On Being Cheerful

Some creamy ice
though cold and white
has no cherry on top
but only stones below, although
its photo is nice, its
clouds majestic, this mountain

Down and cold just below its top
the mountain piques me, takes
me down without a flag, an
inglorious retreat from ledge of death
no prize for frost; I
fall on shattered icicles cutting
crystalline loneliness, an
avalanche without prayer; I

haven’t reached any peak, for
never in the valley without song
were cheerleaders
ever real in off-time chants
a game without purpose
within a pompon face
a Kabuki without soul in
made up role
rolling seasons of bland
blandished like
roly-poly trophies
for pudgy spirits
unrisen dough
rolled to be crusty
never wrapped around
fruitful filling,
never in the valley where all were
drab stand-offs off-putting
waiting to putt on dull greens
show off
send random climbers
to their deaths
for amusement, gossip, and
news about brave fools
up a mountain without a fog horn
or paddle from an ark

Alone and down
I walk away from
ledges of death
to icicles that
shatter like glass
cut many ways

Rose colored blooms of blood blossom
thorny questions, because

Positive spin
had made me nauseous
dizzy

peppered in pep-talk, I had
sneezed ideas as common as pollen,
few flowers to share

cold
I descend now

Alone
I won’t mind
a glass of wine, and
death without
another winter, but

my orchard remains. I
reach for one
last summer.
Barks.

Does someone come?
I am afraid

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2 thoughts on “On Being Cheerful

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