, has more a manic feel,
 
Oscillating between peak and scree. From
My high, I view the crinkled quilt of mighty
 
Mountains stretching to the horizon, and I
Feel smaller, yet bigger, bigger yet smaller.
 
It is an awesome power to feel myself a tiny
Particle in the realm of all that is forever.
 

​Three Young Men On A Mountain

​The three hikers looked out over the high country.
Ecstasy welled within them, fueled by endorphins
 
From the climb, and a cannabis break, on the ascent.
The craggy peaks prompted them to sing a few off-
 
Key bars of “America the Beautiful.” They were out
Of the gloomy shadows, the thick forest below, of
 
Dense hardwood, mixed with stands of pine. To reach
This glorious aerie in the clouds, they had bushwacked
 
Through lowland thickets, alder and scrub willow, broken
By deer runs they followed as best they could. They had
 
Fought those queaches and many deadfalls, taxing their
Young muscles to the limit. Each had climbed within as
 
Much as without, clear-cutting a wilderness inside, each
In his own way. They had carried backpacks filled with
 
Family albums as they braved falling scree and rock. Atop
The world, they dug a hole, and buried the photos and news
 
Clippings of their birthdays and achievements in Cub Scouts,
Little League, and school. Dancing on the glad grave of their
 
Umbilical cords, they threw their arms up in triumph, took
Dramatic selfies of the new world before them, and cheered.
 

On A Blazed Trail
​

​Someone has blazed the trail I take this summer.
I see the axe marks far up the trees. Someone on
 
Snowshoes or skiis trekked through here in deep
Winter. The cuts are not fresh, but not so aged either.
 
My feet are soon silent on a blanket of pine duff as 
I sense a threat nearby. A twig breaks in the sombrous
 
Forest. My nerves are set on fire. A face appears in the
Rock ledge ahead, then loses the features I am sure were
 
There. I fear what I hear and see in the tenebrous, deep
Forest. But I am soon calm. The blazes will guide me.
 

River Without End
​

​The poplar leaves of fall skitter over the
Dark glassine surface ahead of my canoe,
 
On this placid little river. The dead leaves
Spiral in the breeze onto my mind where
 
My eyes grab hold of them. My birchbark
Flows with the soft current, a long white
 
Palanquin in a procession of furtive shadow,
Spangled with throbbing colors sinking from
 
Their season. The poplars are busy dressing
Down for the cold times when the sun looks
 
Elsewhere and they need not be so festive.
If I could paddle through these shadows for
 
The rest of my life, I could drown my sorrows
Under the leaves ahead, on this river without end.
 

Wind
​

The wind sweeps through, chill and dark, hot
And bright, by day and by night, through the
 
Varying seasons. I feel it seek me out. I hide
Stock-still, outside ground zero of the wind-
 
Borne un-happened event. I love the birds
Singing in spring and the pullulating new life
 
Of that vernal time. The flowers will soon stand
Guard for me in vivid color and sweet fragrance.
 
But times are changing as the wind blows harder.
I must find shelter deep in the forest of my time. 
 
Yes, I must do that before the cold winds of winter.
The first frost is due soon and I have so little time.

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