'Twas the Bight before Christmas

'Twas the Bight before Christmas : A Climbing Poem by Christina Cox

'Twas the bight before Christmas
And all through the crag
Not a single rope was flaked out
All tucked away in rope bags

Each rope was coiled in the bag with great care
In hopes that a climber would soon be there
Each cam and nut organized from from blue to green and red,
Tantalizing dreams of hard sends in each climber's head

My partner in her helmet, and I in my cap
We had just agreed on plans traced on a topo map

When out on the rocks there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my guidebook to see what was the matter

Away to the base of the climb I flew like a flash
Tore out my headlamp, expecting to see a crash
The moon on the gleam of holds covered in chalk
Guided my path on this late evening walk

When what did to my wondering eye did appear
But a daring soloist, displaying no fear!
With a sure-footed grip on the rock did he stick
I knew in a moment this was a destiny he picked

Delicate like a mountain goat, each move he made
And he whistled and shouted and called them all by name.

Now Sloper! Now Jug! now Pocket, and Crimper!
On Sidepull, on Undercling,
On Edge, and Pincher!

To the top of the route! To the top of the wall!
Now Climb on! Climb on! Climb on, all of ya'll!

Ode to an Anchor

Ode to an Anchor: A climbing poem by Christina Cox 

If I were an anchor I'd be tied to a tree
Strong and alive, in all ways SRENE
Part hex perhaps, but no Tricams I desire
For if I were to set, your second's temper will fire!

When pondering my placements, be not hasty not quick
A dead tree or poor nut will not do the trick
Creativity, wisdom, and flexibility I need
Until you are satisfied, do not rush the deed

I will hold you through your commitments and crux
Do not fear that move, for in me you trust!
And when the climb is over and the day is done
Rest assured, your safety has been defined in a pun

A Blank Page

XC Skiing. Whitegrass, West Virginia

A blank page can be intimidating
       like an empty pot, void of ingredients
Or it can be exciting
       like a new trail, full of mystery

The ink carefully explores the realm of the unknown, wavering at the expanse of whiteness...
conquering it with scribbles of color

Like the autumn season grasping the summer green
       First with faint hues of yellow and orange
       Soon bursting red
       Then all goes brown and bleak
               Thus the story ends

A winter of writer’s block covers the page in ice and snow
But a seed lies dormant
Brought to life by the warming sun and sprouts

The story grows and is harvested
The pot is full again

Traffic

Traffic oh traffic I hate you, you suck
I want to go fast, but instead I'm stuck
Following a bus, a van, or a car
3 hours have passed but I've not gone far
If only like Moses who parted the sea
I'd clear a lane to allow only me
But lo! As I sit here, defunct and depressed
Miles and miles of cars still at rest
I know it's impossible to get there on time
It's everyone's fault, everyone's but mine!
Written by Christina
Inspired by Los Angeles Labor Day weekend traffic