Poetry
1. I wrote this in 1997 when I was trying to understand the mystique of old, rotting wood buildings and ghost towns:

An Ordinary Building

An ordinary, weathered building along a remote, mountain pathway,
Long since abandoned for it was not built to stand the test of time.
I stepped inside it, hoping for some sort of historic awakening,
But the old house answered back with the sound of my own heart beating.

In the fragile, wooden house I found shade for my weary body.
I chose an old, dusty chair that I trusted could hold my weight.
I took my journal from my pack and stared at the empty pages.
Feeling almost silly, I asked this building for wisdom to inspire my idle pen.

It did not answer me,
But I kept on asking.
With all its history,
There was some mystique that I expected.
I refused to simply allow it
To rest on its rotting walls.
Still, it left me silent,
My pen resting on its page.

As the sun shifted, its heat struck me through a crack in the ceiling
And I suddenly realized the error of my question.
I had asked this old building to inspire me with a brightened story that reads like a history book
When what I really wanted was to understand why I felt so intrigued with it.

I picked up my pen and began writing down my new ideas.
I wrote about losing faith in blind hope.
I wrote about captivity and sadness.
I wrote that this day begins a solitary journey.
I wrote about freedom and joy.
I wrote all about me.
Then, I wrote about how I found this building and the shade that it provides.

With my tired hand, I finally asked the hardest question:
What could my own life offer someday to stories of human history,
Just as this building has offered so much to me?
Can my life compare to the mystique of history as it is told?

The walls did not crumble
And I kept on writing.
With all of this building's history,
This time, it was my own story that I expected.
I left this extraordinary building
Resting on its rotting walls.
I left it silently like I had found it,
My pen dancing through the pages.


2. I wrote this in November of 1998 while on a caving trip in Mexico. We had a Thanksgiving dinner gathering at a field house that turned out to be a magical memory:

This Communal Time
In this home away from home, tonight our spirits shine
With something special, almost sacred, something larger than our lives
So we long to preserve this communal night.
If we could only find a purpose, so strong it would not die,
To help us face the struggle to keep this fire alive.


3. I started this poem in July of 1998 in the middle of the night while camping at 12,000+ feet in the Rockies.

Four Long Hours of Fear
Four long hours of fear
At 12,000 feet weary in a tent on a clear night
When will I know it will be all right?
Heart running wildly
Breathing short and shallow in the thin air
The fear of death or embarrassment of having fear?
Too hot or too cold?
Sweating and shivering and too tired to think about it
Even the words of a good friend would be doubted
Too cold I decide
The wrong equipment now easy to see
Not enough liquid or food or strength to make heat
Four long hours of fear
Why does the night confuse us this way?
When the sun rises, the fear will be only a distant memory

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