Posts Tagged ‘alpine meadow’

My Gifts To Her: Romantic IMprov Sonnet

December 28, 2012

What might a man do
to prove his love is true?
He may, under a full moon,
sing her to slumber with a gentle croon.

He may improvise a tender poem,
or bring back wildflowers to grace her home.
He may dance in a meadow alpine,
or simply hold her hand with fingers entwined.

He may dry her face when it’s wet and rainy,
or wet her cheeks when they’re dusty and grainy.
He may simply ask what she needs him to do,
and then he’ll, gladly, see it through.

To show true love takes no new invention.
Women ask that men listen and pay attention.

Leaving Too Soon: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku

August 25, 2011

Mt. Rainier and lupine at sunset in an alpine meadowThey rushed down the trails,/
got to their cars, drove fast and/
missed spectacular.

OR
They rushed down mountains,/
reached their cars, drove away fast,/
missed spectacular.

Misty-Eyed In An Alpine Meadow: Revolutionary Email Prose Memory

November 19, 2010

I recently recalled a life-changing event which happened when I first lived in Switzerland in the late 70s. As I wrote about it in an email and have thought about it since, it’s interesting to see how much it reflects my life and belief system.

I once was, with a group of friends, running down a steep mountain trail in the Alps above Luzern. It had started to mist slightly as the clouds rose up off the Vierwaldstaedtersee and slammed into the mountainside.
And then, while my friends ran onward, something caught my ears. In the distance I could hear cowbells (mind you, this was well before “More Cowbell” became popular!). They were the varied notes of dozens of Alpine cowbells, all ringing in uncomposed, yet somehow perfect, harmony, through the mist.
I stopped running, and thought to myself: “When will I ever again have this moment? When will nature and man-made music collide to play this for me?” Instead of running willy-nilly through the Alpine meadows — which, I noticed for the first time, were in early May bloom –, I strolled.
Sauntered.
Sometimes stopped and listened and reflected and learned.
I arrived at the village nearly two hours after my hurried, running friends.
“You missed dinner!” they exclaimed.
Instead, I feasted on cheese, slice apples, and yogurt, which seemed to fit the afternoon.
I could never bear to tell them:
“You missed a world premier performance.”