Mohonk Mountain photograph (Roberts)‘ A Meditation on Mohonk Ridge’ by Nathan Cayea The Society July 9, 2016 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 4 Comments When the wind blows true through the land Rustled leaves hold trees that withstand Tempered gusts with vicious intent. So long lives the day when air’s spent Upon the ridge: that jagged rock, Unchanged as what the ticking clock Tries to track but must then accept: The perfect clock is still inept. Time will toss and tumble your walls, Then cause your green thick hair to fall But know to us, whose lives go quick Your life’s a day to our one tick. Nathan Cayea is a studying toward an English degree in Upstate New York. Related Post ‘Little Girl’ and Other Poetry by Martin John Ki... Little Girl She's fishing in a rock pool just abandoned by the sea She's too engrossed within her world to notice you and me. She sprawls to dr... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 4 Responses Durlabh Singh July 10, 2016 SEA SHORES. On the seashore where the pebbles toss The waves encrusted in their noonday vaults The ripples answer forth Over the sand dunes of crescent hills To recover by pushing around The shingles on the silvery sand The annals of the irrecoverable past Amidst pebbled hands of the time past. Shadows across the ship’s mast Shadows under the mermaid’s wings Shadows over the seaweed’s bark Shadows entangled with crystalline dreams. All day along the wind The wind has been whispering To explore The leaning buds On the stony shores. The question whether one Should exit or not Or to find a way or not Out of the emotional contest Of wavery wandering thoughts. At the death’s gate Time stand still The laurels of significance The points of departures Of the perpetual vigils The glory of animals Lost somewhere In the sultry afternoons In alcoves of seedy conscience Entombed in twilight bowers. All day along The wind has been Instructing me To burst forth Like the nascent songs Beyond things explained Insubordination to gravity Or to other surmised tones. The show of despair In the face of stranded thoughts An assemblage of mobile fantasies In waxworks of delineated dross The curvatures of obscure thoughts. Do I swallow the shiny presence Or perpetuate the sublime sores Pour water to subterranean streams To the termites or their cones. Reply Reid McGrath July 10, 2016 Such a surprising name to see on the site, Nate. I’m glad to see you’re writing. And choice subject matter. E and I were just up at Mohonk squeezing lemons in early June. Keep it up. Hudson Valley represent. Reply Neal Dachstadter July 22, 2016 Location, location, location does not necessarily apply in poetry. Bons Mots! Having said that, that location really doesn’t hurt either. Reply Durlabh Singh July 23, 2016 TREE TOPS. The wind lives in the tree tops Visiting plantains at invitation Serrating waterfall in eddies Fragmenting the sown Into shifters of the unknown. Into that solitude of curves Where expressions reside Without end like eternity Casting pebbles of fluidic images In expanding circles of universe. There the verbs And the nouns Get bewildered Failing to root out Incomprehensibility Lamentations in sounds For some sovereign sensibility. Demolished by beauty & happiness A capability of gestures still to arise A challenge for the attempters to try An avenge on shaders of the paradise. Durlabh Singh. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.