The Steps Of Everest ( For My Son, Wayah Uswi BlueWolf (1976-2015)

I wrote my first poem in 1963. Though i wish it otherwise--as a poem--this is not one of my best. Not even in my top 100. But I do think it was the hardest to write, and my last.

Achafa

We approached the first rise of the mountain hesitantly,

stepping carefully,

placing our feet as if a precipice beckoned--

Step by step, gorge rising in the throat, hastily swallowed,

heart pounding louder to crescendo as we approached the summit.

Our eyes still lowered, we found a flat space to stand

turning to look into the small bedroom,

drawn by the horror before us.

I glimpsed the Officers, standing with their eyes down-

waiting for us to face the greatest fear of our lives.

The bed is made,

covers neatly comforting the beloved form

of our Son.

My wife's throat cracked like shattered glass,

a moan deep from the darkest pit

escaping her lips.

She moved to his far side as I managed to stumble forward.

He lay as if sleeping--

but there was no breath, no heartbeat to reassure us

as we understood the truth of the moment.

She wailed in despair and laid her head upon him

as I brushed the soft short black hair of his forehead back,

again and again-

knowing that when I stopped that movement,

he would really be gone.

We were only allowed to stand a few moments before

they made us to leave

We descended,

those tiny steps narrowing, fogged with our tears.

For a moment I thought to dive—

hoping to feel that sharp agonizing crack of my neck

to join him in the other world—

but guilt was not enough

to leave my wife of 45 years alone

so I emerged, finally,

into the base camp of sorrow--

my view of Everest

will never been the same.

Tuklo

“That's my last poem” I said wistfully

“Why? My wife asked, not knowing what I had written--

“It's just too hard. Too hard.”

“You're not doing anything else!” She said scornfully.

She doen't read poetry. Doesn't read anything. Never has.

Likes to say the only book she ever read, Was “Typhoid Mary”.

I always wrote and sang

since I was 13--

of joy, of sorrow, of hope,

of history, of culture,

of beginnings and ends.

So many words, images, comparisons

--all the crafting of music and poetry--

setting the highest bar I could

for the expression of my talent and capability

for clarity and my readers,

few as they have been—

but now

it's as if every vista has been visited,

every emotion examined

every living perception exhausted,

too many words have rendered me empty.

As a calvary of guilt rides down upon me

forgive me this final submission—

a tribute to finally be mute,

my white flag of surrender,

one last poem