Tuesday, September 26

Sangre de Cristos

Dedicated blog readers I'm sure have been expecting a poem about my trip to the Sangre de Cristo mountains for some time now. Here it is.
I'm not sure if this poem is ready to perform but I thought I'd share the draft with you. Let me know what you think.

I was
Beat down, run down, tore down
I had to get out of town.
And now I'm lost,
turned around in these mountains,
these sangre de cristo mountains.
I fell down and I'm bleeding
in the blood of christ mountains.
And I need some of that blood.
I need a transfusion of strength and confidence.
I didn't think you had any writing talent at all, she said.
Worst love letter I ever read, she said.
Beat down, run down, tore down.
I'm running up these mountains.
I've got to get to the top.
I'm running up the fire road.
I'm tearing up the trail.
She said I was wasting my time.
I needed to get over it.
I'm getting over these mountains,
I could get angry but I can't argue
if I'm 800 miles away
and out of breath in these sangre de cristo mountains
blood of christ mountains.
God, I need some of that blood pumping through my veins.
The sangre de cristos, the song of christ,
the mountains of faith, the journey of despair.
Is this my dark night of the soul?
How do I move on?
I move on by moving.
I keep running,
one foot in front of the other
through the darkness.
Until, I see the morning sun.
I see my train a coming.
I feel connected to this ground.
Take off your shoes for your stand on
the blood-stained,
pour out your drink,
pour out your soul.
Beat down, run down, tore down.
Running on empty, running on fumes.
Fill me up, feed me, nourish me.
Here in the sangre de cristos
i'm thinking about the sangria de cristo
the wine of Christ
the blood of Christ.
Let this cup pass.
Let this cup overflow.
I'll drink until I'm delirious.
I'll run until I can't stop.
I was
Beat down, run down, tore down.
But I'm getting built back up
as I go up these mountains
so steep they'll break your faith, they'll make your faith.
Song of the sangres, sangria, sang real
sangre, sangria, sang real.
Holy grail, holy blood, wholly exhausted and spent and fulfilled.
I am not beat down, run down or tore down any more.
I'm a small part of everything.
Almost insignificant in the sangres.
I am at peace
but I can't stop.
I can't stop now.
I've got to keep going.
I've got to see just how far I can go.
I may get worn down again
But that's OK.
I can always come back
to the sangre de cristos.
drink the sangria de cristo.
be one with the song of the sangres
the song of the struggle
the song of overcoming
the song of the sangres.


Blogger Cherie Kail said...

I like this one best, Brian. I think you capture the essence of solitude and the need for comeraderie and a break from compliance. You have a knack for summing up running as a religious experience, a zealous outpouring of your soul. If you were a sprinter you'd have a 9.4 100 meter! This one deserves a 9.5, maybe a ten. Let me know what the judges say.....you're more than welcome to call when it's over. You don't need luck, just go with your gut....I know this poem will carry you. Oh, and by the way, if you ever get the chance, check out Horn Creek Lodge in Westcliffe, Colorado, also up there in the Sangre de Cristo Mt. Range. It's a gorgeous place, cut off from civilization and beckoning your presence....you can hike for DAYS and write all night

September 28, 2006 12:46 PM  

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