A. Gee Where words collide
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Mountain Road

Steep mountain road, a dormant, sleeping serpent,
lies prone between the stark and jagged cliffs.
It slumbers, trapped, but wholly unrepentant,
marked only by the pictographs and glyphs
that warn the traveler of impending danger,
a hairpin or an avalanche, a deer;
a set of skidmarks where a careless stranger
neglected shifting to a lower gear.
Oh, this snake bites, its every curve a warning,
but it is far too late, you cannot stop.
So you press on, and hope to welcome morning,
best viewed when at the very mountaintop.

Awash in early light, you feel a chill.
From here on out the journey is downhill.

The Perfect Egg

for some the sonnet's like a perfect egg
three minutes, after that it's overdone.
and others struggle mightily and beg
for muse and inspiration, for just one.

for some the sonnet's much more like an omelet
ingredients to cater to the taste
add ample salt and pepper, throw in Hamlet,
It'd be a shame to let him go to waste

for some the sonnet's holy and pristine
a pedestal fit only for a giant
its subjects for the Met or the Sistine
its authors those the devil made a client

I meditate at length and dwell upon it
for me, there's nothing better than a sonnet

In Bloom

The bloom is off the rose, the petals wither.
The thorns, though drying, serve to better prick.
Old age, it surely knows, as birthdays slither,
that skin becomes more brittle and less thick.

Perennial, we lack the flower's power
to rise again as seasons take their turn,
and dread the sudden striking of the hour,
our flower pot to double as an urn.

In search of deeper truths and hidden meaning,
we put down roots that, tendril like, branch out,
and look, in vain, for signs that we are greening,
for certainty that shadow is a doubt.

The end always the same. Hope some bring flowers.
Remembering our Mays, and April's showers.

On the Nile

On the floodplains of the Nile,
hippo, crane and crocodile,
got together to chat weather,
haven't done it in a while.

Hippo liked to be the first,
if he wasn't he might burst,
said his mommy fears the mummy,
thinks that all of them been cursed.

Following, it was the crane.
He remarked that it might rain,
and that mummies were for dummies.
"if you want, I can explain."

Both then turned to crocodile.
Crane expected his denial,
but the croc, down in the muck,
known for his trickery and guile,

said the pharaohs feared the narrows,
that their chariots and arrows,
would be useless in the mud,
any curses that they've had,

were reserved for desert sand,
not for water, but for land,
so dear hippo, get a grip,
and crane, impressed with your bird brain
but please, do take it down a peg.
And do you need your other leg?

Andalusia

Bandana on his forehead, sweat that glistens,
reflecting warm but murky candlelight.
His face a grimace as he sings and listens,
the hands hug a guitar in mournful plight.

A sinuous, no, wanton splash of scarlet,
she glides onto the stage, dark color lips.
She's Carmen, and no caballero's harlot.
The castanets are hungry for her hips.

Percussion soon shakes loose your tired muscles,
exhausted from the day's unguided tour.
The galleries, the palaces, the castles.
You long to be her gypsy king, her Moor.

It's then you realize they are a pair.
And know a touch of anguish and despair.

Middle Ages

The Middle Ages, cannons, moats and castles,
impregnable, thick walls of brick and stone.
So too my middle age. I have no vassals,
but certainty's my kingdom and my throne.

Put up my barricades against the rabble,
though sadly have no boiling oil to spill.
My obstinance protects me in my bubble,
barbarians have at me, get your fill.

No Coup de Ville for me, no midlife angst.
Let others fear their doom and climate fever.
I wasn't for before I was against,
as positive as any true believer.

They knew Rome fell, back in the Middle Ages.
From ballads sung by troubadours and sages.