Winter is Not for Skiing (Not for Me Anyway), Dennis Wayne Bressack [book club suggestions TXT] 📗

I once had a momentary lapse of reason.
I once had a momentary blockage of thought.
I once had a momentary log jam of energy
in the transmission at the cell level
from axon to dendrite filaments.

At 45, I tried to learn to ski.
It took an hour on the rails to set me straight.
I tumbled all the way down the Bunny Hill,
legs and hips twisted into impossible positions,
my children laughing with every bounce.

As a parent who doesn’t ski or snowboard.
I feel that I am missing a lot.
I sit in the lodge reading, talking, phoning,
protecting what little space remains among
piles of clothes, boots, gloves and bags.


I bring my kids to the mountain,
drop them at the bottom, watch them
get scooped into a wire-suspended chair,
lifted into the uncertain sky until
they disappear into another dimension.

The rest is a leap of faith,
a heartfelt silent prayer,
an inward look for love,
a momentary suspension of fear.

Bellayre Mountain, New York-February 4, 2004

13) God Has Forgotten

There are no strangers
in this world.
Only billions of beings
I haven’t yet met.

The sky squeezes the last drops of snow.
Spring breaks the gray into blue.
Hawk hurtles in circles over pine.

Sometimes I think that
God has forgotten about spring.
God has forgotten about warm.
God has forgotten about life.

Then, today,
sun streaks light the birch
like a candle opera.
Crows flap black,
bounce limb to limb.

Sometimes I think that
God has forgotten about birds.
God has forgotten about insects.
God has forgotten about seeds.

Then, today,
another sunrise sonata begins,
shoots of green grass appear.
tips of lily bulbs explore.
Robins carry sticks and straw to nest.

Sometimes I think
God has forgotten to sing.
God has forgotten to dance.
God has forgotten to soar.

Then today,
I sit on the bench in the garden,
face Overlook Mountain.
Cracks of thunder crash across slippery sky,
unroll from the southwest like cheap carpet
in the battle between the heat of the sun
and the moisture of the earth.

Sometimes I think
God has forgotten about innocence.
God has forgotten about dreams.
God has forgotten about children.

Then today,
I read the story of the golden eagle to my son.
He sits beneath the hemlock,
sketching its stretching branches,
imagining the eagle perched in our tree,
searching the ground for the rabbit.

Woodstock, New York-April 18 & 25, 2004

14) Cusp of Spring

I can hear the sound of spring's noisy symphony
slipping past winter's determined, dastard dormancy,
in cascading, riveting rush of swollen, cleansing streams,
in scamper of baby thrush beneath bush and brush.

I can see the buoyancy of spring's naive nativity
bouncing over winter's faceless, frozen tenacity,
in the melting smelting mix of roads mired in muck n' mud
in the peek of garden straw through white mantle of snow.

I can smell the birth of spring's instinctive embryonicity,
parading in pageants of species generic specificity,
in the mixing, emulsifying sweets of buds and flowers,
in the slightest, subtle shift in thickness of scent.

Woodstock, New York-March 18, 2005

15) The Temple of Love

At ski resorts you hear many different dialects.
noisy chattering tongues of Chinese child,
loud jabbering babble of French Canadian mom,
stern chastising prattle of Spanish speaking dad.

This moment of reality’s contentment
is pierced by a baby’s cry.
Our kids sail across white ridges of snow,
while innocent blood shrieks in distant war.

Within these precious moments of exultation,
the tartness of the pollinated flower,
sweetened by the spit of the honeybee,
turns inner prayer into outer peace.

The moon’s eye follows my every movement.
Mountain springs sing in lover’s language.
Meandering rivers romp through forests
lit with tumbling laughter.

Political monsters crawl beneath greedy stones.
Stripped of all pretense of dignity
they sell their souls for a favor,
lacking morals or heroism.


This demonic sense of placation
kneels voraciously at the plate of political lies,
pits neighbor against neighbor,
brother against brother,
all in the name of faith in the unseen,
in the guise of the wicked claw of the unknown.

Righteousness always licks the slick righteous
in the battle of bulging brain ware.
Light always brightens the dark sky.

Bellayre Mountain, New York-January 8, 2006

16) November in the Garden

November in the garden
is like no other time of year.
Garlic’s asleep beneath the straw.
Kale, chard, lettuce, beets, carrots, parsley
remain to pick and eat,
until too early falls the darkness
and snow quiets the growth.

Woodstock, New York-November 12, 2006

17) Dark December

“A winter’s day,
in a deep and dark December,
I am alone...I have my books and my poetry
to protect me.”

from “I am a Rock”
by Simon and Garfunkel (1965)

December is the darkest time of the year.
Not even the Hanukah candlelight of the menorah
nor festivities of birth of Christ
can brighten this ghostly pale
that hangs over my head
like the sword of Damocles,
like a lead curtain crushing my chest,
squeezing the last ounce from my heart.

This span was the worst of my life.
Before Thanksgiving Nov 23, 1989,
my life though imperfect was perfect.
Post accident, my path forever altered,
children erased from painted canvas,
mother never to talk to again.


I try to convince myself that it’s over,
you know, get over it.
17 years is enough time to forget,
to move past the quagmire triad
of guilt, remorse and self-pity.
Everyday I bleed a little more,
sleep another night without them in my life.

Woodstock, NY-December 14, 2006

18) Swollen Brook

The swollen brook is ravishing,
rushing rocky bed into layers of gurgling brown mud water,
sweeping melted snow down the side of the mountain,
transporting tree limbs like twigs.

The sounds are deafening,
resonating with my heart beat,
preventing space for any thoughts
other than the sight of surging water.

Woodstock, New York-March 16, 2007

19) Clicking of Steel Boots

When I hear the clicking of ski boots,
heal down first on stairs,
I wonder why we create possibilities of habitual malfunction
echoing the clicking of steel boots from the past.

Ski Resorts suck.
If you arrive late on a busy day,
all the chairs and tables are taken.
People who are seated look at you
as if you are trying to steal their baby,
as if you are threatening their sacred space,
as if you could drop dead and you can’t have a seat,
even though there’s lots of room.
They guard their space as if their life depended on it.

People think they are so special,
park in handicapped spaces,
move sawhorses and park close to the entrance.


Mankind continues to sit and be lifted to the mountaintop,
ski, slide and tumble downhill,
cover bare spots with man-made frozen water,
carve pieces of mountain
without regard to effect,
cover fields of grass
without regard to environmental consequence.

Stoicism is no excuse for non-thinking.
Inner vision is no excuse for lack of reason.

Woodstock, New York-December 18, 2007

Text: Copyright 2009 All Poetry and Photography by Dennis Wayne Bressack
Publication Date: 12-01-2009

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
This book of poetry is dedicated to my wife, Abby, and my two sons, Noah and Justin. I Love You All. Mountains will remain mountains. Trees will remain Trees. If to have this be truth, I must remain on my knees. I will remain.