Monday, May 16, 2016

Sometimes Mountains




How can it be that 35 years have passed since I first read this poem by my good friend, John Workman?  

On Saturday mornings in Little Rock John and I took  bike rides and enjoyed good conversations as we peddled out of town along undeveloped roads that have long ago disappeared and become streets of upper class suburbs.  We talked of many things - and laughed a lot... 

John, a religion editor for the local newspaper, had both thoughtful insights on life and faith, as well as a good sense of humor.  Many readers would get the Saturday morning paper and go directly to John's article even before looking at the front page headlines.  

Besides riding his bicycle on long trips, in later years he got a motorcycle and took a long trip to Montana.  That is when and where he may have gotten the inspiration for this poem.  

These days I can look out the window of our house in Butte, Montana and see mountains.  I am blessed by mountains, not just sometimes, but every day!  A few days ago I went with my 87 year old neighbor, another John, up to a mountain lake and caught a dozen cut-throat trout.  With no one else around on that spring day, I enjoyed the serenity and a rushing in my soul that John writes about. 

Here is John's  poem which I found stuck behind the back cover of a book of poetry we've had on our book shelf for years.  Judy, my wife and mountain lover, had saved it.


Sometimes Mountains 
Sometimes when driving the plains -
those long, rolling interminable spaces -
I think for a fleeting moment
that far off in the dim, distant horizon,
shimmering through heat waves,
I can see mountains.
Mountains!
Abrupt, rugged peaks
rising to where the air is thin
and the tree line is far below
and the snow lies in undisturbed serenity.
A rushing in my soul.

Sometimes when sleep comes late at night
and through my open window
the breeze hums her lovely melody,
I think for a passing moment
that I can hear the wind
racing over the high mountain pass.
I hear it changing key from spruce to aspen
and rushing on
to ruffle hues on the mountain meadows
and dapple the face of solitary snow-watered lakes.
A quickening in my chest.

Sometimes when the meetings are long
and the speakers drone on and on,
I close my mind and open my heart and think
that I can feel the trail under my boots,
my pack deliciously heavy against my back
and my legs straining on the zig-zag climb.


And I look up and know that the summit is over the ridge above.
A smile on my face and in my heart.

Strange it is with mountains
They are so very much more than they are.

 John Workman, August, 1981









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