Prompted by Poet's Place Cafe

Storming the Citadel

Storming the Citadel

Our forces stormed the citadel
determined to slay and conquer.
To prove ourselves strong and worthy,
proudly displaying battle scars.
The siege was mere playtime for some,
but for me, a right of passage.
I climbed, clinging with fingertips,
willing my young body upward.
At the pinnacle of the quest
I joyfully breathed in success.
Nevermore would I fear to climb.
                    ~~~Judi Van Gorder

Conquerer

On the empty lot across the street, a gigantic boulder stands like a citadel at the apex of the hill. The north side is an easy climb for us kids. When on top it feels like I own the world.

It took a long time to get up the nerve to try and climb the south side and even longer to conquer. Clinging by the tips of my fingers, digging the soles of my Tenny's into the sharp crevices, willing my body to hug the rough surface, I attack. Scraped and scratched and bruised all over, I never give up. It is the pinnacle, the goal of my young years.

Once mastered by one, the competition was on. I'll never forget the day I finally climbed to the top from the south side, Standing there on top screaming. Now I know I can accomplish anything.
                                                                                                             ~~~Judi Van Gorder

Notes ▼

Mind Dump

The block where I grew up in El Cerrito had 3 vacant lots in close proximity. Per the name, the streets are hilly. Our street ran uphill. There were 7 of us kids who regularly played together, 3 girls and 4 boys. Cleo was the oldest, then me, Carole, Sandy, Richie, Russell and the youngest, my brother Kent. Carole and I were definitely tomboys, Sandy not so much. She always wanted to play dolls, which we did, but the challenge of the rough and tumble outdoors was far more enticing to me.

On the lot across the street, easily an acre, a 12-foot-high boulder stood like a citadel at the apex of the hill. Only three or four could sit at the top at the same time. The north side was a fairly easy climb, we all made it up regularly. It felt like we could see the world.

The south side was the challenge, rock climbing at its best, It took us a long time to conquer it. It took us a long time just to get up the nerve to try. Clinging by the tips of our fingers, digging the soles of our Tenny's into the sharp crevices, willing our bodies to hug the rough surface. We'd come home with our arms and legs scraped and scratched and bruised all over, especially when we fell, which was often before we finally figured it out. But that was the pinnacle, the goal of our young years. We were all committed.

Richie was the first to do it. No surprise, he was a year younger than me but he was as tall as me and very athletic. He died of Alzheimer's a few years ago. Once he did it, the competition was on and I had to do it before my little brother did. I remember the day I finally climbed to the top from the south side, I stood on the top and screamed. I was the second to succeed with Carole right behind me that same day. We hugged each other at the summit. Cleo was the only one to never conquer the south side. He was part of the gang but didn't hang with us that much. He lived at the bottom of the block, the rest of us lived at the top. He was kind of fat kid and I'm ashamed to say was forever the brunt of our pranks. One year we blew up his mailbox with cherry bombs. Richie stole the fireworks from his teenage brother. We got in so much trouble over that incident. But it was so exciting while we were doing it, remembering, I can feel the giggles in my chest. Cleo became a very popular DJ, who sold cocaine on the side. He ODed in his 30s.

I lost touch with Sandy decades ago but when I started thinking about what I was going to write, I called Carole. She was my best friend before high school. We kind of went separate ways in high school but have stayed in touch all of these years. We're going to meet for lunch next week. She lives about an hour's drive away.

"DISCUSSION: The Nature of Poetry"  
Mind dump, Prose Poem, an 11-Line Poem with 8-syllable lines.