The moon over a rock formation at Mt. St. Helen’s National Historic Monument.
Don’t touch the wound so new, so raw. The skin
of Colorado bleeds with angry death.
You can no longer take a mountain breath
without the choke of smoke. Grief’s awful din
sends spikes of sadness through the war-zoned skies
and battered Batman fans throw up their hands.
Aurora, (dawn), sees dark upon its lands
and hears the people’s wretched, wrenching cries.
Serene the setting of this tragedy,
a mountained backdrop, nature’s painted place.
But someone threw black ink upon the lace,
ripped it to pieces. No more filigree.
Six-thousand rounds of ammunition bought,
apartment booby-trapped, the killer planned
a shooting on a scale so wide and grand
that we could not imagine. He’s been caught.
But what of all those people who lost lives?
What of their spouses, siblings, parents, friends?
Their questions meet themselves in shredded ends.
They swallow bitterness that cuts like knives.
Aurora, Colorado, marred and marked,
won’t be the same. The offering of flowers
and candles, teddy bears rains down grim showers
of agony worked out where gunfire sparked.
The young-man Austrian tour guide: “I am blessed
that that’s my second-favorite mountain,” pressed
his hand against the window, and we smiled.
This man, emotional and so beguiled,
said, “Yes, I love my homeland, and I’ll show
you what dear Österreich has let me know.”
We on the bus watched with a closer look.
Sweet memories of this are what I took.
My muse has taken her vacation trip
and I can’t seem to even write a blip,
a shred, a tag, a phrase, or paragraph.
She left me high and dry, and I don’t laugh
when she plays cat and mouse, these games with me.
Perhaps she’s hiding high up in a tree.
Or has she taken wing to Switzerland
to ski the snow-capped Alps so high and grand?
Exploring in the reaches of my mind
I cannot grasp what once was well-defined.
My muse sits on a mountaintop so high
while my ideas thud, refuse to fly.