Grand Canyon In Poetry
Posted: Apr 02 2002 9:11 pm
'THE CANYON CALLS'
The canyon calls this restless soul, to witness early sunrise glow.
Upon the rim I watch and stand, out at the vastness that's called 'Grand'.
The air is rising from below, and soon the pastels start to show.
The little creatures start to stir, their daily search for food, so dear.
And then the sky becomes alive, with colors that you can't describe.
The ageless rocky walls do shine, with beauty that they call sublime.
And as the colors start to wane, I shoulder pack and pick up cane.
Beneath the rim I do alight, on Angel Trail, know as 'Bright'.
With each preceding step I take, I leave life's worries in my wake.
The trail rutted deep from use, the footing gives, just slightly loose.
And down the trail I further go, the thoughts of eons past do grow.
Upon the hot and dusty floor, ahead I hear the river's roar.
The Colorado comes in view, with wonderous joy for chosen few.
Who gets to ride her mighty stream, through chasm that is just a dream.
And then I turn to make my way, back to the rim by end of day.
I stop to drink, the water warm, to catch my breath, it is the norm.
For each few steps that one does make, is sometimes more than one can take.
But after countless steps are made, the rim's in sight, and so is shade.
Upon the top the breathing slows, pulse rate returns, but feeling grows.
For what you've seen this wonderous day, upon your trip, along the way.
The desert big horns on the wall, they run and jump, but never fall.
The many birds that you've seen soar, above the mighty river's roar.
The juniper, the prickly pear, the cottontail and wild horse mare.
The temples, thrones and buttes remain, as many rock formations named.
The journey of the setting sun has come full circle, as begun.
The colors make their nightly quest, upon the canyon, toward the west.
They change with every passing stone, as 'Sol' makes journey toward her home.
It's time to wipe that tear away, the awesome beauty gone this day.
Your aching muscles, souvenirs, from passing through those depth of years.
You make your way toward your abode, with memories of miles you've strode.
The canyon calls this soul to sleep, his dreams this night of her grand deep.
John Buonauro, 'The Woodcarver'
©January 16, 1997
The canyon calls this restless soul, to witness early sunrise glow.
Upon the rim I watch and stand, out at the vastness that's called 'Grand'.
The air is rising from below, and soon the pastels start to show.
The little creatures start to stir, their daily search for food, so dear.
And then the sky becomes alive, with colors that you can't describe.
The ageless rocky walls do shine, with beauty that they call sublime.
And as the colors start to wane, I shoulder pack and pick up cane.
Beneath the rim I do alight, on Angel Trail, know as 'Bright'.
With each preceding step I take, I leave life's worries in my wake.
The trail rutted deep from use, the footing gives, just slightly loose.
And down the trail I further go, the thoughts of eons past do grow.
Upon the hot and dusty floor, ahead I hear the river's roar.
The Colorado comes in view, with wonderous joy for chosen few.
Who gets to ride her mighty stream, through chasm that is just a dream.
And then I turn to make my way, back to the rim by end of day.
I stop to drink, the water warm, to catch my breath, it is the norm.
For each few steps that one does make, is sometimes more than one can take.
But after countless steps are made, the rim's in sight, and so is shade.
Upon the top the breathing slows, pulse rate returns, but feeling grows.
For what you've seen this wonderous day, upon your trip, along the way.
The desert big horns on the wall, they run and jump, but never fall.
The many birds that you've seen soar, above the mighty river's roar.
The juniper, the prickly pear, the cottontail and wild horse mare.
The temples, thrones and buttes remain, as many rock formations named.
The journey of the setting sun has come full circle, as begun.
The colors make their nightly quest, upon the canyon, toward the west.
They change with every passing stone, as 'Sol' makes journey toward her home.
It's time to wipe that tear away, the awesome beauty gone this day.
Your aching muscles, souvenirs, from passing through those depth of years.
You make your way toward your abode, with memories of miles you've strode.
The canyon calls this soul to sleep, his dreams this night of her grand deep.
John Buonauro, 'The Woodcarver'
©January 16, 1997
